The cookies that ruined Christmas for all of us

A terrifying thing is about to occur at the Karlababble estate. I'm about to bake cookies.

I can hear you screaming at your computer monitors, "NO, NO, NO! Are you INSANE?! Have you already forgotten the shameful trauma that occurred when you tried to assemble a simple gingerbread house? For the love of God, stop trying to pass for a normal human!" And of course, you're right. This can't go well.

Bear in mind, I'm volunteering for this humiliation. No one asked me to bake cookies. It's just that every time I turn around, I trip over a nice, normal person cheerfully doing traditional, adorable homemaking tasks with efficiency and ease--baking cookies, cooking dinner, gardening, making crafty things, etc.--all without accidentally dismembering a passerby or igniting half the city in a roaring blaze. How do they do it? That's the question that keeps me up at night. It's not so much that I need a batch of cookies, or that I can't purchase much tastier, safer, less bacteria-laden ones in a store, but goddamnit, I'm determined to successfully complete a June Cleaver activity at least once in my life before I die of liver failure. If you jackasses can do it, why can't I?

The crazy thing is, I'm an adult now. I have a family, responsibilities. I can't really afford to risk life and limb participating in daredevil, death-defying activities like hang-gliding, bungee jumping, knife throwing, mountain lion hunting, or baking. I should think of my husband and son and say, "No, it's not worth the risk; these people need me alive and healthy for years to come."

But then I glance over at the two of them. Jake is demanding that I read Go, Dog. Go! to him for the 2,677,465th time, and Brian is having a chick-TV marathon as he watches Laguna Beach, which he will probably follow up with The Real World. And I think, "What the hell? Let's risk it."

So, in spite of the unmitigated sadness that will surely come as a result, I am about to bravely, stupidly march into that kitchen and find out once and for all who's boss. I'm pretty sure I know the answer. But I'm not so foolish as to go in unprepared for the disaster that is soon to come. I've thought of a few things I might need at the ready to attempt to hopefully prevent my early demise. So far I've stockpiled:

A stomach pump.

Funny, I always thought this thing, while crudely named, would actually be an elaborate medical device, shiny and sophisticated, requiring some sort of degree just to figure out how to operate. Instead, it's basically a $7 bicycle pump with a long hose. The question is whether I'll be able to use it on myself rather than needing the assistance of a second party, since Brian may be busy watching Dr. 90210 and Jake will be--well, still not yet 2 years old. I'll let you know afterwards how I fared.

A fire extinguisher.

This actually looks way more sophisticated than the stomach pump, which is reassuring. On the other hand, it might require more skill to operate. Again, the question surfaces: Can I use one of these on myself? If I'm engulfed in flames, will I be able to spray myself with this to put out the fire before I toast like a marshmallow? Either way, it'll make for a good blog post afterward, assuming I still have working nerve endings in my fingers, and am able to type.

Paramedics at the ready.

This one was tricky. In much the same way you can't call the police and say, "I think someone is thinking about robbing me," you also can't call 911 and say, "I think there may be a medical emergency--not sure which kind--at my house later today. I need you to come over and be ready for anything." So I couldn't procure actual trained paramedics, but I was able to find a street mime who can mime performing CPR, which is almost the same thing.

Tequila. Lots of it.

I don't think I need to explain this one. This is just one of those all-around useful first aid items we all keep on hand every day, right? Like band-aids or Neosporin or a prosthetic foot. You never know when you'll need it, but you know you're going to be thanking God that you had it on hand at that crucial moment.

So now that you know I'm setting off on my own domestic Survivor adventure, I hope you will take a moment to reflect on how much you suddenly realize I mean to you, and how crushed you'd be to lose me. I hope you're sorry for all those horrible things you've said about me, in the comments section or under your breath. And I hope for your sake nothing really bad happens to me in that kitchen today, because I'd hate to think of you spending a lifetime mired in regret, sorry that you didn't cherish me more when you had the chance.

Christmas blows.

I know you people think I'm a genius, a prodigy, multitalented on so many levels that it brings new meaning to the prefix 'multi.' Okay, I don't know you think that, but just go with me on this. The point is, no matter what level of intellect and talent you assumed I possessed, I'm here to correct you, and show you how gravely you've overestimated me. Turns out I'm way, way dumber than you could have imagined. Perhaps the only smart thing I've been able to do consistently is find new, more spectacular and innovative ways to prove how dumb I really am.

Take, for instance, the gingerbread house. If you've been a reader of this blog for more than a few minutes, or if you've ever spent any time with me at all, you know I'm definitely not the kind of person who trots around the kitchen in an apron, baking delicious treats for my family. In fact, I've made exactly one cake in my entire life, and that was from a mix. I've made cookies a total of 3 times, also from mixes. My strategy thus far has been to take the considerable time and effort that I know is required to learn how to be good cook, and instead devote that time and effort to perfecting my drinking skills--which I have to say, has paid off. I'm excellent at that. But we make choices in life, and inevitably, when we choose Thing A, Thing B necessarily suffers. Thus, while I was out modeling myself after Dudley Moore in Arthur, my skills in the kitchen shriveled and died, along with two-thirds of my liver. That's the best explanation I can give you for the horror you're about to see here.

My neighbor bought two gingerbread house kits; one for her and one for me. Her idea was for the two of us to hang out together at one of our houses and assemble our gingerbread houses while her daughter and my son played underfoot. Quaint, no? Charming, even. I thought it was a very sweet idea, and really nice of her to think of me.

I should have known how it would turn out. My neighbor is good at everything. Everything! She's a great cook, an excellent host, she's crafty, and she can successfully grow all manner of flowers and vegetables without killing them in a matter of a week like I would. It's not easy living mere feet from such an overachiever, and I'd probably hate her if not for the fact that she feeds me from time to time, and brings me desserts or glasses of wine now and then. Instinctively, she must know the secret to keeping bitter, underachieving neighbors from gutting her with her own lemon zester is to ply them with food and booze. Smart girl.

At any rate, the Great Gingerbread House Fiasco netted me a few of the saddest photos in the history of photography. Below, see her adorable little specimen on the left, and my post-Hurricane Katrina model on the right.

Need a closer look? Here's Bree Van De Camp's house, zoomed in for your inspection and admiration: And no, it's not done yet in these photos. I'm only showing you how far each of us was able to get in the given time. I'm sure it got even more picturesque and fabulous when she added the final touches later at her own house. Look, she even remembered to put a doorknob on the front door!

By shocking contrast, here's my own Keebler Elf Haunted House:

I know it looks like I put it together one-handed in the shower while I shaved my legs with the other hand, but I assure you, we completed our projects under the exact same conditions. And to answer your question, I was indeed stone-cold sober at the time. Maybe that was the problem.
The next day, when my son, almost two years old, would amble around the kitchen and point to this new addition sitting on the countertop, looking inquisitively at me for the word to identify it, I would hang my head and mutter, "Uh...gingerbread house," and then quickly distract him, ashamed of the lie I was telling the impressionable, trusting boy. Because it's really not a gingerbread house, is it? It's a fucking monstrosity, a slab of iced shit, but it's not nice to say things like that to a toddler, so I lied and let him think that gingerbread houses all look like they've been peed on belligerent, fairy tale giants. One of these days he's going to see a picture of a normal, perfect gingerbread house in a book or on TV, and he's going to swivel his head to glare at me, and shout accusingly, "You lied, mommy."

