Category Archives: The Witless Protection Program

Husbands: For Squishing Spiders and Changing Brake Lights

I had to replace my brake light yesterday.  (And by “had to”, I mean “wanted to do it all by myself.  Don’t need a silly husband to change a light bulb.”)  I marched up to the auto parts store all I got this and efficiently purchased a pack of two light bulbs that were self-proclaimed “longer lasting” than their competitors.  I paid for my merchandise and walked out to the parking lot ready to conquer this lightbulb and be on way to more important business.  Like Frappucinos.

I got out the trusty owner’s manual for reference, deciding it would be best to follow step-by-step directions as I’d never done this before.  Like, ever.

Step 1:  Open TrunkCheck.

Step 2:  Remove the compact spare tire cover.  Check.  This is cake.

Step 3:  Remove 4 convenience net nut wings.   I have convenience net nut wings?  I have a convenience net?  Okay.  Turn.  Turn.  Turn.  Geezus.  How long are these screws?  Turn.  Turn.  Turn.  Okay.  Check.  Check.  Check.  Aaaaaaaand check.

Step 4:  Pull the carpet back away from the body of the vehicle on the side with the burned out bulb.  This is…….carpet?  But it’s…….stiff.  Like…….fiberglass.  Maybe if I just……….oops.  Okay.  No biggie.  I’ll just turn my head upside down and peer through this tiny crack to see what I’m doing.  It can’t be that hard.  Except my head is blocking the only available stream of light.  Oh, well.  I’ll feel around.  Really, it can’t be that hard.

Step 5:  Remove the two mounting screws from the lamp assembly.  What the hell is the lamp assembly?

*Walks into auto body store all anybody got a wrench?  I totally know what I’m doing, I just don’t have my handy dandy set of Craftsman with me.  Proceed back out to parking lot with wrench.*

Okay, mounting screws.  Could be those.  Or those.  Or……….those or those.  These look like they might be………………screws.

*Wipes sweat that is beginning to run down back of neck.  Finagles wrench into small slit and attempts to remove (maybe the correct?) screws.  Turn.  Turn.  Turn.  Wipes more sweat.  Brushes hair from face.  Turn.  Turn.  Turn.  Wipes more sweat.  Moves head to allow small iota of light to shine on the (maybe correct?) screws.  Contemplates a short break for a Slush Puppy from the gas station next door.  Turn.  Turn.  Turn.  Brushes hair from face.  Gazes up at sun.  Swears she hears the doo doo doo wah wah wah theme from the Showdown at the OK Corral.  Turn.  Turn.  Turn.  !#$#!#$  Wipes sweat again.  Turn.  Turn.  Turn.* There!  They’re off!

Step 6:  Pull out the lamp assembly to expose the bulb sockets.  I guess I’ll pull here………or…………………………not.  Okay.  Maybe that wasn’t it.  Let’s see.  Lamp assembly.  Lamp assembly.  Lamp.  Assembly.

*Contemplates the hard truth that those screws may not have been the right screws.  Decides this was not such a good idea.  Proceeds to driver’s seat, grabs phone, sends text to husband that reads something like stupid lightbulb effing car goddern wing nuts do i have a convenience net? then walks back inside to clerk to return borrowed wrench with very defeated look.  Smiles, thanks clerk, walks back out to car.  While checking to be sure all wing nuts/spare tire covers/other-various-plastic-parts-that-come-off-when-you-remove-convenience-net-wing-nuts are back in trunk, brake light FALLS OFF THE CAR.*

So.  THAT’S the lamp assembly.

*Stops to appreciate the fact that, yes, those were, in fact, the correct screws.  Walks back into store to borrow wrench again.  Returns to car with wrench but very little remaining pride.*

Step 7:  Turn the bulb socket one-quarter turn counterclockwise and pull the bulb and socket out of the lamp reflector.  Oh, look!  I see the bulb socket!  And……….two other bulb sockets.  So.  I wonder which one is out?

*Decides that what the hell, might as well replace them both while the entire trunk, piece by piece, is sitting on the asphalt anyway.*

Step 8:  Pull the old bulb from the bulb socket keeping the bulb straight as you pull it out.  Check.  Twice.

Step 9:  Install a new bulb.  Check.  Twice.

