This Defines LOL.

The Real World

I'm so close, I can taste it.

Farewell to Manic Mondays

Today is my last Monday.

You did not read that wrong. It's not my last "Monday" as in work Mondays. After today, I will no longer be formally recognizing Monday as a day of the week. It's just another day. No more 9am status meetings. No more hatred of the early alarm on Monday mornings because the alarm isn't going to be reminding me that I have a 9am status meeting. It will be reminding me that I get to get out of bed to live a life that I am choosing in which I am actually motivated to get up in the morning instead of lay in bed pondering which excuse I could drudge up that would relieve me from having to go to that 9am status meeting.

So from here on out, there is no such thing as Monday. The Go Go's* song will go like this:

It's just another manic day-ay. [oohhhh oo ohhhhh]
Don't wish it were another day. [oohhhh oo ohhhhh]
Cuz I live life my own way. [oohhhh oo ohhhhh]
And no one has a say-ay. [oohhhh oo ohhhhh]
It's just another manic day-ay.


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UPDATE *It has come to my attention that I am a big retard because I meant to say The Bangles, NOT the Go Go's. Dammit.

The Big Event

The St. Pauly Family had quite an eventful weekend. Friday night we went out with friends to celebrate South St. Pauly Girl's 30th birthday. SSPG and all her pregnant glory had a total blast, as did the drinkers in the crew. All around fabulous time. Saturday was a low-key day with afternoon naps, pizza, and movies. The sad news is that we found out that my uncle Harold passed away on Friday night. He had been very very ill, for a long time. It was expected, but no matter how expected death is, it still shakes you to the very core. He's in a much better place, finally out of pain, and knowing him, he's cracking sarcastic jokes about how all of us are behaving. I will miss him, big time.

You might think that was the Big Event of the weekend, but it wasn't. It's going to sound incredibly weird and most likely quite insensitive considering the recent death in the family, but trust me, the Big Event was a welcome distraction at the family gathering yesterday.

My dad shaved his moustache.

The last time I saw my dad without his moustache was when I was 2 years old. It's not like I remember it, but I've seen the pictures. In essence, this is the first time I've seen him sans facial hair in 30 years. That's a lot of years, yo. He doesn't look bad at all, just different. I'm not used to seeing his upper lip. Or the Cindy-Crawford style mole on his upper lip. Not only have we not seen him without the stache in 30 years, but he also didn't tell anyone that he shaved. He just shows up places and none of us are prepared. I freaked out when I saw him, turned to my brother and yelled "HOW DID YOU NOT TELL ME ABOUT THIS???". It was a humorous scene and my aunt and cousins were actually glad there was something else to talk about. We laughed and joked about it all day. It's a very good way to grieve.

Now we just need to have dad grow back the stache. I need it back. He can shave it again at my 60th birthday party.

Good Friend/Bad Friend

Being self-confident and seeming self-confident are two very different things. That may feel like an obvious statement, but it’s something that I’m coming to terms with as I mature*. Considering my history of depression and low self-esteem, I have come a long way with not only feeling confident in who I am, but actually portraying that confidence to others. As a whole, I feel good about the decisions that I make, how I treat people, and the way I feel about myself. I’m satisfied with the relationships that I have and feel the growing sense of enrichment they bring to my life.

I’m happy. Period. Space space.

So why am I harboring such insecurities and guilt towards a couple of my friendships?

Background would be helpful here. Specific to one of the friendships, which is actually connected to the other as well, but for which causes more angst than the other. We’ll call that person K**. K and I met in college through a mutual group of friends. We’ve had a lot of fun, been through rough life experiences, loved, lost, been hurt, done the hurting, and all of that typical life drama, together. As we’ve gotten older and furthered our personal responsibilities with jobs, marriage, and family, we’ve grown further apart. To me it feels like a somewhat natural occurrence between friends as lives change. I still love her as much as I always did, but lack the same sense of urgency with our contact that existed in our earlier years. It doesn’t bother me that we aren’t in close contact anymore, I’m satisfied with knowing that we’ll always be friends even if we haven’t spoken for months at a time. But word on the street is, she’s not sharing that same sentiment. In fact, she’s “disappointed”. That might seem harmless, but it’s not. She’s not “disappointed” that we’re not close anymore, she’s “disappointed” that I’m not making an effort. K tends to behave in a very passive-aggressive way, which gets under my skin to the point of near-rage. I have a VERY low tolerance for p-a behavior. The way I come to discover her attitude towards me is in round-about ways. For example, through conversation with mutual friends in which she discusses me***, sending Christmas cards to everyone that we know (including my own parents, by the way) but not to us, and inviting everyone we know (at least not my parents this time) to a birthday party but not us. Despite these things, which ultimately make me angry due to their lack of maturity, I’m not displaying any higher level of maturity myself. I bought myself a ticket to the game and I plan to stay till the end, no matter how many overtimes/shout-outs there need to be in order to determine a winner. And that’s fucked up too, because unless we end up both being satisfied with the outcome, there’s no such thing as having a “winner” in this game. Deep down I feel guilty, like I am the sole member of this relationship whom is to blame for it’s descent. Like I’m throwing away all of our history, making it seem like none of it was worth anything because life changes and people grow apart and it should be no big deal. But the truth of it is, life DOES change and people DO grow apart and I don’t think it IS a huge deal, provided you have a fulfilling life.

So here we sit. She refuses to call me and I refuse to call her. How is that for maturity? I think my source for resistance stems from the fact that for the span of our relationship, I’ve always been the one to call. I always came through. And the sad thing is, most of the time it was out of fear that if I didn’t, she’d be mad at me or something. Well, enough is fucking enough. I have run out of energy for the effort that it’s taking me to continue this relationship. The problem is, I can’t seem to kick the guilt. Why do I feel so guilty about something that I feel is ultimately life taking it’s path? Why do I feel so guilty even when I’m actually quite satisfied and happy with my life?? I feel like I’ve been manipulated into feeling this way, which makes me more and more angry. I think anyone would tell me that in order to kick the guilt and subsequent anger towards the issue, I need to just confront it. But in the past with K, confrontations do not resolve the issue. I always leave them feeling worse than before. Like it’s my fault. My desired course of action would be to learn to ignore the guilt, live my life the way I like it, and when we see each other we see each other. If she wants confrontation, let her ask for it. This tactic is of course assuming that I CAN ignore the guilt, which has thus far been difficult. I'm not saying it'd be impossible, but I would need some helfpul hints on how to MAKE it possible in order to succeed.

On top of all of this crap, my personality profile is that of conflicting values. I like being the confident one, who doesn’t need to gain approval for my choices, but the sensitive side of me needs the approval. WTF am I supposed to do with that? Be confident. NO, get approval. Be confident. NO, please everyone around you no matter what. But the fact of the matter is, I’m dying for other people’s opinions on this. And I don’t even care if it’s disagreeable. Well, maybe a little, but I’m a big girl, I can take it.

Help dig me out of the proverbial personality traits conflict that I’ve dug myself into. Either that, or just blow smoke up my ass and tell me I’m right. Just don't tell me that it's because I'm Catholic. I really hate that stereotype.

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*Mature being a relative term.
**Letter contains no relevance to the actual person, whatsoever.
***Using the term "discussing" loosely, it tends to be more like bitch-about-me-behind-my-back but I’m actually attempting to be nice and objective about this situation which is getting more and more difficult as I type. Bitchiness is a downward spiral and I’m on the slide, people.

American Idol Liveblogging*

8:23pm

Favorite quote from reality televison:

"Simon can kiss my ass cuz I do not look like a monkey."

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*Liveblogging inspired by my favorite Squab.

Don't Drink The Sand

Mary Poppins and her “spoonful of sugar” has nothing on the tactics used in Corporate America to ease Employee Discomfort. It’s all about balloons, donuts, and the physical presence of Executives that get us through the rough times. But the thing is, it doesn’t matter how much “cheese” is involved, Employee Discomfort will fight the good fight. It will pop those balloons, barf up the donuts, and scuff the Executive’s Cole Haan shoes. There is no such thing as Employee Comfort. It’s just a myth. Urban legend, if you will. Because no matter how festive the work environment or how functional the tools to achieve premium productivity resulting in ultimate job satisfaction, there will always be something to bitch about. It’s a never ending cycle of unhappiness. The bad times are always bad for the same reasons – no matter how much you try, The Man will always get you down. But it’s not always The Man’s fault. Don’t get me wrong, The Man is pure evil in most cases, but I refuse to let The Employee off the hook that easy. You have to rise above the power to live in neutral territory. Take the good with the good and the bad with a grain of salt. Otherwise you just won’t survive. You’re doomed to a 9-5 of unhappiness and gloom. Along with the potential of a 5-7 of pure alcoholism and drug addiction.

I have a prime example. Response to surveys conducted after employee training sessions on new software being implemented at the company are highly positive, except for one aspect: required training time. It always takes too much time out of the self-important employee’s schedule to provide the necessary instruction on the new tool being provided to help them work more efficiently. “I just love this new system, but the training just took too much time out of my busy schedule. Can’t we just learn it on our own?” Sure, that would be just fine if the prime result of self-training wasn’t the immediate refusal to accept the new tool as part of the solution to managing such high volumes of workload. Thus the reduction in the overall morale of the company. And the potential statement, “They really should have taken more time to train us on the new system.” There doesn’t seem to be a middle ground for employee satisfaction.