A day and a half later, I did the right thing: I chucked it in the trash, putting us all out of our misery. Well, after I ate half of a roof panel. Fairy tale giant pee tastes better than you'd think.

Being good all year doesn't pay.

I tried to be good this year. I did! Not so much because I felt that Santa was watching, but because I knew Child Protective Services was. And I think I did pretty well. On a scale of 1-10, with 1 being reallyreallyreally bad, and 10 being reallyreallyreally good, I'd say I was a solid 7.5. Better than average. Pretty darn good. For me, at least.

Which is why I was baffled by a couple of the gifts Santa sent my way. First, there was the package of Fundies. I went to a Christmas party with friends last night. Good food, great company, copious quantities of booze, and even a gift exchange to top things off. It was the kind where each person brings a gift, and you draw numbers to see who will pick a gift first. Each person has an opportunity to steal a previously-opened gift or pick a new one. I was number 3, and since the first gift was a blowup doll, and the second gift was a plastic hand with the middle finger extended, that lit up and said "Fuck you!" when you pushed the button, I opted to pick a new gift. After all, I'm perfectly capable of using my own middle finger to communicate, and I have plenty of blowup dolls already. Little did I know what lay behind Door #3 was a package of Fundies. Pictured above, you can see for yourself how useful these babies can be. Perfect for Siamese twins joined at the forehead. Or for people who will do anything to cut their laundry load in half.

Then there were the magnets from Kendra. These were actually quite awesome. Kendra is cool for a whole host of reasons, but chief among them is the fact that she sends me stuff at Christmas time. Last year I got a very cool homemade tree ornament, which, fortunately, looks pretty nifty even without a tree to hang on. I'm trying to set the record for Most Consecutive Christmases Without Putting Up a Tree, but Kendra's ornament looks just as fabulous hanging from one of the the three little gold hooks on my mantle.

Kendra made this year's set of magnets herself. The girl is crafty! I am always baffled by how some people seem to innately know how to build entire cities out of wooden spoons and empty pudding boxes, while I can barely get myself dressed in the morning without breaking a limb. Kendra is one of those people who seems to spring out of bed some mornings thinking, "Today I shall build a TV set out of shampoo bottles," and 30 minutes later, pow! She's watching "I Love Lucy" reruns on a TV set that would put your Sony to shame, and her hair smells terrific.

At left is a picture of my new magnets, displayed on my refrigerator. First there are the "gin" and "tonic" magnets, showing that Kendra is eerily aware of the sole contents of said refrigerator. Then the pretty ladybug pattern, the funky white-and-blue face magnet, and the swirly yellowy one. And then...something sinister about that last one. Where have I seen that awful face before? Why do I suddenly feel like evil lurks nearby, waiting to pounce on me? Is it? No! It can't be....

Yep, the bane of my existence. It's not bad enough that creep has my email address and sends me all manner of deranged messages and incoherent threats, but now I have to be reminded of him in the sanctity of my home? Kendra is at once generous and vicious. Or perhaps she is just too wholesome and naive to understand the true nature of this horrible ogre. Either way, I am forced to keep the offensive image up on my refrigerator because Kendra is so sweet, and she gave me this gift in kindness. On the bright side, there's the inevitable weight-loss benefit. I expect to lose about 98% of my body weight in 2007, with that unsettling image menacing me every time I approach the fridge looking for food.

Anyway, thanks, Kendra! You rock. Now I'm off to see if I can find a sailor on leave to entice into wearing my Fundies with me. Wish me luck!

Dear Jackass, Volume 11

Attention self-proclaimed musicians:

You are no longer allowed to vigorously play air drums along with songs on the radio. There will be no more dramatic thrashing, elbow flinging and hair-slinging. I see you're desperate to broadcast the fact that you're a musician, and therefore worthy of getting laid, and I sympathize with you, because you're right--other than your little once-a-month, hole-in-the-wall bar gig, there really IS nothing very interesting about you. But you're going to have to find a more creative, less desperate way to announce it. That means you're also going to have to stop shouting, "Yessss! Good TUNE!" at the start of every third or fourth song you hear on radio, followed by an energetic "look at me" display as you throw your head back and play air guitar with your eyes squeezed shut like you're in the initial moments of coronary failure. And don't tell me it can't be done, because I have friends who are musicians, and they manage to not look like total asshats every time a good song comes on. In fact, I'm convinced that's the best way to distinguish a genuine musician from a sad little wannabe--how well he's able to keep his composure when a song that he knows how to play comes on the radio.

All I'm saying is, let there be a moratorium on dipshittery. If I see another one of you numbnuts launch into a full-scale assault on an imaginary drum kit the next time a Rage Against the Machine song plays, I shall be forced to gut you with a makeshift drumstick.

The Airing Of Grievances

Christmas is nearly upon us, and as part of my ongoing effort to be different to the point of being totally irritating, I'm eschewing it this year. (The previous sentence is part of my ongoing effort to find ways to crowbar the word "eschew" into conversation.)

Therefore, I'll be observing Festivus this year instead of Christmas. Those of you who have watched Seinfeld will understand immediately what I'm talking about...and those of you who have never watched Seinfeld are hereby banned from reading this blog. I don't like people like you.

In a nutshell, Festivus is the alternative holiday celebrated by George Costanza's father, who was fed up with the commercialism of Christmas. A central component is the annual Airing of Grievances, in which participants take turns letting the others know how they've disappointed them throughout the year. In the spirit of the season, therefore, I'd like to take a few moments to let some of you know how you've disappointed me.

Hoss of OldHorsetail Snake: I'm pretty sure you stole ten bucks out of my wallet when you were groping me at the Dallas-Ft. Worth Airport. At first I was disappointed that you were being so grabby with me. Now I'm disappointed that you were more interested in my money than my ass.

Kendra: I have a feeling you're really good at baking cookies, and yet to this day I've never had a box of 7 dozen fresh-baked cookies of various flavors and fun shapes FedExed to my doorstep with your return address on the label. Shame on you.

Common Wombat: The internet isn't big enough to hold the list of the many times you've disappointed me. I'll settle now for simply complaining that you're probably the one responsible for all the searches I've been getting for bull rape.

Brandon: While I'll keep just between us the details of my rather personal disappointment with you, let me just take a moment to say that life with herpes isn't as glamorous as the water-skiing, hang-gliding people on the Valtrex commercials make it out to be.

TFG: Since when did your blog turn into the Diary of My Crotch? No, not my crotch--that would actually be interesting. But your crotch? That dusty relic has cobwebs that have cobwebs. Who was president the last time someone other than you laid eyes on that antique? A writer should strive to find subjects that his readers can identify with. To that end, why not write about something more people have heard of?

Colin: You first disappointed me by misspelling the name of your blog. When I pointed it out to you, you modified the title slightly to acknowledge the misspelling. Since then, you've disappointed me by failing to ship cases of British booze to my home every year on the Queen Mum's birthday. You are a disgrace to your country and my liver.

Psquared: I'm pretty sure you're the reason I continue to see the phrase masturbation with a banana on my Statcounter searches. Can you deny that you bought bananas in the last year? I didn't think so. Ladies and gentlemen, do not trust this man around the fruit salad.

This by no means concludes my list of grievances. When it comes to Grievance Airing, I could air and air all day long and not manage to get them all out. One holiday per year is not nearly enough for me to accomplish all the grievance airing I have cut out for me. I may have to consider amending Festivus to allow for a monthly Airing of Grievances, or perhaps a bi-hourly one. Did I fail to mention your name today? Trust me, you're on the list somewhere. It's just that I can't sit in front of this computer all day and night. But your time will come.

