What Are You Trying To Say Generator?

Okay, I went a little click happy with the generator, because I have an inane need to be entertained.
About 6 times in a row these two topics came up:

The need for love
Faking happiness

Thanks topic generator, I will now spend the rest of my day mulling over my life decisions and analyzing my happiness, if that's what it really is.

Topic Generator

I discovered a topic generator while I was racking my spent brain for something to write about. Yay! Even less work for me to do. Also, I always have great fuel for my blog but I usually forget as soon as it comes to me. Then I have to go somewhere, then I start dancing, then I trip and fall, then I am late to where I'm going but I get to use my favorite excuse, "Sorry I'm late, I was dancing and I fell." Honest to God.

Where was I? Topic Generator.

Well, guess what? This things a genius. First of all the first 5 times I hit the button it gave me topics that I've already talked about. So, maybe I'm the genius not the generator. Wow. I am smarter than a generator, right? Maybe not.

One of the topics was "Checking Your Closets Before Going To Bed". Which we all know that I do just that, except I also check them when I come home from work, from the store, from my mom's house and after using the bathroom or taking a shower. This reminded me of something that I wanted to tell you. I have an awesome kid. Remember the post about my family and how we scare the shit out of eachother whenever we get the chance? Sure you do. It's right here. So. Turns out Madison has honed this skill. She practices everyday and my wracked nerves and hair loss is the evidence of this. She has even taken Joe's talent of actually standing in front of me and while I look at her she yells out "Gaaah!" and then I scream and crumple into a pile at her feet. Then I hug her and say, "That's my girl".

So, you and your kids do crafts? Garden together? Sew? Well, suck it and BOO! Gotcha.

Where I Bitch About Things That Most People Love.

Summertime in Alaska is hard on me. I don't know if you know this (well of course you do because you most likely live here and I know you because I only have 4 followers and I can see one of them from where I'm sitting right now. Hi Erin!) but there is so much daylight here in the Summer. The sun is up all the freaking time. Nothing better to do I guess. My first year that I lived here, I thought, WOW, this is awesome! I can stay up all night and it's just like day time. WOO HOO! My second year was like, Yay, summer! My third year was like, Alright! Summer time, I really need some light blocking curtains. Okay, I'll stop going year by year and just skip to now. Oh my GOD! I hate all this fucking sun! What the hell is this place's problem?! Ever hear of nighttime ALASKA?! I just love it when I go to bed early and then I wake up at 12 but I don't know if it's 12 midnight or 12 noon! It's the fucking best!

Rude. The sun is rude. I remember in Louisiana I could be in the sun all day, I could drive around and live my life. Here? Nope. Rude sun. It's so bright, it practically is beating me with a freaking sun ray bat, I can't see anything, anytime I turn my car in any direction near the beating rays of the sun I am blinded and I'll be quite honest, I may have run over some people and maybe a cat.

Hey sun! Shut up. Rude.

Here is a photo of the sun "setting" in an Alaskan summer. See? Rude.

My Hidden Agenda

I'm trying to plan a date night with Joe, one that involves dinner, a movie and maybe some adult conversation. Also, wine. He's been wanting to see Iron Man 2, I want to see it as well but my interest in Iron Man decreased significantly when Prince of Persia was released. So began my plan to coerce Joe into seeing Prince of Persia instead of Iron Man 2. I was trying to do this non-chalantly, under the radar, on the DL if you will. Of course, this is Joe we're talking about. He can guess what I'm getting him for Christmas three years from now. It didn't take him long to see through my ploy.

Me: On date night we should go see Prince of Persia. *inconspicuous drool*

Joe: I really want to see Iron Man 2. I've been talking about it for weeks, you know that.

Me: I know. Prince of Persia seems really good though.

Joe: Why do you want to see it so bad?

Me: You know, it looks good, and all that action and special effects will be great to see in theatres. (Right  then I knew I made a mistake.)

Joe: Who's in it?

Me: ...Jake Gyllenhaal...

Joe: I knew it.


Proud To Be

Pappaw: Madison, you are Caucasian.

Madison: No I'm NOT!

Pappaw: Yes you are, silly.

Madison: I'm AMERICAN. You are silly.

