HIV Fun and Games

I went to get tested for HIV this week with a friend I'll call Ewe Girl. We've been friends for 5 years, and I've seen her go from a shy teenager (19 yrs old) to a college graduate that has blossomed in many ways. Being friends with her has been the closest thing I've ever had to a little sister. She's the best and I love her dearly. She's also neurotic. She's had limited sex partners and low risk sexual activities. But because I love her, I agreed to go get tested for HIV with her. It's a good thing to do, and I haven't been tested in a long time because I was with H2 for almost 6 years.

We go down to a clinic in San Diego because they have a rapid HIV test that gives results in 20 minutes. I knew that I could not deal with Ewe Girl freaking out for a couple of weeks until the results came back, so this seemed like the way to go. The clinic is near Lips for those of you that know SD. For those of you not in the area, let's just say that many of the residents live alternative lifestyles. So, I know it's in bad taste to laugh at people but OMG there were some funny gay guys in the clinic waiting to be tested. It was really hard to keep a straight face with all the swishing about and such.

Which brings me back to Ewe Girl. She's straight, but she's one of those rare girls that looks HOT with short hair. Her current hairstyle is modeled after this picture from the movie High Tension. Ewe Girl loves horror flicks. Can you imagine bringing this picture in to a hair stylist and saying "Make me look like her"? I'm not kidding either. She literally has this picture in her room. One of the things I love about her. So, I digress. We are in the clinic waiting to have our numbers called. I go in first, and the woman administering the test asks me a zillion questions. The first question she doesn't even bother to ask. She just confirms "You're heterosexual". Okay. Whatever. Now I was quite adventurous in my youth, however I've been really tame in the last ten years due to H1 and H2. Marriage isn't usually a high risk endeavor, at least sexually. By the time she's done asking me questions about my sexual activity, I'm feeling quite prudish. Here are a few examples:

"Have you had sex with a transsexual in the past year?"

"Uh. No."

"Have you had sex with a prostitute in the past year"

"Uh. No."

"Have you had sex with an IV drug user in the past year?"

"Uh. No."

"Have you been paid for sex in the last year?"

"Does a set of Henckels count?"

She drones on and on.... I nod off, she checks the "no" box over and over. Finally, I get a "yes" answer!!

"Have you had any piercings or tattoos in the past year?"

"YES!!"

Okay, so it wasn't very exciting for me. I'm negative, I have a signed statement stating that I'm HIV free. I think I should frame it and hang it up in my office. My co-workers would LOVE that. Ewe Girl had more fun. Apparently her tester thought she was gay. Short hair, lack of makeup, in an area that is pretty gay. The tester asked her a bunch of times if she was gay, bisexual, had intercourse with a girl, blah blah. Ewe Girl came out afterwards cracking up. Talk about stereotyping, huh?

What's the moral this story? Well, I wanted to introduce Ewe Girl. I wanted to say that everyone should get tested for HIV. It was pretty fast, free, and mildly entertaining. A great thing to do with your afternoon. I think I'll go back next week. Maybe I'll have so much fun this weekend that I'll be able to answer more questions "Hell yes! I've done that thousands of times!"

The Dust Mites are Coming!

My mother is bizarre. That's putting it nicely. The other day she called me up because she has little red bumps on her arms. Here's a recap of the conversation:

Mom: Oh my god there are dust mites all over my bed.

Sam: Uh huh.

Mom: They bit me all over my arms, I have little red bumps everywhere. They are jumping around like crazy.

Sam: Oh wow. Uh huh. That sucks.

Mom: I'm going to buy a special mattress cover and wash all my bedding in hot water and bleach.

Sam: Okay.

I didn't know how to respond to this conversation, which is quite typical when speaking with my mother. To those of you that don't understand the significance of this conversation, I've included a picture of a dust mite.
Notice how the picture seems a bit...weird? That's because dust mites are microscopic. That means that you CAN'T SEE THEM! So unless my mother was watching them jump around with her handy microscope, she's on crack. Which I already knew. I wonder what she'd be like if she really was on crack? Maybe she'd be normal. That would be pleasant change.

How about another exciting mother/angst story? My mother wouldn't let me get my ears pierced until I was 13. She said I wasn't responsible enough to have pierced ears. Which doesn't sound too crazy, right? Except... she got me contacts when I was 10. Think about that for a moment. Now, please don't get the impression that I'm whining about getting my ears pierced, or that I'm bemoaning my horrible childhood. At this point, I'm no longer upset about the sheer stupidity of my mother. The best way to describe it would be learning about a culture that is completely different from yours. With traditions that seem, well... different. You scratch your head and wonder what the fuck they were thinking. They probably look at you and think the same thing.

