i’m up early…on a saturday…when i don’t have to be. and you know why?

tommy’s fart alarm went off and scared the bejesus out of me. i swear to god it was as loud as a bull horn.

needless to say it’s hard for one to go back to sleep after one’s heart leaps out of one’s chest and flies across the room and splats against the wall.

in case you’re wondering i’m the “one” in this scenario and the only “one” that counts.

i sat up in the bed, trying to recover from what i thought was our house being bombed.

tommy asked, “you awake?”

since it was obvious i was awake i didn’t answer. i just got out of the bed.

“where you going?” he asked.

“to call a divorce lawyer,” i said behind me in his direction.

he laughed.

and joined me in the kitchen a few mintutes later.

now he’s clearing his throat and snorting snot.

it’s a beautiful thing.

so yesterday we got a babysitter and drove to dallas to have dinner with a friend who just moved here from the bay area. i had really been looking forward to attending a grown up dinner. on the drive over i noticed something i hadn’t noticed before. tommy does this thing where he reads signs to me.

we were cruising along and he offered, “bob’s hickory house. jerky the way you like it.”

first i said, “huh?” it made no sense to me. especially since we’d been talking about how the stock market faired that day. so i said, “what’d you say?”

“that sign back there. i was reading it.”

“oh.”

then a minute later i was telling a story about harley’s last day of school before the break and he busted in with, “laser hair removal. be the person you want to be for only $99.”

side note: if only it was that easy.

now, back to the story.

what the fuck was going on here? why was he reading billboards to me?

so i stopped talking. he didn’t seem to notice. he just kept reading road signs.

after another 10 minutes of this i jumped in with, “nue 328.”

“tyv 879.”

he turned to me and said, “what are you saying?”

“oh, i’m reading the license plates off the cars as they pass us. illuminating conversation, isn’t it? i mean it’s really interesting stuff. don’t you think?”

he turned away and muttered, “asshole,” under his breath.

i didn’t care.

he stopped reading to me.

mission accomplished.

now all i have to do is beat him at farting and snot snorting and i’ve won. yes, i’ll win the award for most annoying person on the planet. it’ll be a difficult challenge since tommy is the world champ 3 years running, but i’m up for the task.

wish me luck.

do your mate a favor today. read the road signs while you’re in the car. he/she will LOVE it.

dear hubs,

i always thought you were the one. when i met you 10 years ago i said to myself, “girl, now this guy’s worth holding on to.” you were practically perfect in every way (it’s hard typing that sentence without busting out in laughter or falling out of my chair) and nothing you did got under my skin or on my nerves. i felt sure i’d met the greatest, non-annoying man of my dreams.

i’m having second thoughts.

here’s the problem…when exactly did you become the human noise maker?

i appreciate that in these difficult financial times you’re trying to come up with other ways to make money and you’ve obviously chosen the path of a carnival sideshow act with your sniffing, snorting, slurping, gulping and chewing, but if you’re going to be a freak in the show, get going then. there’s no reason to stick around here perfecting your act (although bravo, it’s flawless). you should be on the next greyhound bus headed for whatever small town the carnies have set up shop.

do you need help packing your bags? (notice i said bags and not bag. i think you should really give this freakshow, i mean sideshow, thing a try so feel free to stay away as long as it takes)

let’s talk for a minute about these noises you’re making because either someone has turned up the volume or you’re WAY more annoying than ever before.

the clearing of the throat. is it really necessary to do it 536 times a day? what the fuck you got stuck in there, a live baby seal? because that’s what it sounds like. cough that shit up and be done with it! i’m aging here–and not gracefully, i might add. a permanent scowl has formed on my face and i’m afraid i’m getting wrinkles. every time you try and clear out whatever it is that’s in there an angel kills herself. do you want to keep killing angels? i’m sure there’s some penalty for doing that. do you really want to piss off the big guy upstairs?

the slurping and chomping. why is it that you choose to come over and sit next to me with a big bowl of granola? there are 6 perfectly good chairs at the table. why must you sit so close? why not take your food in the bedroom and close the door? ooh, or go outside. eating outside is fun. think of it as an adventure. but more than that, think of it as a way to live a longer life. i have killed someone you know. with a vegetable. for the very reason of being annoying. do you want to be next?

sidenote: it was only a dream. i’ve never actually killed killed someone. at least not that i know of. and definitely not on purpose. if i’ve ever accidentally killed someone then i’m sorry. i’m not generally a violent person. i did hit a bird once. it flew right at my car and there was nothing i could do. feathers and bird parts went everywhere. it was traumatic. i’m sure it was no day at the beach for the bird either. and then i’ve killed numerous squirrels. hey, i can’t help it if squirrels are stupid. they decide at the last minute to run across the street. i say, you do that, you deserve to die. squirrels are a waste anyway. all they are is a rat in a better costume. plus their beady little eyes freak me out.

