I Love The Innernets...

...and hate the real world. Yesterday I saw a father watching his daughter play on the escalator in the mall. She was about three steps down and was attempting to go UP the DOWN escalator. I am guessing that she was about five or six years old. As she struggled to hop up the wrong way her father had the older brother (about eight or nine years old) go onto the escalator THE WRONG WAY and attempt to pull her to the top. While the father watched from a vantage point where he had no physical access to either child. The two children made it safely to the top of the DOWN escalator and I held back the urge to kick the living shit of the father.

People in Walmart make me crazy, too. I was attempting to look at something in a particular aisle where this woman, her cart, and her three children were milling about. I patiently parked my cart out of the way of everyone else in the aisle and waited. And then waited some more. Eventually she looked up and said, "Oh, do you want to get by?" I smiled and nodded and was perfectly pleasant as I pushed my cart down the aisle. At this point in my life (minimal medication and maximum hormones) I am very non-confrontational in public. I am afraid that if I open my mouth I am going to fucking lose my collective shit. Er, lose my shit more I suppose would be more accurate.

Are you familiar with people that need anti-anxiety medication (or any brain meds) and they go on it and feel great and then think to themselves, "Self, I am perfectly fine. I do not need medication." So they go off the medication and are stunned when they are totally fucking anxious? Yeah, that's not me so much. I like feeling like a normal person. However, I had forgotten some of the more fun and exciting parts of anxiety. Which, by the way is a super great gift from the fibromyalgia gods. Thanks! Recently I was reminded of how not fun it is to drive while anxious. No, I'm not putting myself or others in danger. Sheesh! I just have some reservations about parking in a spot to my right. I second guess myself and my inner anxious monologue sounds something like this, "Is there enough room? Are you sure? A huge truck just pulled out but are you SURE the little Honda will fit in that spot? Maybe the truck can bend space and time and fit but I don't know if you can do it. How about a bigger spot? Like the one two miles away in your driveway?"

This is where I have to (again) weigh the costs and benefits of taking my measly amount of Celexa every other day. I'm still able to DO things, I just prefer to be able to park like a person that has been driving for almost twenty years. Is my discomfort worth any possible risks? What about how my discomfort impacts Adrienne Stephanie? GAH! No wonder I hate people. My tolerance for interaction is currently at a very low level. Which brings me back to lovin' the innernets. You all rock my world. Thank you for giving me a little piece of sanity in this world.

PS. ANNA IT IS NOT A FUCKING WIG. DON'T MAKE ME DEDICATE A POST TO THE BEAUTY OF YOUR CURLY HAIR. I WILL TAKE YOU DOWN.

Switching Gears

When I was a very little girl, my dad used to spend a lot of time on the race track circuit kicking ass and taking names. My mom and I would travel with him, rooting him on and probably inhaling all kinds of wonderful things. Yay asthma! According to family legend, the first time I went to the races I was six weeks old. When the light turned green my body would levitate from all the noise. Because bringing a tiny baby to the race track is a super neato idea, right? I can't believe I am not deaf. However, I managed to survive and drink up a love of fast cars, burning tire smell, and OMG the smell of a greasy garage does something for me. No, that isn't twisted at all. Really.

When my father passed away I inherited a shitload of tools. When Teddy Bear moved in with me I found someone that shared my passion for going fast AND someone with the know-how to mess with cars. So hot! I am sure that with my tool collection I had Teddy Bear in the bag. Old chick? Check. Kid? Check. Baggage? Check. Tools? OH YEAH. Damn, where was the point? Oh, yeah. Remember the door handle that TB ripped off The Car? I promised a post about The Car. This post! How exciting! Let's do a pee-pee dance, shall we?

Thursday night I took a trip down to San Diego in The Car to hang out with LD2 and the cantelope that she apparently swallowed. This picture is an approximation of The Car, so you know kind of what I am talking about without skeeving me out too much. It's a convertible, it goes fast, and it is gray. I thought that the whole hauling ass with the wind in my hair thing would do my irritable mood some good. We had a great time and I had a little bit of frisky left upon arriving back in my home city. Fuck I hate calling this place home.

Somehow I managed to encourage not one but two cars to race me down the southern main strip of my city. Without even giving anyone the "hey baby, wanna race?" look. Not the "I'm going as fast as I can because I want a ticket or to cause death and dismemberment"type of race but the "light turns green punch it through a couple gears and then slow down upon hitting the speed limit" race. And I got schooled by a fucking Toyota Camry.

*pause for laughter*

I did try more than once. It was late, there was very little traffic and we caught several red lights in a row. It was close, but I lost. I know part of the problem is that I am still trying to dance the fine line between slamming the car into first, having all the weight shift to the rear and impotently spinning the front tires for a while OR starting too slowly and losing my ass. But a FUCKING CAMRY? A four-door sedan? What the fuckity fuck? I went home and moped to TB about my loss and he had the exact same reaction. Then we asked the innernets what the fuck was up with the 2008 Camry.