I've let you walk all over me for too long.

Okay, this is getting ridiculous.

When I told you recently about my doctor's incredibly long waiting room routine, you were understandably outraged, not so much at the indifference this doctor shows toward his patients, but that someone of my celebrity status and royal upbringing should be made to wait like the commoners. Thank you for your sympathy.

But now, the plot stupens.

(Yes, it is too a word. Just because I made it up a few seconds ago doesn't make it any less a word than the ones you'll find in Webster's Dictionary. Someone made those up, too.)

As I was saying: The plot stupens.

At the above-mentioned doctor's visit, I was informed that my doctor wanted me to get a lab test done--which simply had to be done at the lab across the street from his office. This meant I'd have to drive an hour from home yet again on another day to take this test. No, don't be silly--it couldn't be done at any of the 7 zillion labs near my home. Only the absolute furthest laboratory from my domicile would do. So I took off work a few days later to drive an hour to Dallas for this test...only to be sent home untested. During my short, fruitless trip to the lab, the sole thing I accomplished was to fill out a form which asked me exactly three things:

Are you pregnant? No.

What was the date of your last period? October 20th.

What type of birth control are you using? None.

When she discovered we're not using any birth control, she told me I couldn't take the test. As it turns out, there has to be absolute certainty that I'm not pregnant before this test can be allowed. The lab tech informed me that I could return the following week IF my period arrived by then, OR if I provided documented proof of a negative pregnancy test from my primary physician (a blood test, not a home pregnancy test). Which leads me to only one question:

Why, in the FOUR phone calls this lab placed to me to schedule and confirm this lab test appointment, did they not mention that I had to provide irrefutable proof that I wasn't pregnant?

But that's not even the main complaint I'm lodging here in this post.

What I really came here to complain about is my doctor's voicemail message.

See, the lab tech then rescheduled me for a tentative appointment (for tomorrow) for the lab test to be taken. The idea was that if my period arrived between then and tomorrow, all systems would be go, and I would have the honor of driving an hour to Dallas for a third time. If my period did not arrive, I was to call and cancel the lab test appointment.

So here it is, nearly tomorrow, and my virginal undies are still white as the driven snow. So I called and cancelled the lab appointment, and then attempted to call the doctor's office and cancel Thursday's appointment with him as well, since, as you recall, the whole point of that visit would be to discuss the results of the test that I am not allowed to take.

When I called my doctor at 1:30 this afternoon, here's what the exceedingly cheerful, pre-recorded voicemail greeting had to say:

Hi! You've reached the doctor's office. This office accepts phone calls on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday between 8:30 am and 1 pm, and on Thursday from 8:30 am to 10:30 am. If this is an emergency, please call 911. Click.

Which leads me to only one question:

What the FUCK?!?

The office only takes phone calls at certain times on certain days?? And for only a TWO HOUR span on one of those days??

So let's review: A typical waiting room stay (as acknowledged by the staff in their informational packet) is 4-5 hours, and I can only call the office during a select few hours of the day. And I can only take tests at one lab in the whole world.

Which got me thinking: Maybe I've been too accommodating in my own life. I really should set some ground rules for how people can interact with me. And these rules should be strict, demeaning, pointless and aggravating ones, at that. So here goes:

1) I'll only be accepting comments between the hours of 1 AM and 1:15 AM on Mondays, from 3 PM to 3:01 PM on Tuesdays, and just before twilight on Wednesday through Saturday. Sundays will be off-limits to comments, unless you're a recently defrocked member of the clergy.
2) Comments will only be accepted if they contain the words juggernaut, bootylicous, ramification or stupen.
3) If you leave an anonymous comment, your legal name has to actually be "Anonymous."
4) You must be wearing 6-inch heels or a baby's bonnet at the time of commenting.

These rules will be strictly enforced. I'm still mulling over the part about how to punish violators of these rules, but rest assured, there will be punishment, and it will probably involve crude farm tools and/or being forced to eat my cooking. For far too long now I've meekly allowed you to comment whenever and however you wanted, but no more. This is the dawn of a new, more vindictive era.

Click.

This one will bring out the romantic in you.

Do you guys ever wonder what Common Wombat looked like before he lost his hair? Here's a video he recently sent me of himself and an old girlfriend of his. I think they made the video sometime in the 1980s--you can tell by his "rocker" hair. He's no longer with the girl in the video, which makes the video that much funnier. You know how sometimes after a nasty celebrity divorce, a snarky talk show will dredge up some old footage taken of that couple back when they were madly in love, and the two of them were yammering on and on about how they'd be together forever? It's always funny to see that kind of thing after the whole love affair has gone down in flames. For that reason (and perhaps a few others) you may get a kick out of watching this video.

He sent it to me in confidence, but I don't think he'd mind me sharing it with you, because it shows what a passionate person he can be when it comes to something that really matters to him. It's one of the things I love about him.

Please, take the time to watch the video, but then afterwards, don't forget to come back and leave a comment telling me what you thought after seeing our hero back in the days of his lovesick youth.

By the way, I seem to have better luck with the video link in Internet Explorer than in Firefox. If for some reason it doesn't work once, wait and try again. It's worth it.

Enjoy.

Can the word "urine" really be in the title of two posts in a row?

I often lament that I have no time to blog. The other day, however, I was time-rich. Time loaded. Brimming with time. I had 30 pounds of time in a 10 pound bag. Why? Because I was stuck in a doctor's office waiting room for a good chunk of Thursday. In fact, that particular doctor's office makes it clear by phone and by mail that a typical first appointment can suck 5 hours out of your life.

No, no, you read that right. No need to go back and double-check. FIVE HOURS. Of tests? Of doctor-patient consultation? Of incredibly thorough and invasive examinations? No. Of sitting in the waiting room, staring at the elderly and the infirm. Plus, you're required to be there half an hour early, so make that 5 and a half hours.

In fact, the lengthy document they sent me by mail prior to that marathon appointment made it clear that this doctor's office is not to be fucked with regarding the time issue. The parts pertaining to time are typed in all caps and underlined, so you know they mean business.

"IF YOU WILL BECOME UPSET BECAUSE OF HAVING TO WAIT OVER 1 TO 2 HOURS WHEN YOU HAVE AN APPOINTMENT, PLEASE CONSULT ANOTHER DOCTOR. THIS IS A VERY BUSY OFFICE AND WE CANNOT COMPROMISE THE CARE OF ANOTHER PATIENT TO BE ON SCHEDULE AT ALL TIMES. YOU SHOULD BE AWARE THAT YOU MIGHT BE HERE FOR A TOTAL OF 4-5 HOURS."

Later, in this 8 page, single-spaced document, it goes on to say:

"YOUR APPOINTMENT MUST BE CONFIRMED THE DAY BEFORE YOUR APPOINTMENT. IF NOT, YOUR APPOINTMENT WILL BE CANCELLED AND WILL NOT BE RESCHEDULED A LATER DATE."

Notice that says, "not be rescheduled." Apparently if you don't take this policy seriously, you will be banned forever; the doctor's equivalent of the Soup Nazi credo.