*Successfully replaces both potentially burned out bulbs.  Smiles at self.  Looks at ground, notices entire contents of trunk, including 6 (I thought there were 4?) convenience net wing nuts spread out, ready for reinstallation.  Smile fades.  Picks up owner’s manual.*

Step 10:  Reverse the steps to reinstall the lamp assembly.  Fuck.

*Returns to store counter to return wrench.  Clerk obliges request for a test press of brake pedal to be sure she-who-knows-exactly-what-she’s-doing has done exactly what she was supposed to.  Test proves successful.  Thanks clerk and returns to trunk to begin reassembly.  Notices convenience net peeking from beneath spare tire.*

Aha!

*Spends next 20 minutes trying to make trunk look the same way it looked when she started.  Texts husband brake light replaced found convenience net I rock.  One rogue wing nut left good luck with that.*

Learn a lesson in Things-That-Are-Better-Left-To-Professionals-Or-Husbands.  Check.

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Everyone Should Have A Picture Of Their Boob Smooshed Against The Bicep Of A New Kid On The Block

*siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh*

Hear that?  That’s me exhaling after the BEST girls’ weekend EVER.  Let me show you it.

Our adventure began at 9:00 pm on Thursday night.  After getting all the kiddies to bed, we loaded up and shipped out to drive to Atlantic City.  Excited as we were, no one slept AT ALL for the ride up there.  We knew we were close when we crossed over Walt Whitman Bridge from Philly:

Mawm, that may or may not say 74 miles per hour.  GOTTA be a typo.  Heh.  I SWEAR we were just going with the flow of, er, traffic.  Invisible traffic.

OK, fine.  Adrenaline kicked into high gear when we saw the sign and we may have “WHOOOOOOOO!!!!!”-ed our way to 74 mph.

ANYWHO.

8 hours of riding and 24 straight hours of being awake and we were graced with this:

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We get to our hotel, the ultra-luxurious Borgata, where the VALET took our car.  VALET.  We were Important, hear?

One step in the door and we see this:

Blown glass chandeliers!  Amazing!  Jen and Michele were intent on bed, but I couldn’t stop looking at the artwork! and glass! and mirrors!

And then I REALLY looked in the mirror and decided it was time to go up to the room before I started scaring small children and got kicked out before I even got in.

We got the minimal 5 hours of sleep then we were back up to begin our fun.  We got all prettied up and ready for the concert.

Hot Mamas, I tell you!  (I’d like to add that we were minus one hot-mama-to-be.  She was too close to due date to join the fun and she was GREATLY missed.  We love you, Amy!)

Then?  The Concert.  And Wine.

 And Wine.  And The Concert.

And more Wine.  I think.

Good show.  Goooooooooooooood show.

THEN?  The Afterparty.

Did you know they have wine at afterparties?  WELL.  They do.  A lot of it.

They also have DONNIE WAHLBERG.  After bulldozing several unsuspecting women, I managed to get Jen to the top of a couch that sat against the stair railing as Donnie climbed by.  He stroked her face.  For those of you who don’t have your number in her Blackberry or are her Friend on Facebook or don’t read your Twitter feed, he STROKED HER FACE, OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Best day of her life.  All thanks to me.  Just call me Dozer.

Fast forward to the next day.  Things are a little fuzzy between that last picture and this next one.  Oh, this next one.  Are you ready for this next one?  Ladies, please hold onto your britches, cuz they might try to fly off.

Why, yes, that is DANNY FREAKING WOOD.  And yes, I HAVE NO MAKEUP ON.  And yes, my hair is WET.  And, oh how clever of you to notice that I’m WEARING SWEATPANTS.

God was totally punishing me for the wine gluttony.  Totally.  Punishing.  Me.

He was straight out of the gym.  And beautiful.  Sweaty, muscley and beautiful.

And HIS BICEP WAS PRESSED AGAINST MY BOOB.

Go ahead, look again.  I’ll wait.

*****

SEE?!

When I regained use of my legs again, the girls and I made our way into the spa where I got my first massage ever.

Lemme tell ya somethin’.

Massage = Heaven.  With cupcakes.  Or, ya know, a juice bar and some dried mango.

And DANNY FREAKING WOOD.

Later we laid in the steam room and soaked in the hot tub.