The four-door 2008 Toyota Camry with the bigger V6 has an automatic transmission and 270 horsepower. STOCK. The Car has 205hp stock but we guesstimate that it is about 250ish now. But can you fucking believe that shit? A CAMRY!!! TB talked to a good friend that has driven one and he says it fucking hauls off the line. I feel vindicated, however I still gave TB the pouty girl look and requested that The Car at least be equipped to kick a Camry's ass. Pu-lease!

Sidenote: I still own my super wimpy almost ten-years old Japanese four-door sedan. It is my daily driver. The Car is our summer fling and we're driving to Santa Barbara with the top down so WHEEEE!! car. Also, The Car gets similar gas mileage to the sedan, so I'm not killing the earth when I drive it around in a more sedate fashion. The only sucky part is that I am under strict orders to only fill up with super-duper gas. Do you have any idea how fucking expensive 91 octane gas in Southern California is these days?

Damn Meme

Longtime readers know how I feel about memes. However, Thanksgiving Mom gets a free pass because I think she's cool. And, she is sending me a book. Yay book! I refuse to tag anyone, however if you decide to take on this meme-leave a comment and I promise to read your meme AND leave you a fascinating comment on your blog. Make sure you tell me which category of bloggy person you fall under (read the directions at the bottom for clarification) I will not throw feces at you, metaphorically or literally when I visit your blog. Unless you appear to be in dire need of some fresh fecal matter. Then I'll take one for the time. Oh! I also deleted a few questions because it's my blog and I'm a narcissist.

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Favorite person (outside family): Dude. Don't even tell me that he's not a person. He's a fucking person, he just has a short stature and body hair issues.

Favorite food: How about funnel cake? I can't eat it but OMFG good funnel cake is WAY better than mediocre sex.

Quirks about you: Hmmm...I am fairly sure that I am one big Quirk, but for the sake of brevity I hate it when dish soap builds up around the cap of the dish soap bottle.

How would the person who loves you most describe you in ten words or less? I am going to make Teddy Bear answer this in the comments.

Any regrets in life? I regret giving up my son for adoption.

Favorite Charity/Cause: I have issues with charities, which are succinctly illustrated by the handy dandy Lowest-Ranked Charities graph I uploaded for your viewing convenience. I would rather do good deeds on a smaller scale than contribute to a charity that may or may not be helping people.

Something you cannot get enough of? Thai tea snow bubbles with boba from Tapioca Express.

Worst job you have ever had? I worked at a rotisserie chicken place where the manager and an employee made fun of my not super huge rack. They would compare it to pre-teen girls that would come into the restaurant. I fucking hated it.

What job would you pay NOT to have? Anything involving sales.

Guilty Pleasure: Caffeine-free Coke. YUM.

Got any confessions? I was over H3.2 long before I left him.

If you HAD to spend $1,000 on YOURSELF, how would you spend it? At Nordstrom on clothes. Duh!

Favorite thing about your house? That it is a house, more specifically a single family home that I live in with my family. I am grateful to have it.

Least favorite thing about your house? That we will need to move to have enough room for a new family member.

One thing you are good at? I give an awesome blow job.

If you could change something about your circumstances, what? I wish I didn't have fibromyalgia.

Who would you like to meet someday? My bloggy friends that I have not met. (I stole this one from Thanksgiving Mom) Oh, and Clint Eastwood a few decades ago. RAWR!

What makes you feel sexy? Dressing up from head to toe and having TB give me that look.

Who is your real life hero? My husband. The way that he takes care of me is amazing. I don't mean financially (although he does that, too) but he fills in all the gaps caused by my fibromyalgia plus a few more.

What is the hardest part of your job? Not being physically capable of having a full-time job means the paychecks suck ass.

When are you most relaxed? In bed with my half of the electric blanket on high, a book or my laptop and a cold drink (water, soy milk, soda) beside me.

What stresses you out? Um...stress? Shit...my bowels stress me out. The OMG I have to: take a horrible shit, fart while getting a massage in a small room, etc. Which I suppose is linked closely to the whole stupid not eating wheat issue, because if my diet is PERFECT my tummy is happier and my ass smells better. Today I realized that if I am a bad person in this life and reincarnation exists I will come back as a Pomeranian with intestinal issues. I cannot imagine having that much ass hair and being that close to the ground.

What can you not live without? Burt's Bees lip balm. I typically have three or more tubes at any given time because cracked, bloody lips are gross. Also, my Dude. I'm not going to talk about humans because like many other normal human beings I am really fond of my family. But Dude? He's the most awesome cat in the history of cats. Ask Gus, she'll back me up on this.

Do you agree or disagree with the recent article that reported that blogs are authored by narcissists? Well that is just stupid. I agree that people that write articles attempting to pigeonhole a diverse group of people are assholes.

