Weekend Recap

On the way to go see my sister's newest baby so cute, does not make me want another one we stopped at What-a-Burger for lunch and a potty break. I should have been concerned when I had trouble closing the stall door. I really became concerned when I could not get the damn thing to open. After a few seconds of pushing, I called out to my eight-year-old for help. Desperate times. Instead, the sixteen-year-old girl waiting for the bathroom hears my cries for help. Between the two of us, we still can not get the door open. I almost start to cry. I am going to have to crawl on the icky floor. But then I gave the door one last kick, and it flew open. Safe at last.

Sunday, the weather was awesome. Like-shorts-and-a-tshirt-and-please-say-that-I-got-enough-sun-that-I-am-no-longer-ghost-white awesome. Kenny cleaned the garage. I read a book in a lawn chair. The kids ran around in the front yard. I even drank lemonade. It was good times. Until. My neighbor, the vacation home next door part-time neighbor, came over. To let me know that my kids ride their scooter in the street. And once walked in her yard. And climb the tree. The tree that is in my yard. The tree in my yard that I don't give a shit if they climb. And. And! Those hoodlum kids who lived here before us used to jump off of things. The audacity of those kids. And those boys in our neighborhood? They are always doing horrible, horrible things like playing football in the street. Fucking brats. It wasn't until after she stomped off that it occurred to me that I should have mentioned how much I don't appreciate her spying on me. We catch her looking in our windows. Often.

So in conclusion:

I got stuck in the What-a-Burger bathroom, which would have made for better rapping if it had been Burger King. Go ahead...name that song.

Once again, we have crazy fucking neighbors. Kenny is already packing our boxes.

Casper

So even though my husband claims that we have no ghostie because nobody actually died in our house, I know he is wrong. There is a ghost. And now every little sound I hear at night, I make him investigate.

Because I am that girl.

And because he could totally take on a ghost once he found the source of the sound.

Last night, as I was just about to drift off to sleep, I swear I heard our bedroom door handle jiggle. I demanded Kenny investigate. He found nothing. Which actually proves my ghost theory, not his "you are imagining things" theory. Everybody knows you can't see ghosts. Except sometimes. When they want you to.

But Kenny gave me the look and told me to quit bothering him and let him sleep.

Which I did for ten minutes until I heard another sound.

He refused to budge this time, so I pulled the covers completely over my head. Because, obviously ghosts can only attack the exposed parts of your body. I fell asleep, made it through the night alive, and forgot that a ghost had tried to attack me in the middle of the night.

Until.

@#$$*BAM!@#$##@

Something came crashing down upstairs. With both dogs in my line of sight. With no one else home.

I did the only sensible thing to do.

I ran outside.

Where I found our trashcan blown over right outside the office window. Not upstairs.

Whatever. Ghosts can totally knock over trash cans.

Magically, Mysterious Dissappearing Chicken Nuggets.

We sat down at the dinner table tonight with a wondrously nutritious meal of McD's. Don't judge. McD's is our only fast food option in this town. We had stopped on the way home. I passed the kids meals back to the kiddos as we made the way around to our side of the lake. Emmi saved hers for home. Jill dug in. By the time we made it home, she had finished her drink but not her food.

So we all sat down for family dinner. I pulled out my snack wraps. Jill takes out her box of nuggets. She opens it. It is empty.

"What happened to my nuggets," Jill calmly inquired.

And that is when I knew. She did something to those nuggets. She was calm. And there was missing food involved.

Eyeing her suspiciously, I asked if she perhaps had accidentally on purpose dropped the nuggets in the car. She responded back with perhaps McD's had given her an empty box. When I pointed out the nugget crumbs in the bottom of the box, she suddenly remembered eating one nugget. But the others? Vanished. Disappeared.

I took her to the car to search.

No nuggets.

Kenny and I checked the grass surrounding the car.

No nuggets.

We checked her bags. Her shoe. Yes, I even checked her shoe.

No nuggets.

But I know. I just know she did something with those nuggets, and one of these days I am going to figure it out.

Probably when the car starts to stink like dead nugget.

How I spent my Sunday.

So we have etsablished that I have not had the best of luck finding a new hair dresser. But my bargain hunting skills? They rock.

Guess Jeans. $12.48

Grey Suede Boots. Half-off.
The website claims them to be $40 more than I found them at the store.

Guess Bag. 25% off. Plus, the sales lady just liked me and gave me an additional 15% off. I smile sweetly sometimes.

And I am officially out of Christmas money.

I think I would look good in a wig.

It's official. I have to worst haircutting luck. Ever. I guess it doesn't look bad. It just isn't what I asked for. And seriously? Could I just once have a normal hair cut experience?

The last time I went to a hair appointment, it was just plain weird. Like salon owner harassing my hair dressed while I was getting my hair cut kind of weird. This time proved to be no better.

Ten minutes before my appointment, after I drove an hour, I got a call that my usual colorist called in sick. Someone else would fill in. Whatever. I thought it would not matter. Until I was greeted, or grunted at, by my replacement colorist. His sparkly scarf and heeled boots should have given away that he would love himself way more than me. He grumbled something along the lines of "What are you wanting done?" To which I basically said, "Can you look up my previous color? That is what I want." Without so much as a reply, he walked away. Fifteen minutes later, he magically returned. Silently. With color.

"Um. What do you have going on there? Is that the color I had last time?"

No reply. Just a prissy pursing of the lips. A face that said obviously.

Fine. Prissy Pants. Just remember, I tip based on how special you make me feel. Fail. Big fail for you.

At least the color came out right.


