Two days ago, I made a new best friend. Her name is Pat the Countrywide Mortgage Customer Service Lady, and she became my best friend by telling me that she would override the late charge on my account that occured not because I'm a totally unorganized slacker that didn't pay her bill on time (which, by the way, is true, but not the reason for the tardy payment THIS month), but because the stupid people that are buying my stupid house are being stupid and didn't have all their stupid paperwork at the stupid closing, so the stupid lendor pushed back the date. But, on the sunny side of the street, I met my new best friend Pat the Countrywide Mortgage Customer Service Lady. Today, however, I have a new best friend and her name is Otter. She became my best friend for her post today that sent me into a fit of giggles when I read #8, which implanted a visual that sent me into such a state that I'm pretty sure I peed my pants just a little.

Okay, so I got my w-2 today, and I just have to say that there is obviously some serious problem with me. There is just no way in this world that a person should make the amount of money I make (not that I'm one of the lucky overpaid executives or anything) and only have $3.98 in the bank, as of 9 am this morning. No way. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, my friends...something is very rotten indeed. Perhaps this is just the wake up call I need to start a new phase of my life...let's call it the fiscally responsible phase. Of course, I can't start today, because I'm almost out of dogfood, and the only things in my fridge are a box of baking powder, a bottle of ketchup, and a bruised green apple. But after the grocery store and petsmart, it's on. No more impulse purchases for me. Starting tomorrow I am the poster girl for living within your means. Or Wednesday, at the very latest.

WARNING

To whom it may concern:
Do not, I repeat, do NOT piss off CRAZYDOGMAMA. As is turns out, she knows evil ways to reap revenge against husbands that golf too much, as well as anyone else that crosses her the wrong way. Don't ask me what she does, because I promised that I wouldn't divulge the fact that this revenge comes in the form of adding something to a drink to result in exploding diarrhea. Nope, I can't tell you, so don't even think you can trick me into telling you. No matter what you do, I'm not going to tell you that she adds....oops, almost got me. Sorry, I just can't take the chance that I'll meet her in person one day and she'll say "here moosemama, have a nice, refreshing glass of tea...muwahh haa haa"

Too Much TV

Did anyone besides me and divaquest watch that who wants to be a supermodel show? The chick that got kicked off was told her boobs were too big, and that she needed to learn how to pose differently...I tell you, only in a supermodel show would someone with a 34 B chest, be told her boobs were too big and she needed to lose weight.

Idol is back, and I love Simon. I can't help it. Except when he laughs right at people, that's just not nice. Funny, but not nice.

My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiance is big fat funny. That guy is a total crack up and he is having so much fun driving people crazy! Wouldn't it be fun if tomorrow you woke up and someone said "I'll pay you to act as obnoxious as possible and completely piss off everyone you come into contact with". I'd do it in a heartbeat! Can you even imagine having complete freedom from that little voice that judges you all day? Matter of fact, I might do it tomorrow for free.

I miss Paris Hilton. She makes me feel smart.

I caught the last part of Oprah on Monday...she had her trainer on and he was talking about his great 12 week program. You know, if I was Bill Phillips, I'd be pissed that so many people rip off my ideas, but strangely enough, he's so nice that he's just like "wow, that's great that so many people are getting in shape". He must be a much better person than me, because I want to grab him by the neck and shout "open your damn eyes man! that should be your credit that fool is taking!" Anyway, he (oprah's trainer) advises that you should sign a contract with yourself, which to me, sounded a lot like the whole crossing the abyss, writing down your goals thing, so I went to the oprah web site to print out the contract and it was pretty lame. It just says : I pledge to: exercise regularly for a period of 12 weeks, eat healthy food in reasonable portions, and eat to satisfy my nutritional needs, not my emotional. Sorry "O" but if it was that easy, I'd be 125 and drop dead gorgeous. Newsflash: I'm not.

Isn't it amazing how one little thing can brighten your whole dreary outlook? I was all set to have a horrible terrible no good very bad day this morning...I woke up late, didn't feel like going to work, and was feeling sorry for myself that I am neither own a TiVo nor a functional VCR and was thus destined to miss Bill Phillips appearing on the Wayne Brady show, and then, to top it all off, I had to meet plumber #2 at the house during my lunch break. Then, for some strange reason, the money gods decided to smile on me (a never-before-seen phenom.), and suddenly the nice folks at the home warranty company decided to cover the plumbing problems at the house and now I only have to pay $50 instead of $1800. Of course this means some terrible fate is lurking just around the corner, but hell, you've just gotta love it when your insurance actually works FOR you instead of against. So, I will dance the happy dance and count my blessings, and just hope that when retribution strikes it is swift and painless.

Lumpy belly syndrome

I've just realized that, after 5 hours of work, I've been walking around with a crumpled up dryer sheet under my shirt right over my belly button. Yeah, you would think I'd have noticed it before now, wouldn't you.

It's not about the quarters...

