The Secret is OUT

Today I was reminded how much I hate shopping at Victoria's Secret. Ok, so I hate shopping in general. But I especially cannot abide the VS sales vultures.

They obviously think that I am incapable of shopping ALONE! The first girl who saw me literally followed me all over the store. Then she practically insisted on measuring me in front of God and everybody. I felt so violated. After every customer in the store knew what bra size I needed, she pulled out a box full of their "top sellers" and shoved me into a dressing room.

(Oh, I can't write about underwear shopping without mentioning how uncomfortable I am when I see men shopping in lingerie stores. In this town, you can never be sure what they are up to. Last time I was there, there was a cross dresser who had a nicer set of acrylic nails than I had. I'm sure he looked fantastic in that bustier he bought. This time, it was a group of three men. Shopping together. In Victoria's Secret. Is it just me, or is that weird? They were trying to decide on the correct size of a black, lacy teddy. I don't even want to know the story behind that one.)

But anyway---the entire time I was in the dressing room, the sales lady kept coming to the door, every 30 seconds, asking how I was doing. I would have been doing much better had she left me alone, but I thought I did a pretty good job of not showing my frustration. Until she asked if I wanted her to bring me some swimsuits to try on. No, I can pick out my own swimsuit if I decide I want one. And was it a hint when she mentioned how "fabulous" the one piece styles were? Was she suggesting that I could never get away with wearing a bikini? Bitch. :)

Oh, and that cute bag they hand you to carry your stuff in while you are shopping? They aren't doing that to be nice. That bag is for sale. They want you to buy it. I'm pretty sure they will not leave you alone until you agree to buy at least one of everything.

Just when I thought I was in the clear, a SECOND sales girl snuck up on me and asked if I needed any help finding anything. No! One psycho stalker sales clerk is enough for me, thank you very much.

"You know those are 6 for $30, right? Are you absolutely sure you don't want five more?"

"Hey, these fragrances are nice. Do you need any Mother's Day gifts?"

"Are you familiar with our Angel Rewards Program? It has some terrific benefits!"

Geez, I just went there for some lotion. Next time, I'm going back to WalMart, where the employees would actually prefer that I not buy anything so they don't have to work.

Mom, get out your wallet

I have two tattoos.

I want two tattoos removed.

I blame my mother for both of them, because why should I take responsibility for my own actions as long as I can figure out a way to pin it on someone else?

When I was in my early 20's, before I had any tattoos at all, I decided that I wanted one. But I didn't get one at that time because I thought my mom would freak out if I did. Then one day, guess who called and said she had gotten a tattoo! My mom! It wasn't long after that before I went out and got my first one.

I think I was about 28 years old then. And I'm not going to tell you how many years ago that was, so don't ask. Anyway, that tattoo is on my ankle. I don't mind ankle tattoos at all. I just don't like this one because of what it is. It's Tweety Bird. And a couple of years ago, I received an email that said something about redneck girls having Tweety Bird tattoos. And I am no redneck. So what if I like George Jones. And yes, I used to drive a full size Dodge Ram 1500 pickup with dual exhaust. And I was born and raised in a town where a large percentage of the guys carry a can of Skoal in their back pocket and teenagers go cow-tipping for fun. But I AM NO REDNECK!

Now, for the second tattoo, for which I also blame my mom. She and I were on vacation at the beach, and we decided to get tattoos together. I know what you're thinking, but this is before we got drunk. I'm pretty sure she must have twisted my arm, because I would never be stupid enough on my own to permanently scar my body like that for a second time, now would I? So, now I have a tattoo of a betta fish on the back of my left shoulder. And I HATE shoulder tattoos. If it was on my lower back, I could live with it. And if the tattoo artist had done a better job, it probably wouldn't be quite as bad. But I have actually had a few people ask me what it is. If you have a tattoo, and no one can tell what it is, what's the point? It just looks like a hideous, multi-colored scar.

