Daughter Of The Year Award

The weather has been INSANE here the last few days: gale force winds, grey clouds and pouring rain.


Mom called last night to make sure all was well. A brief snippet:

Mom: I saw that you have some pretty high winds down there.
Me: Yeah, it makes driving fun. I almost got blown off the road a few times.
Mom: Well, hunker down. Try staying off the beach. The riptides are going to be pretty strong. Just in case, you know, you get the urge to go skinny-dipping again.
(insert a few seconds of awkward silence as I try not to choke on my plum wine. Candace later comments on the lovely shade of green I turned at that moment.)
Mom: You know... I do read your blog, dear.

Heh heh... ummmm... hi mom!

Welcome to the Island: LOST edition

This was actually a very tough decision this week. There are so many choices when it comes to the men of LOST. The fact that Henry Ian Cusick (Desmond) didn't make either of our picks attests to that fact. I had to go with Naveen Andrews (Sayid). One hot mutha (shut your mouth fool). He is also loyal and can maim, torture, or kill pretty much anyone who crosses his path. And the hair, wow! As Roadtripper said, I already know he knows his way around an island but he is just as good looking off of it:

Welcome to the Island Naveen, I think you will like this one much better.

Welcome To The Island: The LOST Edition

Let me start this blog post with a warning: Candace and I are enjoying a bottle (or 2) of plum wine with our sushi this evening. My normal writing skills might be a little impaired.

Allow me to present the latest addition to the island: Josh Holloway (aka Sawyer) from LOST. I usually don't care for dirty rednecks but I will make a major exception for this type of perfection. This man is gorgeous. The abs, the dimples, the hair begging to have my fingers running through it, the crystal eyes, the jawline... and did I mention the abs?


We already know how well this man fairs on an island anyways so he will fit right in on ours, no nasty plane crash necessary. Welcome to the island, Josh Holloway.

Kids Say The Darndest Things (Especially When They Are 19 Year Old Marines)

Conversations between myself and one of my students today:

Him: You aren't retired military like the rest of the instructors, are you, ma'am?
Me: No. I just did one tour in the Army and have been a contractor ever since.
Him: Figures... all the pretty girls are in the Army.
Me: Make sure you put your name and information on the roster.
Him: Okay... but I don't know my unit's duty phone number.
Me: That's fine. Just put the name of your unit in that block. We'll make sure you get credit.
Him: Maybe I should just put my cell number there... for you... so... you can like call me... you know... if you wanted to... ma'am.

I am not sure if I should be flattered or horrified that a 19 year old managed to hit on me and call me ma'am in the same sentence. I think these kids have watched too many repeats of "Top Gun". Well, I am no Kelly McGillis (although the fishnets stockings she rocked in her classroom were the shit!)



Come to think of it, that kid has probably never even seen "Top Gun" since it came out before he was even born. Pardon me while I go cry in to my Bloody Mary.

Psssssst: I have to admit... it was kind of sweet and my head barely fit through the door for the rest of the day.

Searching For My Doppelganger

Scientists say that everyone has a twin. Apparently mine is right here in this area. Last week, I was intercepted at the local grocery store by a woman asking me how my kids and husband were. When I told her that I wasn't who she thought I was, she didn't seem to believe me and might of even gotten offended. A few days later, when I opened the door for the cable lady, she exclaimed "Girl... when did you move out here?" Last night I stopped by a local bar where several of the patrons mistook me for her.

From what I have gathered, my doppelganger's name is Kelly and she lives out on Emerald Isle. I just hope she isn't a skank and doesn't owe anyone any money! Funny thing is, I bet we don't even look that much alike.... but it would still be interesting to meet her.

Dirtbag Alert: The Aging Frat Boy

I hated frat boys in college. I only went to their damn parties for the free booze. As I sipped my Pabst Blue Ribbon in a smokey corner surrounded by grunting drones in pukka shell necklaces and Abercrombie cargo shorts, I kept telling myself that someday I would be out in the real world with real men whose life's ambition couldn't be found at the bottom of a beer bong.