But there is, I’m sure of it. People just have to stop being complete and utter morons in order to find the middle ground. There’s no shortage of morons in the workplace, hence middle ground feels like just an illusion. A beautiful landscape, just ahead, that you crawl towards on your hands and knees through the sand, dying of thirst and sweating all the last nutrients out of your body, only to arrive and realize that it’s an oasis. Unless you create your own middle ground, you’ll die drinking the sand.

I’ve been choking on sand for almost 6 years. I’m ready for some fresh spring water. I think I’ll pour myself a tall glass and enjoy.

The Monkey Made Me Say It.

Coolest web site I've seen in a while. But then again, we all know how easily entertained I am.

Monk-e-mail.

Lindsay Hohan

Is it me or does this photo not look right to you? Aside from the fact that her outfit is hideous, doesn't her head look like a blow-up doll and her body like a paper doll?? It's not proportioned well, at all. I don't know why I'm so bothered, but this photo is haunting me.

I Broke Up With Argyle

I finally ended my affair with Argyle. It was rough, there were a lot of tears, but I think we'll both be better off in the long run. Argyle was just not getting along with Haloscan and while I have strong feelings for both, I had to make a choice.

Farewell, sweet Argyle. I'll always cherish the good times we had together.

P.S. Hey, new guy, 897 or whatever your name is, if you don't start behaving yourself, I'll have to dump your ass too.

P.P.S. Dearest Haloscan, why oh why is everyone plotting against you? I fear the thought of losing you to the evil Blogger Comments. Please come home, Halo. Please.

HTML = Bite Me, Blogger

New template = assload of issues with the comments feature. But my superhero husband and HTML Literate will fix it. Oh he will fix it. So until then, you just have to wait to yell at me. :)

Happy New Year To Everyone But The Crabby People

I learned a valuable lesson upon the turn of clock this New Year's. Don't text message anyone with children or grandma's at midnight, to wish them a happy new year. I received an electronic bitch-slap from a friend complaining I woke his child and grandma by sending my message. I claim pure ignorance as I was not made aware that it is my responsibility to refrain from cellular contact in the chance that the child and/or grandma are sleeping and you haven't put your phone on silent. I know how the text alerts can sound similar to a fire alarm and all, I should be ashamed of myself. Maybe I'll just cancel my mobile service to avoid the chance I may try to wish anyone anything after midnight and wake up the whole neighborhood. That way I'll be safe.

Damn me and my friendliness.

Your Kiss Would Be On My List, If You Weren't Such A Total Dork

We totally geeked out last night. We drank some wine, played some cribbage, and listened to Hall & Oates Greatest Hits.

Obviously we reminisced about our days at the roller rink, too.

Bloody Hell, I'm Back in the U.S.

How bad do I want an English accent? Bad. How possible will it be for me to develop one? Not. And believe me, I tried. We met this German guy who had been living in London for a few years already, who's accent sounded much more American than German or English. As it turns out, he had spent two years in NYC and is quite convinced that an American accent is much easier to pick up than an English one. I guess I'm just stuck with this lousy accent/non-accent.

Our trip was so much fun, outside of the fact that I woke up with a nasty head cold on Sunday morning, our only full day in London, so we got a late start because I couldn't seem to get out of bed and the fire alarm that sounded around 1:20am Monday (the day we have to get up and fly home) that forced the hotel to completely evacuate for a 1/2 hour. Other than that, I'm officially infatuated with the city!

Scenes from the St. Pauly Family (minus Stinky Pete, of course):

Location: Outside Buckingham Palace

St. Pauly Boy: Do you think the Queen is sitting on her throne, right now?
St. Pauly Girl: I'd say that's a no, but she very well could be sitting on her Porcelain Throne right now.
St. Pauly Boy: Yes, she could be. But do you think she has someone to do the dirty work?
St. Pauly Girl: Oh, I'm sure. I believe they call him the Royal Ass-Wiper.

Location: Big Ben

SPB: Big Ben looks bigger from far away.

Location: Westminster Abbey

Random Middle-Aged Midwestern American Woman: Um, excuse me, do you guys know which one is the West Minister Abbey?
SPG: (standing directly in front of Westminster Abbey) NO. (walks away)

Location: Somewhere

SPG: GOD, tourists are annoying.

Short time later...

SPG: OMG, totally take my picture in a phone booth.

Location: Some Pub

SPB: What the fuck are all these coins?? Why do they need so many coins? God I hate all these coins!!
SPG: Shut up and get us a couple pints.

Location: Tower Hill Underground Station - Exit

SPB: Is that the Tower of London in front of us?
SPG: (rolling eyes) No!

Moment later....

SPG: Where the hell is the Tower of London then???
SPB: Honey, that's it right in front of us.
SPG: (thoughtful) Oh. Ok. Let's smoke.

And that in a nutshell was our London Experience.

God Save The Queen

We're off to London and the top item on my husband's To Do list is taking a crap in Buckingham Palace. We'll see how that goes.

Cheerio.

Laundry To You, Food To Him

I happened upon a hilarious account of animal eating habits over at One Good Thing that reminded me of a similar incident we had with Stinky Pete. In true canine fashion, Stinky enjoys munching on soiled undergarments. He especially enjoys a good dirty sock, on occasion*. And as dog owners know, unless you have your eyes glued to your animals whereabouts, at all times, they're bound to get into something here and there. You just pray it won't end up being fatal. So, as the story goes, Stinky went outside to go potty and St. Pauly Boy just happened to accompany him**. Pete's routine for going #2 is to sniff out a good spot, squat, then use your hind legs as leverage to get the job done as quickly as possible. Basically this just means he stomps his back feet on a ground a few times, to help the poo come out. This particular time, he found his spot, popped a squat, but then encountered some technical difficulties. His hind legs didn't seem to be providing enough leverage, so while maintaining the squat position, he proceeded to slowly migrate across the yard, stomping his back feet all the while, stopping every so often for another big push, then proceeded on his potty-trail. Every time he stopped to maneuver a big push, the effort was made obvious by the fact that his ears were smashed down on the side of his skinny little head and his hind legs were shaking like he had ants in his pants. Only, he wasn't wearing any pants. St. Pauly Boy is observing that there's something not right about this particular potty break, so he goes to investigate. This is when he notices that what's coming out of Pete's arse has some shading to it that's not normally there. He looks a little closer, thinks to himself, "that looks a little like that pair of argyle socks that my wife wears sometimes.....wait, it could be....is it?...It IS the argyle socks my wife wears sometimes, well, used to wear, I guess, considering that one is about to come out of the dog's butt, I doubt she'll be wearing them anymore."...something like that.

So, without going into the gory details of having to pull a dirty black and gray argyle trouser sock out of a dog's butt, he was able to get the job done and Pete ran off like nothing ever happened.

Of course, the argyle sock account reminded me of another, sweeter smelling Pete story of the night he tryed to help me do laundry. As he was nosing through the basket of freshly dryed clothing, from what I assumed was him looking for a nice piece of clothing to fold, he happened upon a delightful little treat called a "dryer sheet". Before I could even flinch, the dryer sheet disappeared into Pete's mouth. I rebounded quick and made a valiant attempt to retrieve it by chasing him around the coffee table only to be defeated, as I watched him swallow, lick his chops, and make his move to go back for seconds. I put up a block and scolded him (yelled and whatnot). Realizing my defeat, I retreated to the sofa where I proceeded to give him the silent treatment, because if you can't beat him, pouting is the only remaining option. He slowly approached my pity-party, resting his head on my leg and looked up at me with his liquid brown puppy eyes, but I wouldn't let him win this battle. He can outrun the shit out of me but no one, and I mean no one, beats me at the pouting game. His final attempt to win back my heart was made when he climbed up the front of my legs, sat right down on my lap, and facing me with his puppy head, took a deep sorrowful sigh which drenched my face in dryer-fresh puppy breath.

And that was it. I put up the white flag***. He won. I lost. How could I possibly stay mad at that sad puppy face with that glorious dryer-fresh breath?

Needless to say, Pete is no longer allowed to assist us with household chores.

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*Occasion = any chance he gets.
**Allow me to clarify, St. Pauly Boy potties inside the house, Pete potties outside the house.
***If I weren't speaking metaphorically, I'm sure he would have attempted to eat the white flag.

St. Pauly Girl's New Life

Well, the deed is done. I have officially resigned from my job, effective February 2nd, 2007.

What will I be doing on February 3rd, you ask? Probably nursing a massive hangover. But after that, I'm [finally] going to pursue the career path that I want, that I've actually wanted since high school. I'm going back to school for my masters in psychology. I don't know where, although there's a program at the U of M that is making me drool right now, the Counseling and Student Personnel Psychology program in the Educational Psychology department. But first I'm going to take some time off to research my dream job, working with college age kids, 18-22ish, as a college counselor of sorts. I finally realized that it'd be a good idea to harness the passion that I have for helping, young women specifically, realize their potential and to help them develop their self-confidence and self-esteem so they can go out into the world and kick a lot of ass. And feel really good about themselves while they're doing it.

This is going to be such a huge life change for me and I'm scared as shit, but at the end of the day, I know I'll be so much happier pursuing something that I'm passionate about. And it's not going to suck to get out of the Corporate World, that's for damn sure.

Here I come, unemployment, you better be ready for me because I'm gonna totally use you!

Taking a Flying Leap.

In about 20 minutes, I'm going to be giving my boss my official resignation from my current place of employment.