Why do you blog? In the beginning, I had quit smoking, my Chicken was at his father's for the summer and I needed something to fill the gap. Now? Writing is therapeutic for me and I enjoy the social aspect. Since I am physically broken I don't get to do things like hiking and skiing and whatever active people do. Blogging is my hobby, my link to the world when I hurt too much to participate and my creative outlet.


Rules:
1. Answer the questions
2. Link back to whoever tagged you
3. Tag eight bloggers to do the same, 2 from each category:
a. New/newer bloggers
b. Bloggy friends
c. Bloggers you would like to get to know better
d. Bloggers you don not think will respond, but you hope will.

Team Building

I'm not a big fan of teams or building or people for that matter. However, when it comes with a weekend by the pool in Santa Barbara and a fancy dinner, I'm in like Flynn. He was such a dirty bastard, wasn't he? Hopefully I'll have teh innernets all weekend and be able to catch up on my comment Twittering and blogging and blah blah blah.

Please Tell Me

Tell me that you all know that the video wasn't my [Hallmark holiday] gift, because if any of you seriously thought that my husband is that kind of a dick AND that I would put up with said dickishness I would be ashamed. Ashamed of you. However, I do not take suggestions lightly, and I believe that Teddy Bear needs Box Lunch: The Layperson's Guide to Cunnilingus written by the lovely Diana Cage. Of course it is written by a woman for two (or more if you'd like I suppose) women to enjoy, but even the most manly man could likely get something out of it. In my opinion, one can never practice the fine art of going downtown overly much.

As far as dildos go, I had one once about fifteen years ago. I loved it dearly and it served a certain purpose at the time. Since then? Meh. I don't really have any needs that aren't well served by TB or my own two hands. You're welcome for the over share.

I had someone at the house one time that observed a random Sam bra hanging out on the couch. He was rather surprised at its plain cotton blah-ness. I suppose if you talk to me at length you might think that I have a whole ball of kinky sexiness at my disposal, including HOT HOT undies. Actually I am all about comfort in my everyday wear. I love cotton. There. I said it. I fucking hate lace, itching, tight rubbing tagged misery. I have issues with skin sensitivity, not that I get rashes but that my stupid body likes to interpret normal clothing as BAD! and HORRID! and OUCH! Some days are better than others. If society wasn't so damn obsessed with my fairly perky tits and HELLO! nipples I would never ever wear a bra. It's not like the damn things move around much without one, they just do their boob thing and occasionally attract my husband's attention.

I don't know if it is the FMS that keeps me from pursuing the crazy fun with toys sex or a unhealthy dose of apathy. I know that devoting energy to figuring out the very best vibrator seems a little silly when I am struggling to get through each day. I like to tell myself that eventually I will get tired of vanilla sex with TB and want to ramp it up to something more appliance-oriented. It's just that vanilla can be awesome. Especially big ole Wookie vanilla. RAWR!

Speaking of FMS, I haven't posted much about how I have been doing lately. The short answer is shitty. Full-time student teaching, including all the preparation before and after school is more than my body can handle. Trying to "pass" is supremely difficult right now. (By "pass" I mean appear like I am not in a fuckton of pain with every muscle in my body stiff and pissed off at me.) I only taught the equivalent of one full day last week, and I don't know if this week will be any better. At this point my supervisor is in my corner and trying to get me full credit without finishing all the hours typically necessary-due to my disability. She thinks that I am a rockstar in the classroom (she is the one that observes four lessons during the eight weeks and makes sure that I am semi-competent). So cross your fingers for me. At this point I won't go back in the fall unless I get pregnant and go into full remission. I just can't do it feeling like I do. Yay fucked up body failing me!

Damn I sound whiney today, huh? I'd really love a nice, hot bath and a couple of darvocet to take the edge off but the urge for a fetus NOT addicted to pain medication is greater. Speaking of my uterus, it's cycle day 23 and I'm having trouble resisting the urge to pee on anything that remotely resembles a pee stick. Watch out Dude and Reina!

My Wookie

I probably forgot to mention that Teddy Bear's real-life nickname is Wookie. Before I had a chance to see him without his shirt on, I thought it meant he was strong, broke things frequently and was super hairy. Luckily for me, it was only the first two things. Sigh of fucking relief because do you see all that hair? Ew.

He is capable of being gentle, however it makes him cranky if he has to do it for extended periods of time. Seriously. The crankitude is due to the effort he has to put forth to not break shit. It requires mad concentration and results in badness if he is interrupted (who can listen to a woman nag AND try not to break shit at the same time?) but he can do it. *breaks into song* "Boooooob the Builder! Can we fix it? Yes we can!" I fucking hate that show. HATE IT.

One of the great things (mentioned by Eliza in the previous post) about having a freakishly strong hubby is that he can pick me up and move me around if I am broken (or passed the fuck out - known as PTFO around these parts) with ease. Of course, I might end up with bruises on the parts of my body that slam into walls (ouch, knees! be careful of the knees!) while being carried, but it's the price you pay, right?