Here's another example for you to ponder:
When I divorced H1 my mother recommended that I get my tubes tied. I was 25. I had one child. (I still do, although I've misplaced him for the summer.) Why the fuck would I get my tubes tied at 25? I'm a great mom, my kid is scary bright, does well in school, lots of friends, blah blah, well-adjusted, blah. It's not like I'm a heroin addict with 6 kids. I may want another child some day. In the meantime, I used this new age stuff called...wait...birth control. And it's much less drastic than a tubal ligation.

This week, I was having miserable cramps and my legs were aching like motherfuckers. It happens, it's not a big deal and just part of being a chick. My mom recommends a hysterectomy. She does this casually, like it's taking an Advil or something. WTF? I just shake my head and walk away.

I Just Need To Vent

I'm bored. My kid (M) is on the east coast for TWO months. H3.2 is having crazy fun setting up new servers at work. I'm not used to being bored. But I am. Bored. I'm too tired to do anything constructive, like clean, exercise. I'd be down for some nookie but without H3.2, I'd have to go solo. And that's too much work for me right now. So I'm cooking some yummy GF penne (dripping sarcasm) and blogging. Do I have a life? Did I leave it around here someplace? It's amazing to me how lost I feel without my kid around. Even though he would be fast asleep by now. Fuck. This sucks. I do have a purpose for this post. I was driving to my office today (something I do several times a week) and I thought, once again, that people are total fucking imbeciles.

I drive to work on a highway that has two lanes going east, and two going west. Is that considered a four lane highway? Even if the east and west are separated by a big space? It doesn't matter. What does matter is that the speed limit is 65. There are two lanes. A fast lane and a slow lane. (The fast lane is on the left, dummy!) In other parts of the country, the fast lane is the passing lane. I like this concept. Use the lane to pass the fucking slow people in the right lane, and then get the hell out of the way of the speed demon that is slowly entering your anus. Either way, here is my theory on the fast lane. I understand that it's not original, but DAMMIT people, pay attention.

When you are in the left lane and there is no one behind you and there are slower cars in the right lane, you are just fine. However, if someone comes up behind you, that means...wait..stop...here is a revelation that you must pay attention to: it means that they want to go FASTER and you should get the fuck out of the way. Otherwise, the person behind you may employ dangerous passing and tailgating maneuvers to get you out of their way. And that, ladies and gentlemen leads to accidents. Accidents are bad.

Now, some of you are saying: "I was going 70 and that's over the speed limit so why should I get over?" Because to you, Grandma, 70 is the speed of light. To an angry young man (who hasn't gotten laid EVER) 70 is what they do in a parking lot. Just before sliding into a spot. Do you want to risk your life over your version of "fast"? Just get over. Now. Traffic will flow more smoothly, and you won't piss someone off so badly that they do something stupid and cause an accident.

If there are 15 cars lined up behind you, and you're going 85 with 1/2 mile between you and the person in front of you, get the fuck out of the way. You aren't going fast enough for those people, and therefore you are holding up traffic. I don't care if you're going 120mph on a surface street. Just move. Please. There will always be someone wanting to go faster. Let them claim their Darwin's Award on their own.

National Confession Week

In honor of her greatness, The Hot Librarian, I am participating in National Confession Week. I have racked my brain for an appropriate confession, because there are so, so many things that I could confess. I wanted a big confession. A vindictive story to titillate the masses. Or just something that I found amusing. It all began in 1999...

H1 and I divorced in 1999. The terms of our divorce included me getting "custody" of our new car. I was to have it for 2 years, H1 was to pay the payments on it during that time. When I was to give back the car, I would receive our older car, or a car of equivalent value. After 1 year, I get a call from H1. He stopped making the payments on the new car, and I needed to drive it 700 miles to where he lived to give it back. It was getting repossessed. To make this even better, he sold our old car which I was supposed to get and now was going to give me a car that he had bought at an auction and fixed up.

I drove to drop off the car and pick up the used car. I don't even remember the year it was, I just remember it was a VW. I drove it directly over to my dad's house (he lived near H1) and had him check it out. The car needed a little work. A few minor details and it would be fine. All I needed to replace was the engine, radiator, transmission, clutch and THE WHOLE FUCKING CAR! It barely made it back to San Diego. It would overheat if it wasn't in constant motion. It was a pile of total and complete shit. I was soo pissed.

