Hilary Duff? You owe me 99 cents.

As a refund for the purchase of the song "Come Clean." Repayment is expected in full. You can make the check out to Tweets.

I am here to report the song as completely devoid of any musical talent, and thereby defective.

Specifically, at the 1:35 minute mark where you, Ms. Duff, proceed to do a Mexican hat dance on every musical note on the scale (inventing new ones along the way) causing me, who was once labeled lovingly as tone deaf, to scrunch my face in a way once reserved only for people who insist on still quoting Napoleon Dynamite. Then there's the 3:35 minute mark in which your song becomes the most overproduced piece of music EV. ER. And I know a thing about overproduction, I owned a NKOTB album.

Fret not Hilary, I'm not just pointing the finger at you I'm also blaming MTV. Because on every Monday at 10/9 CST they allowed this song to play as the theme of Laguna Beach, which led me to connect it with the beautiful beach vistas of coastal Orange County and being perpetually tan, rich, and taut in places where my body has long since been un-taut. (This made me keep it in my iTunes for far longer than I should have.)

Oh, I'm also blaming your mom, your sister, your boyfriend (do you guys share the same eyeliner? I've always wanted to ask you two that), your dentist who put those giant horse teeth in your mouth or anyone else that told EVER you that you could sing. Although, I'm not seeking monetary damages from them because they already have a special place in hell reserved for them.

So basically Hilary, you're really very lucky that I'm only asking you for 99 cents.

If I'm going to live like a Rock Star I would at least like the Rock Star Salary

I have a mounting suspicion that doing four Irish Car Bombs in a row was not a good idea. That suspicion being the vomit on my bedroom floor.

Thank god for Febreeze and candles.

Just know this is the kind of thing that happens when Tweets works every weekend (yes, including Thanksgiving) since September. She gets out of practice. And she talks in third person.

A sneak peek

Listening:

Heartbeats - Jose Gonzalez (who, believe or not, is Swedish)

It's the song from the Sony Bravia commercial, because yes, I am that lame that I discover music from commercials. That aside this song so beautiful, and yet I have no idea what it's talking about:

"One night to be confused

One night to speed up truth

We had a promise made

Four hands and then away "


And apparently it's a remake. Make sure you check out the orignal to hear the difference.

(I'm not as fancy as Crazy Virgo, so I don't know how to post it to the blog for your listening pleasure. Although, I'm pretty sure that iTunes wouldn't allow it anyway. Meanies.)


Reading:

Lunar Park - Brian Ellis Easton

From the guy who wrote American Psycho and Rules of Attraction. This book has me seriously creeped out. Right now, the last 60 pages or so are just taunting me.

The Gina Blog

"Being the kind and gentle mom that I am, I thought to myself, "well, how long can this thing live?" Apparently - FOREVER!!!"

Bacon Grease

"After being alienated from someone you love because of a mental illness, probably doing everything you could to see and help that person only to be denied but then discovering they were thinking of you all along, every single day, every single week, year after year. I can’t think of a more amazing yet torturous gift."

Watching:

I want to have his babies

"Just to reiterate: America is now less progressive than South Africa."

You're only 16, you don't have a rep yet.

This morning, I've been putting together a CD for my nephews – a.ka. the most adorable nephews on the planet. (Say differently, and I will cut you) I've been trying to find all sorts of fun songs that would pique a 2 year old as well a 7-month-old baby's interests, which is a difficult task under normal circumstances but seeing as I'm not shy about vying (desperately)for the Aunt of the Year spot I was not going to stop until this CD was awesome. I learned from The Bro that Trey loves to boogie, and although Josh isn't very mobile right now it's only matter of time when he will join his brother in keepin' it real. So I went about trying to find them songs to ensure motion in their adorable diapered backsides.

And that's exactly how I ended up perusing the musical library of DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince. Y'all I cannot even describe how much "Parents Just Don't Understand" took me back – to 1988. (Yes. 1988. We are that old.) Instantly, as the first notes of Will Smith's nasally rap played I was taken back to my 1988-90ish years.

A simple time - free of zits and Cranky Meth Head neighbors.

Back when it didn't get ANY cooler than New Kids on the Block, and if you even try to tell me that you were not hangin' tough with your right stuff I will NOT believe you. It's back then that if you were asked out by a boy you would only agree if he would go out with all of your other friends. I remember a particularly serious 3 week relationship with another boy in which we walk around for hours just holding hands. Two tiny, sweaty palms pressed together for what seemed like FOR. EVER. because that's what grown ups did in their relationships, right? And I most definitely remember being completely heartbroken when he left me for some other girl, that skank. Every Rose Has Its Thorn, indeed.

Back when I wanted to grow up and be a nurse, just like my mom. And I spent hours wondering when I would "blossom" because Are You There God? It's Me, Tweets. Life revolved around lunch times and who was sitting at your table. How high and ratted you could torture your bangs was directly proportional to your social life. Braces. Head gear. The running man. It all came flooding back to me.

Hangovers, real heartbreaks, credit card debt, bewbies, layoffs – these we're all yet to come. It was then that I became a little pissed off that I was a grown up. Things were supposed to be different when you were finally a grown up, right? Because to be perfectly honest at age 12 I saw my 26th year going a little different. I figured I would be married (Mrs. McIntyre, if you will), with 2.5 kids, a dog, a white picket fence and large perpetually manicured lawn. And my 26-year-old self would be there watching over it all on a porch swing, in my french cuffed jeans and sipping a strawberry daiquiri. I was from the South, and these were the dreams you had. (Oh, the horrors of being 26 and unmarried.)

And then I thought about my two gorgeous nephews, whose CD started me down this trip of memory lane. I thought about how their little lives are going to play out – and I immediately wanted to call The Bro and tell him did you know that they were going to GROW. UP! Those two are going to be grown ups. Hurry, quick push a Pause button or something because they just can't grow up. It's not all it's cracked up to be.

Oh, and don't let them have credit cards until they're 26. Or 27. Okay, 35.

The Move and the Meth Head

So, I have a new apartment. That makes three apartments in 10 months. A grand total of 9 different addresses in 3 years in a total of five different cities. In a sense, you could say I'm used to moving.

But the thing is I'm not. I should be a moving pro, but alas no. Everytime is a freakin' hassle. Because you know what, there's always a junk/mystery drawer to empty out no matter how temporary your address.

So here's the problem - I need to move again.

I've resisted mentioning my recent move here because I wanted to be completely moved before I talked about it. That way, we could all have one big ol' celebratory cheer and perhaps a celebratory glass of wine (or two or three) as well. But the Moving Gods? Well they had other plans.

First off, I might be mildly retarded because I thought I could get this entire move done in one day. ONE. Oh, and without a truck. Eleventy billion car trips later, and I still don't have furniture in my apartment.

Secondly my neighbor hates me. She hates me so much that it qualifies as The Hot Hate. And why does she hate the lovely Tweets? Because I am so loud. SO VERY, VERY LOUD. You see, she's on disability and she needs so a certain number hours of sleep. Not to mention she has a nurse who comes to her house on every other day. And if I could just keep it down, what with all the walking and such. Sure thing Lady, just as soon as you put your teeth in to talk to me.

(GRRRRRRR. I got home this evening and lo and behold what did I find? A noise complaint. The official complaint is that every evening I let my dogs run around constantly. A) first off it's a dog, I only have one. And B) These indoor dog racing tracks are just too profitable to give up. GIVE. ME. A. BREAK.)