Two Six Hundred

This is my 600th post. I am not a huge celebrator of anniversaries or numbers or quite frankly, any fucking thing. But six hundred is a fuckton of writing. I can't believe that my blog is almost three years old. Although my blogging has waned at times, I have never once (to my spotty recollection) considered throwing in the towel. Either than means I'm too stubborn or too lazy to quit. Whatever. I have learned to make sentences out of single words. I have learned just how much skin I am willing to show off to the world, and how little I care that I am spewing my personal business for all the innernets to see.

I've also realized that I censor some things, while other things just fall the fuck out of my brain and I plain forget to post them. Like the new car. We bought a car a week or two ago, new to us not brand new. And I never posted about it. I'm not posting about it now, although I plan on taking a picture of the missing door handle and posting about that in short order. Teddy Bear is quite well known for breaking shit. There is a technical term for it (help me out here Eliza) but I like to call it "Bull in a china shop" syndrome. Where Teddy Bear is the Bull and the china shop is the world. Shit, the car is probably parked in the driveway and I could take a picture of it and post it right now. Except for the fact that I am horizontal and clad only in my skull and crossbones with a Santa hat undies, tucked warmly into bed and I am NOT moving for your entertainment people.

Back to the door handle. TB was attempting to open the driver's side car door and he ripped off the handle. This was the fucking FOURTH handle that he has removed accidentally in his very short lifetime. Luckily for him, he has never done it to my car, but he has done it to friends vehicles. The new handle has been procured and will be installed by us this weekend, but WTF, man! Sometimes, I think about the possibility of TB handling a newborn baby and then the world goes all black and HEY! he wouldn't break a baby would he?

NIN

Currently, my taste in music and Chicken's coincide nicely. I appreciate this because it is something we can share AND I don't have to listen to fucked off music. Like Country. Or Rap. Ew. Today, on the way back from my weekly massage/chiro adjustment appointment a Nine Inch Nails song came on and Chicken and I struck up a conversation. I was talking about the latest internet release of the new album, the last NIN album that I purchased and whatnot. Chicken asked if that album was Pretty Hate Machine.

Sam: Uh? No. That album came out when I was a sophomore in high school. (Can you believe I remember that, with my Swiss cheese brain?)
Chicken: Wow. They're OLD.
Sam: ...
Chicken: ...
Sam: *blinks*
Chicken: oh. (in a very small voice) Sorry!

By the way, NIN has released their latest album for free on the web (you can find the link on their home page above). It will be available via vinyl or CD this summer. I was talking with TB about it and he was adamant about only having one copy downloaded for our house. That way he can download it and provide it to others via our server and it will cost Trent Reznor less to give to the masses. Isn't that sweet?

Return of the Cooter

Some of you may have noticed that I have been out of town (mostly) since Thursday evening. Yes, it was time again for my semi-annual scrapbook retreat on top of ole Smokey. A fitting nickname considering that I was on top of a mountain and most of the way up to 5000 ft there was an abundance of crispy-fried trees from the 2007 fires. I don't know why it upsets me so much to drive by mile after mile of burnt land but I really hate it. The reason I say I was "mostly" out of town is that although I left Thursday night I came home Friday night to get insperminated. Yes, that isn't a word but just roll with it for fuck's sake, okay? One of my scrappin' buddies commented that I was leaving for a "booty call" which is not exactly the way I saw it but whatever. I got me some sperms up in my hoo-ha and that is what matters. Did I mention that I think I am ovulating? So it wasn't just FUN sex it was BABY MAKING sex. And here is where I feel like a total asshole because either I am going to get pregnant and stay pregnant right away and feel like all the internal worrying I do is for nothing OR I'm going to have trouble and feel like an asshole for thinking that sex is going to easily lead to baby making. Because I'm not the proud owner of a vagina if my brain isn't totally fucked up and twisted like that. Whereas TB is saying, "Woot! I deposited my payload and we're going to have a baby." Can you imagine being that um...optimistic? Me neither. But I'm trying. Guess what? Chicken butt! Also, this is the longest fucking paragraph EVER. Sorry! Lastly, I've caught up on my Twitter comment responses but there were more than will show on my blog so if you're REALLY curious/nosy you may click on the OMG Not Twitter! link to see the rest. Okay? See you tomorrow. Byes!

Shit! I forgot something. The book that a few of you recommended, Taking Charge of Your Fertility? Well Anna, preggo Queen of Annaland owns it and offered to let me borrow it! TB picked it up Saturday (I had returned to scrappin') and NOW I HAVE THE POWER.


Or, um, I have the book. YAY!

PS I can't stop watching the Suck My Ass, Touch a Damn Dick video. Just. Can't. Stop. Loving. It.

Touch A Damn Dick

Dear Fuckers *ahem* Lovely Readers,

I spent MANY seconds updating my template and installing Twitter in order to better serve you, the non-paying customer. However, at this time TWO (2) of you have commented-stifling my ability/desire/what the fucking ever/etc. to respond to you. You suck my ass. All of you. Ass suckers. For your transgressions, I have a video for you to enjoy.