So, I have checked into getting these things removed, and found that it is much cheaper to mar your body than it is to erase those bad decisions. The first place I called told me that for a mere $650 per treatment, I could be tattoo free. To make matters worse, it would require at least 6-7 treatments! And that's just for one tattoo. So I could easily spend close to $8000 to be rid of these self-induced disfigurements. Granted, the second place was much cheaper at just $150 per treatment. However, they don't use the lidocaine, and when I asked the receptionist if the treatments hurt, she didn't exactly sugarcoat it.

Now, I'm not a huge fan of pain, but I'd be willing to endure a little if it means I will save somewhere in the neighborhood of $6000.

Of course, since both tattoos are my mom's fault, I think it's only fair that she pay for their removal. :)

I don't have anything to say

Nothing important anyway.

Some might say that's not unusual.

I decided that I should write something, since I checked my feed and I can see that a few people have been visiting my blog (no, I don't know who you are, just what city you are in), so there are actually people expecting something from me, and I'd hate to disappoint.

Speaking of not knowing who you are, does the person from the city that I live in want to raise their hand? I only know of one resident of this city who reads this, and she has a subscription so probably never actually visits the blog page. I figure this other person must be someone I know, and I'm very curious about who else is bored enough to read this garbage regularly.

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I have this obsession with my feet being perfect. I have to get a pedicure at least once a month, but preferably every 2 weeks if I can find the time. So I'm pretty upset that right now, I have 7-eleven feet. Meaning that the bottoms of them are black. No, I have not been running around outside barefooted. I wore flip-flops to the beach, and they got wet. The shoes are brown, and when I wore them wet, somehow it stained the bottom of my feet. Really, it's not dirt. I have showered a couple of times and even scrubbed my feet with bleach. It will not come off. So what the hell was on these shoes that stained my feet?

Hopefully, I can get rid of this problem soon, or I might have to move to a trailer park.

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Captain Chaos has been fishing a few times over the past week, and he's almost as addicted as his daddy. He knows how to tell if he has a fish on the line by watching the bobber. He even caught a snook the other day, after only fishing 2 times.

Tonight, we asked him what happens when the bobber goes down under the water, and his answer was, "A snook comes up!" That's pretty funny if you know anything about fishing, because a snook is not the easiest fish to catch. So he's got a positive attitude. Either that, or he's practicing for a future of telling a lot of fish stories.

Bragging and ranting

The latest issue of the magazine I write for arrived today. At the bottom, underneath my column, the editor put a note stating that I am a "freelance writer", etc. I was pretty happy about that, because in the past he has called me an "aspiring writer". I was wondering when I would stop "aspiring" and actually begin "writing". Anyway, I guess this means that he doesn't think my stuff is crap.

Yesterday, we officially made an offer on the house we are trying to buy. Since it's in pre-foreclosure, it will supposedly take 3-4 weeks before we even find out if they will accept our offer. I guess that is because it has to go through an approval process at the bank, which means a meeting of what my husband refers to as "office putzes".

I think I might have mentioned that the house we are currently renting is in pre-foreclosure, as well. I'm really hoping that we don't get booted out of here before we find somewhere else to live. Of course, as I expected, things are starting to break here. The garbage disposal quit working today. I guess I get to pay for that. The landlord hasn't paid the mortgage in 6 months, and I doubt he's going to show up to fix anything. Not that he ever has. You'd think that when you are paying a ridiculous amount of money to rent on the water, you could get something fixed. Not here.

I received the picture below in an email today, and I laughed until I cried. As busy as I've been and as buried as I am in paperwork, this is exactly how I feel. Sorry about the profanity, but it's just a word.

Music, because I'm too tired to think of a clever title

I apologize to the mellow readers who can't hang with the heavy stuff I just added to the playlist.

It is a little weird to hear Linkin Park followed by Yanni, huh?