I feel like I'm about to throw up.

Do I have another job lined up? No. Will I before I quit? No. Am I pregnant? No.

Stay tuned for further details.

Do You Want the Terrorists to Win?

Apparently, I do.

Your 'Do You Want the Terrorists to Win' Score: 94%

You are a terrorist-loving, Bush-bashing, "blame America first"-crowd traitor. You are in league with evil-doers who hate our freedoms. By all counts you are a liberal, and as such cleary desire the terrorists to succeed and impose their harsh theocratic restrictions on us all. You are fit to be hung for treason! Luckily George Bush is tapping your internet connection and is now aware of your thought-crime. Have a nice day.... in Guantanamo!

Do You Want the Terrorists to Win?
Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

(Link via Bitch, PhD)

Weekend-In-Review: I Got Action

And tons of it.

I saw Mission Impossible: III, Superman Returns, AND the new Bond movie this weekend.

You thought I was talking about another type of action. Get your mind out of the gutter.

Loved all 3 of these movies. Yes, everyone hates Tom Cruise because he's a crazy psychotic Scientologist. But you know what? I still like his movies, dammit. And this one was no exception. Superman was awesome. Props to the new guy, he pretty much nailed it. And even props to the new Lois Lane, played by Kate Bosworth whom I tend not to like very much. But I thought she was actually pretty good in this movie.

But that new Bond movie was by far the best of our weekend action. In fact, both St. Pauly Boy and I agree that we think it's the best Bond movie ever. The action was insane, to say the least, but they also added in some actual character evaluation. James Bond is more human in this movie. He's vulnerable and he makes mistakes, and DAMN does he look good doing it. Double-o-HOT is what he is. I actually found myself wishing I could be a Bond-Girl, even it means I have to die in the end.

3 thumbs up for the movie weekend.

Silly Little Airline Staff

In the wake of a disturbing story posted by Squab earlier today, regarding a family who were kicked off of a Delta Airlines flight because the woman was breast-feeding in what she believed was as discreet as humanly possible and refused to cover herself and her child with a big wool blanket that the flight attendant asked her to use due to the offensive act that is feeding your child as nature intended, here are some airline quotes from Overheard In New York. They're funny.

London Calling

Part of the pleasure of living in a DINK household is the freedom for spontaneity. The other part is actually being spontaneous. St. Pauly Boy and I aren't very spontaneous (unless you count going to the bar at the last minute instead of cooking dinner at home). We're pretty structured. We work Monday through Friday and for the most part stay home at night and watch TV. On weekends we go out on Fridays and stay home on Saturdays with two movies and either pizza or chinese take-out. Yes, having Stinky Pete does remove some of that flexibility to up and take a road trip for a weekend, on a whim. But we have lots of doggie-care resources. Lots. If Grandma and Grandpa can't take him (let's face it, they always WANT him, it's just whether or not they're available) then he goes to the luxurious Doggy-Spa where he's pampered and played with* and comes home nicely groomed and tired as hell. The Doggy-Spa is a dog-owners dream come true, minus the price tag, hence hitting up G-ma and G-pa before shipping him off to the Fabulous Life of Non-Celebrity Dogs.

So enough is enough. We're taking advantage of our place in life, we're dumping the dog at the Grandparents or the Doggy-Spa and we're heading over to Europe for a weekend. London, to be exact. I've never been, so I couldn't be more excited about it. We leave on a Friday night and return Monday afternoon. We'll have a total of 16 hours on the plane, there and back, and 48 hours total in the city.

Ok, so the real reason we're going is because St. Pauly Boy came up short for his Platinum status with his airline this year. Platinum isn't something you just want to give up. So I told him I would support him flying to Europe and back just to get the miles. And then when I really thought about it, there's just no way in hell I'm letting him go alone. So off to London we go. I cannot wait!!
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*Here's how spoiled Pete is: I actually fork over an extra amount per day at the Doggie-Spa so Pete can get extra playtime. Good fucking god, I'm a maniac.

Oops, I Said It Again

We saw Borat last night. I laughed my ass off for 97% of the movie. The 3% in which I didn't laugh can be broken down like so:

1) Old man @ rodeo who insists Borat shave his moustache to avoid being confused as a Muslim. It was too sad to laugh at. Just too sad.

2) The wrestling scene. Enough said.

3) Frat boys in the RV. Now here's where I have more to say. As if their statements weren't offensive enough, they are now suing the studio claiming they were humiliated and misled by the production team. Whatever. Whether or not their claims are true regarding being "misled" they still said what they said and it sure sounded like they meant it. I think they should be humiliated by their sexism and bigotry. There's no excuse for acting like that. I hope they get killed* by the studio.

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*Figuritively, not literally, of course.

Karen Walker Is Must Less Evil

Is it just me or was Michelle Bachman going for the Karen Walker look on election night?
















Or did she think she was just elected Prom Queen instead of Congresswoman?

There's just no reason for prom hair at an election. No reason.

Fallback Shocker

If we don't get any campaign shockers this term, at least we have this as the fallback:

Spears Boots K-Fed to the Curb

I just didn't see this coming.

To Vote or Not To Vote....It's Not An Appropriate Question!

In the coffee room at work there's a sign that someone tacked on the corkboard that says "GO VOTE. This time it matters."

I'm just wondering when it doesn't...I'll have to find the author and ask he or she when it's appropriate to vote and when I can just skip it because it doesn't matter.

Moron.

I'm St. Pauly Girl and I Approve This Message.

The election process in this country should be something that stimulates it's citizens. It should be invigorating to envoke our constitutional right to vote, to communicate our individual choice for governmental office based on our opinions and concerns about the society to which live. It's liberating to be able to say, for the record, I choose YOU to represent my best interests and the best interests of society in general. We totally take it for granted and I can understand why. Who wants to get involved when all we are bombarded with is negative media? Commercial after commercial, literally back to back, and there's nothing positive to say. And if they do say something positive it normally comes out sounding rather insincere and sometimes downright slimy. Who wants to participate in this process when voting day finally arrives and you are already weak with frustration and annoyance at the constant stream of political media we are forced to absorb on a daily basis. And the most disturbing thing about political media is that it's not about the issues. You don't learn more about a candidate by watching their campaign commercials. The only thing you learn is that they're just another typical politician, talking in circles and standing still.

But the thing of it is, we have to involve ourselves. It's our responsibility. Yes, they make it very hard to want to and even make it hard to educate ourselves appropriately as to make the right decision for ourselves. But we still have to put in our time. Because we live here. It's our job to participate. I don't like taking out the garbage, but if I didn't, there'd be rats all over my house. If we don't vote and we end up with rats all over our government, we have no right to bitch and we certainly cannot blame those responsible for letting the rats in. You have to live with it, knowing you had the chance to have a voice and you chose not to use it.

Every vote counts. It may not be the deciding factor for your candidate's campaign but it sure is the deciding factor for your contribution to society.

Zach Made Me Do It

I have this ongoing argument with a friend of mine from work regarding television. We both pretty much love TV, so that's not the issue. The issue developed when he began badmouthing "Grey's Anatomy", just because he knows it became my new favorite show after "The West Wing" got cancelled last year. He hates Grey's because it's too superficial and unrealistic (as far as the medical cases go). Like any of us give two shits about whether or not a human being could actually survive having a 2 foot tree trunk lodged in their sternum or that two people could become attached by a big pole shooting through their chests as a result of some kind of crazy train crash or something. We care about the superficial stuff. Like whether or not George is going to take his hot girlfriend back even after she slept with McSteamy...who wouldn't sleep with McSteamy, by the way. We care about who Meredith is going to choose, Finn or McDreamy, even though it's always been quite obvious that she'd pick McDreamy...who wouldn't pick McDreamy, by the way. We care about Izzy cashing the 8 million dollar check and getting over cute Denny dying, and Berk getting his arm back so he can be a world-class surgeon again. There's no time to worry about the validity of the medical cases that they present to us.

As my revenge, I decided to hate his television obsession, which is the hit-series "Lost". I decided that the whole premise of the show kind of irritates me. A bunch of people stranded on some remote island, yet somehow they all have artillary? An airplane that literally busts in half for no apparant reason, and all those people....survive......?? It all seems a little too out there to grab my attention. I know, I know, they explain the whole thing and you just have to watch it in order to understand and the second you start watching, you'll be hooked. It'll be your brand new addiction, much safer than Blow. My severe, Type A stubborness would gladly take Blow over allowing myself to become just another Obsessed-Lost-Watcher.

That is, until now.

I had to report a possible change of heart to my work friend yesterday. It appears that one of the Obsessed-Lost-Watchers that I refuse to associate myself with, just so happens to be my favorite actor whom I lovelovelove, like, wallpaper-on-my-laptop love. Suddenly I find myself strangely drawn towards Blockbuster so that I can rent the first two seasons and watch them, all in one weekend. That's what my work friend says I'd do, because they're so good you can't just eat one.

So here I sit. Borderline sell out due to a school girl style celebrity crush, all of my principles hanging in the balance. How's that for drama?

