How I Spent Monday Morning

Perky people annoy me. Perky folk make me want to carve kitchen utensils into sharp little shanks which I can drive into the eyeball of the next peppy soul who dares asks me how I’m doing while sporting a big smile and attempting to hug me.

Perky people suck.

That said, I also have no use for the dark brooding pessimist who always whines about how their glass is half empty. I see those people and I immediately want to find a box full of fluffy happy kittens and cram those cats down their cynical little gullets. I want to beat the fatalism out of those type of people with a rainbow and the bloodied horn I tore off a unicorn.

My husband says I really don't like people at all.

He's wrong. I like people just fine. Mostly people who are mute. People who don't wander around offering their unsolicited opinions to their wives.

Ahem.

So I'm a tad cranky this morning and not because I am still hung over from going out this weekend to celebrate my little sister's birthday by drinking too much red wine and shaking my rump to the theme song of all Redneck's everywhere: Achy Breaky Heart.

Don't judge me. I did it for love.

I'm cranky because it's now lunch time and I've been trying to break into the internet since eight this morning. Nothing like a strong cup of coffee alongside some soul sucking gossip blogs to really kick start my day and fuel my imagination.

This morning? I had the coffee in one hand and the blank page on my laptop staring back at me telling me I wasn't connected to the internet. No gossip, no email, no twitter, nada, nothing to get my day started in an appropriate fashion. I had to *gasp* turn on the television to find out today's news and weather.

It was like the olden days when I wanted to know what the weather was like and being forced to walk outside.

So with each passing second I was locked out of the Internet, my bitch factor rose. Eventually as I stomped around the house slamming cupboards and checking my satellite signal relentlessly my husband tried to calm me down.

He quickly changed his mind and backed away when I snarled at him and he noticed the foam around my mouth and how my eyes had gone dead while sparking little flames out the center with each blink of the eye.

He's a bit of a pansy like that. He may even have squealed like a school girl and tucked tail to run and hide when I threatened to rip somebody's head off and send it to a third world country for some kid to use as a kick ball if the Internet signal didn't come back on in one.freaking.minute. Of course, he was the only somebody in the immediate vicinity so he was safely and correctly presuming it would be his head on a sharp pointy stick if he stood around watching me twitch any longer.

After thwapping the router and shaking the little magical box which steals the Internet signal from the sky and channels it directly to my computer a few times I flopped down on the couch to glower at the injustice of the world.

Can we say drama queen much? And I wonder where my daughter gets it from.

Just when tiny little pinpricks of tears threatened to spill over and run down my cheek, I suddenly remembered I was not powerless and at the mercy of invisible satellite waves which were mysteriously absent. I could phone Tech Support at the Giant Company Responsible for Beaming Internet into my home and supplying me with my Internet crack fix.

Which leads me back to hating all perky people.

"Hello, this is the Giant Communication Company, how can I help you on this fine beautiful Monday morning where the sun is shining and the birds are chirping?"

(Okay, so those aren't the exact words she said, but it was what she implied with her chirpy little tone.)

"Ya, my Internet connection is out and I pay TWO HUNDRED dollars a month to be able to access high speed satellite service out here in Buttfuck Alberta and you need to get me online RIGHT NOW because my husband is threatening to take all the knives out of the kitchen and my life sorta depends on having access to twitter."

"All righteee then Sunshine, just let me check your account and let's see what's going on over there in that beautiful area you live in."

I waited a few minutes while she ran my account number and tried not to twitch too hard.

"I don't see a problem here Sunshine. It says here all systems are up and running," she announced in a very happy voice.

"I suggest you check again because if all systems were up and running I wouldn't be calling you, now would I?" I snarled.

"Well, I suppose not. Hmmm. Did you check your router box?"

"Yes. It shows me that I HAVE NO INTERNET SIGNAL."

"Really? Did you try unplugging it and plugging it back in? Sometimes it just is a glitch in the aura of celestial waves we call the Net."