Then again, I'm sure I'm the only one who leaves the blog open all day just to hear the music. And if you have a subscription, you don't ever have to listen to my music at all. ;)

Go bake your own pie

Here's another brilliant quote from a socialist: “The truth is, in order to get things like universal health care and a revamped education system, then someone is going to have to give up a piece of their pie so that someone else can have more.” - Michelle Obama

No, you can't take away any of my family's pie. If we decide to give some away to someone who we know won't expect us to bake pies for them on a regular basis, that's our business. But the government shouldn't be confiscating any of our pie. We baked it ourselves.

Hard work equals prosperity. It's called the American Dream. Look it up.

End of rant.

The Idiot Box

We are about to buy a house. At least, we hope we are. We are making an offer on a house that we like. And we had better hurry, since the house we are renting is being foreclosed on. Hopefully we won't be booted out of here before the deal goes through.

We have looked at lots of houses. Nothing really caught our eye. (Well, there were a few houses selling for over a million dollars that would have suited me just fine.) Then one night a couple of weeks ago, I was searching online, and the second I saw this house, I knew it was the one. As soon as the husband saw it, he agreed.

Now he's backpedaling a little. He's not 100% sure about the house. It's not because it needs a little work, which it does. It's because he can't figure out where he's going to put the big screen TV.

This is not a joke. I am not kidding. There is a HUGE living room, and he can't imagine where he's going to put the television! He says that the wall where it should go has a fireplace in the way.

And because of this, we almost kept house hunting.

I'll admit that I wasn't looking for an appropriate space for the TV when we looked at the house. But I'm pretty sure I can figure it out. I say we put it out in the garage. We'll just have the cable hooked up out there. Mr. Particular is the only one who watches television, and this will guarantee that he won't be bothering me in the evening when I'm trying to read.

Problem solved.

I'm a ventriloquist

Chaos was taking a bath tonight, and he just didn't want to get out of the tub. I was really ready for him to go to bed, but I couldn't think of any way to make that happen without starting a big fight. That is, until I tried my animal voices.

Each motivational "get-out-of-the-tub-and-get-ready-for-bed" trick only works for a while. He used to like letting the water out so much that he would do that as soon as I was finished bathing him, which encouraged him to get out. Then he figured out how to get out pretty much by himself, which was fun and worked for a while. But now that's old, too.

I didn't even know I had animal voices. And to be honest, I really don't. But all I had to do was put my hand over my mouth and pretend I was his teddy bear calling him to bed. When I saw how well that worked, I went into his room, got his bear and his puppy dog, and made them peek around the corner into the bathroom and say, "Chaos, we're tired. We're ready for bed. Are you coming?"

Gosh, it's so easy to fool a preschooler. Chaos was yelling back to the animals, "I'm coming bear and puppy! I'm coming to bed." It was great.

And it worked. Twenty minutes later, he was sound asleep.

And so was the puppy. And the teddy bear.

In fact, I am the only one in this house who is still awake, because I have this disorder that compels me to write about almost every mundane thing that happens to me. Have you noticed that? Sorry. I think it's the only thing that keeps me sane. I just can't believe that a pretty big handful of you people still read this crap. ;)

I prefer to call myself socially inept

I'm going to spend all day working on my article and making an editorial plan for the rest of the year. I got up at 5 a.m., exercised a little and was at Starbucks working on this by 6:30. How's that for productive?

At 9, I moved to the bookstore. In fact, that's where I am right now. (Taking a little break to blog, as you might have noticed.)

My husband says that only nerds hang out in bookstores. I know that I'm a bit of a nerd. I'm just wondering if I am as odd as some of the people who hang out here.

What about the guy who is continuously laughing at the book he is reading? Just sitting there, laughing to himself. That book must be pretty damn funny. What a freak.

Certainly I'm not that nerdy.

Or the man who always falls asleep reading the newspaper. This dude is here EVERY time I come here. I haven't been here in at least a couple of months, and he's STILL here. I am wondering if he lives here. He's certainly comfortable sleeping here. And I mean snoring-and-head-falling-back asleep.

Nope. I'm definitely not that nerdy.