St. Pauly Girl, Interrupted

Back from a little Northern Minnesota va-ca with St. Pauly Boy and the St. Pauly Girl In-Laws. We spend 4 nights at a resort on the north shore of Lake Superior. It's a family favorite spot, it's always gorgeous and relaxing. Well, at least the first two days were relaxing. Then it became more of a withdrawal from city life, which includes two of my favorite things: cell phones and internet access. Oh how I missed thee. And it also became a little hard to handle my mother's need for constant conversation, which is for the most part a revolving door of the same goddamn topics. My dear husband hung in there like a trooper, but honestly in the last couple of days, both of us were ready to get the hell out of dodge and back where our normal life of busy-ness and telephone-screening could ensue. I also miss my brother and [brand new] sis-in-law (who's really more like a real sis), who came back from their honeymoon on day 2 of our "relaxation". It'll be great to reconnect with the newlyweds over cheap beer and Monday Night Football this evening.

In conclusion, on our way home from the Way-North-It's-Almost-Canada, I was thinking that vacations in secluded locations when in-laws/parental units are involved can be like being in a mental institution. For the most part, there are good intentions. But a lot of times the outcome just makes you crazier than you were before.

And with that, on with normalcy....

Don't Hate Me Because I Like Her

As annoying as these two particular celebrities are, I can't help but think that the TomKitty is pretty freaking cute.

But it's not making me want to convert to Scientology. Just so that's clear.

It's Baaaaaaaaaaack!

That goddamn gray sweater.

We may need to organize an intervention. Any takers?

What Sorry Looks Like

I got this email forward with the subject line "What Sorry Looks Like..." and then it asked you to scroll down and here's what I found:



I think I just died inside a little.

The Wedding Bells Rang...And Everyone Escaped Without An Ass-Kicking

My little brother got married on Saturday. And it was perfect. Everything was awesome and beautiful and loads of fun. Here are the highlights, from St. Pauly Girl's perspective (in no particular order):

1) The limo ride. Champagne + 20 people crammed into a stretch Escalade = Fun Stuff.

2) The moment my brother asked the priest, "Is this the kissing part?".

3) The moment my new sister-in-law actually scooted her chair closer to my brother's, when they were sitting up on the altar after their vows.

4) Statements like, "Dude, nice ushing today." and "Seriously dude, I bridesmaided the shit out of this place today!".

5) The bride and groom pulling a $100 winner pull-tab at the bar before the reception.

6) The bride and groom getting in their first marital argument in the limo on the way to the reception.

7) The groom and his groomsmen/ushers taking a leak over the side of the pavillion while we were setting up to take photos by the river. (See #1 for further explanation).

8) The Bouquet Toss. Having been twirled around by the groom, the dizzy bride proceeded to toss* the bouquet forward against the wall instead of over her head to where the single ladies were anxiously awaiting the sire-fire sign of being the next lucky lady to land themselves a husband.

9) Piano Man. In true CSB/SJU (and Sal's Bar & Grill) tradition**, Piano Man is the last song of the night and consists of all attendees on the dance floor, in a circle, with their arms around one another, belting out the lyrics to the song as loud as humanly possible. An addition to this tradition***, the men in the circle drop their pants to their ankles and sing in their boxer shorts. Only at this particular reception, there was one woman in this circle who may have been a bit confused by the "men-only clause" on this portion of Piano Man and proceeded to lift her skirt, causing most of the men in the circle to either drool or become bitter that their wives don't wear hot black lace panties like this particular wife. To avoid any further familial embarrassment, I will refrain from identifying said woman. I can only say, it was an alcohol-induced confusion. And that it was not St. Pauly Girl.

10) The send-off of the happy couple. Romantic horse-drawn carriage. Bride wearing a cute white fur shawl. All of the wedding guests crowded on the sidewalk with noisemakers and applause. Bottles of Mich Golden Light in place of the champagne that the wedding party forgot to provide****, specifically to enhance the romanticism that is a carriage ride in Stillwater, MN. Waving to the back of the carriage as they rode away in wedded bliss, and proclaiming upon the realization of what had just been witnessed "My brother just rode off in a horse-drawn carriage. What the fuck?".

UPDATE:
11) The Best Man Speech. I'm biased, the best man was St. Pauly Boy. He did awesome.
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*And when I say "toss" I really mean overhand-throw-as-fucking-hard-as-you-can.

**At least in the late 90's and early 2000's.

***I made a rhyme! Yay!!!!

****Did said bottle of champagne get consumed by a particular pair of wedding party attendants? It cannot be fully confirmed, but can safely be assumed I think. And SPG will go ahead and take the blame for that one.

Wedding Bells Are Ringing...And St. Pauly Girl Is About to Kick Someone's Ass

Quote of the day: "Will the Best Man and the Groom please get their shit together, like, right now?"

That was me. Talking to the best man of my brothers wedding. The best man is my husband. The wedding is in 2 days.

Best. Meltdown. Ever.

Remember when I said that football was the root of all insanity? I was just being mildly sarcastic at the time. But as it turns out, there may be hard evidence in support of my claim.* Check out the audio clip within this post.

Perhaps sometimes the insanity is more humorous than others.

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*Special thanks to Matt at A.S.S. for calling our attention to this wonderful slice of radio.

Hello, Sports Fans!

Suggested reading -

Recap of our year in baseball.

My favorite highlights:

1) From the "Top Ten Injuries of the Year" -

Eighth Prize (Better to wiggle than waggle dept.): Brewers second baseman Rickie Weeks tore a tendon in his wrist -- while sitting in the dugout, waggling his bat back and forth.

2) The "Foul Ball of the Year" -

Just last weekend, Baltimore's Jay Gibbons pulled off a hitting feat that might be tougher than thumping five homers in one game:

He hit a foul ball into the stands -- that conked his own wife, Laura, in the rib cage.

3) From the "Quotes of the Year" -

• From rookie Rockies pitcher Justin Hampson (to the Denver Post's Troy Renck), after facing Bonds for the first time: "It was surreal being out there against Barry Bonds. I'm used to going against him in video games. It's a lot easier to make the pitches go where you want with the controller."

4) From the "Late Nighters of the Year" -

• Fifth Prize: from Jay Leno, on those two weeks in July when the Dodgers forgot to win: "[That's] 11 losses out of 12 games. In fact, today the IRS said they would no longer let the Dodgers deduct their bats as a business expense."

5) Oh, and the Twins winning the AL Central yesterday wasn't bad either.

He Charges By The Hour

St. Pauly Boy is working on a special project for me. I just thanked him and he said "Yeah, well I charge fifty bucks an hour." So I told him I'd pay him with sex. Hot sex. And he looked me right in the eye and said...

"I think I'd rather take the fifty bucks."

Open letter to all husbands/boyfriends/life partners of the universe:

Dear Husbands, Boyfriends, Life Partners of the Universe,

Do not ever, ever complain about the lack of sex in your life when you tell your significant other that you'd rather take the money.

Kthanksbye.
St. Pauly Girl

The Story of Us

LPO and I used to be roommates. It seems like a long, long time ago. We were horrible housekeepers. Total slobs. We never bought groceries, never vacuumed, and left our clothes in the laundry room for days. We partied hard on weekends (& sometimes on week nights) and we mostly laid around and watched TV. The best thing about LPO was that we liked the same TV, for the most part. I could handle all the Sports Center and he could handle all of the reality show drama. About 3 months into our roommatedom, I met St. Pauly Boy. It wasn't an instant, I'm-so-in-love-I'm-running-away-with-him-right-now situation. The whole relationship thing made me very nervous. Uncomfortable, even. Prior to SPB, I was used to being the pursuer. I wanted to be the pursuer. I was comfortable being the pursuer. It's a control thing. But with SPB, it was different. Suddenly I was the pursuee, and it felt very strange. So I acted like a total chump. I mean, what else do you act like when you feel strange?

SPB was living in The OC full-time at this point in our relationship. In fact, he moved there to live and work, full-time, just 2 days after our first date. Which was 2 days after we met*. For the first month, he came to visit me every other weekend. Then he made the ultimate "I'm into you" move. He flew home from CA and then drove 8 hours into Wisconsin to meet up with me and 30 of my closest friends (including my only brother) for a camping trip and a couple of Dave Matthews concerts. I was so freaking nervous, sitting in my campsite surrounded by my friends, thinking about him driving down 94, wishing I had cell phone access to call the whole thing off and send him back home. So I pounded a few beers. I felt better once he got there.

Back to the acting like a chump thing. After the camping trip experience, he went back to CA for a couple weeks and then made arrangements to fly in for a weekend to see me. The night of his arrival, LPO and I had some friends over and I remember my stomach turning into knots at the thought of him. When he called to tell me that he'd landed, I told him that I didn't feel like hanging out that night and that maybe, just maybe I'd call him the next day. I could tell that he was crushed. And it really only made me feel worse. It was LPO and our mutual friend Rice who talked me down from the ledge. The two of them were talking about how much they liked St. Pauly Boy and how they would actually miss him if I broke it off. Sitting there listening to them talk about my boyfriend that way really triggered something in me. But I was too shy to fix it. When Rice offered to call him back and tell him to come over, I said yes. How awkward for SPB. His girlfriends [male] friend, that he's met twice, calling him up and re-inviting him over after she had made it clear she didn't want to see him that night. He wouldn't commit until I came to the phone and validated Rice's invitation. And I did.

After that night, I let myself love him. LPO was a big part of that. I'm not sure he knows.

LPO met his soulmate just another month after I met St. Pauly Boy. The 4 of us are very close. We all participated in each others weddings. We live pretty close and try, with all of lifes craziness, to get together on a regular basis. LPO and South St. Pauly Girl are one of the 3 people who actually read my blog! Now that's love. LPO and I laugh about how if neither of us had met our spouses, we'd still be living together in a messy apartment with no groceries and laundry overflowing. But I'm pretty sure we both agree that our current lives are too good to trade.

