I've been getting pushed, and poked, and gently prodded to pick up where I left off with my blogging. It just seems more simple to read someone's blog than to remember why I started doing this in the first place.

I sit here wondering... is it really as simple as remembering how to ride a bike? Has the balance always been waiting there with the motions? Will my grasp on the handle bars of life take the same veiw on reality I once had? I don't suppose a lengthy hiatus really changes a person, at least not their cynical views and sarcastic bite, so here goes nothing...

....and I continue to sit here, debating on what kind of story I want to unleash. Should I carry on about how Halloween went? How the boys and I got through 4 houses before the eternal whine-fest began? Nah... it doesn't seem right to just jump into yesterday like I've been blogging this whole time. Damn. I almost feel like I've been out whoring around with someone else and I've just now realized how good I had it. That awkward fumbling of trying to come back...

Still sitting here.... scratching my head, looking for the right topic to banter on about. Searching for that funny glimmer, that shroud of quirkiness that covers the demon within...

Should I go on about how Mr. 9 is doing, how we've progressed with the medicated lifestyle, or how about how Mr. 6 is literally missing his two front teeth? I could discuss how the non-smoking is continuing, and lie about how I've gained 2 pounds when in reality it's closer to 10. I could drum on about the addition of pets and how the drooling doggies are murdering bandits that mutilated the gerbils.

So much stuff to go on about, and yet for the last year or so my lazy, fat ass has refused to do it.
Well... "new year, new battery, Edna!" ....time to fire up the internet machines and get back in the swing of things.

Okay... so I obviously suck at updating the blog stuff while I'm in the midst of life changing business, and for those of you that have no fucking idea about what I'm talking about lemme tell ya... moving sucks.

Four long, miserable days of traveling in a 26' cargo truck. Overheating, steep grades, family bickering, and crappy food damn near brought me to my knees. It was a long and hard venture, and it fucking sucked like a toothless whore on a sweaty motel mattress.

...and now that I'm here, it still sucks. We arrived last Thursday and I've unpacked, rehung, fixed, repacked, unloaded, pushed, pulled and crammed stuff everywhere. I'm sunburned, every joint I have aches, and all I can think of at every waking moment is... sex. So there you have it, nothing's changed.

I'm still an ex-smoker, which is ridiculously fucking awesome. I've saved over three hundred dollars and I have already purchased myself a little gift.
Meet Marley...

Marley is a 1 year old rottweiler, pit bull mix that I picked up from a rescue shelter. She is the epitome of what I call a beautiful dog. I'll try to get a picture of her smiling up as soon as I can. I've had her for over three weeks now and she reminds me of that Hanks movie, Turner and Hooch. There is slob... EVERYWHERE.

It's not that I haven't tried to blog, it's just that I haven't really felt creative enough to finish a fucking post. So here's a completely random update on the shit going on in my life.

I quit smoking. It's been over two weeks, and yes... every so often I have a craving to go mug someone and steal a Marlboro, but other than that I'm on top of the world. I let go of the nicotine and the dependency all by my damn self. I'm not upset that I quit, but I am a little angry that I didn't quit sooner.

I'm sick, I have a sinus infection, and the medication the doctor prescribed is kicking my ass. I'm in my third day of practice to be the worlds dumbest zombie, I'm thrilled that I only have 2 more pills to take. I would express my happiness with you, but I'm afraid energy exertion spent on my mouth would mean my eyelids will seal shut. This is probably why there is a 3 inch pool of slob on my desk. I can't stop drooling.
Medicine-head sucks and I can't feel my face.

Mr. 5 has fractured his arm but that news wasn't nearly as exciting as finding him in the midst of a bleeding fit. "Oh my, what happened?" you ask...

Orally fixated children like to place any random object in their mouths, this includes clothing; somebody's old, chewed up, flavorless gum; and possibly the handle of a baseball bat that he proceeded to swing at things with. Of course, all children realize there rational thinking isn't such a good idea AFTER they've injured themselves. So bleeding all over the kitchen floor in an uncontrollable fit of tears is the only possible way to inform the world that an awful decision was made. That tendon that's under the tongue, yeah.. it doesn't really care for bunt plays near the swing set.