So I'm just going to sit here with my earphones on, listening to my music, swaying back and forth with my head bobbing up and down to the beat, tapping my foot and trying not to sing out loud.

I'm so cool. ;)

Man bag? I don't think so.

There is a gay guy who hangs out in the Starbucks near my house. Yes, I know he is gay just by looking at him. Go ahead, call me politically incorrect. He walks more like a woman than I do. He sits with his legs crossed, swinging one foot and reading women's magazines. I'm almost positive he has a little makeup on. He holds his coffee cup with his pinky finger extended. And he carries a purse.

These days, you can buy something called a "man bag". I was reading something online about it, and this particular site stated that it is very important that these bags do not look like they were made for women. Well, guess what? They do! I'm sorry, but there is no such thing as a "man" bag. It's a purse. If you are a man, and you carry a purse on a strap on your shoulder, you look gay. :)

Have I made myself clear?

And for the record, I am not a "homophobe". That word implies that I am afraid of gay people. I do not care if you are gay. I just don't get it when a man over-emphasizes feminine qualities.

My baby isn't a baby anymore

Captain Chaos got a new bed. A big boy bed! We even skipped the toddler bed and went straight to a twin.

I have heard the transition can be difficult.

It wasn't.

I put him to bed, and I don't think he moved after that. Here's a picture of him 20 minutes later.

I think the fact that he still needs a binky at night means I can still call him a baby. Right?

He's still my baby.

If you mind your own business, then you won't be mindin' mine

I was grocery shopping yesterday, and as usual Captain Chaos was "helping". He never rides in the cart, but prefers to walk next to me so I can tell him what items we need and he can get them and put them in the cart. As soon as we got there, he found a ball that he wanted. Thank you, Publix, for leaving them out right where kids can easily get to them. Is it really necessary for grocery stores to sell balls anyway?

So my kid picked up a SpongeBob ball and started playing with it. I wasn't in the mood to argue about it, and I thought it might entertain him while we shopped, so I let him have it. It was fine until one of the stock boys started playing with him, encouraging him to throw and kick it. Then, of course, this employee went on his merry way to clock out and head home. By then, my son was ready for PLAY TIME! After he almost knocked over a display and startled a couple of people by kicking the ball at them as they came around the corner, I told him not to kick it again. Of course, he kicked it anyway. So I told him that if he did it again, I was taking it away until we got home.

Well, he's an almost 3 year old boy. So OF COURSE he did it again. Then he looked at me and said, "I kicked it," with a defiant look on his face.

So, I took the ball away. I put it in the cart and told him he couldn't have it until we got home. He threw a fit. A fit that lasted at least 15-20 minutes, all the way to the check out line. As I was unloading the groceries to pay, two ladies were staring at us, and heard me explain to him again why he could not have the ball. That's when one little old lady leaned over and said to my son, "Tell your mommy that you won't kick the ball again. Then she will give it back to you."

WHAT?!? Did this woman really just tell my kid what I was going to do?

Naturally, my son looked at me and said, "Mommy, I won't kick it again." So I had to turn to this woman, who has now made me look like the mean old mommy, and tell her, "No, he can't have the ball until we get home. He had a chance to mind me, and he chose not to."

That woman looked at me like I was Satan. No kidding. And the other woman stood there for several seconds, glaring at me and shaking her head. When I think back, I can't believe how long those two women stood there frowning and looking at me with disdain.

Here I am, struggling to stick to my guns and be consistent with discipline, and these two ladies are not only giving me dirty looks, but undermining me by telling my son that he can have his ball back! You think I didn't want to give it back to him? He would have stopped crying and causing a scene, AND I wouldn't feel like I had hurt my poor kid's feelings. I don't like to make him sad. But I also don't want him to be the kid that no one else wants to play with because he always has to have his way. And I don't want him to be the boy that none of the teachers want in their class because he doesn't listen.

I'm trying to be a good mom and raise a polite, well-behaved kid! It's not always easy, but if I want your help, I'll ask for it!