The inspiration for telling this story came last weekend when we got together with LPO and his South St. Pauly Girl and they announced that there is a little one on the way. I know my initial reaction was "OMG, you're going to be a dad!?!?", LPO, but honestly, I can't imagine anyone being a better one. I'm so happy for you guys and I can't wait until South St. Pauly Girl starts craving pickles and ice cream.

Here's to Gilly!!

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*The first meeting of SPG & SPB is somewhat controversial. We actually met twice before, but neither meeting was a positive experience**, so I count our first official meeting as the first time I actually really talked to him. That's the day I'm talking about here.

**He thought I was cute, I thought he was an ass.

I Win, I Win!

Last Friday night we were hanging out with my brother and future SIL and St. Pauly Boy was showing off his juggling skillz for us. He was using softballs. They ain't soft, people. SPB is sporting a sweet black eye right now. He looks tough. It kind of turns me on.

Anyway, last night over calzones, we were discussing the ridicule he was about to endure from his coworkers the next day in the office. When I asked him how he was going to explain his war wound, he said, "I'm gonna tell them it was ninjas". I bet him that everyone in his office would ask if his wife kicked his ass*. I bet him toilet duty for 1 whole month.

Get the scrub brush out, baby, that toilet is gonna shine like the top of the Chrysler Building!

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*DISCLAIMER: St. Pauly Girl is not a husband-beater nor does she condone domestic violence in any way.

Football Is The Root of All Insanity

I love football. I really really do. But I'm so tired of how insane it causes people to behave. Or maybe the more accurate way to state it would be how insane people allow themselves to behave when it comes to football. I've always had an issue with this aspect of the game. It's taken too seriously, professional players make way too much money and are not held responsible for their actions in society nearly enough, fans take the devotion of their favorite team to a level that is quite frankly ridiculous, and this is to just name a few. A good friend of mine was at the Vikings v. Bears game at the Metrodome this weekend. He's a die-hard Bears fan, born and raised in Chicago where he still lives, and went to the game to cheer for his team. Last time I checked, that wasn't illegal or wrong in any moral sort of way. But he was straight up harassed by Vikings fans at the Dome, who went further than just throwing things at him during the game (which is, let's face it, a normal action that occurrs at lots of football stadiums around the country when it comes to fans of the visiting team). These fans made it racial. They brought back the "n" word. I guess you could say the "n" word never truly went away, I guess it was just my hope that it had. It's so disappointing. Why do people have to act this way, just because you root for opposing teams? I'm all for a little light hearted trash talking, but come on people, this is fucking ridiculous.

I want to keep enjoying the NFL. I love the drama of it, week in and week out, but the hype is getting hard to handle. Rivalry is not an acceptable excuse for people to act like ignorant hicks. Why can't we all just get along?

The Source of Random Laughter

A coworker just informed me that when I move to the cube across the floor from her, she's going to miss my random laughter. That's cute. Here is the source of my [current] random laughter, which in turn inspired her to tell me that she'll miss me:

Hey Baby/Control+Alt+Delete

If I Could Be Queen For Just One Day

Along with Squab's, the following would apply in the Republic of St. Pauly Girl.

To be banned from The Republic:

1) Project plans and/or status reports
2) The following phrases: "inform the plan", "guidepost", "solve-for", and "vetting".
3) Incentive bonuses
4) Cubes
5) Paris Hilton (and anyone in her posse)

To be mandated in The Republic:

1) Bonuses. Straight up. Big ones.
2) Chinese delivery no matter where you live.
3) Free HBO
4) All fashion models must weigh no less than 150 pounds.
5) Dog walking services come with purchase of the dog.

A View from St. Pauly Girls Shoes

Get to work way early in order to organize yourselve for the meriad of questions that you have for your Project Manager and teammates. Go sit at the table where the meeting is to take place. When no one shows up, go back to your desk and decide to take your recycling to the copy room. When you're on your way to the copy room, you happen to pass by your collegues cube where your PM is meeting with of your teammates, although the meeting was deemed unnecessary. On your way back from the copyroom, you notice that your PM is now meeting with your other teammate, and assume that your PM is making the rounds to each teammate individually. When you stop to ask if the regular meeting is to still take place, you're told that everyone decided we didn't need it. You wonder why, if they don't "need" the meeting, they're still technically meeting. You also wonder why you were not consulted upon the cancellation of said meeting when you're the one who has a list of questions/issues/concerns/clusterfucks a million miles long yet you're the only one who doesn't get to meet because the meeting was deemed unnessary. Tell your PM you wish to speak with her and receive a positive response. Go back to your desk and twiddle your thumbs, look busy just in case the CIO walks by (which he tends only to do when you take a moment to surf the web). You can hear your PM talking to one of your teammate about various things and you're pretty sure she's not coming over to speak with you about your list of questions/issues/concerns/clusterfucks, so you say "Screw it", to yourself, not outloud, throw your list of questions/issues/concerns/clusterfucks away (as their relevance is apparently insignificant) and go down to Caribou for your Medium Light Roast - no room for cream. When you get to the Bou, the line is 150 people long, but you decide it's worth it and proceed to wait. When you finally get to the counter, not only do you get 10 cents off even though you didn't even attempt to answer the trivia question, but you also get a free upgrade to a Large. A Large! With no room for cream! Contented, you walk back up to your desk and decide that your day will be devoted to keeping up to date with Go Fug Yourself, as your list of questions/issues/concerns/clusterfucks has seemed to resolve itself. You sip your coffee and look forward to leaving work early as a personal reward for coming in before the sun came up.

Pat yourself on the back, St. Pauly Girl. Job well done.

-----------------

UPDATE: Get an email from your PM saying she's at her desk if you want to swing by. When you look at the clock you realize that you have another meeting starting in 2 minutes. You proceed with your original plan for the day and do not respond.

You know you missed a dose of your Zoloft when....

...you can't stop crying because the Crocodile Hunter is dead. Yes, it's a tragic story but it's not like I know the guy. I cried like it was my grandfather's funeral. Unreal.

I'll be getting right back to my Zoloft now, thankyouverymuch.

Rest in Peace, St. Pauly Girl

'What will your obituary say?' at QuizGalaxy.com

You Can Take the Girl Out of the Midwest, But You Can’t Take the Midwest Out of the Girl

St. Pauly Boy and I traveled to good ol’ Orange County, CA for a mini-vacation this past weekend. The trip was encouraged by a Dave Matthews concert in Irvine, which happens to be where SPB’s apartment is, where he stays when he travels there for business. We turned it into a long weekend where we spent time relaxing, driving down the coast, eating out at fabulous restaurants, and wave jumping at the beach.

There are many great aspects of SoCal, one being the amazingly & consistently perfect weather. It was sunny and warm everyday and never too hot to be uncomfortable. But the weather cannot deter us from outlining our negative experiences in The OC. Both SPB and I feel the same about this area of the country….too many snobs, too much materialism, too much fake-wealth*, too many fake boobs, too many Coco Chanel sunglasses, too many strip malls, office parks, and actual real-sized malls, and way too much traffic on The 405. Maybe it’s just me, but seeing a license plate on the back of a Lexus that says “PAMPRRRR” does not make me envious of the owner/leaser of that car. It makes me sad that they feel it necessary to display their materialistic lifestyle for the world to see. Now, I’m not suggesting that SPB and I don’t have our fair share of unnecessary material items or “toys”, if you will, but in our humble area of the country it seems to be a lot less in-your-face than it is in The OC. It’s a way of life out there. It’s a standard. You must have expensive things in order to survive. At least that’s how it feels to a lowly Midwestern girl, such as myself. I realize there are probably some very normal folks out there, it’s unfortunate that they are overshadowed by all the assholes.

We spend one of our relaxing days on the beach, which I haven’t actually done since I was about 17 years old and took a trip to South Carolina to visit a high school friend over the summer. I had to relearn the ways of the ocean that day. How to keep yourself from falling over when even the teeniest of waves hits your legs. How to walk through the sand without completely falling over. How to dig yourself out of the hole that the tide pulls you into on it’s way back out to sea as the next wave competes with it’s direction. Quite frankly, it scared me. The power of the waves is not something that I take lightly. I’m not even a big fan of swimming in rivers, much less a body of water where it’s physically impossible to see to the other side, much less swim to it. But what I did love is the sense of pure exhaustion that you leave the beach with, like your body is telling you “THAT’s what exercise feels like you big lazy piece of shit!”. I certainly slept good that night.

Another accomplishment that I am proud of from my CA weekend is my new taste for Sushi. SPB is a sushi-connoisseur, of sorts. Obsessed with all things raw w/seaweed & rice. I’ve tried my hand at the California Roll and even a bit of Unagi (which is actually cooked, I come to find out, making it much less frightening). But when asked what I thought after cramming the whole piece of Eel in my mouth, I replied with “Well, it’s definitely fishy.” But my sushi-lovin’ husband took me to his favorite sushi spot in Seal Beach, a restaurant called Koi. And let me tell you, I’m on the bandwagon now. I had Toro, Saki, and Unagi and I loved every little bite. It was music to SPB’s ears, let me tell you.

When we weren’t out to eat or laying on the beach, we were vegging-out in the apartment watching the Boob Tube.** Before SPB even got out of bed on Saturday, I managed to watch 3 Cary Grant movies in a row and could have stayed for the remainder of the Cary Grant Marathon on TCM. How easy it is to get sucked in by him. I don’t regret a single moment.