This is what happens when you ask Google to search for "suck ass".

Love,

Sam

Direct Quote

"People get out of the closet, it's getting full!"

~Chicken

Someplace Worth Visiting

I love Post Secret, and yesterday there was a link for a worthy and interesting cause, orphaned pictures! Have you ever lost a camera, film, pictures, or a memory card? Visit Found Cameras and Orphan Pictures and perhaps you will be reunited with your long lost memories. Have you found someone's pictures? Drop them a line. You can read the details on the blog. In the spirit of community, I'd like to encourage you to write a brief post of your own, link to the site or send readers here if you're too lazy to explain the concept. I think it's a good thing.

Another random tidbit from Sam...Teddy Bear introduced me to Kate Nash a few days ago. It's not my normal cup of tea, but I have found myself enjoying the kicky/ranty/happiness/bitterness of it all. Especially "Dickhead" because we've all had times when we thought our significant other was a total, fucking DICKHEAD!*

Dickhead

Foundation


*This in no way reflects my current feelings toward Teddy Bear, who fixed the shit out of my poor ten-year old Honda Civic this weekend. Yay for the Happy Honda! Damn I need a new car.

Stella Sucks

Dear Stella,

You know that I consider you one of my favorite bloggy peeps, right? So I can say the following without you hating me for forever I hope?! Maybe? Okay. You, Stella, totally suck. When I write a post that states:

"Today I started watching the show Weeds with my dear Teddy Bear who procured seasons one and two for me."

This means that I have not yet watched any of season three. Therefore, the fact that Nancy and Conrad GET IT ON was unknown to me. You fucking spoiled it you bitch! (And I mean this in the most loving way possible I promise!) So! Until I say "I am caught up on the show" please do not comment with spoilers OKAY PEOPLE!!!

Thanks,

Sam The Perturbed and Slightly Crazy

You Totally Suck

Dear Innernets,

Today I started watching the show Weeds with my dear Teddy Bear who procured seasons one and two for me. I would just like to say Fuck you! innernets for not telling me about this show. If you were my friend, you would have said, "Sam, there is this show that you would undoubtedly love. It is called Weeds. You can see it on Showtime." I would have graciously thanked you and went off on my merry way to watch a splendidly, dirty, funny-assed show and been happy. But no, you didn't even once think of me as you watched with gleeful tears in your eyes. You suck.

Love,

Sam

Friday Fucking Meme

Okay, so this meme I brought upon myself. I found it at Redneck Diva's place and thought, "Self, it is time to get back into Photoshop. This meme is calling for you." I didn't even need to get tagged for this one, I wanted it so badly. If you'd like the particulars, go visit the Diva and read her post, then tag yourself!

I Defined Myself

Warning: This post comes from the mind of someone that should be sound asleep. Therefore, any insanity (real or imagined) perceived during the reading of this post should be ignored completely. Also, all bets are off when it comes to spelling, language use, grammar, and whatever else I fuck up.

Also-someone asked if I let Chicken read my blog, especially when I am talking about my dead boyfriend. Or something like that? Yes and No. It is not accessible from his computer, so if I want to share a post with him I do. I do not share things like dead boyfriends with him at this point, because he is 11. I share things from my life when I feel they are relevant in his world. He thinks Kurt Cobain died from a drug overdose. I'll not correct him, and he'll eventually learn otherwise. To sum it up, I protect my child from the very things that my mother FAILED to protect me from over and over again.

---

For many, many years I defined myself by the tragedies that I had endured. It was a checklist that I went over in my head, sometimes noting that I had not suffered a house fire. But abuse at the hands of my mother? Check. Abuse at the hands of her boyfriends? Check. Run-in with random douchebag child molester? Check. Rape(s)? Check. Alcoholics in the house? Check. Drug addicts living in the house? Check. Divorced parents-the least of my worries? Check. Distant father for most of my life? Check. Emotionally devoid mother? Check. Emotionally battered by my peers? Check. Dead boyfriend? Check. Unintended pregnancy? Check. Almost everyone deserts me because pregnant chicks are not hot? Check. Bad marriages? Check. Bad divorces? Check. Out of control drug habit? Check. Reckless consumption of everything to drown out the pain? Check.

I could go on, but I'd likely just bore you all. The point is that I felt that I was these tragedies. They defined me. It was like I was at the bottom of a well that was built brick-by-brick with my sorrowful life. One could not get to me without first having to pass by all the pain and the damage it did to my psyche. Recently, while having dinner with my real life friend LD2, she mentioned that she did not know that I had given a child up for adoption until she read it on the blog. At first I was embarrassed, because I have known her for years. But then later I thought about it more deeply. And realized that I had grown.