"Yes," I replied tersely to the chipper little bimbo on the other end of the phone line. "I rebooted it several times. Nothing happened. I then thwacked it. Then I shook it. Then I lit candles and chanted while I waited for it to reboot and when that didn't work I tapped it with my magic wand and still, NO INTERNET SIGNAL. Which is why I am calling you."

"Oh goodness, you sound really frustrated!" She giggled. "Did you make sure your router cable was plugged in? Sometimes the beautiful people of the world overlook the most obvious source of the problem."

"YES I checked if it was plugged in. The power light is on. Yet it is still not working," I replied while biting my tongue from calling her the moron I was sure she was.

"Oh dear Sunshine. That really is a pickle. Hmmm. Well, I will check again, hang on I'll run a diagnostic thingy. Those are always so much fun to do!!" She gleefully announced.



Blood started squirting between my teeth from clamping down on my tongue so hard but I remained silent as she smacked her bubble gum in my ear and clacked away at the keyboard in front of her. For all I know she was posting her undying love to some lame ass sparkling Vampire on a All Twilight All The Time message board.

Seconds ticked off in which my life force was slowly oozing out of my body when suddenly she piped back up, "No, I don't see a problem here. My computer says the force is strong with you."

"Pardon me?" Oh great. A nutjob is in charge of my internet account. I must have bent over for life to kick me in the ass when I wasn't looking.

"The beam signal we shoot from the satellite into your router. It says it's strong. Just a little Star Wars reference to brighten your day!!"

"You know what would brighten my day? Having INTERNET signal so I could get to work on my computer."

"Oh, haha, you're funny!" She giggled.

"Look, is there anyone else I can talk to? Someone who can help me? A technician or something?"

"Sure, just let me put you on hold again, Sunshine. It shouldn't be more than two shakes of a lambs tale. Oh and Sunshine?" she called me.

"Yes?" I replied back through my nerves being grated like cheddar every time she called me Sunshine.

"You have yourself a beautiful day. You are WORTH it."

Just as I was about to reach through the phone to throttle her elevator music piped through the lines. All the while I sat in front of my useless computer and my router and willed the Internet to come alive and dance in my box once again.

Seconds turned into minutes and minutes turned into, well more minutes, until I was well and truly past annoyed and firmly entrenched in Why is the World Aggravating Me so Direly today?

Eventually, a service technician came on the line.

Which leads me to hating Pessimistic people.

After going through all the same steps I did with the Cheerio minutes before, the tech finally announced there was nothing to do but sit and wait for my router to resurrect itself once more.

"What do you mean sit and wait??? It's not working!" I whined.

"Well, the weather is good in your area, your router is working, the info beam is strong, it's likely just a glitch which will resolve itself shortly," the little man of doom replied back. "If not, you can always try phoning back again where we will dispatch a technician to your house who will likely take a look at everything and tell you it's just a glitch and to sit back and wait for the situation to resolve itself. "

"There has to be something I can do, isn't there?" I pleaded with him.

"Ya. Move to the city. Otherwise you're screwed."

Like I hadn't thought of that before Smart Ass. It's just my husband won't let me. Something about not wanting to bail my ass out of jail every time I feel like prancing around naked in the city.

Monday, you can bite my ass.

Right after all the Perky and Pessimistic people are done kicking it.

**I may or may not have slightly exaggerated today's tech support conversation. My husband says it wasn't that bad. He only says that because he made me sit on hold all four times and listen to some evil service technician call me Sunshine. I am ignoring him because this is the same man who says a day without Internet wouldn't kill me. Obviously he doesn't have a clue to which he is talking about.**

Itchy Trigger Finger

This weekend, after watching a some lame arse television program (note to self: destroy all televisions within our home) my son asked me what the "little blue pill" was for.

After staring at him with my mouth gaping wide open (a look that gets his father all hot and bothered) I tried telling him it was just a Flinstones vitamin. Apparently I'm either not as good at parental misdirection as I once was or my children are growing smarter than I am since he just looked at me, blinked and reminded me that children's vitamins don't come in blue, they come in PURPLE.

He should know since he once polished off an entire bottle in a week thinking they were candies. I've since bought a locking medicine cabinet to keep my little druggies safe from over dosing.