And finally, the plans to move are finally set in concrete. In four weeks you should expect to see me posting irrational bitch fests about having to load a Uhaul trailer, or possibly unload the trailer, or complain about something else completely unrelated to moving. In any case... Tucson, here I come. I'm so terribly excited, if only I could feel my face.

PART 1.

I can’t even begin to tell you that I remember it like it was just yesterday, because I’m getting old and my memory is about as quick as a turtle slathered in molasses, but I’ll give it a shot anyways...

I remember it was another glorious and mud filled spring, filled to the brim with opportunities of moving into the doomsday dwelling. The birds were chirping until their beaks shattered, and the doomsday house was opening her doors wide to welcome in her new tenants. Yeah, the house that swallowed people whole in the summer and spat them out to a cold cruel world in the winter was waiting with baited breath to antagonize me and my family once again. Being easily led by the house’s false seductions, I casually carried on my ritualistic voyeurism from the back deck to watch the new bait move in.

I don’t recall how many individuals were moving in, but I know the family appeared to unfold like an accordion out of the vehicles, teenagers here, a whiny brat there, and grown up or two somewhere in the midst, but all and all it was a shitload of teenagers. At this point I should have been hearing evil trumpets of destruction blaring in the background, I should have heard unearthed angels crying for me in desperation, but there were no sounds to forewarn me of the tiring days that lay ahead. None.

The family was Mexican, and just to clarify, I don’t point that out to be a racist or stereotypical blockhead; I point out that their Mexican heritage quickly became a part of my life when the music began playing out of their windows at all hours of the day. My peace and quiet smoke breaks out on the back deck were now accompanied with a frantic and frivolous set of maracas! YIPPY! Fucking Skippy!

The younger teenagers of the house were active basketball fans playing loud and obnoxious games of two on two that could be heard day in and day out. From the school bells until the sun went down I could hear them playing. Ka-thud. Ka-thud. Ka-thud. KA-THUD. P-TANG. Thump thump thump. AWESOME!

Fortunately, none of these actions sealed my neighbors’ fate of disapproval until one fine, summer day I was mowing the lawn. While my headphones were screaming Metallica or some other such thrash metal band to keep my legs motivated, something caught my eye. It wasn't their paper plates scattered through my lawn, or their beer cans caught under the fence line, what I spotted was a three foot tall cannabis plant hidden in their backyard. Yes, three fucking feet of home grown Mary-Jane growing right there on the other side of our swing-set. I even gathered a second opinion from A-me to ensure my drug testing adolescence wasn't playing tricks on me, and astonishingly enough, she agreed with me for once. Our neighbors’ lawn was undeniably infested with cocklebur and weed. MARVELOUS!

We were rather appalled by this growth between our houses. This damn plant was now hindering the bonds of neighborly love. How could we really come to enjoy basketball filled evenings set in the ambiance of a Mariachi band when we can't get over the damn drugs in the back yard? Do we jump the fence and take the damn thing for ourselves, make brownies and forget where we even live? Do I run over there with the weed eater and turn that damn thing into chopped parsley? Do we become the nosy, annoying, neighborhood watch type of neighbors and call the police, or do we sit back idly until their harvest season?

It turns out we really didn't do much of anything at all, except tell everyone we knew about this massive shrub. Jokes were made, drug tests were threatened, and no brownies were eaten. Shortly after that fine summer day another fine summer day rolled in and the shrub was gone. A shovel and a very large black garbage bag sat by their door for a day or two before I witnessed the oldest teenage boy placing the large bag inside of a red, faded, four door jalopy driven by another "old" teenager. A drug deal, right here next to my back yard. NEAT!

The doomsday dwelling lived up to my expectations for those first spring and summer days, until the day that the woman tossed the man and children to the curb. Things were said, things were broken, and then for a moment, things were quiet.

