Please, Like I Would Want To Get Close Enough To Cut Them

My dogs and my husband and his friends were operating in a horrifyingly evil conspiracy to not let me fucking sleep last night. The dogs kept hearing the raccoons rooting through our garbage and wanted to go out to play. Ten times they made me go out there until I figured out that they were eating garbage and drinking dirty water out of the lid. How much did I hate them? I seriously considered FEEDING THEM TO THE RACCOONS. Then my husband and his friend called me smashed out of their minds. They were mocking my steam cleaner (fuckers) and J was screaming "BABY I LOOOOOOOOVE YOOOOOOOOU" in the back ground. I hope they had fun because people who interrupt my sleep (I had taken a sleeping pill so I was all stoned and trying to listen to see if something was important) get their balls cut off.

YES CHRIS, YOUR BALLS. OFF. IN A JAR ON MY DESK MAYBE.

Actually, why should I care, since Darla and Buster were putting me through sleep deprivation drive the woman nutso operation #87. I was going to be up anyway, might as well get a drunk dial.

I took the dogs to my mom's house today, let them chase her dogs, let her dogs chase mine. Little bastards are passed OUT right now, and they better stay that way. I am eating celebratory fried rice and watching home improvement television.

And dusting a spot on my mantle for YOUR FUCKING BALLS UNCLE CHRIS THEY WILL BE MINE IN A BIG GLASS DECANTER.

Or something.

He Better Come Home With A Good Shave

This morning I made a Costco run and found out that apparently Costco on a Saturday morning is apparently a serious meet market. Why all these single people are buying in bulk is beyond me. I was just checking out light bulbs, Coca Cola and flaxseed oil and my ass was getting checked out. Tip to single men in Washington, sidling up to a woman at Costco when you have a giant box of KING SIZED condoms in your cart she will mock you on the internet. Especially if you note the felt pads she is buying to put on the legs of her furniture and offer to come over to help her "move things around and whatever else (you) need."

Though, single ladies of Washington, get thee to Costco if you want to meet a man who gets up early to shop on Saturdays and knows his way around the tool aisle. Several look extremely hot in their flannel shirts and hiking boots. If you like that sort of thing. With crew cuts. Which apparently I do.

My mom and I then spent the day looking at ridiculously expensive furniture (rest assured should we be forced at gunpoint to buy a 1500 dollar bed we CAN) and all kinds of goodies for people who are much more organized than us. I was sorely tempted to buy a shoe rack that I would probably never use and a sock drawer organizer. That store is not selling storage tools, they are selling the idea that YOU TOO CAN BE ORGANIZED, even though there is no fucking way I can be organized.

I am actually really enjoying my weekend alone. The dogs were so worn out by keeping my ass up on Thursday night that they let me sleep in until 9 this morning. I got to wander around Costco as long as I wanted and I have made my bed both mornings. My house looks neat and I have a crazy night planned of playing online poker in bed.

I suppose I will have to let him come home, can't have him camping out on the porch. But I must say, it is a good thing that he cleans the litter box for the cat--I mean he has to serve a purpose or he is not getting back in.

Looking cute may or may not be enough.

Oooooh Steamy

Because I am a wild and crazy single gal I just spent the last three hours cleaning my entire house.

Since we moved in two months ago I have gotten into the habit of cleaning the house when I get home on Friday night. I would like to pretend that I am taking on the traditions of my people and cleaning in preparation for Shabbat. But I get home after sundown and really I think it is more that I can see the end of the week and the end of my energy and I just want to cram it in before I collapse. I bought a steam cleaner (that is not the exact model but apparently that exists nowhere online) and man, I am in love. My floors are gleaming (the thing about having floors that hide dirt is that it is sort of hard to tell when they are clean but man so shiny) and you just have to be a geeky housewife to understand the joy that was walking around with the nozzle blasting everything in sight with steam. It kicked ass on my flat cooktop and on the mildew on the toilet seats (which NOTHING seems to get). It is sick as hell how excited I was to get those seats clean. Am officially an old hag.

I changed the sheets and washed dishes and Febreezed the fuck out of everything and now I just want to go to sleep.