*SIGH*

After a delightful dinner at Wolfgang Puck’s American Grille, which included Expresso Martinis that may be our new infatuation, we went to the SECOND afterparty.  Where all my dreams came true.

That guy on the left?  That’s Jon.  JONATHAN RASHLEIGH KNIGHT.

LOOKING AT ME.

Later in the night, as he was leaving, I touched him.

MAWM!  I TOUCHED HIM!!!!!!

Chris is slowly coming to terms with the fact that I’m not showering for a year.

That’s 3 close encounters!  Donnie first, then Danny, then Jon.

Our 4th came on Sunday as were were waiting (in the wrong place, luckily) for VALET to bring us our truck back.

Joe, his wife and two little boys were getting into the limo to head out.  10 feet in front of us.

THAT’S FOUR!!!!!!!!

We missed only one – Jordan.  Michele’s favorite.  Therefore, it is our solemn mission to meet Jordan on our next cavortcation.  There will be pictures.

So, in summary, we had an awesome trip.  And we may have done the Jersey fist-pump a few times on the way home.  Out the window.  To the tune of NKOTB’s Dirty Dancing.

We may have fist-pumped right into the driveway.

It was awesome.

I shall share more with you tomorrow.  These pics are just a few of the ones taken on my Blackberry.  There are 197 more on my camera!  WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s some leftover wine in my fridge at home that needs my prompt attention.

Key Word Being CRAZY

Ever feel like you’re losing your mind?  Like, this is itThis is what they talked about in Girl, Interrupted.  You just know your brain is swirling down the toilet and sucking your sanity in with it.  And you’re left with one crossed eye, a sideways ponytail and a missing sock.  Crazy.

The turn of the decade was, apparently, a monumental shift in my existence because it’s been nothing but chaos ever since.  I mean, hey, I’m breathing.  Which means I’m alive.  Which is good.  And I’m no stranger to chaos.  I’d most likely be lost without it.  But life has been testing me lately.  I mean, my patience has had a cheese grater taken to it and all that’s left is a little nub.  A nub of patience.  That’s not a lot.  It’s only a nub.  And my calendar looks like a 1st grader’s 100-word essay.  Writing in four different directions, in three different colors, with a splash of white-out here and there.  Birthdays.  Meetings.  Baby showers.  Portrait sittings.  Parties.  Meetings.  Conference calls.  Cakes.  Cakes.  Cakes.

I could probably go without saying that there has been a kerfluffle thrown in here and there.  I probably could.  But I won’t.  Instead, I’ll tell you ALL ABOUT IT THEM.

Kerfluffle Numero Uno:  Look, I was lucky to get ANY laundry done.  I could’ve forced my children to wear their PJ’s to their respective places of cavorting, but nay, I resisted.  Mainly because they were out of PJ’s too.  But, not the point.  I DID THE LAUNDRY, DAMMIT.  Er, ya now, most of it.  I will accept no nagging in any way, shape or form that will in any way, shape or form belittle my efforts at providing my family with smelly-good and bacteria-free clothing to wear.  Well, ya know, at least in public.  So, yes, Darling, I’m aware that your socks may have exited the washing machine claiming a different spot on the color spectrum than that which they claimed when they entered.  But you’re secure in your manhood, right?  Well, then.  Wear the pink socks.  Quitcherbitchin.

Kerfluffle Numero Dos:  The package said 350 for 25 minutes, not 325 for 50 minutes.  Oops.

Kerfluffle Numero Tres:  Our perfectly-working air conditioner was scheduled to be serviced the other day.  I was home, conveniently, with both my girls and all 6 dogs.  Service Guy pulls into our driveway and I immediately go out the garage to greet him and send him out the back way to the air conditioner unit and manhole-that-goes-beneath-our-house-that-I-don’t-go-near-because-SPIDERS and tell him that if he needs anything, just let me know.  WELL.  Service Guy’s eyes begin to bulge from his sockets and he slowly backs away and I’m all Whoa Dude I Know I Don’t Have Any Make-up On But TACT Would Be Appreciated When Viewing My Face and then I realize that my oldest gem of sweetness has opened the door, allowing 4 of our 6 beasts out.  Service Guy is terrified of dogs.  I’m sure 4 approaching pit bulls really made his butthole pucker up.

5 minutes, 32 wirdy dords and 6 hasty apologies later, I corralled them back into the house and went about my business.