Since my little pill pusher called me on my bluff, I had to make an emergency parental decision. I could do what his father would want me to do (look him in the eye and ask if his bedroom was clean and thereby avoid the discussion entirely) or I could treat my boy like the adult he so desired.

Guess which road I chose?

"Well Frac, there is a myriad of prescription medicine that comes in blue form-"

"I know that Mom, I mean VIAGRA. Those little blue pills. What's Viagra for?" my sweet boy interrupted me to cut to the chase.

"Oh. THOSE little blue pills. Well, um," (I find it helpful to pause and stammer a lot when put on the spot while explaining uncomfortable subject matter), "you see, some men have to take Viagra when, ah, um. You know how when a man and a woman, um... Let's just say Viagra increases blood flow to help a man reach um, gratification."

How's that for clarity?

I looked at Frac and Frac looked at me. I had the "Please go ask your Father look" pasted on my face and he had the "I can't decide if you are full of shit or not" look pasted on his.

Then a tiny little lightbulb went off above my son's head and the entire room was illuminated by a dazzling display of comprehension.

"OH! You mean it's medication so a man's penis can get hard and stand erect," he proudly stated in a moment of elucidation.

(Who says public schools don't teach kids anything?)



For a moment I was torn between relief for not having to refine my pathetic definition any more graphically and annoyed at having my twelve year old baby son understand that some males little soldiers didn't like to stand at attention in a moment of sexual combat.

The moment quickly passed and I chose to go with relief, hoping the subject matter was now closed since my son had his answer. Frac, however, had other ideas.

"I know all about erections, Mom," he waggled his little eyebrows at me.

It was right then I chose to jump off the couch and run screaming into the forest of trees behind my house to live with the wildlife who couldn't speak about such private sexual matters with me.

Or at least, that's what I did in my head. The reality was I sat there shell shocked with my mouth hanging wide open. (His father really missed several moments of opportunity this weekend.)

"Uh huh," I mumbled, reaching for my water while wishing I was drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. Anything to numb the horror my life had swiftly become.

Note to husband: You can come home ANYTIME now dude.

"Just what do you know about erections kiddo?" I challenged him, hoping to embarrass him into silence.

"Do I really have to explain this to you Mom?" he challenged right back.



There it was. I slapped him in the face with the white glove and he picked the weapon for the duel. It was high noon on Main Street and we stood at opposite ends of a dusty road with our hands on our hip, waiting to see who could out draw the other. He had youth and speed on his side; I was the grisled veteran with more notches on my holster than a man could count.

The stakes were high and tension ran through the crowd. (The crowd being my dogs who snored softly on my lap. Oh hush. This is my story, let me tell it how I want.)

It was a staring match to see who would be the first to blink.

I blinked.

"Nope. Nu-uh. You win. I don't want to know. Never mind. I can't hear you. Lalalala. Is your room clean? I really think you need to go clean your room kiddo," I begged him. The thought of learning anything about my young son I couldn't unlearn was too much and I balked. Clucked like a yellow bellied chicken I did.

Frac snickered and muttered something about me being a big delusional mommy and then toddled off towards his room.

Just when I thought I was safe from this discussion, he turned around and asked, "Hey Mom, do we have any ink in the printer?"

"Um, I think so, why?" I stupidly asked.

"I was thinking of printing off some pictures of pretty girls to hang on my bedroom walls."

"That's it Frac! I'm taking the door off your bedroom! No privacy! No pretty girls! No viagra!!"

Frac laughed all the way to his bedroom while I rocked back and forth on the couch and sucked my thumb.

I used to think parenting was hard. Like an uneducated rube, I never understood the definition of hard. (Ack! Sexual pun not intended.) How I'd trade parenting teens wrapped in a layer of hormone laced puberty and curiosity for the simple challenge of trying to get a toddler to pee in the potty.

As my son thought of new and creative ways to destroy my sanity slowly and painfully in his bedroom, I sat on my couch and mentally reminisced about the good old days of parenting, when my children couldn't talk.