My husband called (only mildly intoxicated, I think he wants to remember the concert) and I am sure he was HORRIFIED he was missing the excitement.

Little Bit Of What?

Because my parents are crazy dog people I was not surprised when I got a new baby brother a couple of weeks ago. They had coveted this puppy when it went home with his new owners and raised their hands eagerly when that couple decided to bail on their new treasure.

They are now the proud owners of a large ass Labrador (130 pounds), a medium sized mutt of undesirable origin (80 pounds) and a tee tiny smooth dachshund yippier than you can fathom (13 pounds).

That means my mother is dealing with 223 pounds of flailing animal flesh all alone this weekend while my father is off visiting my grandparents.

Which means I should shut up about how my two kept getting me up last night because Are you sure that Daddy is just not down in the cellar DEAD, can we go check ONE MORE TIME? every hour on the hour until I gave up and just went to fucking work already.

Of course my mom has thirteen pounds of this at home (one could argue that Darla is almost exactly that but she needs a haircut in the worst way and is not at her most attractive or best smelling).

As a side note, his name is Leon but my parents have taken to calling him LITTLE BIT. Does that explain everything you ever needed to know about me? I thought so.

Bon Voyage

J is leaving tonight, on a jet plane, for his weekend of faux bachelor debauchery. I didn't see him last night and really haven't seem him tonight since I guess it was more fun for him to watch Dodgeball than eat dinner with me. Did that sound bitter? I'm not really. This is just one of those occasions that I don't really understand the differences between us.

J is a very gregarious person in social situations, he talks a lot and just likes to be the life of the party. But when he is at home he likes to be alone. He thinks nothing of going down into his cellar and watching movies or playing games until the middle of the night. It is like entertaining people all day sucks it out of him and he can't take any more.

I am exactly the opposite, I am just a more quiet person at work. I do business and I enjoy my time there. I am just more of a one on one type of person, I really like talking with people on a more personal level. So when I get home that is what I want to do. Of course, I usually end up chatting with the cat and dogs because the husband is downstairs.

So I guess it makes sense what is happening--I am wanting to chat up a storm to get ready for my quiet weekend and he is just wanting to relax and be quiet because he knows he is in for non-stop noise and booze.

Of course the fucker could at least give the pretense of accommodating me. I mean white lies like that are what a marriage is built on. Is he trying to crumble our foundation by being HONEST IN HIS ACTIONS?

Heh. Actually, I am sort of enjoying myself, eating pizza rolls and watching HGTV. It's been a long week, maybe I don't need Mr. Slides-on-floors-at-weddings around after all.

Thanks Frank

Frank is a rock star, because he caved to my demands and posted in the comments. And he called me a celebrity. I just love Frank.

Talking About The Weekend Even Though It Is Only Wednesday--A New Low

J is off pretending to be twenty-one and still able to go see concerts on weeknights until the wee hours of the morning without looking like a hatchet face tonight--a fantasy that he will try to keep up through the weekend when he goes to San Francisco to visit Uncle Chris. They have eighty-four thousand things planned including multiple ball games and concerts and much much boozing. J keeps speaking in hushed and worshipful tones about doing Jaeger shots at a bar where a girl in a bikini pours them down an ice slide right into your throat. You can tell he thinks that that bar is just heaven and why on EARTH do Christians think that you have to die to go there? Clearly you just have to go to San Francisco. You even get to see her nipples for free.

I am playing single girl, something that I am embarrassed to admit I do not really know how to do. I am officially the old married hag who cannot remember living alone. Which I did live alone, for a few years even and I was great at it. With the going out with people every night and multiple boyfriends and all. Sadly, most of my activities would be verboten in the new harsh monogamy but still. . . one would think I would have some plans.

I actually do have plans. I plan to setup my attic painting space and buy light fixtures and go bed shopping for the guest room. Oh! And scrub my floors! Hot DAYAM. I am a wild woman. I should charge a cover to come to my house.

I also need to carve a pumpkin since HOLY SHIT it is almost Halloween. I feel like it was summer like a week ago and suddenly it is all wool coats and knee high boots and shit I have not purchased a vegetable in which to carve a silly face and lure small children to my home to amuse me with their funny outfits. Must get cracking on this.