now where was i? oh yeah, contemplating your death. look, i don’t want to kill you. i really don’t. it’s messy, there would be legal ramifications, it’s messy, i would have to plan a funeral, yada yada. and with christmas right around the corner i just don’t have time for all of that. who can decorate the house, shop online, wrap gifts, bake cookies, plan the school parties AND pick out a casket? not me brother.

so please, i beg you. control yourself. no one (especially me) wants to hear you chew your food to the tune of rock me amadeus. i promise. take my word for it.

no one wants to be there when you finally DO get whatever is caught in your throat…out. ok, that’s totally not true. i SO want to be there. it’s gotta be something good. like maybe a car or a pine tree, or even better, that set of car keys i lost awhile back.

more importantly, i want to feel like you’re the one again. i want to…OH MY GOD! I CAN HEAR YOU RIGHT NOW–IN THE OTHER ROOM–CLEARING YOUR THROAT!!!

i’m sorry. all bets are off. maybe i wouldn’t need to buy a casket. maybe i can just bury you in the backyard next to the squirrels.

signed,
the bitch who put a bounty on your head.

ok, first of all, i can’t be held responsible for the title of today’s post. last night when i was going to bed, i came up with it and thought it was brilliant. and no, i wasn’t drunk OR on drugs. i can’t explain it, but for some reason i thought this was the most clever title ever. EVER.

i wanted to get up and at least write it down, but my body wouldn’t follow. i was insanely exhausted. so as i drifted off to sleep, i repeated the title over a hundred times in my mind so that i wouldn’t forget it in the morning. when i woke up, i reached in my memory bank in search of the “greatest title ever” and this is what my brain spit out.

so, “greatest title ever?” no. not feeling it. i’m not even sure what it means. but i felt it necessary to post it anyway since my brain worked so hard to keep it in queue. i think there’s something wrong with me. i know i say that a lot, but i’m serious this time. is this a new development? probably not. maybe i was hungry for chicken nuggets when i went to bed?

moving on. i know many of you have been wondering where i’ve been (mostly because of the oodles of harassing emails that all begin with WTF?) and i’ll tell ya–i’ve been busy. you know tommy and i escaped for an anniversary weekend sans the kids. i learned a lot on the trip. i learned that i really like tommy. i learned that away from the kids we have fun, we get along, and i enjoy his company immensely. (shocking, i know) even when we’re by ourselves his farts aren’t nearly as noxious–and his shuffling feet, his slurping and gulping and his obsessive throat clearing don’t have me plotting his untimely and accidental (wink, wink) death. the common denominator in all these scenarios? the kids. or rather, lack of kids. it seems that having the kids around and my noticing that i do most all the work has me resenting him–and therefore not appreciating all his little quirks/eccentricities/annoying habits. (we’ve only been home one day and my left eye has already begun twitching uncontrollably–the feet shuffling has GOT to stop!) when it was just the two of us it was easy to let go the fact that when the clock strikes a certain hour, his ability to function (other than his thumb fashioned on the channel up and down button on the remote control) turns to something that would make a coma patient appear mobile. in fact, it was downright adorable.

but we’re not alone at the beach anymore. and no, his letting me know how tired he is from his long day of returning emails and talking on the phone doesn’t make me feel sorry for him. it makes me want to run over him with my car. on accident, of course.

god love him. i just think it’s a man thing. and if you’re one of those lucky few who has a helpful husband, do not comment here. no one wants to hear how great he is with the kids or how he does most of the work–or even some of the work. odds are you’re lying because such a man doesn’t exist. well, except that i personally know two. and one of them is my little brother. he makes all other dads look bad. i mean REALLY bad. when i’m around him and i see how he is with my nephew it makes me want to punch tommy in the face–just once, really hard. i think i would feel so much better if i could do that.

but wait. i meant for this post to be about how much i appreciate tommy and how much fun we had on our trip. oops, i guess i got off on a little tangent there. so as i was saying, tommy’s awesome and we had fun. there. i said it.