Still later in this massive, cumbersome document, it says:

"WHENEVER WE ARE OFF SCHEDULE, IT IS BECAUSE OF SOMETHING THAT INVOLVES THE CARE OF ANOTHER PATIENT. WE ASSUME THAT YOU WOULD EXPECT EXTRA TIME AND CARE ALSO SHOULD THAT NEED ARISE, EVEN THOUGH IT MIGHT MAKE OTHER PATIENTS HAVE TO WAIT LONGER THAN DESIRED."

...And on and on. Seriously. They find as many ways as humanly possible to rework the phrase, "You will die in our waiting room before your name will be called."

To top it off? The doctor's name is Cheatum. I'm not making this up. It's an even more appropriate name in this case than with most doctors, because this one cheatsum out of time as well as cheatingum out of money.

There's not much to do in a doctor's office except angrily stare at your watch, but I did complete the following tasks:

- Checked in at desk.
- Peed in a cup at the lab.
- Took the vending machine by storm (yes, there was some hand-washing between the urine cup rendezvous and the vending machine attack).
-Read from cover to cover a magazine devoted entirely to shopping. Baffled side note: How is that a magazine? It's 204 pages of ads. I demand stricter rules regarding what constitutes a magazine.

And all that in my first hour.

I did learn a few things during my stay, so the time wasn't completely wasted. I learned the following:

-It's hard to scrape up a decent lunch from vending machines.-When I'm really bored I'll do things that would otherwise never occur to me, like arranging and photographing my vending machine purchases.

-While shopping is fun, magazines about shopping are mind-numbing. More boring than listening to men talk about their jobs. The lesson: Not everything should be written about.

-Peeing in a cup is fun. I'm going to start doing this at home. Does anyone know where I can purchase a large quantity of small plastic cups? No need to purchase the name labels and markers, since I'll be the only one filling these babies. I'd also like to install one of those tiny stainless-steel doors at eye-level in my bathroom wall that I can label with a sign that reads, "Please Place Urine Specimens In Here." Only, instead of that door leading to an adjoining laboratory room, it would lead to my guest bedroom, which is right next to my guest bathroom. The cups could pile up in there til the next time someone tries to come stay at my house for the weekend. That'll teach 'em.

On the bright side, I did manage to get in to see the doctor before the five-and-a-half hour estimated wait time was over; my name was called sometime in hour four. I have a follow-up with that doctor in two weeks, though, which gives me plenty of time to plan activities to occupy me during that waiting room visit. So far I've come up with the following list of ideas:

-Practice my singing
-Paint my toenails
-Do my Turbo Kickboxing workout
-Grab several urine specimen cups from the bathroom and get a headstart on filling them in the waiting room, just in case extras are needed.

That should cover about two and a half hours. Any ideas for how I can whittle away the remaining 2-3 hours?

Prostitutes don't usually smell of urine, do they?

There's still more to tell you about that weekend Common Wombat stayed at my house. I know I told you some of it here, and some of it there, and you may have thought you got the full story, but oh, no. Not by a long shot. It's just that it's painful to relive those dark days, and I found it difficult to tell the horrific tale all at once. In addition, some of the more heinous memories were repressed, but are now slowly coming out in the 4-times-daily therapy sessions I've had to attend since The Weekend I Lost Faith In Humanity.

Have you read any of Wombat's blog? If not, good for you. It's all a pack of lies anyway. For instance, he claims not to be much of a drinker. That's why I was shocked and aghast to see him pounding down drink after drink at the bar we went to--he was even snatching drinks off the waitress's cocktail tray as she tried to walk past our table. Twice he yanked half-empty drinks right out of the hands of other patrons, both of whom were too shocked and fearful to do anything but settle their tabs and quickly leave, sensing a booze-fueled catastrophe was imminent. I've never been to Baltimore, but perhaps this kind of assholery is common there. We southerners are a kind and gentle people, and this type of bizarre, aggressive behavior is utterly foreign to our peaceful nature.

In the photo below, observe the drunk, belligerent look on his face. He's obviously loaded and looking for a fight. And notice he's got two drinks--a martini and a beer. You would have thought he'd been told that was the last day alcohol would exist anywhere on earth, and he'd better get his fill of it. You can see my friend Kristina on the right, nervously grabbing her own drink, aware that she only has a few seconds left to enjoy it before this lumbering boozehound gulps it down and then belches rudely in her face.

My friends and I had the good sense to usher this lush out of the bar before things got too far out of hand. But he angrily insisted that we stop and pick up some Schlitz Malt Liquor and some Mad Dog 20/20 for him to drink at my house, so we did. Our strategy was along the lines of, "Just do what this crackpot asks, and try to make it through the weekend alive." We hoped he'd drink himself into a stupor fairly quickly and the miserable night would end.

But we underestimated him. Once we got home, things got even more warped and strange. He pulled an assortment of costumes out of his suitcase and demanded we engage in role-playing with him! While he was outfitting Brian in a wooly sheep costume, I snuck off with my cell phone and tried to dial 911. But Wombat quickly found me, crouched in my closet, sobbing as I fumbled with the buttons on my phone. He stomped all our cell phones to tiny bits and then got back to the costumes.

He flew into a drunken rage when he realized he'd forgotten to pack the staff and bonnet for the Little Bo Peep costume he wanted to wear. Frightened and hoping to placate him, we frantically tried to assure him that we could fashion a makeshift staff out of a broom, and make a bonnet out of a pair of the lace cotton bloomers he wears as underwear, but he was inconsolable. But when Kristina finally put on the police hat he had given her just before his mental breakdown, he cheered up instantly and announced that we could play, "The Very Naughty Prostitute." We didn't know what the hell that was, but we felt certain we had narrowly escaped being slaughtered, so we were simply grateful his mood had changed.

Below is a photo Wombat demanded I take of him dressed as the prostitute, and my friend Kristina as the cop. It took 17 tries to produce this photo; in the first 16 shots, Kristina is visibly upset, either weeping or cowering in fear. After each digital shot was taken, Wombat would review it and scream, "NO! I told you to look HAPPY!" My heart went out to my poor, terrified friend as she tried her best to do what the crazed lunatic asked, clearly aware that all our lives hung in the balance. I tell you, we were all scared out of our minds. At one point I smelled urine and thought, "Well, one of us finally peed ourselves in fear. Who could blame us?" A quick downward glance, however, revealed that it was Wombat who had peed himself. Apparently the sight of the wooly sheep suit got him so excited he couldn't stop himself.

Well, that's all I can tell you for now. Not because I'm still too shell-shocked to face what happened (although that's partly true as well), but because I'm still scrubbing the mysterious greyish-yellow stains Wombat left on most of our furniture. Since I'm not sure exactly what these stains are, can anyone recommend a household cleaner that successfully removes puke, semen and squirrel intestines?

I'd like to thank all the little people I stepped on to get to where I am today

A few months back, Bloglaughs reviewed my site. I didn't bring it to your attention then because, well, I'm a humble and simple girl, traditionally eschewing attention and praise. I bring it to your attention now because I wanted the opportunity to use the word "eschewing" in a blog post.

Note that in the 2005 Best of Blogs list, Anonymous Coworker is said to be funnier than me, which is absurd. Sure, he's funny, but funnier than me? Ha!

Ha, HA!

Ha ha ha HAAA!

Heck, this is the most I've ever laughed at the guy. Oh, I'm kidding. He's funny all right. Just not funnier than me.

At any rate, because I didn't originally make the final cut, my loyal minions stormed the Capitol and rioted, causing Bloglaughs to rethink their decision, and hastily add me. Thank you, my faithful readers. It's nice to know you scare someone other than me.