The truth is that I really don't miss the old me that much. I take that back, I used to have a lot of fun, I had some really great friends to hang out with. One of the ugly truths is that even if you are not a smug married (which I swear I wasn't because dude I was a child bride and I knew it) your fun girl friends (and forget male friends, you have to start all over once you get married because the old ones now realize that you are never ever fucking them and hit the road Jack) abandon ship. I mean I was never so much on girlfriends to begin with (as am terrible with bullshit) but I do miss the going out and making an ass of myself part (as is every woman I know since we all were acting all psycho at that wedding). My best friend lives in Colorado and sometimes I just want to fly her out here so we can go get a pedicure and eat queso dip and have to call some one to come pick our asses up because we are not even entirely sure where we are.

Actually is anyone up for that this weekend? It sounds pretty good.

Seven

Since Monica tagged me, you get a meme today. It is internet law after all . .

7 Things I Want to Do Before I Die
1. Publish a novel.
2. Learn to play the piano.
3. Travel to the part of Germany my family is from.
4. Create my own special, signature dessert.
5. Be able to follow along (in writing and aloud) to a Shabbat service in Hebrew.
6. Raise a family with J.
7. Visit every major league baseball park to see a game.

7 Things I Cannot Do
1. Dance (at all, and I was on the dance team in high school so figure that one out).
2. Sing
3. Public speaking.
4. Let anyone be rude to my mother.
5. Resist a puppy.
6. Grow my hair truly long (middle to low back).
7. Not pop a zit.

7 Things That Attract Me To the Opposite Sex
1. Hairy toes, pale skin (I know, sounds like an ape. Or J. heh).
2. Listening ability.
3. A great laugh.
4. Long fingers.
5. Ability to argue.
6. Intelligence.

7 Things I Say Most Often
1. Seriously.
2. I was reading.
3. No??
4. MOTHER FUCKER!
5. No Buster, I will not give you a cookie.
6. No Darla, I will not give you a cookie.
7. Fucking Cubs!

7 Celebrity Crushes
1. Scott Patterson
2. Chris Pratt
3. Truman Capote (I know, SICK).
4. Sean Connery
5. Winona Ryder
6. John Corbett
7. Chaim Potock (SICKER)

7 People (or less) That I Want to Do This
1. Virginia
2. Eeek and Frank, either get blogs or do this in the comments stat!

Carnage

Miss Monica took these photos of her plate at the wedding this weekend.

Take a moment to admire the carnage. Because Monica and I ate like some serious cows. And swilled wine like they were going to pry our hands off the glasses.

Perhaps they should have.

VICTORY

Whoever wrote that recipe that said that margarine was an acceptable substitute for butter was a goodamn liar. Am brilliant. Have actual cookies baked.

Computer is acting like an asshole though so. . .

Who Wants To Pay Me To Post Those Pictures On The Internet

Last night we went to a wedding with Monica and other assorted people we know. It proved to me that you can still be really happy for a woman who turned into a horrifying fucking Bridezilla, that I am terribly unromantic and that all of us married folks need to get out more.

I'm just saying that Monica was using my digital camera to take boob pictures of every woman we knew there throughout the night. That I know the cup size of all of them. And that J ended our night by doing a knee slide and disco dance to Saturday Night Fever. Twice. The groom's father requested that he do it again so they could catch it on video.

He is such a team player he even ruined his pants and got himself a big ol' knee strawberry for his trouble.

We actually had a really nice time, thanks to good friends and lots of wine.

Today he woke up with a sore knee (said strawberry) and an aching back and I have a cold. We've spent the day napping and I am currently ruining ANOTHER batch of oatmeal cookies. Apparently I am incredibly fucking stupid.

A nice weekend, if too short.

Magic Time

For those who care, this is my magic magic potion that makes me oh so pretty. I know! The price! Even with my employer's generous discount I spent too much. But a girl needs to be pretty and I cannot help myself.

If you are also a spoiled middle class brat, who suffers from acne or rosocea or wrinkles or just needs to look fucking fabulous than get on those wipes STAT.