on saturday i got a pedicure from this spa down the street from our house. i’d never been there and wanted to try it out. the actual pedicure was just so-so (actually it sucked–it was the worst pedicure ever) but what i enjoyed was the girl who *performed* the service. she told the most fascinating, heart breaking story i’d ever heard. i think i’m even going to write about it. it’s a sad story–probably the saddest, jaw dropping tale of a young woman’s life EVER on the planet, but somehow also a testament to the tenacity of the human spirit. the problem with me writing her story is that normally i write funny. and this ain’t no funny story. so if i do it, i may have to inject humor–like maybe the story takes place in a town where nobody wears pants. pants are not worn because zippers and elastic waistbands have been outlawed or haven’t been invented yet. it’s rough–definitely a work in progress, but you get the point. it’s a fucking sad story and it needs fart jokes or vagina talk. i’ll let you know what i decide. i may scrap the whole idea and just tell you the story here. one thing is for sure– i’ll never forget cindy as long as i live. i’ve thought about her every day since i met her.

and that’s about all i got for now. oh, there’s more don’t you worry. but i have to go. my real life is calling.

so i sat down at my computer and began writing my next book. although i’m not really feeling it. so i think instead of making poppy marlow a full length young adult novel, i’m going to make it a short story and be done with it. and because poppy is supposed to be 10 years old, i can’t find a way to fit in sex and wild use of the ‘f’ word, so it seems boring and pointless to me. BUT harley will think it’s great in a pg kind of way (she’s soooo 6 years old), so i’m going to do it.

i churned out 3 pages and then stopped. i read over it and was horrified and disappointed at the lack of va-voom displayed in the content. i mean normally i’m fascinated with my own writing, but this time it was different. i just couldn’t connect with the story or the characters. then i looked around me. i hadn’t noticed how distracting the coffee shop was before now. sharing a table with me and sitting directly across from me was a rather large man, slurping his mocha frappucino and licking chocolate off his fingers. he saw me watching him and quickly apologized. minutes later he began clipping his fingernails. yes. let me say that again. he was clipping. his. fingernails. at. the. table. in. public.

side note: if you don’t know me very well, then you don’t know that i think clipping anything off your person, whether it be your toenails, fingernails, nose hair, etc., should be done in the privacy of your bathroom…with the door locked. how would everyone like it if i just whipped out my razor and started shaving my crotch in the middle of freakin starbucks on a wednesday morning?

so anyway, now i’m grossed out completely and am fearful that his nail particles have somehow traveled through the air and landed in my mouth. i begin to cough, hoping that any and all fingernail parts that aren’t mine will extract themselves from my general area. i want to blow the space around me but am afraid that i will attract more negative attention since minutes before when i was reading what i had written, i kept making ugh noises and talking to myself in a sort of demeaning way. i turned to the person sitting next to me (who was bald–i don’t know why i had to throw that in–it’s not relevant to the story–that’s just really the only characteristic i remember about him–oh, that and he had a humongous mole on the side of his nose. who doesn’t get a nose mole removed? i have 1 (1!) hair growing out of my chin that tommy insists needs to be lasered. but this bald guy has a huge mole–that i swear said hello when i looked at it– just sitting there on his face). but other than the mole, he wasn’t a bad seatmate. except the mole was distracting. and his head was shiny. but other than that, he was fine.

i tried really hard to focus on my writing.

but i couldn’t. i overheard these 2 young college girls going on and on about the upcoming social. it was like fort worth’s version of the hills. and it wasn’t any better. but it wasn’t any worse. there were a lot of ‘likes’ and ‘oh my gods’ and then giggling.

and then i thought about my bus–you know, the one without brakes? and started pointing out everyone in the coffee shop who i’d give a ticket to. that bus is so full, we may need another one.

i saved and closed my document, got on the internet, googled jigsaw puzzles, and clicked on puzzleworld.com.

ordered 2 puzzles, opted for overnight shipping, and then called it a day. waved goodbye to the bald guy, made a face at the i-clip-my-fingernails-in-public guy (by the way, i wanted to ask him if he was single, but decided against it since i would only be pointing out the obvious and i didn’t want to bring it up to him in case it’s already a sore subject for the guy–and his mom probably already gives him a hard time about it anyway–but really she should have taught him better manners than to clip his nails in public, so his still being single is her fault anyway–oh, the irony) and then got the hell out of there.

i can’t wait for the ups guy to deliver my puzzles.

i’m such a loser.

someone send help…and wine.

Open Letter to the Husband (and I say The husband instead of My husband because really, this could be for any one of them)

Dear Kind Sir, (I find it’s best to be respectful before publicly bashing a loved one)

I don’t remember you telling me you were raised by a pack of wild dogs. No, I’ve been to the house in which you grew up and in fact, I know your parents quite well. They appear to be civilized people and cannot (in my humble opinion) be the reason you drive me crazy to the point of distraction—or, in other words, make me want to kill you and then myself—or maybe just you. I mean really, if you’re dead, there’s no reason for ME to die too, right?