We did have our very first celebrity citing after 4 weekend vacations to SoCal. We arrived early to the LAX on our way home on Sunday afternoon so we decided to actually use SPB’s membership to the Northwest World Club (a.k.a. vip lounge mainly used by business travelers who’s company pays for the membership but it’s not worth paying for yourself because it’s pretty much a huge let down). I was filling up my Sierra Mist from the soda fountain and I heard a guy say “We’ll be ready for you in 10 minutes, Mr. Norton”. I didn’t think anything of it until I turned around and was face-to-face with Ed Norton. He made eye contact with me and all I could do was grin at him, which I’m sure looked really fucking stupid, but he grinned back and I was on my way. I sat down next to my husband and stared at the back of his head while I pretended to read my book. When the man came back to collect Mr. Norton, I watched as he took his time to finish his text message on his Blackberry, gathered up his backpack, threw on his sunglasses (s.e.x.y., not gonna lie to you), and proceeded to follow his butler (or whatever that guy was). I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I’m not used to seeing celebrities in person, it’s only happened a hand-full of times. So I stared. I didn’t realize it, but I stared. I’m a humble Midwestern girl with absolutely no idea how to behave in the presence of movie stars. He didn’t seem to care, he was a pretty laid back airline customer who was just trying to get where he was going. After he left, I decided that I very much needed to sit in his chair. So I did. And when it was time to board our flight, we left the World Club and proceeded to our gate and SPB took the opportunity to get his fair-share of the Norton Ass Juice (his words, not mine) by grabbing my butt. I was bummed Ed*** wasn’t going to Minneapolis. I wanted to spend more time gawking.

All in all, it was a fabulous trip. But as the flight captain welcomed us to the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul after landing, I felt home again. And home is where my professional sports teams are, so I think we’ll call it home forever.


P.S. The concert was cool too.
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* If you lease a Range Rover or a Hummer, you are not “wealthy”. If you carry a 100,000 debt on your credit cards and lease a “luxury” apartment for $5000 a month, you are not “wealthy”. That sort of thing.

** Don’t lecture me about laying around watching TV when I’m in a place like CA where I should be outside enjoying the beautiful weather. It’s my damn vacation.

*** I think it’s ok with him that I call him Ed after we shared that very intimate moment at the airport.

Weekly Recap: St. Pauly Girl's Lessons Learned

1. Make sure your alarm clock is set to the appropriate AM/PM setting.

2. Always double check that the windows on your car are rolled up when there's a possibility of rain in the forecast. Triple check the sunroof.

3. Don't take your meds on an empty stomach. They aren't kidding around when they say that Dizziness is a strong possibility as a side-effect.

4. The dog doesn't always understand that the screen door is not supposed to function as a "doggy door". May need to keep the storm door closed at all times unless you are into the Ghetto Fabulous look of a torn screen door.

5. Always answer your phone when a Montpetit is calling.

GOD I can't wait for school to start again.

Why would the school season have any effect on my life, you ask? We don't have kids, neither one of us is in school right now, and neither one of us teach for a living. And yet, I am counting down until the kids* go back to school. Well, let me explain. The school year brings CURFEW back into business. I'm not talking about city law enforcement I'm talking about parental law enforcement. During the school year, the kiddies have to be home by the time the street lights come on and the older kids have so much homework because they go to shee-shee private prep schools that they don't have enough time to stay out late at night. Shit, the 9th graders are already working on the college applications, they don't have time to terrorize the neighborhood during the school year!

But during the summer, they are allowed to roam free. No fences. No leashes**. And no goddamn curfew. If there are curfew's, they certainly aren't enforced. Whatever happened to the concept of Summer School?? I want every single kid in the Highland Park neighborhood to be required to attend school year round. I'm taking it to the damn school board, I swear to god.

I guess I need to explain the reason for my rampage. This morning I was watering & feeding the dog when I looked out my kitchen window and discovered that someone had built a wall out of the brick pavers that were left over from the patio project, which we hadn't gotten around to moving into the fenced in area of the yard so they were chillin' on the side of the house, next to the sidewalk. They were totally on our property, not blocking anyone's way, these punk ass kids just decided to be complete a-holes and reek havoc for all the people in my neighborhood who have to get to Ford Parkway on their way to work. So I was out there, lugging these goddamn bricks back into the yard, steam coming out of my ears Popeye style, plotting the revenge on the skater punk ass kids in HP who hang out across the street at the gas station and smoke cigarettes and harass young girls.

We also had an incident a while back where a delivery from Eddie Bauer had been dropped off on our front stoop, only when I got home, it had been stolen.

So, while I hope to raise my own future Ivy Leaguers someday, I reserve the right to hate the little bastards for the moment.

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*Whoever's kids, I don't care, just start school again, please.

** Would it be wrong to impose the same restrictions on kids 16 and under as the city has on pets? If you take them in public, they must be on a leash that is a minimum of 6 feet long. 3 feet long if they own a skateboard. That sounds good to me.

The Terrorists Ruined My Family Reunion

Everyone, please commence feeling bad for Dean and Annette Carpenter. The Terrorists are depriving their poor Texan family of homemade jam.

At the entrances to security lines, agents announced the new restrictions and offered to take people's newly banned items and throw them out. Lip balm, mascara and skin creams and even muscle rub piled up in their hand-held trays. One man, told that, yes, mouthwash spray was now prohibited from the cabin, took four last sprays and tossed his canister into the agent's tray.

Just after 7 a.m., Dean and Annette Carpenter of Isanti, Minn., on their way to a family reunion in Corpus Christi, Tex., were forced to leave several jars of homemade jelly in their car.

"It's too bad," Dean Carpenter said. "It affects the whole event."

(See entire article here.)

Now, I fully understand the havoc that has overcome air travel in the United States. My husband flies upwards of 100,000 miles per year. I've had to dig lighters out of the bottomless-pit that I call My Handbag. I get it. But when my local newspaper finds it necessary to make homemade jelly a national tragedy, I struggle to find the right level of sympathy.

Closed circuit to Douchebag Carpenter (who not only had to throw away his precious jelly, but also had to dig through a number of trash cans looking for his wife's license because she was sure she threw it away with her lip gloss accidentally, only to discover that it was in his fucking pocket the whole time)....you know what, nevermind. I don't even have the energy to closed circuit him.

Save travels to everyone out there in the skies. God speed to whoever had to fly with the Jellyless Carpenter's.

Things That Suck

People tell me that I get irritated too easily. That in itself irritates me. Here's a list of things that suck because they irritate me.

(no particular order)

1. Packer fans
2. Sludge from KFan
3. Rock people who say hip-hop sucks
4. Hip-hop people that say rock sucks
5. Cat Stevens
6. Dusting
7. Being allergic to dust
8. Not having TIVO in my bedroom
9. Bars without good happy hour specials
10. Soccer moms in mini-vans
11. Terrell Owens
12. Brett Farve
13. Dart tournaments on TV
14. Roundabouts in the US
15. 25 MPH speedlimits
16. Decorated mailboxes
17. Anyone who parks right in front of my house
18. Anyone who parks right in front of my driveway
19. Skaters (sorry honey)
20. Being interrupted
21. Being told to be quiet
22. Being told "I could hear you laughing all the way down the hall." This makes me angry.
23. Dick Enrico, or whatever, from the 2nd Wind store
24. Erik The Bike Man
25. My job
26. Running out of underwear
27. Buying ice
28. Compromising
29. Dale on "King of the Hill"
30. Beer snobs
31. Skinny jeans and pumps. Why why WHY did this come back in style?
32. The Tour de France and the stupid guy who won. Until we found out he was doping. So sick of hearing about steriods.
33. Steriods
34. Barry Bonds
35. People who rip on me because I'm a Dave Matthews fan. GFY, I can like who I wanna like.
36. Door-to-door solicitors.
37. Door-to-door solicitors who actually give you dirty looks when you say you're not interested. Um, are you on MY property right now? Pretty sure you are. I can be interested in anything I damn well please and you're not one of them.
38. Email forwards
39. Listening to my voice mail
40. Coupons
41. The big fucking pile of dirt in my driveway.
42. How much it's going to cost me to have the big fucking pile of dirt removed. Yes, I know about Craig's List. I can't wait for Craig to get off his ass and pick up my dirt, goddammit.
43. People who say "oh I liked that band before they were big, now I won't listen to them anymore".
44. Everyone who posts on the Rube Chat webboard on Kfan.com.
45. Walking the dog.
46. That show My Super Sweet Sixteen or whatever, on Mtv. Those parents should have never been allowed to procreate.
47. Anytime Carrie Bradshaw runs in her high heels.
48. My neighbor's granddaughter. She doesn't really suck, I'm just getting really sick of her because she's over all the time. Now I know how my neighbors felt when I was little.
49. Humidity
50. Everyone who voted for W.