Now, it is as if there are small buildings that carry my memories of the bad times. They are within reach, but unless I call upon them they are silent and invisible. They are rooted to the solid ground of my being, but they do not define me. They are a small part of who I am today, what makes me "Sam." I may be quirky and anti-social, foul-mouthed and verbose, but I am not what happened to me anymore. And that feels so good.

I believe the therapy that I have recently begun has awakened that knowledge within me. I believe that the act of sitting down once a week and thinking and talking only about me, and what is inside of me had lead me to continue to probe when I am not on the couch. This is the benefit of therapy for me. It makes me stop and look at myself. And I am proud of what I see.

Bank of America Part I

This morning I was sleeping soundly in my happy little bed with my new electric blanket and dreaming of glad tidings and a new year full to the brim of puppies and snowflakes. Or something like that. I was awakened by the shrill irritation that is my new land line. I didn't ask for a home phone, I didn't want a home phone (okay maybe a little bit but shhh!) and now it had the fucking gall to RING. I detest the sound of ringing phones. It is horrid and dreadful and usually means that someone wants something or needs to say something or I have to (God forbid) DO something. So I keep my phone on vibrate and encourage the practice in others. Few people even know I have a home phone, and of course I have to go and tell the whole fucking Internets. *sigh* This has nothing, whatsoever to do with this post, except for the fact that I received a phone call this morning that woke me from my pleasant slumber.

Teddy Bear was on the line, stressed and stressing. It seems that my checking account was overdrawn by a tidy sum due to an error by Bank of America. What? Which bank was that? Oh, that is right, Bank of America. Please note this for your future banking needs. Stay away from B of A. Far, far away. Let's begin with a little back story, okay?

Over the past three months I paid off my Bank of America credit card. I had carried a balance for far too long and we (Teddy Bear) worked diligently to get out (my) ass out of debt. I paid the bulk of it, found that there was a stupid interest charge, paid it, and then another interest charge on the interest charge. The last payment was $2.05. I paid all the payments (as I always do) online, and then entered them into Quicken. I have a thing for Quicken. It makes my heart a flutter and my knees weak. Every transaction goes into Quicken. Pack of gum? Check! House payment? Check! So imagine my surprise when Teddy Bear wakes me up at the fuckall time of 9am to tell me that Bank of America had withdrawn $1400.00 from my checking account. (I must say, in my overdrawn defense that I only keep a bit of spending money in my checking account at any given time, and some day I shall post more on the crazy money ways of the TB and myself.)

Back to 9am this morning. Checking account: negative. Chicken: making Mommy a pot of decaf coffee. Mommy: on hold with Bank of America on two separate lines. Because on one line I had called ABC phone number and on the other XYZ phone number and I was waiting to see which would pick up first. At the same time TB is calling my bank (the holder of my checking account and NOT B of A) and I was online checking my Bank of America account. Which had a -$1400.00 balance because DUH they had just taken +$1400 and added it to my zero balance credit card and that equals negative fourteen hundred in the credit card world. (Um, Eliza, please skip this whole thing if you haven't already puked from the cornucopia of numbers.)

Where was I? Oh yes. On hold. For 24 minutes. Yesterday being a holiday and all, everyone needed to call Bank of America. If you are getting tired of reading "Bank of America" please understand that I am trying to put this thought into your brain: stay the fuck away from them. So... I talk to a woman from B of A and she tells me that I must have made a mistake, no problem, everyone makes mistakes, and they can wire me the money. It will arrive by mail in 10-14 business days. I pick my jaw up off the floor and attempt to explain to her FUCKING STUPID ASS that "wiring money" does not mean printing a paper check and putting it in the mail. THE MAIL. I requested that she put someone else on the phone, someone that can help me because I was not going to limp away. Figuratively or literally. She informed me that no one can help, it was not their mistake and that I could be transferred to Online Banking because it was an online transaction. I submitted to the transfer and then "CLICK" the bitch dropped the call.

To Be Continued...

Hangin' Brains

Have you noticed that scary bedtime stories are no longer in style? Scaring your children into good behavior is not quite as acceptable as it once was, and parents today are left with the daunting task of finding something, anything, to make our children behave. When we can't scare them with Boogey Monsters living under the bed or in the closet, we can't beat the shit out of them with a stick, we can't lock them in their rooms without supper (for a couple of days) what can a politically correct parent do? I have found the perfect solution for boys aged 11-15! Cisco Balls. During the prepubescent and early puberty stages, boys will do simply anything to fit in with their peers. Does your son need to:

• Clean his room
• Wash his hair
• Walk the dog
• Do the dishes
• Do his homework
• Turn off that damn rock music

Then you need Cisco Balls. Patented balls of doom and dismay, these balls will guarantee complete obedience from sons, step-sons, and the little red-headed boy down the street that walks funny and has a lisp. What better threat than "If you don't do as I say RIGHT NOW your balls are going to look like Cisco Adler's before you are 30 years old!" Are you ready to see this innovative product? I bet you are!

This link is NSFW. Or children, or people with morals, taste or a righteous fear of Satan. Click HERE.