I'll mention (although I don't think I need to) I'm no louder than your average gal. I like to think of myself as very light on my feet, somewhat graceful if you will. And Lily is a sprightly 23 pound pup. And aside from when I return from a long day at the office, she doesn't jump or run anymore than your average 6 month old puppy. And Lily and I are both usually in bed by 11:00.

Oh, and I almost forgot, you live in an APART. MENT! Which by definition means you'll need a little give and take with your neighbors. I extend you a little courtesy even though you feed the stray cats around the neighborhood. In fact I'll let it slide that you would rather just watch me struggle with my keys and the outside gate while my arms are being torn off by eighteen grocery sacks instead of reaching the four feet it would take you to open the gate for me. And I'll even cut you some slack for your friends that you let into the complex that could easily double for street transients. And you know why I do this? Because we're neighbors.


So, I've put in a request for a new unit far, far away from her. Because I'm pretty sure that I can't be still and silent for the next 12 months.

Unfortunately, it means I have to pack up my boxes. Again.

If She Doesn't Find Someone Soon She's Going to Take Out a Personal Ad

You know what? I'm not the only who misses their bestest pal, and the warm snuggles in the morning. Lily does too.

Course her hunk-o-burning love probably never farted on her hand.

Lily's all like Gurrrl, you don't even know. You heard?

Everybody Loves a Happy Ending

***

Just a little update from Sleet Watch '05: The Sleet? It came. It saw. It conquered - the roadways. I am literally dumbfounded by the fact that The Entire City of Dallas has never heard of sand or salt. These two things are mandatory weapons in the crusade against freezing water, yet as I was walking to work I saw only one instance of salt on the sidewalks. I'm SO going to fall outside of the Adam's Mark hotel and sue their ever-loving butts off. (Seeing as how I wrote about it here, I probably won't get a dime. Eh, c'est la vie!)

Also our main offices are closed. (But fret not clients for I am here all day today) Yep, even adults get the occasional snow day. I just hope we don't have to make it up in the summer.

***

Last night I watched The March of the Penguins (I begged and begged for Charlie to see this with me whilst it was playing in IMAX theaters, but as we've seen he can be a meanie.). Y'all, it was the sweetest movie I have ever seen. Morgan Freeman is there to do what he does best - narrate. It tracks the Emperor penguins as they head inland for the winter to get a little freaky-deaky with the opposite sex. They usually have to walk more than 70 miles to get to the exact spot where they mate every year, and by walk I mean that irresistibly cute penguin waddle. After the make the 70 mile journey, they have a little meet and greet, pair off, do the nasty, and hopefully produce a wee tot. And get this, penguins are monogamous – at least for the breeding season – so when they find the one they stick with that penguin. The movie then follows as the adults make trips get food and battle -60 degrees below zero weather (with NO Snow Day). Then the chicks are born. I aaaaaaaawwwwwww'd so many times and at such high pitched frequencies that Lily had to sit on my head to make me stop.

(I should mention here that I have always wanted a penguin for a pet. Along with a pony, dolphin, the monkey from Friends, and a llama.)

There is this one scene in the movie towards the end that made me bawl like a baby. Wha? It's a very emotional time for me, and well penguins are cute. So shut up you emotionally dead robot. So anyway, I cried because here are these little penguins that waddle and waddle back forth day and night for 70 miles all for the love of each other. So who says two advertising love birds can't travel 1000 miles or so to be close to one another?

Just don't think regurgitating meals into my mouth will be considered an acceptable response to a long absence.

Well hello, Jack Frost - nipper of the nose.

Folks, it's getting cold outside which that can mean only one thing: Chuck and I are more than 800 miles apart. If I've said it once, I've said a million times… Good Fucking Times, man. We’re rounding out three years together and this will be our third winter apart. The official start of our relationship is March 10th, and with the exception of that initial March 10th we've always been on opposite ends of the country on the anniversary of that fateful day (and on one occasion a full ocean apart). You read that right folks, we have not been together on our anniversary. EVER.

But I am not bitter. Oh, and just ignore the tears.

If EVER get married you will all be invited to a January wedding.

Audience (and anyone I manage to talk with for more than 15 minutes): OKAY. Enough. We get it. QUIT bringing us down.


Why I love living in Texas during the winter: Sleet Watch '05. There's a small winter storm headed our way. Winter weather means only one thing in Dallas (or the south for that matter) – NATURAL. DISASTER. This natural disaster will be in the form of one POSSIBLY! one and a half inches of snow. People at my work honest to god called in sick to work today for fear of Nature's Wintery Mix. The workplace is all a buzz about how dangerous the bridges are going to be – should they find another way home, oh the humanity of it all. Someone even informed me today that it was BELOW. FREEZING! And they were dead serious with their fear. Our management company closed its doors at three!

Y'all I have spent the past three winter in Minneapolis and Chicago. And?

YOU.

AIN'T.

SEEN.

NOTHING.

The average temperature in Chicago in December was 12 degrees last year. The weather dudes predicted a storm would pass through the city and dump 8 inches of snow, and we were told that it was going to be no big deal the trains just tack snow plows to the front. That storm ended up dumping 12 inches of snow, and I ended up white knuckled in the back of a cab doing 60 miles an hour through snow banks on Lake Shore Drive.

In Minneapolis, I once had to walk to a class mile and a half in -18 degrees.
NEG. A. TIVE. EIGHTEEN.

(And yes it was uphill both ways. Why do you ask?)

So spare me with your stories of Omigod, it got so cold here one time that the water got real hard and stuff.


Am I a hypochrondriac? Because I think I may have this: S.A.D. They detailed the disorder on the Today Show this morning and thought yeah, yeah, that’s totally me. And then I just realized I was just really bored.

Another thing – I am the perfect audience for those segments that start with Not Feeling Well? You could totally have streptamiliocouclincus, which you can only get when the clock strikes 1 am and you're facing north standing in only your underwear. Or maybe it's just your blinds were made in the seventies and therefore could cause your feet to swell to the size of a small country.

I see those segments and think OH. MY. GOD. How did they know?!?

And then I call my mom immediately. Because she was a nurse and knows all about those scary things.

Mark Wahlberg, and other things that go bump in the night.

While watching a particularly gruesome episode of Nip/Tuck this weekend, I was reminded of my friend Oliver's freakish fear of blood. I know a lot people are a little timid when it comes to blood, but Oliver couldn't stand even hearing the word blood. And for that matter, he couldn't stand hearing the descriptive words of what blood does, like spurt, gush, and the worst being ooze. This was a fear I, of course, completely exploited. (Poor Ollie, if he's reading this he's already fainted by now.)

But this got me to thinking. We all have those same generic fears of dying in a horrible way, or what Crazy Larry in front of the 7-11 is looking at with his one wonky eye. But what are the rest of us freakishly afraid of? I asked around the office got some pretty good answers. Everything from bugs that don't die when squashed to lint screens on dryers to Mark Wahlberg in that one movie where he carves his chest.

I heard it and thought wow that would make a fetching entry. (mainly because I couldn't think of anything else to write about – I mean how many dog pics can we look at.) (This is otherwise known as my freakish fear that my creativity will run out)

So, I'm about let in on what scares Tweets to her inner most core.