I also don’t remember you doing some of the things you do now that send me running to the closet where I bury my head in a stack of sweaters in order to muffle my blood curdling screams. It also explains why I keep a bottle of wine and a box of Twinkies hidden in the closet—for just such an occasion. There’s no reason for my suffering on an empty stomach or completely sober—now that would be desperate and a sign of weakness on my part, not to mention lazy and unproductive. Could it be that you feel you no longer need to impress me? Because if that’s the case, we can revert back to the days before I was a “sure thing.” And we can start today.

It’s not like I keep track or have an alphabetized list of the things you do that annoy me—ok, scratch that. I totally have the complete collection of your annoying habits running through my mind, like a DVD set on ‘repeat.’

My intentions are not to point out these “quirks” or “nuances” that make me question my faith in humanity, but rather…ok, that’s not true either. My intention for writing this letter is do exactly that—point out all your obvious flaws.

On a somewhat regular basis, you bring home speeding tickets, parking tickets, and news of what you call a “misplaced” credit card—which is really just a prettier word for “lost.” I don’t mind paying the tickets and cancelling the credit cards. I don’t mind when you come to me complaining that you can’t find your belt, or your wallet, or your Ipod. No, I take pride in the fact that I can offer my investigative services. But, just so you know, all of these things can be easily found if one looks for longer than 10 seconds—or on top of the dresser.

You stand at the window and watch as I lug the trash cans to the street for the next morning’s pick up. You would think that a college educated man with several degrees would be able to remember after eight years of this same routine that the trash men come every week on the same day. Ever thought of lending a hand? No? Well, just so YOU know, during the walk from the garage to the street I fantasize about my new husband, George Clooney, and how he wouldn’t dream of letting me do such a menial task that was created solely to give the husband something to do. In fact, George Clooney would insist that I relax in the bubble bath he just prepared for me. I’m not saying I would leave you for George Clooney, it’s just that…shit. I can’t lie to you. I would totally leave you for George Clooney.

On days I come home from the grocery store you tend to stand in the middle of the kitchen, typing away on your blasted PDA, never stopping to ask, “can I help you with the fourteen bags of groceries you just purchased to sustain my very life?” No. That never seems to cross your mind. In fact, you almost act annoyed when I ask, “do you have to do that right here?” You usually leave the room, defeated and pouting, but never taking your eyes off your 2” screen. This is probably why you’ve never seen me flip you the bird.

Gravity seems to have taken its toll on you too. It’s almost like you’re being held down. I especially notice this when you walk. I don’t think you’ve lifted your feet higher than 1” off the ground in years and it would explain why you SHUFFLE YOUR FEET! I always know when you’re coming because I hear SSHH, SSHH, SSHH on the hardwood floors. It’s the worst in the morning when I haven’t had my first cup of joe. When I hear you shuffling along my eye begins to twitch and my hands start shaking so badly that I’m afraid I might drop the carafe, sending it and its contents, aka hot coffee, crashing to the tile floor. I often excuse myself, walk into our closet and scream under my breath. And once I may have even opened the wine I have hidden in there and taken a swig—right out of the bottle. I’m saying I may have. I can’t remember because I was drunk…at 7 o’clock in the morning…on a Tuesday.

Probably your most annoying habit is the farting. I know, everyone farts. It’s a natural occurrence in humans. I get that. But what I don’t understand is why you wait until I get in the bed with you to cut loose—like a Goddamn symphony. I’ll tell you this—your farts are the worst smelling farts in the history of farting. And I’m sick of being exposed to them! It’s not how I want to end my day! Contrary to what you may believe, I don’t have it listed anywhere on my TO DO list! After soccer practice and before read with Harley is not listed enjoy the sounds and smells of hubby’s farts. The worst part is it doesn’t seem to bother you—farting in front of me. You seem to take great joy in expelling noxious fumes in the presence of your beloved. I, on the other hand, work really hard not to pass gas in front of you. I actually care about your comfort. If I feel the urge to…you know…toot…I get up and leave the room. You could take a lesson or two from me.

I could go on, but frankly, I’m exhausted. And writing it all down has only stirred up more hostility toward you—and the truth is, I really like you—when you’re not annoying. When is that exactly?

You know what I think? I think you should buy me something. Like flowers. Ooh, or even better, a Cartier watch. Yes, I think you would be less annoying if you were to do that. In fact, I’m quite sure that’s true. We could leave right now and drive to the jewelry store. Oh wait. Shit. That won’t work. You lost your credit card the other day and the new one hasn’t arrived yet. And to think, we almost solved the problem.
Wait. What’s that smell? DID YOU JUST FART?!