It's not about the fact that I, over the last three years or so, have collected 4 of each state quarter to someday give the full collection to my children, like the dork that I am. It's not about the fact that you knew this, and occasionally assisted me in said collection, remarking several times in the past "are we really planning on having FOUR kids???". It's not even about the fact that you snuck into my special hiding place for the aforementioned collection because you needed some soda and a car wash, and "since you'd already spent some" decided to get a hair cut too. It's about you being such an insensitive boob that you can't understand why I'm pissed. And it's not just the quarters. It's about you selling the golf clubs my dad bought me for my birthday. It's about you watching the baseball playoffs while I was in labor with your first son. It's about me saying "we have to talk" and you falling asleep. It's about not calling when you're late and telling me "I didn't call because I didn't want to hear your shit". It's about me being up with a sick baby all night, and working the next day, and when I finally fall into bed at the end of the evening you waiting till I'm fully asleep to start groping me. It's about how you think that groping me in the middle of the night is a romantic way to wake me up. It's about you lying to me about quitting dipping. It's about you washing your clothes seperately because they somehow might get "ruined" if you wash them with the rest of our clothes. It's about how, when the kids need something at 2 am, and even when you have the next day off, you say "go wake up your mom and tell her". It's about how you have time to play 36 holes of golf and stop for a beer on the way home on your day off, but you don't have time to pick up your son's prescription, or *shudder* actually do something productive at the house. It's about how you take your two days off during the week so that you can play 36 holes of golf and stop for a beer on the way home both days, because the kids are at daycare and therefore you seem to believe you are exempt from all family and household responsibilities. It's about how you think that my problem with this is just because I "hate golf". It's about how I make BFL approved meals/snacks for myself to take to work, and then I find out in the morning that you ate all the puddings, left the dishes in the sink, and took the rest of the meals with you instead. It's about you then coming home and telling me you had subway instead, but you'll probably eat the stuff I made "another day". It's about you peeing on the rim when I'm the only one that cleans the bathroom.

I guess I just can't believe that you, who knows that I know where you sleep at night, are so intent on pushing me to the very edge of enraged psycho violence on an almost daily basis. You know, I've heard stories of women who have actually taken the big knife from the butcher block and plunged it into the heart of their husbands, and, on days like today, I think to myself, "bastard probably spent her quarters."

...Cry me a river...

Okay, so I was just sorting through the accumulated pile of worthless junk that I've been hauling around in my "purse" (read: huge, oversized duffel bag that I cart to and from work everyday and open like twice a week), and I found my "before" pictures from the BFL challange I started back when my husband starting sleeping with the 19 year old beer cart girl at his golf course, in 2001. Oh dear. I could just cry. I actually looked at those pictures and said to myself "damn, I WISH I still looked like that".

Now you should understand that, I was stupid enough to go for a "sex with your ex" fling 8 weeks into the challange and got knocked up, thereby rendering null and void both my challange and my divorce, and then, a year later, even though I swear we took all the necessary steps to avoid it, got knocked up AGAIN, and, let me tell you, that even though I know it's good for me, when I'm 6 months pregnant I find it very difficult to eat clean, and I just don't have the energy to cook enough for the army that is my family and my 6 meals a day, 6 days a week. I know. Don't look at me like that. I KNOW, excuses, excuses, excuses. BUT, the snip snip is scheduled for later this month, so if I do decide to let my husband live, this will be my last baby, I swear. Then it's go time. I even bought the EFL book and have been trying out recipes on the rare occasions that my energy isn't completely spent by the end of the work day. Which has been, like, twice.

That'll be $1800 please...

Crap. Yesterday we got the inspection report back on the house we're selling, and this morning I had the distinct pleasure of meeting a plumber out at the house to find out what the hell "master bath drain at basement link leaking" was going to cost me. I swear to you, I lived in that house for 9 years and the damn thing never leaked, then some home inspector who, by the way, was so damn anal that he actually put on the inspection report "baseboard molding in bedroom closet has an edge that doesn't match flush with adjoining piece and should be replaced" and "mulch level too high in front yard tree surround" and "hallway closet light bulb missing globe", oh and my favorite, "basement bathroom door knob does not latch unless you pull the door shut"...What? why the hell would it latch if the door wasn't shut? Hello? Anyway...he said he grabbed the pipe and tried to wiggle it from side to side and it started leaking. OMG. I think he should be required to fix the damn thing, though it'd be hard for him to stand on the ladder with my foot up his ass and all.

I promised myself, or rather I "resolved" to start writing everyday. Not that I'm a writer. Really. I'm not. Give it time, you'll see for yourself. I just thought that if I wrote everyday, it would be kind of cathartic. Not as carthartic as say, killing my husband, but then again it wouldn't cut into my busy schedule as much as a jail term. So, at midnight on the last day of 2003 (okay, I went to bed at 10:00, but you know what I mean), I resolved that beginning "tomorrow" I would write something, anything, everyday. So, let's see, it's the 15th, which means I'm pretty much half a month behind schedule...yep, that seems about right for my life.