Back to the aforementioned review of Karlababble. As you might suspect, I do have some criticisms about their criticisms of me. First, one of them called me a mommy blogger, which I object to. Sure, the subject of baby poop has cropped up once or twice in this blog, but mostly I was using it to describe Dyckerson's writing. Truly, though, I think mommy bloggers write mostly about their children. I write mostly about the reasons I think 99% of the people in the world should die while I continue to live on. That's hardly maternal, in my opinion. And the subject of embarrassing public lactation or cracked nipples hasn't showed up here once, which I think pretty much says it all.

When asked if they'd read my blog again, most of the reviewers, clearly intelligent and profound, said something along the lines of "yes." One of them, however, answered, "Uhhhhhhhh, no."” I must assume the garbled syllable at the beginning of that answer was a result of the inflatable sheep he was stuffing into his mouth at the time the question was asked. Otherwise, his answer might have sounded more like, "Of course, she's a goddamn genius!" So I'll give him a pass on that one. I can't speak well with latex stuffed in my mouth, either.

All in all, it was a favorable review, which is a nice thing to have. It's something I can come back and re-read when I'm feeling "less than." Like when I ask Jake if he wants me to sing the Alphabet Song, and he violently shakes his head "no," implying that hearing me sing is something one would choose only if asked to choose between that and having one's foot shoved in a blender set on "puree." Or after a demoralizing chat session with Wombat, where he regularly calls me things like "horseface nutpants" or "shitsock." My only regret is that the Bloglaughs reviewers failed to mention how I nailed the triple-axle and really stuck the landing. True, my skating is sometimes a little choppy thanks to the knee injury I suffered two years ago on the parallel bars, but most judges agree my comebackck is nothing short of miraculous. The doctors all said I'd never skate again.

Lessons I've Learned, Part 11

Boobs have many uses.

I've cried on your shoulder(s) before about my dental hygienist. I love my dentist, and have been going to the same one for about 11 years. And for 11 years, I've had the same deep and abiding distaste for his dental hygienist. She's a very nice lady, but one I find so irritating I've often considered biting her and then fleeing the scene. What can I say? Sometimes incredibly nice people inspire me to bite. This is why it's much safer for me to hang out with total assholes. But seriously, is it necessary to talk to me in the same high-pitched squeal you'd use for a toddler? It it necessary to press your face right up against mine when you patronize me with goofy questions about my Christmas plans? And must you ask the same boring chit-chat questions every time I come in, and always when my mouth is open and I can't reply? All I've ever wanted from a dental hygienist is for her to be very, very quiet while she does her work, but this one doesn't shut up for one minute.

By some stroke of luck, though (hmmm...that's a weird phrase, isn't it? I know some stroke victims who would object to such careless use of the word "luck") that particular dental hygienist is now gone from my dentist's office! Did she retire? Was she fired? Did she die? Is she on the run from the law? Was she exiled to Romania? Was she kidnapped by a holdover Black Panther group? Who cares. All I know is when I went to my dentist for a cleaning yesterday, she had been replaced by a very nice, and very unirritating, lady. Yay me!

All was well and good til the sexual assault.

As she was hacking away at my gums with a tiny pick axe, I felt something soft and comfy pressing up against my shoulder. Her boob! My natural instinct would have been to shift slightly over to make room for these massive, bullying beasts, but when you're being stabbed in the gums with an ice pick, you tend to think differently. I felt I had no option but to remain snuggled against her mammaries, at least until the hacking stopped. That was probably her plan all along--to trap me at pick-point and then force her sizable boobs on me while I was frozen in fear. Luckily for me, the situation resolved itself when she moved away to fetch that little suction hose to vacuum the blood out of my gore-soaked mouth. During the Wetvac process, the menacing boobs kept their distance.

But then! Just when I thought my virtue was safe, the woman began flossing my teeth. Flossing is a process which demands close proximity, and, as you can imagine, those ample boobs wedged their way right into the middle of the procedure. This time one of them planted itself firmly against my head.

What would you do if this happened to you?

Right! You'd begin formulating a blog post. So, sprawled out in my dentist's chair, that's what I did. But when I got to the part where I imagined describing myself laying in the dentist's chair with a middle-aged boob mashed up against my skull, I snorted with laughter. You try laughing while your mouth is split open like the Grand Canyon, and a pair of hands are crammed in there, sawing a string back and forth between your teeth. No, really. Go ahead, open your mouth as wide as you can and stuff both your hands in there. Now laugh. It doesn't exactly look like laughter, does it? It looks like the onset of a heart attack, or maybe an asthma attack. And it happened three times, because each time I composed myself, I went back to formulating my blog post, and the seizure came on again. I'm not sure what the well-endowed hygienist thought was happening to me, but she ignored it and went about her business, finally removing her hands from my mouth and her boob from my head, and sending me on my way, feeling violated.

Now, don't get me wrong; I'm not anti-boob. I'm totally pro-boob! There are definitely some boobs I wouldn't mind having on my head:

However, the boob I was brow-beaten with in my dentist's office yesterday isn't exactly what I had in mind during my extensive boob-on-my-head fantasies.

All in all, despite the rape, I still vastly prefer this dental hygienist over the last one. And for all I know, maybe she is just as irritating as the last one, but the boob-beating distracted me from that. Maybe she asked all the same dumb questions and prattled on in a condescending voice as if I were a little kid, but I was too preoccupied with the inappropriate touching to take note of it.

And I guess that's the moral of the story: If you want to distract someone, press a sexual organ against their head.

Day 2: Bull Rape

I just returned from the doctor's office, where Brian insisted I go to get a full examination to determine if there was any permanent scarring or other bodily damage from the horrific events of the weekend with Wombat. While I was there, I insisted they bathe me in lye soap just to be sure all bacteria were thoroughly eliminated. I still think I'm a long way from feeling 100%--but with a few years of physical therapy and a reliable support group, I may be functional in society again soon. I think pills and booze will really help, too.

One thing I did learn about Wombat is that he is quite virile. For some reason I was picturing him as someone too busy with internet porn and fantasies about his mother to go out in the world and function sexually with an actual partner. I was dead wrong. The moment he arrived in the Lone Star State, he began ranting about "spreading [his] seed all across Texas." Naturally, I thought he meant that he was going to go out looking for women, which surprised and appalled me since I know he's married. To my relief, it turns out he was not interested in finding a woman, after all. To my horror, I accidentally walked in on him with the partner he ended up finding to satisfy his sexual appetite. I was shocked, but not so shocked that I forgot to snap a picture:

Beastiality is unforgivable, sick, and just plain wrong. But not being smart enough to know the difference between a real bull and a mechanical bull? That's pathetic. I'm ashamed to know this person. For Christ's sake, the thing is hollow in the back:

...or maybe that's what he liked about it? Pervert.

So you tell me: How am I supposed to put this event behind me? I trusted this person, welcomed him into my home as a friend. To find out what a degenerate he is has really broken my faith in humanity. Now I'm starting to scrutinize all my friends a little more closely. I can no longer give my friendship and trust so readily. I do feel I've learned some valuable lessons from this experience, and that's always a good thing, but the sad part is that I feel I've lost so much of the wide-eyed innocence I had. I want to go back to being the loving, caring person I was, but I don't think that can ever happen now. I'll never look at people, or mechanical bulls, the same way again.

Day 1: The Kidnapping

Well, I aged 20 years, but I did survive the Wombat Invasion.