Batteries Not Included

St. Pauly Boy and I live in a cute little house in a cute little neighborhood of St. Paul. The interior of the house is small, but adorable. All of the woodwork is painted white, the walls have nice neutral colors that fit perfectly with our decor (with the exception of the extra bedroom which was the 3 year old's room for the previous owners & has hand painted chicks all over, which are nauseatingly cute but not exactly prime for SPB's office space). The only thing about the house that needed work was the back yard. So for the past year or so we've been hitting it hard in the back yard.* Last summer we tore out the entire yard, built a retaining wall, regraded the landscape, laid new sod, and built a cedar fence. Ok, someone else built the fence for us, but we did all the rest by hand. This summer's yard project was a brick patio. It took us 3 straight weeks and was officially completed this past Friday. For those of you who remember the last 3 weeks of weather we've been having in the TC's, you should fully comprehend was an assinine project this was to complete with 90% humidity and 102 degree hotness. But we did it. And we L.O.V.E. our new patio. There was no lack of drama during this project. Arguments, meltdowns, heat exhaustion, the sorest muscles ever, absolutely not one item of food in our refriderator, & a neglected doggers with much too much pent up energy. Would I say it was all worth it? No. If we had to do it over, someone else would have sweated their balls off and gotten paid in doing so. Our next place of residence will come with Patio Included. And batteries, if needed.












Behold! The newly build St. Pauly Family Spa.











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*Trust me, I wish I could say that statement was sexual in nature but given the traffic factor, sex in the back yard is pretty much impossible unless you're goal is to be the porn star of Highland Park.

National Day of Hangovers

National Night Out kicked my ass last night, you guys. I never knew that our block was full of a bunch of beer guzzling, chain smoking, insomniac geriatrics. The last thing I remember is sitting on my neighbors patio, in the pouring rain, hunkered down under the umbrella, wearing a white cardigan sweater with an embroidered cardinal on it that someone gave me to keep warm, bumming Benson & Hedges Ultra Light 100's off my 68 year old neighbor, Mary Ann, with her 12 year old grandaughter sitting on my lap. When we finally stumbled back to our own lot, it was 1am. ONE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. That's how late the geriatrics kept me out last night. And god only knows how many beers they made me drink, but I think I may have even agreed to get up with Mary Ann at 3am every day to pray the rosary. I'm not completely confident that I would have passed a breathalizer on my way to work today, or during my 8:30am meeting.

I never expected this. I never knew how insane my neighbors were. Now I know.

And I love them even more than I did before.

Open Letter to My Future Nephew (Not By Blood, But By Friendship), Pedro

Dear Pedro,

I saw your very first photo today! You look so cute in your mama's tummy! Ok, from the front you looked a little skeletal, but that's just because you haven't yet grown the big fat baby cheeks that I'm going to pinch until they turn rosey. But hey buddy, you got time, it's all good. Your mom said you were busy doing sommersalts during the photoshoot. You should be a gymnast. They have hot bodies. I'll teach you how to do a cartwheel as soon as you're born, k? Oh gosh, there's a lot of stuff I'm gonna teach you. Like how to bother Bailey Boo (hint: she doesn't like anything anywhere near her butt) and how to best ensure your photo gets up on the Fridge-of-Fame up at the cabin. That one will be easier for you than it was for me. Come to think of it...am I even up there?? And don't worry, I'll fill you in on everything that's been happening on the Real World/Road Rules Challenge. That Coral is one tough bitch. Oh, maybe I shouldn't teach you that word quite yet. But if you do say it, say it like this: beeeeeeyoootch. And then snap your fingers in a Z formation. All the other babies at day care are going to be so jealous of how cool you are.

Keep on keepin' on, Pedro! I'll write again soon!

XOXO,
Auntie St. Pauly Girl

New Approach To Internet Match-Making

Settle For Brian

Pay special attention to his Pro/Con list. Hey, at least he's honest, ladies!!

If this doesn't give you chills, you are dead inside.

You, Me, and Steely Dan

To preface this, I must explain the coincidence that Steely Dan has come up twice in my life, just during the past week. A few nights ago, St. Pauly Boy and I are laying in bed, I'm reading my book and he's just laying there about to go to sleep (which takes on average .02 seconds, by the way). All of a sudden he gets up and leaves the room and returns a minute later with his iPod and says, "I have this song in my head and if I don't hear it right now, I won't be able to sleep." I'm thinking, ok, that's cool, do your thing. And then I ask, "What song?" Well, right out of left field came the answer...."Babylon Sister, by Steely Dan".

Hm. The entire time I've known this man I have never heard him utter the words Steely Dan in my presence. And then I got the craving to hear the song, so I took one ear bud and he took the other and we grooved out to some Steely Dan before going to sleep. It was odd. Not because I think Steely Dan is odd or anything, it was just a very random thing to have stuck in your head and then physically NEED it before you can sleep. But whatever.

So the 2nd time Steely makes an appearance in my life is just now, when I was reading World of B, and good old B had a link to the most fabulous letter I have ever read. Who knew there was such controversy over the new movie, You, Me, and Dupree?? How could there possibly be drama with a Wilson brother movie? Well, according to the Steely Dan boys, shit's about to hit the fan. They explain it all in their open letter to Luke Wilson.

Damn those guys are a trip. I almost want to go to their show now. Almost.

C I T (DIYM)

We* have this saying at work: C I T (DIYM). It stands for Calm Yourself, Internalize, Therapy Later (Drink If You Must). I'm officially irritated at this stupid phrase. Don't tell me to calm myself like I'm a 3 year old having a tantrum at Target because my mom won't buy me a Blow Pop. I'm not the kind of person who internalizes, well, anything, so if you don't want to hear it, leave the room. And if I'm about to have a freaking melt down, your damn right I'm going to therapy, like, right now. Screw you, I can get therapy now if I wanna! And I love how they threw the DIYM in there so they could sound like they're so part of the fabulous happy hour scene that is downtown Minneapolis, where they go to order their cheap ass glass of wine or pretentious brand of beer, and have loud and obnoxious conversations about how oppressed they all are in Corporate America (using the native corporate-speak dialect, mind you).

Here's my new phrase to keep me going:

T T P P A S I U Y A (IGTHHWYF)
Take That Project Plan And Shove It Up Your Ass (I'm Going To Happy Hour Without You Freaks)

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*When I say "we" I mean not me because I didn't make up this stupid phrase and it certainly hasn't helped me through anything so far.

The Battle With My Horoscope Continues....

"You may want to talk about your home or family now, even in a professional situation, but others might not be as interested in what you are saying. Instead of telling stories without any particular goal in mind, decide where you want to go before you start aimlessly wandering around in your personal life."


Are you freaking kidding me right now? So now people aren't interested in anything I say, I talk too much, without any purpose whatsoever, and I'm aimlessly wandering the earth providing absolutely no value to anyone.

I'm definitely not hiring the author of these particular horoscopes as my self-esteem coach.

My Horoscope Today Can Kiss My Ass

"Your normally straightforward approach can be confused by the passive receptivity of Venus in Cancer for the weeks ahead. You Aries want to go get it now. You love the chase and the courting process could be like going to war. But Venus in Cancer is quite subtle, so you must practice being quiet so love can be heard. Try listening so that others have room to express what they want."

What the hell is this? A bitch-slap from my damn horoscope, that's what. Translation is as follows:

"Stop being so goddamn agressive all the time you stupid ram sonofabitch. Learn how to shut the fuck up for once in your life and listen to what other people are saying. It's not always about you, you selfish ram. It's always about everybody else, especially those Cancer pussies. Look up subtle in the dictionary and stop trying to run the goddamn world. Bitch."

Talk about a self-esteem boost. Thanks, Horoscope!

Just Another Manic Monday

St. Pauly Boy and I had a little scare this morning.

I slept like shit last night. My allergies are bad and I still have a lingering cough from having been sick recently, so to try to save SPB the agony of being awake with me at 4am, I left for the couch. My favorite thing to do when I wake up in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep, is to move to the couch and watch reruns of Coupling from BBC America, which I TIVO and keep up to 6 episodes just for such insomnia episodes. I got about 20 minutes into the episode where Stephen accidentally sees Sally's bottom (Sally = Stephen's girlfriend Susan's best friend) and I drifted into a peaceful sleep. Shortly after R.E.M kicks in, SPB wakes me to say that he can't sleep so I should just move back to the bedroom and he'll get an early start to the office (which is literally our dining room right now). So I move back to the bedroom where of course it takes me at least 20 more minutes to get back to sleep. When SPB comes to wake me up, I was so much more tired that I was at 4am, it was almost unbearable. But I get up anyway, and start getting ready for the shower. Suddenly I remembered that my hair dryer broke on Friday which left my head in a state that is quite unacceptable for any public appearances, so I beg SPB to run to Snyder's two blocks away to get me a new one. He's kind of crabby about it, understandably, but he goes anyway (we heart him, don't we?). So I hop in the shower. I get no further than washing my face and suddenly there's a lot of commotion in our house, slamming doors and whatnot.

Here's where I get to the scare part of the morning (like a broken hairdryer on a Monday Morning wasn't traumatic enough):

SPB busts into the bathroom and shouts, "The truck is GONE. Someone stole our truck." I scream, "WHAAAAAAAT???". A million thoughts run through my head. I quote, from my head, "Oh my god, was there anything valuable in the truck, my iPod....OMG MY iPOD, wait, that's in my purse, the iTrip is in the truck, oh well, we'll get a new one...what else is in there....how am I going to get to work...will I have to be there when the cops come, I was the last to drive it, OMG I have a big meeting at 10am, do I have to cancel it...it's already 8, it's too late to cancel..........................wait a second, I wonder if SPB checked the street, where I parked the truck last night when I went to pick us up some chinese take-out for dinner last night". I yelled for him and he busted into the bathroom again with the phone in his hand, literally milliseconds from calling the 5-0 and I ask him, "Did you look on the street? That's where I parked last night." From there, it got a little tense. He was upset that I parked on the street and didn't tell him, I was upset because I have every right to park on the street without permission, and so on. Really, it was just an early morning miscommunication. And we were both incredibly crabby from the lack of R.E.M. during the night.