Just Call Me Stubby Magoo

I stub a toe at least 37 times per day. Sometimes all at once. I can stub a toe on anything; table leg, chair leg, foot of the couch, door jam, 5lb weight, teddy bear, marshmallow or cotton ball. It gets down right maddening. The typical reaction is throwing whatever I'm holding (if I'm not holding something then I pick something up) as hard as I can while vomiting expletives on anyone nearby. Except for the time when I was holding Cooper, I had to quickly remind myself not to drop kick him across the room. Instead I set him down gently and then picked up a nearby toy and chucked it across the planet. I then mouthed the word FUCK and hobbled around while Cooper stared at me, fist in hand, one eyebrow raised. He has mastered this look, he came out of the womb with one eyebrow raised.

When I was fifteen I was running full speed through our house and stubbed my toe on a chair leg or a concrete block, what's the difference, really, when you're traveling at mach speed. I started howling and mammaw ran out of her bedroom, not nearly as fast as I needed but hey, at least she was on the way. I thought that maybe I jammed it because this definitely felt different from a regular stubbing which I was very used to. I suggested to mammaw that while I sit in the chair that I fell victim to and held on to the seat that perhaps she could pull on my toe...as hard as she can.

Yes, that's right. "Mammaw, could you yank on my toe as if it were a pull-start to perhaps 'un-jam' it? K, thanks."

What did she do? Did she guffaw and refuse my ridiculous request? Did she pat me on the head and suggest a bag of ice?


She did exactly what I asked.

Guess what? Guess! Guess!

I didn't just stub my toe, I BROKE IT. (I of course found this out after I had my grandmother further detach it from my body.)

Almost immediately the entire left side of my foot turned black. BLACK. Awesome.

I was fifteen, born and raised in the South. I was a Southern Belle. Not on that fucking day. I said things that made my mammaw blush and she used to be a bartender. So, for the next few weeks the left side of foot was a virtual rainbow of colors and the colors moved and rearranged. So much fun. It's the best when I stub that same broken toe over and over and over and over again. Absolutely heavenly.

Tomorrow begins another week of toe torture. Bless you all and keep your toes safe and healthy.


The Day Where My Secrets Are Strewn About

The last day of school was yesterday. Doesn't mean anything for me since I'm a grown up and last time I checked we don't get out of work for the summer. Right? I am right, right? Because if I'm wrong please someone tell me now. That's what I thought. Damn.

Summer vacation means that Madison is free to roam the world again. She's thinking of biking through Europe, heading down to Graceland or visiting that damn pineapple under the sea. I immediately cancelled all of her travel plans and set her up to go to my friend who is also my sitter's house with the Coop. Why? Because I'm the devil that's why.

As soon as we walk into the house to drop them off Madison starts talking. To who? Anyone that will listen. What's she talking about? Everything. All of it. When I was leaving she was still talking.

I'm sure that at this very moment she is repeating every word that I have said in the past 3 days verbatim and she is revealing all of my deep dark secrets. Like the fact that I haven't done dishes this week, that I scream at the TV when "for eff's sake how many freaking commercials are there!", that half of my bed is covered in clean laundry that I haven't felt like folding, that two night this week she had a bologna sandwich for dinner because I hadn't been to the grocery store yet, that if I'm in the bathroom look at myself in the mirror for too long I start to cry and then I eat a donut...you know the basics.

So, if later on today you find that you have no words to speak, no topics to talk about, just nothing to say, it's because she has used it all up. She has said every word and now you will live in silence.

And, you're welcome.


Past or Way Past?

Madison: Is it past Cooper's bedtime?

Me: Yes

Madison: Way past?

Me: Yes

Madison: Is it past my bedtime?

Me: Yes

Madison: Way past?

Me: No

Madison: Is it way way past?

Me: What is the exchange rate of "past" in fifteen minute increments?

Hopefully Not Lost In Translation

I have to share this with the world and I'm not sure if it will come across as great as it was when it happened.
The words in WHITE will be Madison's and the words in RED will be my mom. Madison was sitting at the counter with Uncle Morgan, my mom was in another room trying to find something on TV and she was just talking out loud. She said something that sounded like "Tink" and that started the following:

Why does she want to watch that?
HBO Family,
"Just a little curious..." (singing theme song),
Are those bugs dead?