1.
Lightning – um yeah, don't laugh. Lightning is some freaky shit. It all started when the local electric company came to my elementary for a demonstration on electricity and safety. Because apparently there are a lot of kids running around Oklahoma frolicking with downed power lines while in a torrential downpour in an open field. They brought in giant transformers and mammoth crackling Jacob's ladders to demonstrate the crazy power of electricity.

For the kicker, they took a hot dog – meant to represent a wee tot's innocent finger – and ran umpteen hundreds watts of electricity through it. And you know what that hot dog did? It blew'd up. Into a billion tiny pieces. And the Electricity Company Guy, with a creepy smile on his face, says something like, "Jeepers kids! That's only a tenth of what lightning is packing." Oh yeah? Yeah. While all the other kids were say something to the effect of COOOOOOOL, I sat frozen in place. Wide eyed, mouth agape, shaking in my koolats.

I vowed right then and there to never fuck with electricity for as long as I lived. Which is a fine goal for something like avoiding downed power lines, but lightning? You can't control that beast. (And yes I realize it's very unlikely to be struck by lightning, but if I happened to be lucky at being unlucky in one aspect of my life I'm sure lightning strikes would be it.) So, to this day if I happen to be in an open field and feel a drop of rain on my skin I FA-REAK the fuck out. I run around asking people – hey are my hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.

So yeah, if it's raining I'm the one you'll find running around screaming how we should Get inside the car because the tires will protect you! or Get off the phone! or Get away from that tree! and for God's sakes Don't take a shower!

Then there's that whole bloody murder sceaming thing that happens when lightning strikes within a five mile radius of me.

2.
Alligators/Crocodiles – Doesn't matter which one because frankly? I don't know the difference between them. And I don't care. They are both equally terrifying.

I know it's not rare to be afraid of giant prehistoric animals whose sole purpose it is to devour other animals with their lethal fangs, but hear me out. First, it really creeps me out that these things can just appear in people's pools or worse their toilets. Not to mention they can take down a deer in a single gulp. Plus I have a natural distrust for animals that are sneaky. For example, you could just be gallivanting away in some swamp in southern Florida (could happen!) and turn your head and see some giant gator eyeball staring right back at you. Goodbye arms and legs, hello crap in pants.

And even though being completely aware of this fear, I was handed a book (by a family member no less) that was essentially When Animals Attack! in paperback form. For one afternoon I sat transfixed reading the alligator and crocodile chapter – including every gory detail – about how much gators enjoy munching on their prey, that prey being people. Good times, really.

See, I discovered all sorts of fun facts like even though gators bite down on you real hard, that's not really what kills you – oh no! – instead you die because the grab a hold of you and take you underwater and twirl you around a bit until you drowned. And don't think climbing a tree is going to save you because crocs can jump something like eighty feet, give or take. Sounds fabulous, no?

Plus the book was filled with such glorious testimonials of the fact that YES! gators are dangerous, avoid them at all costs. People that told stories of how they were having a gay ol' time swimming somewhere of the coast of someplace when all of the sudden a gator came and snatched up their friend, and how after hours of searching, they found nothing but her mangled body. Oh but the horror doesn't end there, because once they get her body in a body bag to take somewhere not infested by gators, the gators follow her "scent" the whole way home. Jumping up and nipping at the body bag. Apparently they were hungry for a little midnight snack.

Did I mention I was reading this book in FLOR. IDA! A place where there are actual gators or crocodiles OR WHATEVER.

You know what else Florida is known for? Most Lightning Strikes in America. Talk about a stress free vacation.

H.W.J.V.?

How do you know when you're living in a red state? The teaser for your local news opens up this way:

"The Gay Rights and Marriage Bill and how would Jesus vote."

Unbearable Cuteness Ahead

I know, Two Posts, One Day. It's like the feeling you get when you win the lottery. Not the Powerball of course, more like when you win 25 bucks on the scratch-offs.

Trust me, I have a lot to talk about, and work is finally back to Mildly Hectic so there's actually time for my brain to decompress and not have think about web banners 99% of the day.

So where to begin – the trip to the fair, Halloween's shenanigans, Laguna Beach, cool autumn nights, Grey's Anatomy? Oh, I know! Lily.

Well, here she is.


Meet Lily. It only took us five days of different names to name her. So in addition to Lily she will answer to Maggie and Pixie. Hear that Romeo? She answers to three names, you think you could answer to yours? Ever?

This past weekend Charlie and I awoke on a beautiful Saturday morning, wiped the sleep out of our eyes, made the bed. Smiled at Romeo, our precious little pup, and then skipped into the kitchen to grab a glass of orange juice. Returned to the bed to find that Romeo? Had pissed on it. Again. And we looked at one another and said, "Let's get another one because this, this is so much fun!"

No lie. We went to the Shelter right then. Unlike last time, there weren't any tears and only a mild instance of hysterics when someone tried to snatch the dog I was going for. Oh no you di-int!

And by god I was going to look at every damn dog that Shelter had. I was determined to make a well thought out and planned decision, no matter how long it took or how many times Chuck whined, "Juuuust pick one, I want some luuuuuunch, wah wah wah." Haste never pays off at the Shelter (see above Piss/Bed incident for proof) (Just kidding, I love you Romeo!)

And it wasn't going too well. Charlie nixed the three legged dog because is A MEANIE. And I nixed the dog who came into the "Get to Know You Room" and promptly pissed on everything that wasn't ten feet off the ground because? AAAH, flashbacks to my first dog Ozzie and pee covered Christmas presents. The seven hundred other dogs we brought in were terrified of Romeo. (And the thing that's worse than going to the Shelter and not getting a dog, is actually taking the dogs out of their kennels and playing with them only to decide that the dog won't work for you. So you have to return its kennel, all the while the dog is looking at you like "hey give me one more chance, and look I can do tricks just please don't put me back in that kennel confirming once again for my fragile psyche that no one loves me." Yeah that sucked.)

So there I was cooing at a litter of Labradoodles, (knowing Charlie would nix them because TOO MUCH HAIR! but OH MY GOD they were cute) trying to ignore the yippy dog next to me, and secretly eyeing the lady holding the adorable Chihuahua with an underbite, and it was then that Lily caught my eye. She just sat there and stared me big ol' puppy dog eyes and would you just look at those YOO-GE ears. It sounds really stupid and trite now, but at the time it felt like she was calling me. And lucky for her, she could handle Romeo and all his Romeo-ness.

So we took her home. The whole time we were in the car Romeo was like whuuuuuuut? This thing isn't leaving?

Oh boy more puppy pics!


Meet the kids. (When I say that Charlie's whole body tenses up and I just know his brain is screaming NOOOOOOOOOO) Oh and by the way, I have to mention that we were doing laundry (see above Piss/Bed incident) I would hate you to think that we live the kind of life where we don't put bed sheets on our bed.



Romeo is all like, you can keep trying but it's not going to work, I know because I tried it like hundreds times at the dog park. Seriously, it will never fit.




Oh. My. God. Call the Lifetime Channel right now because that is the sappiest pile of sappy cuteness.


Romeo would like everyone to know that even though there's a new pup in town – he still owns this bitch.

Exodus and Irony

Ha ha, I was only kidding when I said it wouldn't be another month before I updated.