I would love to meet the guy that came up with the phrase "sleeping on the couch is like camping, we really don't mind." I would give anything to inform him that he's a fucking idiot, and after three consecutive nights of sleeping on the couch my back hurts. I wake up screaming with charlie cramps in my legs, and there's a draft coming from the front door that pushes my testicles clear past my tonsils. The guy's a fucking prick for ever giving the notion to ladies that it's "okay" to put my miserable ass on the couch for some fatuous comment I made, which is now irrelevant because I don't fucking remember what it was I said anyways. So here's to you, asshole, I'm now blaming you for all my problems.

...PS! I swear, promise, and with some other empty version of truth, plan to write the next installment for the doomsday neighbors one of these days. Maybe when I get a little more sleep I'll consider it.

I'm experiencing some serious climate shock, and I'm fuckin' sick of it.
Last week I flew into a balmy 90 degree Arizona, it was fantastic, considering I was flying out of a blistering 14 degrees. This is probably why I contracted an upper respiratory infection. You can never go on vacation without ruining it, can you?!

However, this Tuesday flying back from Arizona wasn't so bad, I was greeted by a warming 55 degree pouring rain. The 3 feet of snow that was on the ground when I left? GONE!! I can see my yard! I can walk on the sidewalk without fear of breaking a hip! I can check the mail in my slippers if I want to! The following morning I turned on the television...

and HOLY FUCK! Welcome home, Orion!!

The raging red river that is just 6 cross blocks from my house, is now 24 feet over flood stage. I can't see my yard anymore! There's 8 inches of snow on the ground. Schools are closed because of the blizzard, but vacation has ended for me, my fuzzy little friends, I have to go to work. I'm trying plug my basement drains, reevaluate the sump pumps, shovel out the driveway, salt the sidewalks, check the city site, and what ever the fuck else I need to do. Do I have to go to work? Do I have to evacuate? What the fuck is going on? Why did I even come back?

This is just too much for me, and all that i have stuck in my tiny little mind is the forgetful and funny little blue fish from Finding Nemo... "just keep swimming... just keep swimming..."

I hate packing for trips. I hate trying to calculate how many fucking pairs of socks I'll need, and what if I accidentally spill orange juice on my underwear? Crap! I better pack 4 extra pairs of socks just in case the lotion bottle explodes in the plane.

I hate that it doesn't even matter how little I pack, because half of the shit will still be all nice and folded when I get back, and then I can bitch at my own stupid self for the back aches associated with lugging around 70 extra fucking pounds of my own shit -shit that I didn't need in the first place.

The next tenant of the doomsday dwelling was a rotund, single-mother with at least 2 children, one of which was still in diapers as it ran up the gravel drive. No need to chase the baby though mom, the yard is locked down with rusted chain-link fencing and 4 foot wide cocklebur thistles. Never mind the broken window panes, the old shingles accompanied with rusted nails, or the old tires serving as mosquito hatcheries on the other side of the garage; this place is a dream for any parent!

I noticed she owned a light blue Chevy Astro van complete with rusting fenders and sagging side panels. Speaking of sagging, while batting lashes at the landlord she was trying to repair what looked like a swallowed pair of underwear underneath her spandex pants; and why is it that no matter how much you attempt to not notice these things, they just fall out and slap you in the face? Nobody really wants to watch someone pick at their ass. It's not fun, but we still see it and it still grabs our attention.

Anyways... I sat in amusement as a greasy toddler waddled awkwardly up and down the gravel drive, his diaper enshrouding all but a head on little red shoulders, a lanky set of monkey arms, and a set of knobby little knees. You could see her parenting skills were finely tuned as she felt no need to observe the child as it continued to sit in a 3 inch deep puddle of mud.

It was a nice change of pace to have someone in her situation settle in next door. The family was hardly around, and when they were home, unlike the last neighbors, I couldn't hear every conversation they had. Occasionally I would see her pile the kids in the van, fix her Wal*mart uniform, and barrel out of the driveway. But all in all they were quiet. A month or two had passed before I had completely forgotten about the house on the left. Not that my ADD helps contain my attention on the more interesting matters of movement, but it was fucking quiet over there, I could sleep, so I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it through Halloween. I even admit to enjoying it when she left their festively carved pumpkins outside to soften up on their front steps until Valentines day.