Fast forward almost a decade to discover that the guys really haven't changed much. There is a another breed stalking poor unsuspecting women in bars. The Aging Frat Boy still roams in packs. They still tell fart jokes and quote Adam Sandler and Ben Stiller movies with glee. And they still wear those damn pukka shell necklaces and cargo shorts!

But that isn't the worst part. They never reach for their wallets when the bill comes; dates usually end in a half-ass offer to go Dutch. That is, if they even plan an actual date anyways; most of the time it comes down to "Why don't you come over and watch a movie?" (ladies... we all know what that is frat boy-ese for.) When this is all pointed out, they usually fall back on the old stand by of "Well, isn't this what you womens' libbers wanted?" Okay... where is the mens' lib then? If women are becoming more self-sufficient and taking over traditional male roles, why do the men throw temper tantrums and accuse you of emasculation when asked to be more compassionate and caring? I don't want to have to bring home the proverbial bacon, fry it up in the pan and then spend an hour cleaning the kitchen afterward while an aged frat boy sits on the couch playing the latest version of World of Warcraft.

Thanks, but no thanks. Dear Readers... I offer you a glimpse in to my future:

Ramblings of a Wind Swept Mind

As mentioned in the user's manual, I can often be found singing off-key. It's partly because I can never shut my brain off (okay, with enough Vodka I can but that also leads to trips to Spanish hospitals) and a small corner of my brain seems to be a jukebox that is constantly playing. I have actually woken up mid-song and just kept going. Which brings me to my point (yes I have one, kind of...) of my sleep brain. I don't remember my dreams too often but when I do they usually have certain fantastical elements mixing with the mundane to make them weird as hell. Most everyone does, I am assuming. And to prove my sister in law wrong (granted this is the same "democrat" that is now supporting McCain) who says that no one listens when people talk about their dreams (my brother did stick up for me on this saying, yeah, but Rosie's really are f'ed up) I am going to tell you mine. Maybe this way, I can stop thinking of them.

Dream #1: Two nights ago I dreamt I was with my parents at a football game. Evidently a Colts game as Peyton Manning was playing. Somehow, my parents and I were friends with Peyton's parents, and they drove a minivan. They were parked on the road and there was a semi coming so my dad decided to move the elder Mannings' van for them, it proceeded to get hit by said semi anyway. Then I was working the concession stand and the Colts must have lost because Peyton was pissed and at the concession stand to get food. The only food available were boxes of chicken, fries, and other miscellaneous food that didn't really go together. Right when I started flirting with Peyton, my alarm went off scaring the bejeezus out of me.

Dream #2, last night: My family again makes an appearance (can't get rid of them can I?). My brothers and I were all out on vacation or something with my parents. My two brothers took me out for the night, and got me absolutely blotto. I wake up the next morning feeling absolutely wonderful, having no memories of the night before, except for the tattoos I am sporting. And not good tattoos, horrible could have been better if done in prison tattoos. I think there were three of them. Anyhoo, my brothers tell me that I not only got drunk and got tattoos I somehow managed to pawn most of my furniture (even though I wasn't anywhere near memphis where said furniture is located) to further continue my night of debauchery. They didn't do anything to stop it. My parents, upon hearing about it, were not upset at all. Just amused that I had no hangover but no memory of it all. I woke up having that feeling of being incredibly grateful that it was just a dream and pretty pissed at my brothers. Come to think of it, I am pretty pissed at my brothers still.

Anyhoo, if you read this, thanks for reading it, even though it probably makes no sense. I was going to put another moment of zen but the stupid freaking program wouldn't work right. So create your own moment of zen and Enjoy.

Make It Stop!

Everyone knows how much I hate American Apparel ads. But I think they may have outdone themselves this time:



There is such a dark undercurrent running through this ad that makes my liberal heart go all aflutter. Spelling Africa with a K? It is a shout out to Afrikaners, or white colonial Africans. Throw in the lily white model "seductively" posing in tribal prints... seriously, this is so yucky! I really wish American Apparel would just take their ads and go away.