A couple of months later, my mom gives me a call. The finance company that owned the car that I drove to H1 was looking for their car. He hadn't given it back and still wasn't making payments. Now, please note that my divorce from H1 was nasty. Involved a 21 year old psychotic girl with a HUGE rack. He had it coming. So I called the finance company back. I gave them his home phone number, his work phone number, his home address and his work address. I told them his work hours and the best time to repossess the car. I was angry. I was vengeful. I felt better.

Even Sweeter

I promise this blog will not become a never-ending saga of how sweet my dear H3.2 is, however this one I must tell. First, a little background is necessary. When H2 moved out, he took a lot of essential kitchen items. I didn't want to have a protracted, bitter divorce so I let him take everything he wanted. And he wanted our knives. Now, for those of you that aren't into knives, this may not bum you out. However, when you lose a set of Henckel Pro S series knives, you're not a happy camper.

I packed H2's belongings as he was too busy working to pack his own stuff. I kept one knife, an 8" chef's knife. I didn't tell him that I kept the knife. I loved that knife. All of his things are in storage, so he didn't even know it was missing. He came over on Friday to bring my darling child home and was in the kitchen talking to his cat (that still lives with me and I can't wait until he takes her) when he noticed the knife sitting on the kitchen counter. Needless to say, he left with the knife. My only good knife. I was so sad.

I went crying to H3.2, and he was a real dear. He didn't make fun of me for crying over a stupid knife, and did all the appropriate cuddling and listening behaviors while I vented. Then he looked online to find out how much the knife retailed for, and I was so upset I couldn't even remember if the knife was a Henckel or a Wustof. He didn't know very much about knives, however quickly educated himself. He told me that we should go to the mall so I could handle several different types and decide what I liked best. The next day he took me to the mall and I recognized the Henckel Pro S series as the one I had owned.

He offered to buy me the knife, and I was hesitant about it because I have some trouble accepting things from people. Little things like gifts, or big things like love and affection. We agreed that I would buy dinner that evening, and he would buy me the knife. Then he bought me the 8 piece set. When we were bargaining, I heard "knife". He was saying "knives". Oh my God! So I went home with my knives after taking my darling to P.F. Chang's for dinner. For all of you out there that have wheat issues, P.F. Chang's has a gluten free menu. H3.2 researched it before we went because he's the fucking greatest!

The Sweetest Thing

I got a text message on my cell today from H3.2:

.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-

WTF?! Since I was getting my ass burned to a crisp at the pool, I didn't have this handy link to translate until several hours later. *sigh* That's so damn sweet, and I'm so damn easy. Who knew that you could make a girl swoon with Morse code?

I Love Telemarketers!

I have many stories about the sad, sad plight of telemarketers. They call my house, I fuck with them horribly, they laugh, they cry, and so on. This is just one story about a telemarketer calling my house this week.

TM: Hi, is Mr. or Mrs. XX home? This is TM from Wells Fargo Bank.
Sam: This is Mrs. XX.
TM: I'm calling you with a great offer from Wells Fargo Bank. We are offering you protection for your family through our Accidental Death Insurance. Blah Blah Blah. Only 1 dollar for the first 60 days to protect your family.

(I need to pause here. This is wrong on sooo many levels that I will have to put it in another post. Let's just say that a facet of my job involves insurance, and what she is selling is a crock of shit.)

Sam: Well, TM I'm so sorry but I'm going through a divorce (okay it's already final but that ruins the flow of what I'm about to say) and if my husband dies in the next 60 days it won't be accidental.

TM: (cracks up) Oh my goodness, you just made my day! That was hilarious!

She actually lets me off the phone at that point. She was happy, I was happy. It's not often that I mess with telemarketers and they are bright enough to know that I'm fucking with them. They usually don't appreciate my comments. I don't appreciate being sold crap over the phone.

A's in School, F's in Marriage

I always did well in school, graduated from college with honors after putting in a minimal amount of effort. (This is my attempt to bolster my self-esteem before plunging down the murky path of my marital failures). My first marriage, at the ripe old age of 21, came six weeks after meeting my husband. We'll call him H1, and I'll explain the nickname later in this tale. I met H1 in a bar in TJ. For those of you not familiar with my hometown, let's just say that I was in a seedy bar in Mexico. You only need to be 18 to drink legally in Mexico, and I was drinking tequila like it was water. Except, I wouldn't drink the water in Mexico. I think you get the point, right? We met, married six weeks later, moved to Virginia and settled down. We bought a house, had a child, etc. It lasted four years. I ended up back home in San Diego with my son.