Not that it matters now, but she never shoveled her sidewalk. That's the only thing negative I can remember about that tenant, until the landlord apparently got fed up with her late rent payments. I know this because I could hear them screaming at each other in the driveway. He barked at her to pay the rent. In response, she screamed at him to fix the roof and sped off in her Astro van.

The following day when I came home I noticed the landlord was at that house, and there was a massive pile of furniture, clothing, toys, and other various household items on the curb. All evening long I watched the landlord pull shit from that house and put it on the curb. I missed when the woman returned, but A-me said she was out taking pictures of her belongings and threatening to retain a lawyer. Needless to say, after that I did not see the single mother hanging around my hood.

Next up... the reigning champions of the fucking doomsday house. These fuckers put every resident on my block in a continual state of contentious rage and I can't wait to share their bloggy goodness with the rest of you.

The topic of today's discussion is the doomsday house, and how I wish they would tear the damn thing down, occupants and all. At this very moment something inside of me wishes that nosy fucking landlord would just die, and yeah... I mean that exactly like it says there. I want the bastard to get smeared by a speeding bus, and I know that's rotten of me, but I don't care.

I've been living in my house for around 3 years now and I've come to appreciate the neighbors to the right of me. They've collected my mail while I was away on vacation. They are very caring, and disturbingly enough, their nosiness comforts me when they know I'm out of town before I do.

The house on the left however, is a completely different story, and I found that out the first week I moved into town. The doomsday occupants, at the time, were a rather young couple that I assume at one time could have been high school sweethearts. She looked like something out of a sports illustrated magazine with her blond hair and legs. Legs, that's all I can really remember about her. Anyways... he looked something like a young and aspiring Sean Astin with big teeth, matted hair, and a fucking myriad of camouflage outfits to hide his true goonie.

The first 3 months I listened to the voices shriek out in sexual angst. Their college bodies and preschool minds clashed like titans through the evenings. She would yell about school and working, he would yell about sex and booze, and I would sit and watch Fox TV on a 13" monitor. A 13" monitor that couldn't drown out the shrill voices bickering over a ninety-dollar-case-of-HPV. A 13" monitor because I didn't have my TV yet, and I didn't have my family yet. I had only had the faintly comforting voices of Fox TV and the neighbors before my real entertainment arrived.

The neighbors kept me up most nights, and prevented me from napping most days. My lack of sleep must have impaired my judgment, because I found many of their arguments amusing. I thoroughly enjoyed the time she chased him out of the house with a flip-flop, whipping him in the head as she vehemently scolded him about a fishing trip he had taken two weeks prior. Apparently she didn't like that the beer cooler outside was still full of fish and water, but thank the lord he saved the beer from getting warm in this 80 degree spring of heat.

Eventually, A-me and the boys moved in. Eventually, the book dodging sweethearts moved out, and eventually, from the comfort of a lounge chair on my deck, I watched the landlord dump out the beer cooler in mid August heat. I watched him gag and heave as he reeled his arms back to cover his nose. The flood of a tempestuous cloud of decomposing trout over took the scrawny man as he ran to the lawn to let the consistent choke escalate to the dry heaves.

I watched him pull furniture, rugs, clothes, and a mess of other shit out to the road. I watched him as he "cleaned" the house and gave tours of the available space; and later that fall I watched the next tenant move in. So stick around my page this week for another exhilarating post about this shit heap of a house I endearingly call the doomsday dwelling.

Daylight savings time.
Sweet mother of flame retardant biscuits, I am tired, and this isn't your usual yawn because I'm not quite awake yet and it's a Monday tired. This is an agonizing, my head is going to smack my keyboard if I don't find something to prop my head up, tired.
A few people are stupid enough to tell you that the time change doesn't really effect anyone and that's it's all in our heads. Is that why I was wide awake until 3 a.m. last night, because I was up agonizing over how unaffected I am with this time change?