Just as my blood pressure was starting to return to normal and my brain was hard at work mentally suppressing the evening's disturbing turn of events, my daughter, Fric, emerged from her bedroom and wandered into the living room.

"Hey Mom, at what age did you start growing pubic hair?"

She never got her answer. It's hard to talk when I one is reduced to a blubbering incoherent mess who locked myself herself in my her bathroom and pretended I she was invisible.

I don't know what I did to piss off the Universe, but I'd like to take this moment to sincerely apologize.

Laminated

Like many happily married long time couples, my husband and I have found ourselves in bed, not having sex with each other yet happily discussing other people we'd like to have sex with if we were good looking, rich and or famous.

That's right. Why get hot and sweaty with each other when we can dream about our Laminated List. You know, the ones we'd give each other a free pass to see us naked if they didn't call the police on us first.

My husband has no problem with this game. In fact, his laminated list tends to grow in direct proportion to the increasing size of my arse. Fickle bastard.

My List is pretty static. The same couple of guys have been on there since it's inception and I haven't felt the need to add or change the names over the years. What can I say? I'm a dedicated stalker.

In case you are wondering, Boo's list includes, but is not limited to: Alyssa Milano, Geena Davis, Salma Hayek, Demi Moore, Jamie Lee Curtis and Miss Hammer Thumbs Herself, Megan Fox.

(The man is an oddity. What can I say?)

(I mean really, what is attractive about this?)

(Or this?)

(When he has THIS waiting for him at home.)

(Never mind.)

I've written about my list before, but it bears repeating. John Wayne baby.

(Don't judge me.)

Where am I going with this?

Oh right. (It's hard to think clearly with Salma's rack staring me in the face.)

Then my friend, Jason Mayo, wrote a post about his own version of the Laminated List game.

Except in his twisted world, there are rules and debating and choices.  He calls it Friday Fun. I call it work. And it's a well documented fact that the only work this gal likes to do involves getting on ones knees and barking like a dog when a certain husband is home. Ahem.

A conversation ensued shortly after reading his post and quickly degenerated into a "I think you should write the F, Marry, or Kill Blogger post," he taunted me behind his computer screen some 3000 miles away.

The dude is a total pussy.

What Jason neglected to take into consideration when he clucked like a chicken shit issued his dare, is that I'm a middle child. I have a big brother. One who routinely sat on my face and released enough gas to float the Balloon Boy's latest hoax.

I never back down from a dare. Years of sibling torture have honed and cultivated this unique character flaw.

(Thanks Stretch. Mom and Dad are so proud.)

Without any further ado, because I have balls, unlike my feathered friend Jason, I present to you, my own version of F, M or K, Blogger Style.

Which, mercifully, is easier than a Laminated List of Bloggers.  That's a post for another day.

Who I'd EFF:



Catherine, over at Her Bad Mother, wins that honor. Really, it's not so much of an honour. I'd pretty much put anyone on this list if they let me get drunk and fondle them publicly while others take pictures.

I'm kinda whorey that way.

Who I'd MARRY:



I know, I know, Neil Kramer? Hear me out. The dude has mad writing props, routinely wears a tiara and prances around New York while moaning about how Twitter is the downfall of modern society. Think of the writing fodder he'd provide me with for life. I'd never run out of things to mock him for and post about on my blog.

Plus, I'd never have to worry about sleeping with him because he'd have annoyed me so badly he'd always be sleeping on the couch. All this plus the tax privileges of holy matrimony.

It's a win-win.

Who I'd KILL:

This one was significantly harder because well, the choices are limitless I could never wish harm on another person. I'm like Ghandi. With boobs.

In the end, it came down to who had the most embarrassing picture I could find on the internet life I covet the most.



Sorry Evans, you win this round. Not only do you live in the land of Sunshine, beaches and no snow, but you have a hot wife to fold your underwear, a successful blog, AND a book, but you look better in the Mominatrix shirt than I do.

For that, I have to kill you. But trust me, it hurts me more than it could ever hurt you.

And that dear Jason, is how you alienate friends and readers in one fell swoop it is done.