The second time around, I dated someone that I had known since high school. We lived together for three years before we got married. I thought I had grown, learned a few things about life, marriage, blah, blah. My divorce was final May 2, 2005. I suck.

After much soul searching I realized a couple of things about H1 and H2. They were the same person essentially, although H2 was an upgrade. Similar to Windows 98 and Windows 2000. I don't think I need to beat the analogy to death, do I? I got along with both husbands great on a friendship level, we all have the same twisted sense of humor. As husbands though, they didn't work out. Maybe for another girl, but not for me. Imagine my chagrin when I finally understood that I married the same man. Twice. Duh! Oh yeah, and they are both Cancers. I know it's silly, but I stay away from Cancers now. My mom is also a Cancer. I should know better.

So, today I have a good relationship with H1. He is remarried, several stepkids, great wife and a new daughter. I think the new wife (we'll call her NW from now on) is the best thing that ever happened to him. NW makes sure he calls my son (let's call him M) and sends him gifts at the appropriate times throughout the year. If H1 ever left NW, I'd kill him. So M is spending the whole summer with H1 and family. It's the first time he's spent the whole summer away from me, and I'm still in denial.

My relationship with H2 is civil, sometimes friendly and rather complicated. For the sake of this entry, I won't go into all of it today. My point (if I have one) is to briefly explain my two failed marriages, and how my exes got named H1 and H2.

I was hired at my current place of employment (CPE for simplicity) in August of 2003. I filed for divorce in November of 2004. H2 had never seen my office, had only the vaguest idea of where it was, and had only met one coworker one time at my house. He was really, really involved with my life. When I told my boss that I was getting a divorce, he joked that he doubted H2 even existed. Because the only person that ever saw him was a girl I'll call DJ. Stands for Drunk (fill name here). As a lush, her vouching for the existence of H2 did not hold a lot of weight with my boss. My boss further decided that as I was beginning to rival Elizabeth Taylor in my numerous marriages (my boss gives me a LOT of shit - he's great) that he couldn't be bothered to remember all those names. So he calls them H1 (husband one) and H2 (husband two). He also made a bet with a coworker of mine that I would be engaged/married by the end of 2005. This man would be, of course, H3.

So, now I'm in the dating world again. Those adventures are for another day. However, any man I date now has a designation at work. I dated a man earlier this year, he was H3. Not because we got married, just because my boss loves to bust my balls. I got rid of H3 (another story for another day), I'm dating someone else. He is H3.2. I don't know how this happened. A typical day at the office, chit chat with the boss, he asks "So, how's H3.2?" Oh my God. This is also the man that has convinced the office that I am 32. Because he's 32 and he loves to fuck with me. I'm 31 DAMMIT. Don't age me any more!!

I apologize for the long-winded nature of this post, I thought a little background on my life might come in handy when I'm posting about the trials and tribulations of H1, H2, H3..... Make sure to take notes, there will be a quiz on this later.

Grammar 101

I understand that the Internet is a place where people can write whatever they want, without the dastardly grammar police hauling them off to redo basic English classes. I understand that it's not cool to care about grammar, and that all the really cool kids are in too much of a hurry being cool and doing cool things to care about grammar. For all of you that agree with the above statements, please don't waste your precious cool time reading this post. This post is for those people that get annoyed by poor grammar skills, in person and online. You've been forewarned.

First, let me say that my grammar isn't perfect. However, there are a few basic words that I can use correctly and I have developed a primer for their use:

Your and you're: "You're such a drunk asshole, your penis is hanging out of your pants and you didn't even notice it."

Notice you're is a contraction that means "you are" while "your" indicates possession.

Accept and except: "I would accept your slobbery, drunken excuses for fucking my sister, except for the fact that you're still inside of her you ASSHOLE!"

Notice how I managed to use your/you're and accept/except

Where and were: "Where were you when you puked your guts out? I'm asking because there is still vomit drying on your shirt."

Which brings me to another favorite grammar fuckup, there and their.

There and their: "When did you leave the twins' house? I know you were there, I can smell their juices all over you."

To and too: "When are you going to Pure Platinum? I want to go, too."

Okay, I have one left. This one usually bothers me in real life. I've corrected my boss in the middle of a meeting about this one. (I know I'm an asshole) It's my biggest pet peeve.