In my last post, I told you Common Wombat would be staying at my house for the weekend. I won't lie to you, I was scared shitless. Surprisingly, though, the weekend passed without the loss of a single human life--I consider that a success. However, my neighbors did object strenuously to having this miscreant near their homes. They didn't care for the sight of him stumbling around the neighborhood in nothing but a filthy, open bathrobe, chain-smoking and making passes at the neighborhood children. They called the police no fewer than 6 times to report a foul odor emanating from my house. And when 18 of the neighborhood pets went missing in a single evening, they all seemed to agree he had a hand in it.

Jake seemed to really take to him, though. The good news: Wombat potty-trained him in one weekend, which is impressive considering Jake is only 20 months old. The bad news: Now Jake sits on the toilet for an hour at a stretch, reading Hustler magazines and cursing at no one in particular, and smearing the walls with misogynistic graffitti.

I knew you’d want to see some photos from the weekend, so I have several to share—some were taken with my digital camera, some were taken by police investigators. In this first one, a trained hostage negotiator might notice that something’s definitely amiss. Here we are in the abandoned warehouse where Wombat dragged me, kicking and screaming, and proceeded to hold me hostage for a time, in an attempt to elicit an astronomical ransom from my panicked loved ones.You can see the meanacing grip he has on my now-bruised arm. You can see my brave smile as I try to broadcast to my family that I am so far unharmed. What you can’t see is the gun Wombat is jamming into my ribs under the table—nor the suspicious brown stain on the back of his pants. All ended well, though, when, just moments after this picture was taken, I shouted, “Look! A balloon!” which caused Wombat to spin around, delighted, searching for said balloon, giving me an opportunity to take the gun from him and pistol whip him unconscious. Later, I forgave him for kidnapping me, and he forgave me for pistol whipping him, and after I forced him to change into a clean pair of pants, a group of us went to a martini bar for drinks.

Much, much more happened, but I’m still too exhausted to recount it all in one sitting. Stay tuned for parts 2 through 9,267 of The Stench That Ruined My Wall-To-Wall Carpeting….

This could be the last post I ever write

Ever have a really horrific experience with a houseguest? Was there ever a time when you generously opened your home to a friend or family member, only to have things quickly spiral into madness once it became apparent that the houseguest was rude, thoughtless, ungrateful, messy, and possibly dangerous as well?

That's never happened to me, but I think it's about to. Believe it or not, this asshole is going to be staying at my house this weekend. He claims he's going to be in town "on business," but I think it's safe to assume that's code for "skipping a parole hearing."

If you've been a reader for awhile now, you may recall that I narrowly escaped death last time this creep was in town. But just because I made it out alive that time doesn't guarantee I will fare so well this time--after all, we only met up for dinner that time. This time he'll be staying at my house. I shudder at the thought.

But don't worry; I've taken some precautions. I'm not so naive that I would let a shady character like this stay at my house for the weekend without taking some steps to ensure my family and I live to see Monday morning. Here are a few of the protective measures I've taken:

-I've rented a port-a-potty for him to use. I don't think my (or anyone else's) body produces enough antibodies to battle the kind of superbacteria this guy's nether regions are breeding.

-To prevent him from "accidentally" forgetting to use the port-a-potty, I've had both bathrooms in our house destroyed. Rebuilding again them after Wombat leaves will be expensive, but like my grandma always said, avoiding hepatitis C is priceless.

-I've hired 6 off-duty police officers, 3 firefighters and 5 EMT workers to stay at my house around the clock for the whole weekend. It's comforting to know they'll be here in case my houseguest causes a true disaster, but the bonus is they'll be able to help me keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn't steal anything. As an extra precaution, I've taken inventory (including photos) of my panty drawers.

-I've retooled and updated my will. If Wombat should kill me during the course of his stay, whatever personal belongings of mine that aren't ruined by blood splatter during the murder will go to my sister and niece in Alaska.

-I've scattered several dead animals around the house and yard. Hopefully, these will satisfy his thirst for blood and keep him from turning to me and my family for sustenance.

-I've tented off the room he'll be staying in. It looks like a nuclear quarantine area, which clashes with the rest of my decor, but my policy is "safety first." After Wombat leaves (or is shot down by police helicopter), I'll burn the furniture in that room and put the house up for sale.

Have I missed anything? Should I alert the FBI now, just so there's a record they can look back on if anything illegal or fatal should occur? Your input is appreciated.

In the meantime, to illustrate just how messed up this dude is, let me show you the picture he sent to my cell phone about an hour ago: What IS this? Is it a picture of his penis? Is it a dead animal? Did he just point the camera toward the toilet and take a photo? I don't know exactly what this is a picture of, but I know it's something dirty and wrong. Did I make a mistake inviting this loon to my home? I really need to think before I speak from now on.

This post will literally knock your socks off!

As you know, I try to use Karlababble.com as a vehicle for spreading the message of peace, love and total acceptance. But every once in awhile, I have to deviate from the path of righteousness and lodge a respectfully worded complaint or two.

To that end, I'd like to address those of you who use the word "literally" as a synonym for "figuratively"--the direct opposite of how it should be used. You people are driving me insane. Worse, you're making yourselves look like idiots. Here are a few examples of the dumb shit you are prone to saying:

I was so angry my blood was literally boiling!
I such a bad hangover my head was literally exploding.
Her house is so filthy! It's literally a pig sty.

The truth is:

a) Blood doesn't literally boil. Well, okay, it can, and maybe in the back woods of Missouri it sometimes does. But generally that takes place only when the blood is in a cast iron pot on the stove of a serial killer. If your blood were to boil while it was still inside your body, it would cook your internal organs and stink up the room mightily. On the bright side, you wouldn't be angry anymore. On the not-so-bright side, you'd be dead.

b) While hangovers can be a real bitch, they don't literally cause one's head to explode. Causes of literal head explosion include, but are by no means limited to:
-dynamite packed into the ears
-a grenade crammed down the throat
-two shotguns, one discharged into each eye socket.
It's pure folly to claim that your head literally exploded from yesterday's hangover, since you're still alive now to stand before me, animatedly yammering on about it like you survived the holocaust. At such times, I only wish your head had exploded so I could be enjoying some peace and quiet right now.

c) If you were to stop cleaning your house right now, and never lift a finger again to pick up or wipe off one thing, it would still never actually transform into a pig sty. It would become very, very dirty, and very, very smelly, but unless a hog farmer actually pulled up to the house in a pickup truck with a trailer attached, and dropped off several pigs and a trough, it would not literally become a pig sty. I don't know much about hog farming, but I know this: The defining characteristic of a pig sty is the presence of pigs. That's probably the first thing they teach you in hog farming school.

I don't mean to imply that I'm not a fan of ridiculously inflated hyperbole. I rarely utter a sentence that's not exaggerated to the point of almost total falsity. Why? Because real life is actually pretty boring, and the retelling of it is therefore usually mind numbing. But when liberally sprinkled with half-truths, exaggerations, and balls-out lies, it can become fascinating. So go ahead, exaggerate! Make shit up! Lie your ass off! Just don't take that extra, silly step of inserting the word "literally" right before a phrase that is, in fact, figurative.

Having trouble deciding when to use "literally" and when not to? I have a solution: Just don't use it. Ever. Say, "I was so angry my blood was boiling," instead of "I was so angry my blood was literally boiling." Nine times out of ten when a person uses the word "literally," they're using it wrong and crapping all over the English language. (Notice I didn't say "literally" crapping all over the English language." But that'd be funny to see, wouldn't it?) And there's a reasonable chance you might be one of those people who has no idea when it's okay to say it. So know your limitations and just steer clear of that word, okay?