Okay here's the deal. See I had big plans to organize my side of the closet for I am an unorganized mess of a girl – I bought drawers and shelves to boot – and I had planned to update when that was done. That way I could post some pictures of The Great Closet Organization Celebration '05 and I could be all Look! at what I did, for I am a person with organizational skills. And all of us would oooh and aaaah, and then you guys would shower me with all sorts of organizational praise. And life would be Good. But alas it didn't work out that way. As of right now, the closet is only moderately organized, but no fear today is the day that I will have plenty of extra time to get to it. Right. Today.

Oh, but I have a nice big excuse for being unorganized. Charlie decided to quit his job. I know that's what I said too. And two weeks after I officially moved all my stuff down to Dallas no less. And for a week I thought he going to move all the way out to North Carolina, which is? Like all the way across the country. Clearly an unorganized closet was the last thing on my mind. I was more occupied with keeping potential flying projectiles out of my hands, lest Charlie "accidentally" walk in front of a flying flat iron. Because in case y'all didn't know, everything is about ME.

And Charlie is the only person in the world who can quit his job (with no job to take its place) and have two jobs lined up for him to consider within a week. TWO! Most of us are lucky to be offered A Job, let alone two jobs that would necessitate A Decision. But that's Charlie for ya, one lucky son of a bi-atch.

So after much Quality Decision Making and Thinking, in which he listened to none of my sage advice (and still ended up doing what I told him to do, but gave me none of the credit) he choose to take a freelance gig where he gets to design video game characters. For a living! How freaking cool is that? And the best part is that this job not in North Carolina, it's in – wait for it - Chicago. Oh. The. Irony. But now I can say yeah, that's my boyfriend he designs twelve headed fire snot spewing dragons for a living. Jealous much? (See, all about ME)

And with this job he won't be stuck in some cube. And he never has to listen to another stupid account executive. Plus he will be able to travel when he wants, and he can work from Dallas, Minneapolis, Tennessee, the moon, wherever there's an internet connection. HUGE plus for him because he apparently cannot adopt the sedentary lifestyle. I mean for goodness sakes dude, just sit still for a second. And we all know that I, personally, have not one problem with that lifestyle.

And the proof is in the pudding or in my case the closet.

The Post With All the Updates

If there's anything that could drag me from a blogging slump it would be this. Tom and Kat(i)e have spawned. Good lawd, the Apocalypse is upon us.

If you were wondering what I have been up to – and I know you all care - you came back at the right time because folks? I am gonna go all month-long-update on that ass, right about now.

First off, work? Has me by my proverbial balls. We have been so busy around here lately. My typical day looks like: get up, work for ten hours, go home, take the dog to the dog park, return home, cook dinner, pass out on couch after attempting to watch 2.2 minutes of a movie. Repeat ad nauseum.

But I'm not going to let that get me down. Oh no.

Now then, we can get to the excitement. The first weekend of September, Charlie and I went to the first game of the OU football season. Known now as the first and LAST football game Charlie will be attending, for he is clearly bad luck. We lost the game in smashing fashion to a team that wears purple. PURPLE. (And you think it's just a coincidence that Tom and Katie are having a baby? No, God is seriously pissed at the world) That Saturday, Charlie was invited into my family's inner circle and summarily banned from it in the span of four hours. Tough break, but you gotta cut the weak ones loose.

Also Romeo made his first trip to Tulsa. Romeo loves to ride in the car. There's an endless supply of things to look at, and usually the ride ends some place where Romeo has never peed before which to him equals a huge bonus. Lately when Charlie and I ride in the car with Romeo we roll down one window in the back and he hangs his head out of it and there is much joy in the world. Eventually he becomes bored with the one side and we have to roll down the other window so he can see a Whole New World. He goes back and forth and back and forth, loving it all the while. Except when I played our new game on this particular car ride I had a wee lapse of concentration (because you know there's a road and I have to pay attention to it and stuff) and OH! NO! I rolled up the wrong window, and Romeo's head paid the price. Had we been on a playground at the time, all the other dogs would have totally been making fun of him. Because he screams like a little girl. After I released him from the crazy window of death he shot me with hot laser beams from his eyes. His payback was his favorite game where he lets the car get very, very quiet allowing me to drift off in thought and wait for it, wait for it – now unleash The Bark With All The Barking Loudness Of A Bark That Was Not Expected. And then I scream like a little girl.

When Romeo arrived in Tulsa, he was greeted warmly by my mom's dog P.B. And by warmly I mean, with lots of growling and chomping. P.B. pulled me aside later and lamented that he couldn't handle it if I started bringing "babies" home with me too. The two nephews/grandchildren who visited were almost too much for him to handle. As for the Mom and Marv's other dog, Ricki, she would have been less scared if I had dropped an F-4 tornado on her. She spent most of the weekend being spooked out of her gourd (because she can't hear worth a lick) when Romeo would come up behind her to play. Their cat? Well he just flipped me off and went about his weekend. Romeo didn't mind the cold reception from everyone because every time he turned the corner there was a new treat to eat. Within ten minutes of being there he had found every one of P.B's "hidden" bones, plus all the secret stockpiles of Milkbones®. And Sweet Jesus! all those Beggin' Strips. He ate everything he could find. And Grandma spoiled him just like he was P.B., everytime I saw Romeo and my mom in the same room he was getting another treating from her. (For three days after we got back from Tulsa he laid down the largest poops I have ever seen.) And then there this wonder that apparently called The Backyard. When Romeo discovered The Backyard there was a lot of leaping and bounding followed by more leaping and more bounding. My dog has never had so much fun.


Then came the weekend that will be known as weekend of The Most Anticipated Contract Termination of 2005. I flew to Chicago to pack up and leave the Money Draining Apartment behind. Just in case you didn't know this is what is like to have movers move your stuffit goes something a little like this:

Pack
Re-pack only with more bubble wrap
Ask for Saturday pick up
Be told to expect Friday morning
Request Saturday instead
Be laughed at
Watch movers re-pack everything
Watch movers charge for moving supplies needed to re-pack
Be convinced that movers are making fun of you in Spanish
Hurry back to Dallas, delusional that stuff will arrive in two or three days
Wait for five days, with no stuff
Learn move is 500 bucks over estimate
Cry because you barely had enough to cover the estimate
Tell movers they need to drop off stuff before 6:30 pm
Be told to expect my stuff sometime around 6:45 pm
Request earlier time
Be laughed at
Cry some more
Lift and haul my own stuff that I am paying 500 bucks over the estimate to have movers lift and haul for me
Note the sound of broken glass in every box
Pay for move by handing over first born child in the form of 2200 cash


So needless to say, moving was a joy. But hey, I'm officially in Dallas. Yeah! I guess.

The next Saturday I returned to Norman (sans Charlie) to try this whole football thing over again. This time I figured the best way thing I could do was to get drunk. Plenty drunk. Not surprisingly, I wasn't worried about the outcome of the game by about beer three. I was dancing in the aisle by beer four. With the drinking, the dancing and the actual winning of a football game I eventually did a bad thing. That bad thing being elbowing (accidentally!) Meanie McMeanerson in the back of the head. She was very pissed because she had hoped to attend the football game without all the football-gamey stuff. So receiving an Excited! elbow to the head literally sent over the edge. She spent the rest of game hating me with Hot Hate.




But you guys, look at what she wore to a football game. I should have taken her down with a pile driver for those paisleys ALONE.

Which brings us to now. Whew. We're all updated. And don't worry it won't be another month before I update again.

To Quote Seinfeld - Why is it...