Less and fewer: "I have slept with fewer guys than Sheila has, therefore I am less of a slut."

Let me explain this one, because it really is simple. If you can count something on your fingers, use fewer. If you can't count it, use less. When you're at the grocery store and you read "10 items or less" just understand that the grocery store sign people are fucking stupid and you can't help them. Oh, and I know I sometimes end my sentences in prepositions. My 7th grade English teacher would have a stroke.

Bikini Wax

One day I took my son to get a haircut at his favorite salon. He will only let one person cut his hair. I know, he's a bit young to be such a snob about it, but what can I say? She's hot, she's stacked and she does a great job. What more could you ask for? I'm talking to Elena about the work she did in Hawaii years ago before she came to San Diego. She did some waxing back then, so of course I ask her what it is like to wax "down there". I can't imagine having the cute girl that does my eyebrows wax between my legs. I just can't go there. I'll take care of that part myself, thank you. So my kid wants to know what we're talking about. I have a policy of explaining most everything (within reason) to him because I think the typical American view of sex and nudity is stupid. There is nothing wrong with the human body. So I remind him that I get my eyebrows waxed. And some people like to get other parts of their bodies waxed, like other facial areas, arms, legs and their "parts". I explained it very simply and without any excitement. End of story. I thought.

A week or so later I was at a good friend's house with my son. She was trying on various new clothing items and attempting to figure out which ones made her look fat/slim etc. My son comes in the room and is giving his two cents. As my friend changes pants, my son looks directly at her and says "Wow. You need a bikini wax." OH MY GOD. You have to realize that my friend is wearing very conservative underwear. However, her pubic hair is out of control, growing down the inside of her legs. I don't know who is more embarrassed. I want to die. Luckily, she has a sense of humor and knows my son very well. Kids call it like they see it.

Just Walk Away

I was dating this guy Brian years ago when the earth still had a new car smell. He was intelligent, decent looking, and had no social skills. I realized early on that in his pursuit of a higher education he forgot to study the human race. Or interact with humans in any way. At all. He was snotty and annoying. And he caught me in a bad mood, one that I refer to as 1999. I was pretty pissed off for most of that year, coping with a divorce from H1 (more about that later). So I broke up with him. By telling him a story, a parable you might say. Here is my story:

"When I go clothes shopping, I always grab something random to try on. It might be four inch gold spike heels, or a really loud, tight-ass pair of pants. Just something that I would never ordinarily wear. Sometimes I'm amazed at how good it looks, and I'm proud of myself for trying something different. Sometimes I actually end up buying the item. But mostly, I have a good laugh at the insane/ugly thing that I tried on, and leave it sitting there on the dressing room floor. You, Brian, are that ugly thing."

Unlike Jason, the crazy stalker, he got it. I never heard from him again. Maybe you can learn something at Princeton.

No Trip To Florida

My Mother announced a couple of months ago that she was going on a trip to Florida to visit some friends this summer. Because she can never do anything on a normal scale, she decided that she would take my son with her and do a tour of Disney World, Universal Studios, etc. Of course she didn't ask me if the trip was okay before telling my son all about it. After the Florida trip, she would fly my son to visit his father (in another state) while she continued on to Michigan. She told me that she would pay for the whole trip, including airfare. As I was planning on flying my son to visit his dad anyway, this meant I would be saving several hundred dollars on airfare. Plus, my son was REALLY excited about going to Florida and visiting some amusement parks. Sounded like a win-win situation to me. Except for one small thing. This is my life. And my mom.

So... a week ago my mom realizes that the money she was expecting isn't going to come in time for the trip. And there probably won't be enough money for the trip. She tells me this and then asks me not to tell my son yet. WHAT?! When am I supposed to tell him? Before or after he packs his bags? So I have to tell an eight year-old that his grandmother is insane (which he already has a grasp of at this point) and that the trip to Florida is probably not going to happen. Here's a recap of the conversation:

Sam: M, your grandma called and said that the trip to Florida might not happen.

M: Why? (begins to look upset)

Sam: Well, your grandma was counting on money coming in and it doesn't look like it will be here in time for your trip. I can't think of a good analogy for, it, but...

M: She counted her chickens before they hatched?

Wow. I'm continually stunned by the stuff that comes out of this kid's mouth. Although he was pretty upset, I booked the flight to the east coast, and he will have a great summer visiting his dad, stepmom (who is wonderful), his stepsisters and his half sister. My Mother's birthday is this week, and I'd love to include the bill for the airfare in her card. "Happy Birthday. Fuck you."