*BTW, Cisco Adler is 29 years old according to multiple innernet sources.

Merry Christmas

I bought Teddy Bear some generic nose strips for him to try out and I believe the man is addicted to the amazing tree-like formations that appear like magic, grown from his very nose. I'm jealous, because for some reason my nose does not create the grand red redwood forests that most noses produce. Only the truly twisted can appreciate my sorrow. Where are my fun-filled nose strips? Why not me? WHY?

Merry Christmas to all those who celebrate, and a huge Sam hug to Jeremy for sending me a Christmas card.

The Newish Old Deal

Options

I would like to interact more with my bloggy readers. You have two choices:

A.If you comment on my post and it comes from your email account then I will reply to it from samsstories@gmail.com. If your comment comes via "noreply-comment@blogger.com" you will not get a response. Don't you want a response? I know you do. You totally want it. I've tried saying this before with no response from you damn people but I'm doing it again because I feel bad that I do not respond to you, my favorite commenting peeps.

B. Blogger has a new option where you can ask to have future comments on a post emailed to you. That way I can reply in the comments and you will receive it that way. However, you will receive ALL comments on the post in your mailbox.

Fucking pick an option people. Just! Pick! An! Option!

Also...

A really stupid thing? I am going to an Annual Award Banquet thingy tonight, AKA the Christmas Party for Teddy Bears work. In October? Yeah, whatever. So I want to get a pedicure, and I have to load up on painkillers so I can stand the part of the pedicure that my body interprets as PAIN PAIN PAIN and enjoy the massaging and rubbing and AHHHH pretty toes! I love me some good feet.

The good part? I might have a good picture or two from the festivities, and I will be all gussied up. Not like anyone I know appreciates pictures. *cough cough*

Why I Am Still In Love

*See below for another post on my dad's burial*

During our trip to Colorado, Teddy Bear and I had some interesting conversations, which included two TB quotes that required blogging:

1. We were walking on a nature trail in Colorado and TB was farting. Every thirty seconds. The WHOLE time we were walking. Finally he says "Sorry. Nature makes me gassy."

2. I was babbling on endlessly about my hair... should I cut it shorter? Should I grow it out more? Should I keep it at this length? Teddy Bear's response: "Long or Short, blowjobs feel the same."

Lookit!!! New!! Pretty!! WOW!!

My new template isn't complete, but I had to post my brilliant new masthead the instant I thought it was mostly almost done. I'm in love with it but Teddy Bear isn't fond of the font because:

A. He sucks
B. He hates cursive "s"
C. He's a poopy-face

But that's okay because I love him even with a poopy face. The picture (shown below in original format) is the second one that I have found at Blossom Swap and I highly recommend visiting there for any of your gardening needs. According to the home page, "BS is a humorous garden site that offers an immeasurable amount of advice from experienced gardeners." I just think the pictures are beautiful, and I'm sure there are some exciting things happening in the gardening forums for those green thumb types.

I have a new link on the sidebar in case you have a (de)flowering emergency. He he.

Insomnia Part Deux

Also, I have been inspired to pass this along:

Leesa is having a little contest called "Battle of the Bloggers." Please visit her blog to see the details. So if you want to nominate a blog for this competition, please do so.

The reason I'm backing this competition is that it seems to come from a place of "let's find some great new blogs to read" as opposed to "let's laugh at stupid blogs and make fun of them". I support that effort. You email her with two of your favorite blogs, and the rest you'll have to read on her site. It looks like a nice contest. A pleasant break from the contests where people hate each other and themselves and there is not fun or games or sex going on with any of it.

Also, you guys are freaking great. I'm rather upset that more and more of your comments are going into my "no-reply comment" folder so I can't respond to you. I like commenting back on your comments, and through email I have been mildly successful at doing so... I blame it all on blogger beta, or until I read the link Lecram sent me in more detail. Maybe I can fix the problem and start talking to you all again.

Insomnia

One of the most irritating issues with FMS is the insomnia. Specifically (because I'm sure you're dying to know about my sleep issues) the inability to fall asleep, then difficulty staying asleep and trouble reaching that level of deep, healing sleep. I hang out in the crazy-assed REM sleep a whole lot. While it makes for fun or horrific stories, doesn't really help with my overall functioning.
If you take a gander at this handy graph, imagine staying at stage two or three and above most of the time you are sleeping. Lots of dreaming, easily woken up, and not a lot of rest. The deeper stages are where you heal mentally and physically. A normal sleep pattern means that you can spend time in various stages, whereas my sleep pattern means that I wake up feeling like a train wreck most of the time. Also, where many of you can sleep for six to eight hours and wake up refreshed, it takes me twelve to get enough deep sleep to feel like I actually slept. Which results in "your problem is that you sleep too much" or "you're tired because you sleep too much" or "usless assvice insert here". Because I know my fucked up body. I know what I can and cannot do to help it. It's not depression or laziness or the love of being horizontal (but fuck ya I like being horizontal) it's a constant struggle to get REAL sleep and feel rested when I wake up.