Why is it when I take my dog outside to poop and someone comes up to make small talk I feel as weird and icky as if a perfect stranger walked in on me pooping in my own bathroom?

What is love?

Recent conversation overheard between two first time cohabitants:

Whew, I'm really gassy. My insides are all hurty because of it.

I'm sorry.

Ow. Oooooow.

Well, do I need to burp you?

Yeah, maybe.

Well, come here.

Climbs on lap facing significant other.

Buuuuurpaaaaargghhh Ah. Ruuurrrp. Bupfffruuup. Gurrrruuup. Recovers. Wow. Thanks.

Uh, yeah, I guess you were gassy.

Told you. Love you.

Love you too.

_____________________________________________________


Speaking of gas, Chuck and I crossed our final relationship frontier. One of us deliberately and purposefully farted in front of the other. Up until now busting the accidental toot was met with red cheeks and awkward giggles.

That was until a couple weeks ago. I was trying to goose Charlie, and he got mad and threatened that he was going to fart on my hand. (which, um yeah, what are we 12, Charlie?) AND THEN HE DID. I’ll repeat for those in the back. The man FARTED. ON. MY. HAND.

So that final barrier just wasn’t crossed. Oh no. It was cluster bombed, folks.

ON.

MY.

HAND.

What about Lil Romeo?

No, no not Master P’s son/rapper/actor. What about my little Romeo?

Well, first things first he’s not so little anymore. Check the progress y'all.

Romeo at 3 Months
Romeo at 5 months

The dog is now the largest dog I have ever owned. He’s coming in at 27.8 lbs. And the vet is putting him at forty to fifty pounds full grown. And seeing as he takes up three-fourths of the bed right now, I’m frightened to think of how it’s going to be in a couple of months.

Also we have begun taking him to the dog park. Or as I like to call it high school with poop bags. (or maybe that’s just high school) And PS the dog park is the clique-iest place I have ever seen. And folks, I was in a sorority.

First you have the cool kids, with their Labs and Golden Retrievers. To find them just follow the tennis balls or other various squeaky object flying through the air. Their dogs are usually the ones running around aimlessly knocking over the small children. Which is fun for a laugh, but also very tacky.

Then there’s the “I’m so cool because my dog is unusual” Great Dane and Weimaraner Club. This is the group of people who wanted to own a dog that no one had ever seen so they went the highly “unusual” Great Dane or Weimaraner. Funny, that there’s like ten of both of these breeds walking around the dog park at any given time.

And of course, don’t forget the “Dog people.” They are the reason that dog parks came into existence, and they aren’t going to let you forget it. They bring their own chairs, and they sit in a large circle to claim the best spot in the park (and only shade) for themselves. It’s very hard to get into their inner circle. They spend most of the time talking organic dog food or doggie spas – because, you know, it’s only the best for Mr. Tuffy McScuttlebottoms – Prince of the Fancy Pants. They are there every day. They let their dogs kiss them on the lips after four plus hours sniffing dog butts. They are quite literally the soccer moms of dog world.

Then you have everybody else, who much like in high school, are just walking around with our heads down trying to not get noticed. Most of them are guilt ridden twentysomethings who are looking for the quick way wear their dogs out. They all kind of walk around with this stunned look on their faces like did you know dogs were this much work? The goal of everyone in this group is to get in and get out as quickly as possible. They’re not really looking to make friends. Clearly, these are my people.

Now if only Romeo understood the rules of the park. You see, Romeo’s favorite thing to do is to find one and only one dog and gnaw at it for the ENTIRE. TIME. This means my time at the dog park is spent finding all about who the owner of the dog that Romeo is trying to fit inside his mouth. Romeo’s nasty habit is always met with the same scornful look, that says to me, listen I brought my dog to jump to play to run, I didn’t come here for my dog to get covered in your dog’s drool.

Oops. Sorry about that.

Finally Romeo's chosen dog will get fed up with Romeo chew chew chewing on its neck, and retaliate by kicking Romeo’s ass. Romeo gets scared and takes off at hundred miles an hour to find refuge in between someone’s legs. And of course those legs are never mine. Which means? Hi, I have to introduce myself to you too because my dog is a quivering mass of drool covered jelly underneath your legs, pleased to meet you.

This happens ad nauseum until people see Romeo coming, and pick up their dogs to head in the other direction.

But do realize the dog park isn’t all good times . The park has its dangers. For example, molestation runs rampant. And Romeo might as well have Barely Legal written in bold right across his forehead. He sends all the pervert dogs into a tissy. I can’t count the number of times that he’s been humped. Poor guy was deflowered and gang banged in the same day. All of it leads to some awkward morning-after glances. Like hey, you’re dog pounded Romeo into the ground for an hour straight, but it's not awkward no, no. Definitely. Not. Awkward. (Not that Romeo minded because at the time he was probably turning an innocent mutt into a rawhide chew.)

Plus you always run the risk of running into Talkie McTalkerson. She lives at our apartment complex, and as her name indicates she’s a talker. And I enjoy talking to her about as much as I enjoy getting a paper cut. On my toe. Charlie says she’s not that bad, but then again he could have a conversation with a wall. She’s supa annoying to me because EVERY time I talk to her she has some sort of stupid advice (better known as assvice) to give me. For example she’ll ask me a simple question like:


Talkie: What are you feeding you dog?

Me: Dry food.

Talkie: What? Just dry food? OMIGOD! OMIGOD! Your dog is going to DIE a long horrible death if you don’t start feeding him some canned food at once. You’re so lucky I told you in time.

You’re right, I am so lucky. Now if you don’t mind I have to go yell my dog’s name over and over while he ignores me, and continues to devour some poor puppy’s hind quarters. That way I can get looks from all the cool people and their cool dogs like, how dare you bring a dog here that isn’t trained.

I hate high school.

Now here are some pics of the growing boy. (I will update with some from the dog park when I get home.) Now then, are you ready for this much cuteness?

Romeo has the longest legs I have ever seen, when he stretches out he becomes like three times his size. I’m afraid all the dogs at the dog park are calling him long legged freaky dog boy behind his back.





I tried to tell you that you were indeed not ready for this much cuteness.




I just took away his new favorite thing. My dirty underwear. That’s right, nothing is more disgusting than to walk into a room and find your dog munching on your dirty panties. And every time I take them away he acts like I just ripped out his little heart. I blame all his deviant behavior on the dog park, he is clearly hanging out with the wrong crowd.

Nipples and Librarians

Y’all. I went to Billy Bob’s Texas this weekend. If you didn’t know (and how could you not) Billy Bob’s is the World’s! Largest! Honky tonk! Oh, and Urban Cowboy was filmed there.

It’s all the way out in Fort Worth. It took 45 minutes, 30 bucks in gas, and a 9 dollar cover to get us there. But ten minutes after we arrived, we were greeted with something so spectacular that it made all that worthwhile.

I give you:



Here I’ll get good and close for you.




Let that soak in folks. Notice the fringe on the tank, as if she needed help drawing your eye to her MASSIVE CLEAVAGE. And that poor tank top is so crying for help, plus it's dug so deep into her shoulders it’s a wonder how she was still getting blood to her fingers. But the boots? Not bad. They tie the whole outfit together, don’t you think?



The night was an amazing insight into how the other half lives. Here’s a hint: it’s in trailer parks.