This message has been brought to you as part of my ongoing effort to keep average citizens from doing things that bug the shit out of me. Thank you for your cooperation.

I came, I saw, I called the mannequins "whores."

Against all odds, we made it back from Cabo. So I have this to say to all you critics: I told you so. Contrary to what you thought, I was indeed able to make it across the Mexican border and back without having to submit to even one cavity search. I even offered, several times, and the airport security guys just stared at me like I was crazy. Later, when I offered again, the maid at our hotel gave me a similar look. Still later, when I offered for the last time, the stewardess on our return flight snatched both drinks out of my hand and stalked away. People are strange.

To answer your questions (that's right, I hear you), no, I didn't end up puking in the sand. I behaved myself like a lady. A low-class, white trash lady with a variety of psychological problems and a criminal record, but a lady nonetheless. And no, our resort was not devastated by a tropical storm during our stay--in fact, not one drop of rain fell. The ironically-named Accuweather forecast's long-held record of 100% inaccuracy still stands.

But vacations are not all about frolicking in the sand and sun. Sometimes you learn a few things amidst all the relaxing, boozing and mocking the locals. Here's some of what I learned on vacation:

1) The DFW aiport distinguishes itself by having the most heinous, frightening "sculpture" in the history of bad airport art.
If you're thinking, "Okay, you're exaggerating. That's not great, but it's not terrible either," then you're definitely not getting the full impact. Have a closer look. Go on.Yep, those are the severed hands of cadavers. That's not okay, even in Dallas.

2) It's apprarently not considered high comedy to shout at a couple walking past, "How much for your sister?" At least, not while still in the U.S.

3) Probably lots of people pee in the ocean. But, as I learned the hard way, standing in ankle-deep water and squatting to do so isn't typically how it's done.

4) "All-Inclusive" is apparently tropical resort lingo for "weak drinks." The trick, we discovered, is to upgrade the liquor, as in "I'll take a pina colada with Bacardi" instead of just "I'll take a pina colada." For some reason this guilts the bartender into adding more than the usual single drop of liquor. Or maybe it's the pistol we were openly waving at him as we ordered it.

5) Mannequins in Mexico are different from mannequins in the US. The ones I regularly see in Texas stores are rather androgynous and flat-chested, like the one shown below: But the ones I saw in Mexico made me think dirty thoughts.The busty mannequins in Mexico put me to shame--and made me realize I need a boob job. It's just seems wrong when I see men's heads turning my way, only to discover they're craning to leer at the mannequin behind me.

In spite of the weak drinks and the hooker mannequins, we had a great time in Cabo San Lucas...but it's great to be home. We all know kids grow and change way too fast, but I was unprepared for how different Jake would already seem after just 6 days away from him. When we dropped him off with his grandma before we left town, he was our cheerful little 20-month-old, clutching his Elmo book and drinking out of his sippy cup. When we returned, he had already moved into his own apartment, defaulted on his rent, been charged for domestic abuse following an argument with his live-in girlfriend, and done time for two misdemeanor crimes. Kids. They really do grow up way too quickly.

Sandy vomit, prison rape and adoption

I have some good news and some bad news. The bad news isn't really all that bad, but the good news is KICK ASS. (For me, at least. You, as usual, probably won't give a shit.)

The bad news: This blog will probably not be updated between Oct. 12 and Oct. 17th.

The good news: Because I'll be frolicking on the beach in Cabo.

Now, I know you're thinking I'm going to fritter away this precious vacation time by getting drunk and passing out face-down in the sand. Not so. I have big plans for this vacation. Here are just a few of the things I intend to accomplish while on this tranquil, beachy getaway:

-Drink 18 shots of Mexico's cheapest tequila and throw up in the sand. (That's not the same as merely passing out in the sand, see. I'll actually be accomplishing something before I pass out.) I think I've pretty much done all I can do with the concept of puking on linoleum, cement, hardwood, Formica, car upholstery and the laps of strangers. It's time to conquer the sand.

-Hit on no fewer than 4 bellboys and 8 non-English-speaking taxi drivers.

-Throw a tantrum in a restaurant and shout "I'm a rich American! I could buy and sell you with what I pay for a bottle of NyQuil!!"

Side note: Far from being rich, I'm just your average middle class citizen. But once, while shopping in the Mexican border town of Nogales, just south of Arizona, I was sent into repeated giggle fits by the trinket vendors who, at the sight of us leaving their shops, would shout after us, "Come back, rich Americans!" There have been no less than 1,456 instances since then when I've shouted, usually to a baffled group of strangers, "Come back, rich Americans!"

But vacationing in foreign countries isn't all about fun and games and abusing the locals. There are potential dangers. For instance, a friend once told me a story about his wife's two college girlfriends who gave themselves the college graduation present of a vacation in Mexico. There, they were unfortunately arrested as they sunbathed on the beach...while smoking pot. They were dumped into a squalid little Mexican jail cell for several days with no phone privileges, where it was eventually explained to them that they could either continue to rot in jail for years to come, or have sex with the jailers and go free. Seeing no alternative, they tearfully submitted to sex with the jailers--which turned out to be a sizable group. These seedy jailers were men of their word, at least, because the girls were indeed released afterward. No word on how many years of therapy and how many truckloads of prescription pills it took to erase the shame, nor how many drums of Rid-X it took to eradicate the crabs. But don't worry, a scenario like that could never happen to me. For one thing, I don't smoke pot. And secondly, I'll be dressed as a man the entire time I'm there, just to make sure I don't find myself in that horrifying situation.

Aside from Mexican prison rape, I guess I should also worry about sharks. I don't want a repeat of last year's vacation episode. Here's a picture of us, partying on the beach:

As you can see, we were really having a great time, unaware (until the film was developed weeks later) that we were in mortal danger. Pretty scary.

Almost as scary as the possibility of shark attack is the possibility of encountering hurricane weather. According to weather reports, there are two tropical storms currently heading for the exact spot where I had intended to puke in the sand. Now, I don't know much about tropical storms, but from what I understand, a hurricane could potentially ruin my hairdo or blow the umbrella out of my drink--two disasters I don't even want to think about. But a cursory glance at this screenshot I took from weather.com seems to indicate that there's a definite chance that when I pass out face down in the sand, I will subsequently drown in standing rainwater.

If that happens, I'll need one of you to take care of Jake for me. He won't be accompanying us on this trip (toddlers can be a real buzzkill), so in the unfortunate event of my demise, I'd like him to go to a loving home filled with responsible people. I've never actually met anyone like that, so I'll have to lower my expectations. Please leave your full name, address and phone number in my comments section, and I'll alert my team of lawyers to check this post if my mangled body should wash up on the shores of Cabo by the middle of next week. They'll call you if your name is randomly chosen from the list.

Thank you. Now I'm off to pack.

I'm like "Dear Abby" for freaks

It used to be that the freaks of the world managed to find me by some special instinct they have that tells them where the other freaks are. Now that I have a blog, they find me by doing internet searches. Some of the searches listed below are recent and some are older, since I copy and paste these searches into a blog draft and let them sit until I'm sober enough to concoct a reasonably coherent blog post. I'd like to take a moment now to address these seekers, that I may help them get the answers they were looking for.