I look at Morgan and his mouth was agape, he was stunned speechless. Speechless...Madison doesn't quite know what that is yet.


Watch this.

I had to run to the loo in the middle of my workout and while I was gone we were all given instruction on our next circuit. I asked Stephanie "what do I do? what do I do?" because I hate not knowing what to do. How embarrassing.

Then in her super-sweet voice she says "Watch the person in front you Amber."

Who was in front of me? Stephanie.

Who fucked up the move beyond recognition? Stephanie.

Who stood there looking like an idiot? Amber.

Yay us.

Mrs. Clean...or wait, that's not right.

This morning Madison said she was sick and since I really had no motivation to work I went ahead and believed her. WINK.

As she was resigned to the bed for the day I decided to do some chores around the house. I got a few things done, dishes, countertops, dining room table cleaned off, bills moved to opposite side of counter so I could clean underneath them.

Eventually I ran out of steam and used folding laundry as an excuse to turn on the TV. Right now as I type this I am sitting next to said laundry as it sits here on the couch right where I left it. I love to have a clean house, who doesn't? I love to come home to clean everything and a made bed. I only have one problem. I hate to clean. I've tried a few different methods. 1. Clean on the weekend (sometimes if I had no plans on Friday night I would clean then.) 2. Clean throughout the week.

Problem. With one method I spend hours cleaning and was exhausted and I had a messy house all week. With method two...well, I'm cleaning every freaking day, that's the damn problem. Hate.

When Joe is home I give up on cleaning until he leaves the house. In fact, I'll wait for that garage door to close when he leaves and I spring into action. Why? Oh, because if we had to be in the same area cleaning then someone would eventually be forced to call the authorities or the nut-house.

I tried to think back to when I was a kid and what my mom did...I remember. We cleaned every Saturday morning. Saturday morning. The national morning for cartoons. The morning that all kids wait all week for. Me? I would dread Saturday mornings. I tried the "sleepover at a friends house on Friday, therefore not having to clean on Saturday" scheme but that didn't work. Momma would just pick me up bright and early.

This is where I acquired my intense nauseous reaction to the smell of Clorox bleach. At our farm house the floors that weren't bedroom floors were made of linoleum. White linoleum. White linoleum that had to be bleached often to retain it white glowing sheen. Vomit.

Fast forward to my 16th birthday when I had the stomach flu (I always get sick on my birthday, non-alcohol related reasons I swear). I'm puking in the toilet in the bathroom, I had recently puked in the bath tub...um, because the toilet was being occupied. So, I feel like I'm just about done and maybe I'm going to live and my mother decides to waltz in a dump 48 gallons of bleach into the tub. MY GAWD. My name is death and I am near. Holy shit. "WHY!?" I screamed. "Why do you hate me?!" I'm pretty sure that little move she did there added about 18 hours to my sickness.

I digress.

So, solution to my cleaning conundrum? Hire a maid till the kids get old enough to handle the bleach.


The … and Too Much TV

Okay. I just started to write a huge long post about how much TV I have been watching and it was getting to be pretty ridiculous and embarrassing. So I just deleted all of it. Also, it was distracting me from watching the new episode of Supernatural that is on.

Please enjoy this as replacement for my witty words. I’m sure you won’t mind.


And…you’re welcome.

The Ways He Lays

Yet another pretzel inspired bedtime for Bocephus boy.


Shout Out

And now a shout out to my friend Erin and her husband Jake, they just got a beautiful puppy and I just want to kiss it's cute little face! We will be arranging a playdate between her and my boy Bocephus. Erin doesn't know it but I'm a little nervous because of my dog's rowdy ways. He likes to get drunk and get loud. It's a family tradition. (Come on! I just had to put that reference in there!)


Hey You

Hey, dude at the red light waiting for an effing invitation. In the champagne colored GMC Sierra. With your white baseball cap on sideways. Leaned into a full-reclined position. Radio blaring something unrecognizable because you have some cheap ass sub in a rattling box under your seat which is probably the most action you are going to get.

Yeah. You.

You’re a douche.

You're a douche