Let’s see, number of children under the age of eight: 17

Number of pregnant women: 2

Number of women with infant in stroller with beer and cigarette in hand: 1

Number of ill fitting denim ensembles on both men and women: a frillion billion

Then there was this:

It's a bad picture, but those are her NIP. PLES. Showing through her shirt. So classy.

And this was all in the first hour. But you know what took the cake, I know. I KNOW. How could it get any better? Or is it worse? Either way, we came upon the ultimate sight. Now close your eyes, and put a little banjo music on in your head. Now picture your mom, local librarian, that nice lady who hands out church bulletins on Sundays ALL wrapped up in one lady. Her name might be, I don’t know, Betty. Put Betty in her best embroidered vest and high rise pleated khakis. Don’t forget the reading glasses on the chain. And what would be the perfect accessory for her to pick out? Why a “69” sticker of course. Placed directly in the middle of her shirt.

Whuuuuuuuut?


Gawd, I love this country.

It's my ironic cowboy hat and ironic big hair.

We're hot stuff people. Hot. Stuff.

Birthday Extravaganza? Maybe.

So, this weekend was my birthday. (What, you don’t have birthday weekends? Shame.) I turned a whopping 26 years of age.

It’s officially the end of an era. I am closer to thirty than I am twenty. I am officially out of the running for People’s Most Beautiful People Under 25. I can no longer look forward to being on the Real World: St. Louis Park. It’s all downhill from here.

When I was younger my birthday parties were usually? Lame. And this was no fault of my parents, of course. It was mainly due to bad timing. And Jennifer C. (I'm using an initial to protect her innocence, plus she probably knows how to Google herself and I don't need a lawsuit) Jennifer’s birthday was a week ahead of mine. Jennifer had herself a pool. Jennifer threw her annual birthday bash in her said pool. Everyone came. Everyone always had a blast. By the time my lowly birthday rolled around all the nine year olds were all partied out. Jennifer once had a birthday party and thirty people showed. I threw a skating party that next week. Two people showed. Another birthday party I had three people to show up, but one girl ate too much cake and ice cream, and barfed all over the table. She understandably had to go home.

By middle school and high school I just gave up. This was mostly because I couldn’t take the humiliation of sending out those cute invites and no one showing up anymore. That and OH MY GAH birthday parties are so NOT COOL. Gah, Mom.

After that I stopped caring that I never had a birthday during the school year. Who wanted to be sernaded by their friends at lunchtime anyway? I started to realize it didn’t matter that on the last day of school I got lumped together with the other 14 kids with summer birthdays for one big mock birthday celebration, when everyone else got their own day. (And by not matter I mean it’s haunts me EVERY. DAY.)

As for birthdays in college? Two words– SORORITY. RUSH. That’s right. All the friends I paid to be friends with me were under house arrest. No one could leave. The house went dry for the week. DRY. As in no alcohol. (Not that I drank before I was 21. Heh.) My 21st birthday went down as the biggest bust of a birthday ever. I took my shots, but once again two people showed up. (I have to mention here that Cyndi and Elizabeth were kind enough to throw me a make up 21st birthday party in December.)

After college came Miami Ad School. Or as I like to call it, Binge Drinking with a side of Debt. Its classes were in session all year. No summers, meant no summer birthdays. Yay! Plus you invited people to drink and they RSVP'd. Who couldn’t turn down a chance to drink your face off while at MAS? Whatever it was, I couldn’t have been more delighted. In the three birthdays I have had since I first walked the hallowed halls of MAS, my birthdays have been more fun than I can remember. Literally. Three birthdays. Three blackouts. (Parents – You raised me right, don’t worry. Kay?)

So that brings us around to last Friday, A.K.A. Daffornication 2005. I wish I could regale you with funny stories about drunken mishaps, but unfortunately I remember about this much(doing that thumb and finger thing that indicates a very little amount) of the party.

Here are the things that I am rumored to have done while my memory took a vaca to Bermuda.

- I slid head first into second base, and by second base I mean the food table.

- Had long, deeply insightful conversations. With the plants.

- Played cups. And won.

- I imbibed mass quantities of alcohol

- Passed out two hours into my party. Only after taking out an end table. (I have good friends, so the party continued in my honor.)

But here is what I will admit to doing, but only because there is photographic proof:

Happy Birthday to ME. That’s right, MEEEEE. This is when the shots started. I think this is the last part of the night where I was able to put together a coherent sentence. I think.

All the sexy bitches were at my party. Oh yeah.

But who invited Willy Wonka?

Eeek, look how shiny our faces are. We’re like a Clearasil "Before" picture. But big surprise, it's Texas, it's August, and it was eleventy million degrees outside.

Rich had a really good time. Clearly.

Here’s Jordan and I as we compare our fine orthodontia. I won hands down.

And here’s where it all starts to get foggy. Can you really blame me though? That shot glass is huge. YOO-GE! (From here on out I don’t remember a thing, and the rest of these pistures were a surprise to me the next morning.)

Folks, this is why they call it TE-KILL-YA. Oh my head hurts just looking at it.

Show us exactly where The Bad Taber kissed you.

Is this my sexy look? Gah. I really feel sorry for Charlie.


Every girls fantasy!

Again with the sexy look? Huh?

Vixens and…

Vagabonds. PS - note that Charlie has spilled something on his shirt, a hallmark of any good party.

Bye Bye Charlie

Charlie spent the weekend in Minnesota. That meant I spent an entire weekend without my man. How did I celebrate? Why, by being messy of course. As we speak: Dirty dishes in the sink - check. Bed not made - check. Hair stuff, flat irons, makeup, and other girlie stuff I "try" to hide from Charlie frolicking out in the open - check. And there's not a thing anyone can do about it. (I bet you ten dollars when Charlie reads this he will have to restrain himself from flying through internet to clean the house.)

Oh, and then I watched about eleventy million hours of Sex and the City. And tooted on the couch instead of running into the bathroom. In short, it has been awesome.

But still, I miss him. A lot. The night before he left I just buried my face into his chest and tried to soak up every last drop of him. I just hate to say goodbye. To anyone. When Charlie left for three months to go to Prague a year ago, I cried and cried and cried. And then for good measure I cried some more. The guy next to me on the plane had to ask if I was okay - which really? How very For the Love of the Game of me. Even now I still cry and pout whenever I have to say goodbye to him. And since Charlie thinks this is the most ridiculous thing in the entire world, I wait until I make it back to the car before I turn on the waterworks. So Wednesday evening, there Romeo and I sat in the car and boo-hooed all the way home. Mostly I think Romeo wanted to ride in the front seat and hang his head out the window, but I'm pretty sure on some level he was just as sad as I was.

(side note: The Look-Kids-It's-Big-Ben circular construction of DFW airport is doing nothing to help waterworks. I get lost EVERY. FRIGGIN. TIME. North exit?!? South EXIT?!? I just WANT OUT. WHY CAN'T I GET OUT!)

But I ask you, how can I not be sad when Charlie leaves? He takes such great care of me. He treats me like a princess. Never once has he griped at the amount of shit I leave around the house. We're both first time cohabitors, and it's been an adjustment to say the least yet he's never once thrown up his arms and yelled GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! (I would have done this about a frillion times by now if someone had moved into my humble abode and put all their girlie shit EVERYWHERE. Often, I catch him staring whistfully at the bathroom that just used to be a bar of soap and a toothbrush.)

(Oddly though, he does disappear in order to get a couple of beers, and returns seven hours later - for the life of me I can't figure out what that's about.)