To the person who wondered what is wrong if my bowels are green?:
While I'm not a doctor, I think I know the answer to this one. What's wrong is you shouldn't have any idea what color your bowels are, since they're located inside your body and, ideally, shouldn't be visible to you unless you've been impaled by a javelin or gutted by an angry biker. If you've actually seen your bowels recently, or can see them now, get thee to a doctor at once.

To the person who found my site by searching for am I mentally stable enough to have a baby:
No. Just because I did it doesn't make it right.

To you who found me by searching for what does the name Karla mean?
I think I explained this one pretty well.

To the grade school dropout who found me by searching for do men with big penis's cheat:
In my own independent study, I discovered that it's not the size of the penis that correlates with infidelity, it's the existence of a penis. Remember the old adage, "Have penis, will plunge it indiscriminately into any willing party."

To the poor soul who found me by searching for how to stop underwear chewing:
This one is tough, but it can be done. This heartbreaking addiction recently plagued someone in my own family, but I'm proud to say that with love and determination, we were able to help him overcome it and go on to lead a healthy, happy, productive life, depending on your definition of "productive."

If you're the one who found me by searching for put on thong panties properly?:
I don't know how helpful I can be in writing--this is much easier to demonstrate in person, which I would be willing to do for a moderate fee. But there's definitely a right way and a wrong way to do it. Here's a short list of Wrong Ways to put on thong panties:

1) On your head. Fun, but wrong.
2) In a bus station bathroom. Unless it's absolutely necessary, which yes, it sometimes is.
3) In any instance in which the thong panties are 2 or more sizes smaller than your ass.
4) In any instance in which you are a man, and the thong is going on your ass instead of the ass of a female companion.
4) In full view of the remaining bachelor party attendees, after the party. Proper etiquette demands that you gather up your discarded clothing from the floor and the lamp shades and take it into the bathroom or the hotel hallway to get dressed. You may have been a star 3 hours ago, but now you're a used Kleenex.

To the person who found me by searching for where to buy roofies:
I think you've landed on the wrong website. Try here instead.

To the person who found me by searching for loser sitting in front of computer masturbating:
Please, don't make fun of my friends. I won't tolerate it.

Thank God no one watered down my tequila

Finding the time to sit down and write a blog post is tricky. My free time has gotten steadily more scarce, and thus steadily more valuable to me, over the years. This is a far cry from my life in high school and college, when I had a bottomless supply of free time, which I put to good use, as shown here in Exhibit A: It takes time to get through a bottle of tequila that size. And for what? The dubious payoff that eventually you might end up with this look on your face: Achieving that look takes time. I rarely find myself with that kind of time these days.

However! Recently Jake has begun a Mother's Day Out program two days a week. If you're unfamiliar with the concept, it's like a little preschool class where Jake can go to play, learn new things, and interact with other kids--and more importantly, his mommy gets to stop playing, teaching new things, and interacting with kids. They really should call it "Mother's Day Away from Baby," or "Mother Can Pee in Private For A Change."

I am relieved to discover Jake loves it. And why wouldn't he? They serve Tang there! Tang contains a proportion of sugar Jake never dreamed could exist in such a small amount of liquid. At home, he drinks what I deceitfully refer to as "juice," but which is really a sippy cup filled with about 95% water and about 5% juice. As he dances eagerly around the kitchen crowing, "Jis! Jis!!!" as I prepare it for him, I do feel a slight twinge of guilt at the fraud I'm perpetrating. But lying to children is approximately 75% of what parenting is about, so when that pang of guilt tries to creep in, I just shake my head like I'm erasing an Etch-A-Sketch, and agree, "Yes! Juice! You lucky boy!" I thought when he discovered Tang at school, he would glare accusingly at me the next time I tried to unload this crappy watered-down juice cocktail on him, but so far he hasn't put two and two together yet. He must think they have a strict monopoly on Tang at his school, and that his loving mother has been begging all along for them to lift their restrictions and allow us to take some home, to no avail.

At any rate, suddenly I find myself with some extra time. A few hours a day twice a week! To the mother of a toddler, this is an eternity of time. What does this mean to you? Well, it means I can post more often. When I started this blog, I was posting every 2-3 days, and now it's more like once a week. Instead of the Tang you deserve, I've been serving you the blog equivalent of a crappy watered-down juice cocktail.

But there'll still be time left over! Now there's the question of what I will do with this vast expanse of time that I formerly spent reading, on demand, the same "Grover Learns To Read" book 7,000 times in a row, or agreeing enthusiastically, "Yeah, doggie!" 25,000 times in a row as Jake pointed to our dog and cried out, "Daaa!"

A short list of my ideas so far:

1) I could read some self-help books, with an eye toward becoming a better person.

2) I could learn to cook, with an eye toward becoming a better wife.

3) I could get involved with the community, with an eye toward making my town a better place.

4) I could watch more TV, read more blogs, sharpen my napping skills, and make the occasional phone call without having to shout over the tinny sound of "Old MacDonald Had A Farm" that emits from no less than 30 toys scattered throughout my house.

But I'm willing to take suggestions from you, if you have a better idea of how I should spend my new free time. In the meantime, I'll be running through the house in my undies shouting, "I'M FREE!"

Maybe I can outsource the abuse.

Ever wonder what I do when I'm not writing a blog post or abusing my child?

No? Too bad. I'm going to tell you anyway.

I often sit down to do some productive blog-writing, but then get sucked in by other peoples' blogs. Reading these blogs can eat away at the entire block of time I had set aside for writing. Before I know it, it's time to get back to abusing my child. Here are a few of the blogs that have a way of gnawing away at my would-be productive time.

One Child Left Behind has the best of three worlds:
1) It's very often funny. The funny parts will make you fall off your chair laughing, so that eventually you'll know enough to stand up while reading it.
2) It's very often beautiful. The beautiful parts will make you cry, even if you think you're too manly to cry, or too drunk to cry, or all cried out from reading Karlababble.
3) If you dig hard enough, you can find things like this. If you're a heterosexual girl, you know why that's great. If you're a heterosexual man, oops. I might have just turned you gay. I should have posted a warning before the link. Sorry.

Assclownopolis is good, clean fun without the 'clean' part, or the 'good part.' Really, it's a very funny blog--but maybe the best part is getting to address him as "Assclown" in your comment. As in, "So true, Assclown, so true," or even, "You're wrong, Assclown; it's not okay to have sexual relations with a dairy cow, even if the cow seems to be flirting with you."

Neil at Citizen of the Month is a genius. A genius at crafting blog posts out of pure bullshit. I have to believe that 99.8% of what he writes is completely made up. But that's a talent, make no mistake. And his posts are always funny. Always. Not funnier than mine, mind you. But funny.

Ben at Nocturnal Tendencies made a video about me. But he was cool even before that. Any girls out there interested in a hot drummer who's smart, talented, kind, and an aminal lover? Well, forget it. He's got enough girls vying for his attention already. You'd just get in the way.

Frankly, Mighty Dyckerson scares the shit out of me. So why did he make this list? All I can say in my defense is this: Millions of women stay in relationships with abusive, alcoholic, no-account men for years and years despite claiming to be unhappy and terrified in those relationships. Why do they stay? Sometimes terror can be like a magnet. This blog is my terrifying magnet.

That's the short list. There are others. I'd write about them as well, but all this writing is cutting into my blog-reading time. That, and my kid needs abusing. I'm not Superwoman. I can't do everything at once.