Smooth Skinned

When I was in high school I had "normal" skin. Nothing spectacular, just a few pimples but smooth enough. I abused it, used my skin care sporadically if at all, wore a shitload of foundation (which I now recognize was a shade or two darker than I should have been wearing why didn't anyone fucking tell me?) and really paid few consequences for all of that.

I hit college, took better care of it and promptly started looking like a leper. My skin was so sensitive, I had a lot of acne, it was ruddy and raw. And thus began a lot of searching for something, anything that could make me not look like shit. And nothing worked. Sometimes I would find something that worked a little and it would be a relief. But I was still in my mid--heading towards late--twenties with more acne than most teenagers.

I took anti-biotics for it--which made me feel terrible but I looked fantastic. I didn't need makeup. My skin was still blotchy but it was clear. Unfortunately, I was so dizzy I hated driving my car which really is no way to live. So off of that I went.

I work in an industry where it is important that I look the best that I can. Not that I am a supermodel or something and would be fired for bad skin. But when you work with gorgeous women in an industry where your appearance is noticed having bad skin is something I just don't like thinking about every fucking day.

A gal I know upstairs recommended these daily facial peels. They are obscenely expensive but she got me a sample and after two uses even J saw a difference. So I bought them, having middle class bullshit guilt all the way and after less than two weeks my god. My skin. Is clear. It is not ruddy and spotty. Today, I woke up really late and put on bronzer and ran, something I never would have done two weeks ago. And even though I know that it is an idulgence that I should probably use the money elsewhere. But FUCK. I'm a good person. I donate to the United Way and Planned Parenthood and the ACLU! I never kick puppies. And um, I got nothing.

For the first time in a long time I feel pretty good. I am skinny for me (we are all about relativity here), my hair isn't horrible and my skin is fantastic.

Now if I could just get my stupid hillbilly tooth fixed that would be great.

I suppose I shouldn't be so greedy.

Just Saying

A surprisingly delightful way to spend the evening even if you have a headache and sore tooth?

Eating cinnamon vanilla raisin toast and watching the baseball game.

This, of course, will all go in the toilet if the fucking Astros don't win.

No pressure guys, but I did get TWO CROWNS today.

It Just Isn't Healthy To Feel All Woozy

Today it took me two and a half hours to get to the dentist, where I was an hour late for my appointment and almost vomited in the examination chair (I made it to the ladies room THANK GOD, the list of humiliating places I have vomited is long enough thank you). So I came home. Something about the novacaine and the stress of traffic and something else made me so anxious and queasy and UNABLE TO FACE WORK.

Of course I came home and went to the grocery store, washed my sheets and started cleaning the house which seriously is often what I do when I am sick. Which is sick I know. It is like I can't be properly sick unless my whole house smells of Febreaze.

So I am propped up on the couch with a dog on each side studying me. They are concerned, not that I am sick, but that one of them might get a better spot, an extra cookie, more attention, etc if they do not watch every fucking breath I take. Obviously, I AM A HORRIBLE PUPPY MOTHER CALL THE HUMANE SOCIETY.

Yup, still feeling anxious.

Pantless Porthole

At work today one of the toilets was broken and just kept up with the flushing.

It wouldn't have been so stressful if it had just been like repetitive flushing (it reminded me of this time I took a red-eye into Denver and this woman had her four year old twin boys in the bathroom, the two little boys just ran up and down in front of the stalls making the auto-toilets flush in this very fucked up round) (as a total side note their poor mom was like passed out asleep because it was like three in the morning and I was smashed drunk because I had been drinking Bloody Marys on the plane with this guy named Ed who wore a pink polo shirt and I feel deeply ashamed because PINK? and also I am old because I am pretty sure those boys are in junior high now).

But no, this was one long continuous flush, loud like a sonic boom. It was oddly unsettling, like a black hole was in the poo stall at work and it just might be a porthole to a very scary place.

Custodial had posted a very helpful OUT OF ORDER sign on the door. Because the loud sucking noise and spurting water would not have been enough of a hint and some one just might sit down to take a shit and OOPS into another dimension. Not wearing pants.