But still with everything, he's always there for me when I need him. He has the most amazing pair of arms that just swallow you whole. They wrap around me and it's then that I know that even if the whole world spontaneously combusted and fell apart, that I would be just fine right there in his arms. He's got a big, beautiful and alarmingly reassuring smile that still to this day makes my heart leap when I see it. He patiently listens to me when I explain to him what's hapening on this weeks episode of Laguna Beach. He's disgustingly talented. He's never met a stranger. His heart is about the size of this god forsaken hell hole of a state that were stuck in. He can take me in the midst of a giant oh my gawd the world is going to end better just stick my head in the oven freak out session, and whisper in between my sobs that everything will be alright, and I know that it will. He wipes away big ol' crocidile tears with his freakishly soft man hands and kisses my cheeks for the ultimate boo-boo fix. And if I ever try to push him away (which I have done more than my fair share of) he hangs on for dear life. He can take me at my very worst, and treats me like I am the very best.

Plus he's turned me into a mushy girlie girl. Ew.

Oh and hurry home, babe.

How to Make it Awkward Come Monday Morning

Combine one work party and several (okay lots of) free drink tickets.

Here's the thing: you take one lowly office peon, who has spent the entire week huddled over her computer fretting over whether or not soccer moms will understand the term "golf claps", and then give her the okay to drink on company time, well, she just might kick back and have a few.

Now, don't worry. I wasn't THAT girl.

But I did manage to get the And-Here-I-Thought-You-Were-The-Quiet-One comment more than a couple of times. Which please, I'm not quiet. I just don't like talking to you.

Anyway, like I said here are some things to remember (or not) about company parties.

Make sure your voice is never below shouting level. Even if you are in a quiet suburban establish meant for kids (you know the kind of place with skee ball for the wee ones and shots of tequila for the moms). Otherwise, no one will be able to hear your genius ideas for how the company could improve.

And when broken into groups don't bother to learn anyone's names. For your name is the one that they should be learning. Clearly. And when your boss bowls a gutter ball, make sure to mention how bad he sucks. This will come in handy when he sits down to do your evaluation in a couple of months.

When your boss comes over to see what all the fun/yelling/hysterical hyenia laughing is about - run.

When your boss' boss comes over to see what all the fun/yelling/hysterical hyenia laughing is about - for gawd sake's woman RUN. FASTER.

If they are bearing more drink tickets - take a suicide pill or something, just STOP. TALKING.

And for pete's sake stop telling everyone you love them. Oh, I mean REALLY. LOOOOVE. THEM. Because they are so great and talented and thanks for all the opportunities because I LOOOOVE YOU and YOU and YOU.

Yeah, stop doing that.

Workie McWorkerson

Until the end of this week, you'll find me huddled under my desk weeping incoherently about copy decks and sweepstakes.

Boo.

Hoo.

And until my brain returns to normal function, I will leave you with this:

Murphy's Law can suck it.

So, on Sunday I found out my Dad broke both of his arms. I know, ouch. The poor guy is in two cast up past his elbows. And really, is this how old my parents are now? I don't mean that in a ha ha you're over the hill way, but in more of an Oh-My-GOD-My-Parents-Aren't-Going-To-Be-Here-Forever kind of way. I've been blessed with four parents (that's right count 'em. FOUR!) and so help me if any of you "go away" I will hunt you down in the afterlife and kick you square in the rear.

Side note: For all parties involved, a trip to the ER equals a phone call. And you must be truthful, no sugar coating. Yeah, I'm talking to you.

And my parents aren't even that old. They're all around their 50s. (Sorry, mom) And they're all still super active. Heck, my impression of people in their 50s is drinking martinis while watching the Lawrence Welk Show. But that ain't them. My Dad and Jen are runners and outdoor enthusiasts, like hiking up huge mountains outdoor enthusiasts. My Mom and Marvin are biking fools, like across the state of Missouri biking fools. (clearly their athletic prowess didn't rub off on me) So this came as quite a shock to me. And you know what? I'm Pissed.

Pissed because this is the poo poo-iest of timing. My Dad has been planning a trip to Yellowstone National Park for like a year. A YEAR. And I can't even pay my bills on time. (once again clearly did not inherit his organizational skills) He was so looking forward to it. I was looking forward to him going too. The whole fam was going to be there. And now it's all up in the air. This is the guy who taught me to love nature. he lives for this kind of stuff. When I was younger he literally dragged me up a mountain kicking and screaming. Literally. I can be such a brat sometimes. But it didn't phase him any, and with dried tears and snot caked to my face he snapped a picture. He said because eventually I would want to remember the first mountain I climbed. And of course he was right because parents can be like that sometimes. Now that picture is framed in his living room, and each time I look at it I silently say, thanks for everything Dad. (This mountain was 3000 feet taller than the first mountain Todd climbed. Take that, Tawd)

So, now we're waiting for news from the doctor. And it better be good news or I will kick him/her square in the rear.

I spit on you bad timing, pfft.

Seriously y'all,

does this look like the face of a puppy who was born to torture me?

Surely not.

Of course not, and stop calling me Shirley. (Days folks, I got 'em for days.)


Romeo is giving me a great insight into my life. For example, I now know how I will handle motherhood:
1) Scream
2) Pull out my hair
3) Assume fetal position
4) Cry. A lot.
5) Consult Dr. Pinot Grigio
7)What baby?

But seriously dog, pee OUT. SIDE. Or mommy will go crazy an begin to softly rock in the corner again.

Single Brindle Dog seeks fun times, but not in the park.

Hello my sweet, my name is Romeo. I'm a lover not a fighter, and I'm also an Aries. I'd really like to get to know you. Perhaps we can get together some time and sniff butts.

Quote: If there ain't pee on the floor, it ain't a party.

Likes: Hunting crickets; Eating rocks; Chasing leaves; Hunt for the Shit Game

Dislikes: Any toy my mom has ever bought me; the word NO!

My camera went capooey on me this weekend. Mark me down for two electronics that have just upped and failed me. So I am sans camera until Aug. 8th, and oh my gosh the first thing I thought about was that Romeo is going to grow so much and I won't have any pictures of it. (yes I am that woman) Thankfully, Charlie talked me out of this near hysteria panic fit cause he's all awesome like that. And not to worry I still have plenty of pictures of my dog to share, and if you are mean to me, I will bring back Romeo's butt.

Plus I lost my check card. A word to the wise: don't EVER lose you check card. People at Wal-Mart are all like what the? A check? What are you ninety? And it was a blast to carry on this conversation every time I wrote one, Yeah, I lived in Minnesota for almost two years - that's why I have a MN driver's license - and then I recently moved to Chicago - which is why there's a Chicago address on my checks - oh and the Oklahoma cell phone number? Well, that's where I am from originally. No, I didn't know it was against the law to not have a TX license after you've lived here for 30 days. I know they were totally taking my picture and posting me on a wal in the break room as a suspicious check writer. Fo' reals. Think of all that I went through next time you use your credit card and A) no one asks for an ID and/or B) don't even bother to check the signature. (Manager approval's people, MANGER'S. APPROVAL.) Oh, and buy me something pretty.

GAH.

Random Notes from Hell

Otherwise known as Dallas, TX.