I swear I did not intend to write a post about sleep. I was going to talk about sex and big televisions and Anna and maybe my hair. However, last night I was up doing taxes at 1am because I couldn't sleep. Tonight? It's 12:20 and my taxes are filed and my paperwork is done and I'm exhausted but AWAKE. I already took my sleeping pill, but it only can do so much when my brain is working overtime about EVERYTHING.

OH! Something note-worthy and important. Listen up, Anna. You listening? Okay. Here's my plan. Saturday night we (you, me, Ewe Girl, Teddy Bear and Chicken) eat at Outback Steackhouse ( because they have a gluten-free menu) and then you and me and maybe Ewe Girl if she chooses to attend go to a local pub and proceed to get shitty and laugh at with people. Return home through crawling or taxi or Teddy Bear. Why, you ask my dear readers? What is the point of all this madness when I'm moving in a matter of weeks? Because I am turning the big three three next Monday.

I suck ass at birthdays. Thirty-two I was still reeling from the death of my father. Thirty-one I spent helping my short-lived boyfriend puke his guts out after drinking too much (did I mention the horrific surprise party? gawd it was bad). And? I was getting over the whole my dad accidentally lit himself on fire a tad bit and spent a month in the burn unit and almost died and I spent three weeks at his side and I must tell that story sometime soon. For some reason whenever I mention it in real life people laugh. I guess I AM that funny. Because it wasn't funny. It was horrific and terrible.

Thirty-one I don't even remember. But the big three-oh? H2 made me a nice dinner at the last minute. After I made a HUGE FUCKING DEAL about his thirtieth nine months before. I was pissed for a long time. Bastard.

So, I want 33 to be fun. Not the crazy shit of I'm 21 and I must puke all night long, just the happiness of being loved by friends and the positive outlook of Pollyanna that I will master. I will. Dammit. I will.

Post Script
I am typing this on TB's laptop which is not nearly as familiar as mine, so any and all typing/grammar/stupidity errors I blame on the fact that it is a DELL. Rhymes with HELL. I wonder why?

Prom 1991*

Recently an old friend found me through Classmates dot com. I'd link to them, but I believe they are run by the devil. Not because my friend found me, but because they email you and say things like:

Your very bestest friend in the whole wide world is trying to contact you and aren't you a cheap fucking douche if you don't pony up the minimum payment to get your awesome Gold Star membership so you can talk to the person that you haven't seen in 12+ years. Bitch.

What. Ever. I hate Classmates dot com with a fiery, bloody passion. However, out of all the people in my past that I couldn't give two stinky half-dead rats' asses about, this person is actually one that I've missed over the years. Due to his influence I started listening to punk in high school and saw more than one great show. For the purpose of this blog, I'm calling him Minor Threat. A play on his initials and for those of you in the know, a reference to the punk heritage.

Some of you may be wondering: "What does this have to do with the title?" Well fuckall if I'm not going to tell you. My junior prom was all set to be the greatest ever in the history of proms. I had a beautiful princess dress and my boyfriend had the cutest mohawk. Then my boyfriend dumped me. ME! The one who respected his asinine wish to remain a virgin until he was married. The one who fucked the very next girl he dated. One of my friends. And HE TOOK HER TO PROM!

Now, I wasn't serious about the guy, but finding a last minute date to the prom isn't easy. Even for a girl of my obvious lack of virtue. Guess who saved the day? Minor Threat. He rented a tuxedo, took me to the dance, let me take endless cheesy pictures and then after the dance we parted ways. He didn't even demand a blow job for payment. What a swell guy!

Minor Threat and I lost touch twelve or so years ago. He has FIVE children and one on the way! (Congrats!) When he got in touch with me, one of the first things he bitched about was how hard it is to find someone that keeps changing their name. Well, SOME of us are busy marrying and divorcing and playing "what will my last name be this week?" while OTHERS just shack up with one lovely lady and have a bunch of kids. I think someone just isn't trying hard enough.

Due to my vagina ownership, I have pictures from that fateful prom where Minor Threat took one for the team. I scanned them, sent them off to him for approval and BAM! here they are...


Here comes the Sam...all dressed in WHITE NYLONS WITH BLACK SHOES!!??? OMG!

How cool am I? Come, tell me. 'Cause I know I am the coolest in my Oakley Frogskins and 80's Camaro.

Me and Minor Threat. Isn't it sweet how he's pretending to be my REAL ACTUAL date? Five minutes later he was disinfecting his arm.

If you're wondering, I gave my URL to Minor Threat. I figured it was much easier than emailing back and forth about my boring life. He demanded his own post, and I demanded the right to post pictures. Now we're both happy. Too bad he lives in another state. I'd love to meet his better half and his almost half dozen chicklets. I've seen pictures and they're fucking adorable! Must be from his wife's side. :)

*(pictures removed)