He still went to Snyder's and got me a hairdryer and so far, my good hair day is about the only thing I have going for myself, as the second I got to work this morning I had Drama breathing down my neck, which is a standard occurance at my current Place of Employment, but never gets less irritating.

But it's ok, this week will get better. We're building a brick patio in our back yard and it's nice and cool outside. Errrr, no wait, it's like 100 degrees and 99% humidity, that's riiiight.

At least I still have my good hair today. And that, my friends, is what's really important.

And now back to your regular scheduled programming.

Ta daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

New template. Fresh inspiration.

I'm going to go take a nap now. How's that for inspired?

Please stand by....

St. Pauly Girl has been feeling a little uninspired lately. So, her look and feel will be going through a bit of an update, just so she'll start feeling saucy again. Please stand by while she gets her shit together and updates all her goddamn links and shit.

Issues Log

Recent feedback from my old roomate LPO, after having read my blog for the first time, was less than stellar. As it turns out, "I have issues".*

Um, hello? Not trying to hide the fact that I have issues. Actually, half the purpose of this blog is airing my dirty issue laundry for the internets to absorb, digest, and spit back in my face. Luckily the spitting doesn't happen very often. I've never been a big fan of spitters. I had a roommate in college (all girl school, btw) who spit all the fucking time. We'd go out for smokes on our front patio and she would just constantly spit. It left big gross marks on the pavement. Nasty, especially for a woman, in my opinion.

Anyway, I'm here to tell you, my dear sweet LPO, that my issues are out here for the world to see and I'm damn proud of it. What I'm really wondering is whether your constructive criticism stemmed solely from the fact that you're a big "R" and I'm, well, not? Me thinks so.

But I still heart you anyway.

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*On the other hand, here's what his wife had to say about my blog: "I'm serious, I think you need to pursue a career in writing. I'd totally be your publisher or editor or something, except I don't know how to do that." I totally heart her too. She's a "D" like me.

Sheet Sheet

When my brother was little, he had a blankie. But his was no ordinary blankie, it was his "sheet sheet". This is because it actually was a sheet, for a twin sized bed. He used to drag it around with him, everywhere he went, with his thumb in his mouth and the sheet trailing from the same hand. Apparently he tripped over it so many times, my mom decided to cut it up into small, more manageable pieces of "sheet sheet".

This random story just came to me as I remembered something I was thinking about last night, related to sheets, that I decided I wanted to blog about. I went to bed super early last night because I'm working two 12 hour shifts in a row, 7am-7pm, perfecting the "project plan" (which I put in quotes because I'm still not entirely positive it's planning our project, it seems more like instructions on how to launch a shuttle into space and considering the only degree I hold is a BA in Psychology and not a PhD in Astrophysics or Rocket Science or whateeverthehellittakestolaunchagoddamnspaceshuttle, I cannot quite comprehend it). So I'm laying in bed thinking about how much I absolutely love love love clean sheets on the bed. Especially nice sheets. Nice, soft, moderate threat count, clean sheets. I love the way freshly shaved legs feel on clean sheets. I love the smell of clean sheets and the fact that the dog hasn't had a chance to bring dirt in the bed yet. A freshly made bed with clean sheets is almost orgasmic for me.

Now here's my dilemma.....I hate hate HATE washing sheets. I don't mind doing laundry as long as it's not sheets. I can't stand the process for removing the sheets from the bed and all of the pillows (which I love a lot of), taking them downstairs to the washing machine, seperating the sheets from the duvet because the sheets are white and the duvet is raisin, so unless you're a man, you know you cannot combine the two. Then you have to go back upstairs and remake the bed with fresh sheets, but you can't complete the bedmaking until the duvet is finished drying, which leaves it unfinished, which is annoying. I just suck at this part of domesticity. I'm too lazy to follow through with the whole process because there are just too many pieces to complete in order to accomplish my end goal of orgasmic bedding.

So no matter how much I love clean sheets, I always allow them to go unwashed for way too long, due to the fact that my laziness always wins the grudge match. For once I'd like to see clean sheets come out on top.

Why I Love Wisconsin

Local pub, East Troy, WI. Please take note of smiley face water tower in the background.

M.I.A. (Part Deux)

Turns out, the tonsillitis was worse than I thought. I ended up being sick for a little over two weeks. But I'm happy to report that I'm back in action, my tonsils (Evil & Mean) have surrendered and are no longer at war with my body. Although, as long as E & M still exist (as my doctor predicts, they will) we will always be at odds. At a stand-off stance. A "Cold War", if you will.

Things I've learned from the experience:

1) Stinky Pete sucks at taking care of me when I'm sick.
2) There is still no reason to watch Days of Our Lives because the storylines are still the same as when I was in 6th grade (shit, they've even returned all of the dead characters back to life, from the 80's & 90's, in typical DOOL fashion.
3) Banana popsicles rule.
4) NyQuil Cough rules.
5) Tailgating at a Dave Matthews concert will kill the remaining germs lingering from the wrath of Evil & Mean.

We now return to our regularily scheduled programming.

M.I.A.

Yeah. I've definitely been missing in action lately, haven't I? The sad thing about it though, there has not been any action on my end. None, whatsoever. So I guess I'm just M. For missing.

I've been home sick with tonsillitis. I missed 4 days of work last week, my tonsils were the size of giant superballs, I could barely swallow my own spit. Lovely, isn't it? St. Pauly Boy was in Californeeah, so I was left relying on Stinky Pete to take care of me. As you can imagine, that didn't work so good. He doesn't necessarily comprehend when I'm not feeling up to taking him for a walk or playing with him in the yard. He just barks at me, completely oblivious to the shooting pain in my throat made worse by the shrill tone of his bark. You know that saying, "His bark is worse than his bite."? Yeah, it's true. I'd much rather he naw of my entire right arm than bark at me while I'm sick. Just chew it off, Pete. At least then I can focus on that pain, instead of the viral war on my tonsils.

But the good news is, I'm feeling better. Slowly but surely. The boys (my tonsils, I've named them Evil and Mean) have deflated since last Tuesday when they blew up like beach balls. Evil is still being a bit of a pain in my neck, literally, and just under my ear too, but Mean has pretty much given up and is taking his defeat quite well, I assure you. The funny thing is, people keep telling me the same thing.....have your tonsils taken out. As if it's a procedure you can order at the Walgreen's drive-through. Yeah, prescription for St. Pauly Girl and a Tonsillectomy, to go please. What people don't understand is that the procedure for removing one's tonsils is actually quite dangerous. As we get older, as in past the age of 10, when we officially enter senior citizen status apparently, the wounds created by the removal process aren't able to heal quickly enough. You run a very high risk of bleeding to death. Sounds peachy. I'm gonna keep my tonsils, thank you. They are a pain in the ass (or neck, if you will) but dammit, at least I'm alive!

What my real concern is, if I'm considered a senior citizen already because I'm too old to have my tonsils taken out, then why the hell am I not getting the damn discount on Wednesdays???

Nothing better than a good story to get you out of bed in the morning.

So, I'm laying in bed this morning attempting to wake up and get motivated to shower and get ready for work and, as I do every morning, I flipped on the morning news, you know, the station with my favorite weather man. There were a couple of back-to-back stories that just left me stunned, first in an amused and followed by a horrified, way.

First was the story about the "sport" of Shin Kicking, in England. This sport consists of 2 men, stuffing their pants with straw, facing off against each other and, literally, kicking the living shit out of each others' shins. The winner is determined when one opponent essentially gives up. Apparently this sport's popularity is increasing so rapidly that they would now like Shin Kicking to be considered for an Olympic event. An Olympic event.

Discussing this with St. Pauly Boy on our way to work this morning, it was decided that next in line would be the Olympic event of Bloody Knuckles. In which case, I believe my husband would most definitely try out for the US Bloody Knuckles Team, in hopes of fullfilling a life long dream of bringing home the gold medal. We'll see how far he can get, I can only assume the competition will be fierce. I plan on getting him started with a weight lifting program, ASAP.

This was the amused portion of being stunned by the news this morning. Then came this.

A story of a woman who's chiwawa puppy had tragically passed away, where the woman was apparently dealing with one of the many stages of loss, and from what I can gather, it was the anger stage. As the reporter stated, it can be a traumatic experience to lose a puppy, everyone could agree with that, I think. But what I don't think any of us coule agree with is taking your dead puppy back to the breeder's residence, demanding a new [live] puppy in exchange for the dead one, and then using the deceased animal to then physically assault the breeder when terms of an agreement could not be reached. She used her dead puppy as a weapon, people. And in her fit of rage, as she was driving away, she continued to wave this poor dead puppy at the breeder's house, out of the sunroof of her car.

At this point, the stunned expression on my face turned to complete disgust, with a side of depression on the account of the poor dead puppy. Perhaps the puppy is better off, given the apparent psychosis of her owner.

But regardless, it was an odd day for news, people. Odd day, indeed.

Cartoon Kids Say The Darndest Things

Since I'm being such a bad blogger lately, here, go read these Stewie quotes. It's better than the shit I'd write anyway, so what the hell?