Which could be really embarrassing when you think about it.

LALALALA Not Happening

The fucking ASTROS just blew the lead in the ninth.

So go distract yourself with my new blog. Don't worry, the agenda here at Tantrum Warehouse will continue--we are all about boobs and shoes and haircuts here. But, in the spirit of the bookclub Monica and I are talking about starting, I have a lot of books that I need to talk about.

Let us just pretend that the nonsense is not happening in Houston.

God, Don't Tell My Mom The Math Teacher I Need A Tutor

Whoever decided that men are better at math than women just never met my dearly beloved wacko down in the basement. He who cannot buy one pair of shoes only two or three. And only the most expensive ones he tries on. Somehow I think he does not exactly understand that shoes come in pairs so buying two means you are really getting four and oh my I bet I just made his adorable little brain hurt.

I can't really complain because I am always the one that just tells him to buy both pairs and get on with it because shoes are the only things that I bring him along to buy. Everything else I pick out and just have him try on at home but he is so fussy about how shoes fit that it really is better for me to just veto anything that is too horrifying.

Hell I picked out the really expensive ones he bought. In my defense they are really cute.

Come to think of it his math really is excellent, he ended up with four shoes and I ended up with zero. Perhaps I need a tutor.

Don't Sniff It Freak

I have had a rather bizarre obsession with Wet-Naps, those little moist towelettes that you used to get at KFC and the like to rid yourself of the greasy mess. I use to savor mine in a way that had to scare the fuck out of my parents. I would wipe my hands with it over and over and smell the lemony goodness. I would not want to throw it away until it was completely dry. I would stockpile more of them every time I was left with an opportunity.

I still don't understand it, but I still feel that way a bit. It is somehow more satisfying than just washing your hands. And it cannot be replicated with baby wipes even though everyone will tell you it is the same damn thing.

Perhaps I am a bizarre kind of OCD?

All I know is that I hate half a bag of cheetos at lunch today, pulled out a Wet-Nap to clean myself up and started sniffing it. Uh no wonder my cubemate thinks I am odd.

Sadly, there does not seem to be Wet-Nap aversion therapy.

Pretty Soon I Will Pass Go And Collect $200

There are a lot of things spinning in my head lately. I am trying to learn how to be a good wife and a good employee and how to do everything that I want and need to without making myself crazy.

And I am failing.

I am terrible at failing. Instead of learning from my mistakes and growing I always end up just being determined not to make any. Which, not only prevents me from learning, but also makes me feel like Mt. About To Lose Her Shit all steaming at her breaking point.

My parents did a beautiful thing when I was a kid, they always told me that they would never be mad about my grades if I always did my best. If I brought home an F and had worked my ass off for it than that was fun, but a B was unacceptable if I hadn't done everything I could. This paid off huge in many ways, I always had great grades and I never fought with my parents about it.

The problem is that my parents were unprepared for their neurotic child. Their neurotic child who worries too much about being Her Best all of the time.

I have a terrible history with stress. Lost a bunch of weight and look like a very tired Skeletor for much of my senior year in high school because of stress. I cry, I get too sensitive, I just cannot keep it together when I cannot do My Best.

I have been trying it to cope with it for all my life. Obviously, I am not that successful. I worry about our house being clean and not doing things for J that in my head I know he can do his own damn self and will happily but I still feel like I need to do to be a good wife. I am trying to deal with my expectations which are too high and oddly contradictory to what I hold in value. Everything feels overwhelming, and as much as I hate that word it applies to me here.

I am trying to learn to let go. To not always push so hard. To enjoy my home and family more. And somehow I am getting ambitious about that too. Which is, of course, so very beside the point I could be in another country away from the point right now.

I think a lot, probably way too much, about what kind of person I want to be and whether it is something different than I am today. I think about how my life needs to look and feel for it to feel like my own. I am trying to learn to be able to accept things and to feel more at peace with myself.

And all this zen-shit is kicking my ass.

I am too tired and too spun up in my head to even unravel it all. But someday, someday soon, I will figure it out and feel good in my skin.

And stop having to go to bed at 8:30 because my head is going to burst.

I will take the non-bursting as a start.