Service Guy left roundabout 3:00.

Chris got home at 5:00.

Chris:  Why isn’t the air conditioning working?

Me:  Whadaya mean it isn’t working?

Chris:  It. Isn’t. Working.  That’s what I mean.

Me: Oh.  Uh.  Oops.

*insert fake, overzealous smile so as to distract from the fact that I wasn’t paying a dang bit of attention to the air conditioner or fan or compressor or whatever I was supposed to pay attention to*

Chris:  You didn’t realize that?

Me:  Well, I mean.  I was hot, but I’ve been cleaning and I’m always hot when I’ve been cleaning and I just thought I was, ya know, hot because I’ve been cleaning and……..your toilet’s clean!

Chris: Oh my effing GAWD!

Me:  Heh.

We still don’t have air conditioning.  Two days later.

Now, here’s the thing.  My husband is not exactly the next Derby jockey.  He’s 6′ 2″, er, something like that, and weighs more than the average man.  And, well, what I’m trying to say is…….fat men don’t like hot.

For example, my husband limits our window for Mawm Visits To PA to late fall, all of winter, and possibly January.  Because OH MY GAWD SHE DOESN’T HAVE AIR CONDITIONING.  Apparently, to fat, Southern men, windows don’t count as air conditioning unless there’s a large unit sticking out of it that is plugged directly into the wall and has a thermostat on it.

This brings me to my point.  IF MY AIR CONDITIONER IS WORKING JUST FINE, THEN DON’T FIX WHAT AIN’T BROKEN.

The wrath of hot Chris will fall upon thee.

Also, I need to pay more attention.

So.  Crazy.

 

My apologies for being an absent blogger.  I’m trying to schedule the Crazy and contain It to Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, but ya know.  It’s Crazy we’re talkin’ about here.

Sometimes It’s Just Too Easy

Ignorance runs rampant around my workplace.  It often runs in the form of half-shaven, mullet-rockin’, twangy country boys who display their own, personal vocabulary and farmin’ sense of style.  And by sense of style, I mean a discernation between the wadded up pile of jeans and flannels that is clean versus the wadded up pile of jeans and flannels that “smeals lak a hurse cum along an’ dropped a turd onit.”

Now don’t get me wrong – we have a handful of gentleman-ly country boys who are so uber-cute that you could just eat their boots with a spoon.  And some tall, dark and handsomes that bee-bop around these parts looking like they just jumped off the bull and into your dreams.  With chaps.

Unfortunately, they are the minority.

Our company recently filed Chapter 11 bankruptcy.  This caused the Uprising Of The Country Boys, not to be confused with Deer Season.

“Wut does this mean?  Are we gunna get paid?  Kin I still take muh vaykayshun days fer huntin’?”

Legally speaking, Chapter 11 leads to a reorganization of the company and a restructure of budgetary allowances.  However, this is what one of the genius country boys came up with:

Country BoyErebody’s wurred ’bout erething, talkin’ ’bout this an that and bankrupsee.  I told ’em ta be calm; that it wasna a bankrupsee, it was a reconstrukshun.

MeBut it is a bankruptcy and it’s a restructure, not a reconstruction.

Country BoyYeah.  Das wut I tol’ ’em.

In addition to these kinds of regular conundrums, we also receive calls from those lovely call centers in India or Bangladesh or Ookabooka or wherever the hell they’re at.  Today, I received one of those calls:

Caller: Hello.  This is Rrrrrrrrrryan.  Can I please speak with your complaint department in rrrrrregards to a home I am investigating with water damage?

MeBoth of our service representatives are on the phone at the moment, Sir.  Would you like to hold?

CallerNo.  Could I please just get your mailing address?

Me: 4055 US 401……….

CallerCould you spell that please?

[crickets]

Me:  *snicker* Sure. *snicker* 4-0-5-5-U-S-4-0-1

Caller:  OK, thank you.

I love where I live.  It’s never boring.  My daughter’s selection of suitors*, however, has me a bit worried.

*I special-ordered mine from Denver, CO.  Worth every penny.

S*&ts and Giggles, Er….Googles

I Google everything.  Like, everything.