Crazy Stalker Fun

Many years ago I dated a young man named Jason. A mutual friend introduced us. He seemed nice enough, he was taking classes at the local community college and working full time. After a few outings I realized that the guy was dumber than a mud fence. Example: He used deodorant (without antiperspirant) and did not understand why he still sweated and STUNK to high heaven. Wow. There are many things that I can tolerate in a mate, and stupidity is not one of them. So I broke it off. He continued to call me. I told him nicely that I didn't want to see him anymore. I screened my calls. He called day and night. I finally told him to fuck off. He still didn't get it. So one day, I devised a plan. I picked up the phone when he called and invited him to a picnic at the beach. I told him that I would pack a basket of goodies and we could hang out together. Any person with half a brain would have smelled a rat. Especially when I told him to pick me up early on Saturday morning. (I hate the morning. I think mornings should be cancelled. Permanently.)

Then I called one of my best guy friends, and asked him to spend the night on Friday night. He slept on the couch. Thirty minutes before Jason was supposed to come over and pick me up, I woke up my friend, and had him get in bed with me (a twin bed). I put on a sexy little thing, opened some condoms, threw the condoms away and left the wrappers on the floor. I tossed a pair of cute panties and a bra on the floor of my room. I had my friend strip down to his boxers. We waited for Jason to knock on the door. My roommate's boyfriend answered the door and directed Jason to my room.

Jason opened my bedroom door and here is the ensuing conversation:

Jason: Uh, are you ready to go? I thought we were going to the beach.

Sam: Oh, I'm so tired, I've been up alll night. (I can't believe he's still standing there!!)

Jason: Well, are we going?

So, at this point I'm trying to keep a straight face. I can not believe this guy. Shouldn't he be pissed off, freaking out, screaming and running out the door? He's just standing there. Looking confused at the condom wrappers and panties on the floor. I finally tell him I'm not going, and he leaves. Then I fall to the floor laughing my ass off. The guy is too stupid for words.

Food Obsession

I obsess over food. Not in your usual American eating way too much of everything and getting really fat way. I obsess over particular foods for a period of time. For instance, I have a recurring obsession for Thai food. Specifically Thai Iced Tea and Mango with Sticky Rice. The main course varies. I will crave Thai food for a couple of months. Which means that by the end of month two, everyone I know (including my poor child) stops asking me what I want to eat. I mention going out to eat, and everyone groans and gets busy doing something else. My current obsession is The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf's Belgian Chocolate Latte. Oh my GOD! I have one every day. I've obsessed over fruit smoothies, french fries, barbecue ribs, Cream of Rice, pudding, you name it. I'm convinced that whatever I'm craving has some vitamin or nutrient that my body needs. All my friends are convinced that I'm insane.

Double My Money

I received a phone call one day from someone that knows I work in the financial world. "Joe" is a young, sweet boy that I'm sure just wanted to help a friend. Joe gives me the phone number of a friend of his, and tells me that this friend "Brian" has some money that he wants to invest and needs my help. So I call Brian. Here's the Cliff's Notes version of the conversation:

Sam: Hi Brian, this is Sam from XX company. How are you today? Joe told me that you needed some financial advice.

Brian: Yeah, I have some money that I'd like to invest.

Sam: Well, Brian I can't give you advice over the phone, but I'd be willing to meet with you and discuss your options. How much money are you looking to invest and what do you want to accomplish with this money?

Brian: I have 1000 dollars and I want to double my money within six months. But I don't want to take on a lot of risk.

I'm driving while I'm having this conversation, and at this point I'm trying not to crash my car because I'm laughing so hard. My first thought was "Red or Black?". I almost gave Brian the directions to the nearest casino. Or maybe Vegas. It's only five hours away.

Where are her parents?

My son loves watching Animal Planet, especially The Most Extreme. He is currently watching an espisode about the biggest mouths in the animal kingdom. I love this show. Although it's a bit sensational, it is chock full of interesting animal tidbits. With all of the crap on television today, I greatly appreciate shows that don't focus on sex and violence. Unless I'm watching tv, of course. So, I look up from my comfy position on the couch and see a 13 year-old girl stuffing hundreds of straws into her mouth. At the same time. Am I the only one that sees something wrong with this? I can only imagine what her junior high school classmates think of this talent. I don't think I need to paint a picture of this, do I? Luckily, my son is 8 and doesn't look at a 13 year-old with a huge, gaping maw and think of blow jobs.