Which is more than I can say for my hair cut. And I don't get it. I even brought in a picture. Not just a celebrity picture with some impossible to recreate haircut. Oh no. I brought a picture of me. With my very own hair. Cut just like I like it.

And still hairdresser number two could not get it. What the hell?

PS Please send wigs.

**Updated**

I just broke out the scissors. I should be a fucking hairdresser. My hair looks awesome now.

It would probably be more impressive if I had a before shot to go with the after I attacked my hair with scissors shot. But my husband thought I was crazy enough making him take an after picture of my hair for my blog. Also, pretend that light fixture does not look like it is growing from my head.

Apparently I like Tiffani-Amber Thiessen's hair. A lot.

I don't have a lot of patience with stupid people. Stupid people waste my time. They get in my way. When I have to explain to you how to do your job, I am going to get irritated. Or when you make the same mistake fifteen times? Also going to annoy the shit out of me.

Yesterday I made a hair appointment. Which reminds me, I can't decide what to do with my hair. I have always had some sort of swoop or bangs or something. I kind of grew it out for my wedding. I attempted to get it fixed at my last appointment. But my hairdresser decided having a baby was more important that cutting my hair. The bitch. I tried a new girl. She sucked. Now I am on new hair dresser number two. And I can't decide what I should do with my hair.

But back to the point. I made a hair appointment. And then I needed to cancel it and reschedule for tomorrow. So I called the salon.

Now. Perhaps it was my fault for confusing them by calling from the office line, instead of my cell phone which was in their system. Because I know it can be super confusing to understand that some people might have access to more than one phone. So after establishing that my number on file did not match the one of the caller ID on purpose, we moved on.

"I need to reschedule my appointment with Beatrix." Bitch's name is really Beatrice. You are fooling no one with the faux hip spelling.

"Mrs. Mylastname, I don't see that you had an appointment."

"Yes. It is today at 11."

"Oh. Hmmm. Well, I see a Tricia ThelastnameIjustfuckingtoldher at 11." I must have pronounced Tricia wrong.

"Yeah. That is me."

"Okay, great. Well your appointment is today at 11."

"Yes. I know. I just told you that. I need to cancel it. And then make a new one." I start speaking slowly. It is obviously going to be a long conversation.

"Oh. Okay. Well did you need to cancel that one for today then?"

Really, Genius? What ever gave you that idea?

My phone does tricks. And could be a weapon.

Let's discuss some things. Well really just one thing.

I just figured out I can post blogs from my phone. I know this is probably something I should have long since figured out, but I tend to resist change. Use a phone for email? Beh. Read blogs in the waiting room of the millions of appointments I go to a week. Meh. But finally the waiting room boredom drew me in. And then. Today. I got this idea. I wanted to know if I could blog while in the school pick up line. Or at the dentist. And I can!

Aren't you proud of me?

Now. I should also mention that I am seriously considering throwing my phone at the lady across from me if she does not get quit attempting to make small talk with me. See my wall? Respect it.

His what, where?

I was looking for pictures of busted sprinkler pipes and stumbled on this article. And really how do you top the man getting his penis stuck in a pipe story.

It's Cold

I wish I was back here.

Double Standards

How come when my husband is bored it is okay for him to call me forty seven times in twenty three minutes? But when I call him out of boredom, he acts all irritated like he didn't want to know what I had for lunch. Or that I can take nineteen REALLY big steps from the desk to couch.

2010. Fuck You.

How has this new year been so far? Hmmm... let's see.

I am so sick I can barely stand up. Some sort of combo sinus infection and bronchial infection. You would not believe the pain it causes to sneeze or cough, which happens roughly every three seconds. I started off with that cough syrup so nice they make songs about it (Mom, that's the codeine one, since you are really confused right now..... She doesn't get down with Purple Stuff.). When even that wasn't helping me sleep, they kicked it up a notch to some crazy medicine that taste like shit and gives me insane dreams. Honestly, I am not sure it it works or just makes me so damn loopy I don't care that I can't breathe.

On the way to the doctor the other day, I stopped by the mail box praying my new insurance cards were in. They were not. It was fun paying out of pocket for the doctor and two medications WHEN YOU HAVE INSURANCE. What I did find in the mail was a lovely packet from the IRS.

I was audited. I kind of blew it off at first thinking it was some dumbass from the IRS's mistake, because clearly I had not under reported my income. Obviously, they had transposed my 2007 income with my 2008 income. I certainly did not owe them money. Except I did, because it was my accountant who transposed my 2007 and 2008 incomes. Which is awesome because I more than doubled my 2007 income in 2008. There are a whole lot of zeros behind the number I now owe the IRS after the back due taxes, penalties, and interest.

During one of my phone calls with my accountant, also known as my ex-mother-in-law, I learned that my ex-husband's phone was not working because he shut if off since he is leaving the country for over six months. Awesome, since he had told no one, including his daughter of this plan. Best part? He is to go marry some girl he met while travelling, who I highly suspect is a prostitute, and bring her back to the US. I think their first meeting when something like this. "Me love you long time." "Let's get married. I'll take you to the US." When I finally did get in touch with him, I demanded he tell his daughter about his plans. He only bothered to tell her the part where he was leaving the country. I guess he just plans on showing up on the doorstep, "Hey Jill. Meet your new mommy. She speaks no English. Who is hungry for noodles?" Do they even eat noodles in Thailand? The good news is, I know for a fact that half blond, half Thai babies are pretty damn cute, right Zak? So there's that.

To recap:
I am sick.

I owe the IRS thousands. That is thousands. Emphasis on the plural.

My ex-husband is marrying a hooker. Which is either a step up or step down from a stripper, depending on how you look at it.


I am going back to the couch now. Let me know when 2010 is fucking over.