What is a home remedy for dog poo in carpet?  How many raisins is two scoops?  Where can I (or a certain someone I know coughAmycough) buy a camouflage men’s thong?  Do women in Africa really run around with their boobies exposed?  What hotel are the NKOTB staying in and where can I find a map of the building?  Can you OD on macaroni and cheese? Can you OD on coffee?  What does it mean if you pee blue?  What color are albino polar bears?  If I run over a student driver, how many points will go on my license?  What the hell is a disco stick? 

Now Google has this great new feature.  All you have to do is type in the first few words of your inquiry and a bunch of suggestions will appear in a drop-down menu to help you decide what it is that you really want to find out.  Ya know, the stuff you’ve always wondered about.

Ahem…….allow me:

What I typed: Why can’t……

Google result:  …..I own a Canadian?

What I typed:  Why won’t……

Google result:…….my parakeet eat my diarrhea?

What I typed:  How come I……..

Google result: ……..can’t miss a woman like I miss court dates?

What I typed: Why does…….

Google result: …..poop float?

What I typed:  Is there…………

Google result: ………any way I can get this popular guy to get me pregnant?

What I typed:  Why………..

Google result: ……….is there a dead Pakistani on my couch?

What I typed:  How many cupcakes…….

Google result:  ……..can I eat before my lungs collapse?

What I typed:  How often…….

Google result: ……can I take Plan B?

What I typed:  I found some…….

Google result: …..pills and ate them.

What I typed:  How come my……..

Google result: …….poop smells like moth balls?

What I typed:  The baby……..

Google result:  ………is not mine.

What I typed:  I………

Google result:  ……like to tape my thumbs to my hands to see what it would be like to be a dinosaur.

What I typed:  Every so often…….

Google result:  ……..I like to stick my head out the window look up and smile for a satellite picture.

What I typed: I picked……..

Google result: ……..the wrong week to stop sniffing glue.

What I typed:  My mother said…..

Google result:  …..not to put beans in my ear.

And so on and so on.  So, you see, I’m not the only one who goes to Google for everything.  And by everything, I mean everything.

Subscribe!

The age months old question: “Why don’t you email me when you publish a new post?” because many of you want on-the-spot, minute-by-minute coverage of my insanely scattered verbal diarrhea.

And I’m all “Why don’t you just subscribe?”

And then I’m innocently playing around on the blog dashboard and realize that, Oh yeah, I guess I should put up a SUBSCRIBE BUTTON so people can subscribe and, thus, be informed of the minute-by-minute, insanely scattered verbal diarrhea.  That’s a big, fat DUH.

So, in light of my newfound stoopid, I have installed a subscription signer-upper in the right hand column, at the bottom. 

Over there ———>

And maybe down a little.

You’re welcome.

Dear Santa, What Happened To That Tuscan Villa?

Dear Santa,

I have beef.  Big, flame-broiled, dropped on the floor, picked back up, slapped on your plate anyway, BEEF.

While I sincerely appreciate the four bikes, the Barbie Ice Cream Shoppe, the Mousetrap game, the $500 in shopping money, the CD player, the Baby Alive that really pees and poops!, the sled, the Teddy Ruxpin and Titanic – Collectors Edition, I seem to be missing something.  A very big something.  A very big Italian something.

And, no, Santa, I’m not talking about Tony Danza in his Who’s The Boss days.

I’m speaking of that TUSCAN VILLA that was to be nestled in the hills with a vineyard in the back yard.  Right behind the pool.

tuscanvilla

Yes, Santa!  THAT ONE!

See, that was supposed to be my happy place.  The place where I can get away.  Relax.  Put my feet up.

Hide.

And that vineyard?  THAT was supposed to help with the relax part.  And I believe there was a hot muscley cabana boy or two in that deal we had.

Speaking of that deal, I believe I held up my end of the bargain.  I was a good girl.  Far as you know.  I minded my manners.  Most of the time.  I got good grades.  Between 10th grade and college.  You, sir, were too busy giving Hateful Helga that keg of Budweiser she demanded and playing Midget Monopoly with the elves and kissing my mom under the ol’ Leaf and Berries!

NOW I’m in desperate need of my happy place and I have to settle for the local Microtel beside The Waffle House with a bottle of concentrated apple juice.  NO VILLA! NO VINEYARD = NO WINE!  AND NO CABANA BOYS!

Pay up, Fat Boy, or Rudolph is toast.