1. I have a confession to make. I, Tweets, am a illegal DART rider. I get on everyday without paying. I'm putting honor systems everywhere to shame. I'm the one bad apple that spoils the a whole lot. I would walk the seven blocks, but seriously, it's mad hot here. And I might sweat or something. I don't do humidity. Though riding the DART train illegally has turned me into a paranoid freak. First, as the train rolls into a station even before I've boarded, I have to survey the entire thing to make sure a fare inspector isn't on board. I bet if you took my blood pressure while I'm riding the train, it would be sky high. I fear any minute someone is going to yell at me to show them my ticket. And I'll just stand there going uuuuuuuuh, hey, look over there. But still I can't help getting on the train and not paying. It's $1.25, people. For seven blocks. It's too hot to resist. Plus it's right there when I come out of my office. And drops me off right at Charlie's office. What's a girl to do? Sweat? Surely you jest.

2. But I am loving this:

It's the best toothbrush in the whole wide world. Swear. I actually look forward to brushing my teeth. My teeth feel like I just got back from the dentist. Sans the novacaine shots, and lectures about flossing. IT. IS. AWESOME. Buy one now.

Oh, and I'm also loving the $1 bins at Target. Nothing like slapping a cheap price sticker on a cheap product. Measuring cups? A DOLLAR? Yes. Chip clips for only a dollar? CHIP CLIPS! Why, buy five of them. You can never have enough chip clips. Ever.

3. But I am so not impressed with this:


It's my new flat iron. It's ceramic (oh la la). But I ain't impressed. Well, at least not 70 bucks impressed. My hair should be straightening itself for that kinda bank, or at least stay straight for longer than twenty minutes. Curse you thick wavy hair! I hate you so bad.

4. And I'm hating this cold sneaking up on me. There's that lurking feeling in the back of my throat right now. But, hey, at least it's in time for the weekend. It's not like I had any plans, or anything. Because I totally did. I was planning to go to Wichita to see my nephew Joshua's baptism. (What? Real live babies? Romeo would have been so jealous.) Only now, to prevent being THE relative that got the wee defensless cherub sick, I won't be attending. I will certainly not be receiving Aunt O' the Year nods anytime soon.

5. Loathing: that damn Coke Zero song. Why must that song be stuck on repeat in my head? Gah! Oh, and G.Love? Way to sell out. And for Coke? Double Gah!

6. Deperately needing someone to talk me out of these:




Oh, but aren't they cute? And I bet if I got them, I might actually take up cross country. What? It could happen. Whatever. They're still cute as all get out.

7. And speaking of talking me out of something, go ahead and talk me out of bidding on these:

Because um, really. Used shoes? Used adorable boots? VINTAGE adorable 3 inch heeled cowboy boots? Okay, you're not doing a very good job.


And those directly link to these:

Which I am absolutely coveting. I wanna be all boho now. That's fancy Us Weekly talk for dressing bohemian. Which could totally be my style because I just scream fashionista, right? Whatever.

8. Reading: (like there's any time) The Power of Positive Dog Training by Pat Miller. It's helping me stop treating my dog gawd awful by telling him horrendously deviant things like, NO. Because if you tell your dog NO! you should be shot. On sight. "You should just ignore the dog's bad behavior and then reward him when he's doing something you like." Uh, Pat have you ever tried to ignore little razors, otherwise known as puppy teeth, clamping down on the back of your foot when you least expect it? Ignore it my ass, that crap huuuuuuurts.

Oh, and where's your chapter on What To Do When Your Dog Barks Incessantly At You, Gnaws Your Feet/Shoes/Hair/ $125 Pair of Jeans, and/or Pees Ten Minutes After You've Come In From (Yet) Another Unsuccessful Potty Trip?

Cause this bitch would like to know.

9. Why. WHY am I addicted to movies like this one? Maybe it's the drama. Maybe it's how they overcome so many obstacles. (Because people, you know there's going to be some serious obstacles to be gotten over. I'm thinking someone gets their feelings hurt.) Maybe it's that damn song.

10. Why did I choose list form for this post? No. Clue.

See you on the flip side.

Seven or eight borderline alcoholics walk into a bar

Hilarity ensues, yada yada yada.

So, Friday was Charlie's birthday. He turned 28. Yeah! Happy birthday you old fart. We celebrated like only we know how. Bar. Drinks. Good times. I started out the evening by stating that I was keepin' it ruuurl. Which apparently meant "real" drunk. Happy Birthday to who again?

Now some of you might be going Friday July 15th, that's Charlie's birthday? Oh. My. Goodness. That was the same day as when the sixth Harry Potter book was released - Harry Potter Day! And those some people would be nerds. I'm kidding. Sort of.

Anyway, Nikki and I had the same thought and smelled an opportunity right away. Chucky Potter Birthday Extravaganza. It had so much promise people. So much. Casting spells to get drinks. Warring Hogwart's houses. General debauchery. Unfortunately, the Chucky Potter Birthday Extravaganza lasted all of 6 minutes and 42 seconds. But Charlie went along with it for the whole time. What a good sport.


Oh and y'alls, we had the dumbest waitress on the planet. Not only would she disappear for-like-EVAH, but she hadn't quite mastered the concept of a tab. Tab, as in we give you a credit card, and you keep track of our drinks. I can't tell you how many times she would ask, okay, who's paying for this? Actually, I can tell you how many, EVERY. DAMN. TIME. By the end we were just screaming The TAAAAA-BUH. Even at the end of the night she still didn't get the concept. My mind? Boggled. Given this, Nikki and I get all worked up and feel like it's proper to complain. Because you know it worked so well for us before. So now it stands who's dumber? The waitress or the slightly more than tipsy girls who go to complain to the bartender at bar time? Don't answer that. Fueled mostly by Nikki's encouragement and libations we both proceed to the bar to complain. And I promise we had an argument, a real legitimate beef, but mind you, this is at the end of the night so it just kept coming out, she took my receipt and I want a Tab. Yeah, we'll never learn our lesson.

Photo essay? Why, yes.

"You're a wizard, Charlie." Was SO. FUN. While it lasted.

Tweets and crew. What keeps us so close? Booze. Take a gander at Nikki's rack, amazing! And doesn't Charlie have the cutest little Menudo-esque 'fro going on here?

If it's Charlie's birthday it's means we're doing lots of these. Lots.

Which lead to Charlie doing lots of this. Lots.

I told them to pose like they had just won their first Grande Prix at Cannes. And this is all they coud give me. Apparently Travis took it to mean "lose all my hair." I'm keeping this picture, you know just in case. That way I can say, I knew them back when they were just still ego-manicial hyper-competitive kick-you-in-the-bollocks fuck-you-over asshats who had nothing to show for it.

Aren't we cute when we're drunk? My hair is so in a second day without a flat iron pony tail. Fetching, don't you think?

What do you think Nikki I were doing here: Vehemently discussing the problems of depending on foreign oil and how it is impacting our government's role in world politics? Not hardly. Dishing the latest gossip about our friends Jen and Vince/the other Jen/Jessica/Brad & Angelina/J-Lo/Lindsey/Britney? You're getting warmer. Bitching about that damn waitress? Ding Ding Ding Jackpot!

And look, I even got to part-ay with some work peeps. Kat is all like look at the bewbies. And even though they were work people it never got awkward.

Until this. And then it got REAL. AWKWARD.

Then Nikki and I made out. Look at Taber, he's all up in hog heaven. Perv.

Whew, now that Charlie's birthday is over, we can finally focus on the birthday celebration of moi. What my birthday is about a month away? Your point?