Living in North Dakota.
We are having our 4th or 5th blizzard warning of the season. Driving on roads that have 1 inch of solid ice pack from the rain we recieved last night, and watching the snow begin to stick as cars careen into the ditch gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling inside. Even though last month it was too fucking cold to snow! When you can wake up and see a sun dog, or walk outside and see your breath crystalize before it falls to the sidewalk... you must be a complete idiot for living where you do. And yeah, I'm a complete idiot.


Mondays.
Mondays are a continual state of necrosis on my life. They just eat away at everything. I can't even look forward to the weekend without being reminded that a Monday immediately follows.

Are you one of those people that's easily inspired? I am... I get motivated like no other. A-me watches a hip-hop dancing competition on TV and within seconds my foot is bouncing up, down, side-to-side and I wanna bust a move!

The same thing happens to me when we sit through another compelling drama movie that's already been produced. And don't act like you don't know what type of movie I'm talking about, cause you know!! The "Dangerous Minds" remake EVERY other year with some troubled teen making it big time in some fucking prep school for the kids with gifted legs. Yeah, THAT movie. I hate those movies, and yet, every time we watch one I wanna glide my happy ass through the house and break into a Micheal Jackson choreographed episode of coolness. An episode I'm sure looks something more like a case of epilepsy, but whatever.

This past weekend A-me and Mr. 7 were glued to Food Network, and whaddya think happened? Yeah, I wanted to cook. It's not like I CAN'T cook... I can grill, and I can microwave, and I can make eggs... but I normally don't stray too far from home with the cooking routine. So this was all very new to me, this ...compelling and annoying NEED to cook something, very annoying.

I tripped over an awesome blog, and in it I found a recipe that seemed... too easy. And when I read it I began drooling over my desk like some Labrador on hunt because the thought of eating it was consuming my motor functions. So I contemplated over actually following through with this, I mean... this is serious shit! This is like selling a new car, if I hand out a lemon... my reputation is ruined. So I thought about it for an eternity that took up 32.8 seconds before I committed myself.

I made a list of things I didn't think we kept in the house that I would need to purchase. I secretly checked the cupboards, the spice rack, and the refrigerator. I made small little adjustments to the recipe, making it more my own and doubling the fear of fucking it all up.

The following evening I went to the store. Alone.
I inspected things. I looked at limes with an inquisitive nature and tried to act like I had some sensible knowledge for what a good lime looks like. I picked a green one.
Yeah, me... all by myself, I picked out a fucking lime. Move the fuck over Rachael Ray, Orion's in the kitchen now!

I looked at green onions, and yeah... I know those aren't IN the recipe. But I did it anyway... I picked out green onions. I picked green ones. And I was gonna put those in the recipe! Yeah, me... I made that choice, I fucked with the recipe, because that's what chefs do.

I made my selections, and with excitement I sped home from the grocery store. I threw everything on the counter, and dug out the cooking devices, and washed my hands. Yeah, me... I washed my hands, and not because they were green.

I followed the directions... step, by step, by step.
I didn't spray myself in the eye with lime juice. I didn't slice off a finger when chopping. It wasn't hard. It was easy... too easy.

So with skepticism, we ate the Monterey chicken. I was expecting faces of terror from the boys, grimacing with agony because this molten substance was melting their teeth. I was expecting A-me to throw her nose into the air, shove her plate forward with disgust, and proclaim that this is why we don't try new things. Nothing.

It was fucking awesome. It was easy.... and now all I want to do is cook something else.

DAMMIT!

Need a second opinion of why you could possibly be reading my blog? Check this out... a verbal laceration cutting me a little deeper than expected, but none-the-less, a wicked post on their end. I even enjoyed reading my own ass reaming.

http://iwillfuckingtearyouapart.blogspot.com/2009/01/ask-you-shall-receive-unleashed.html

and... to answer the question...
I can assure you, the "shoplifting" thing was a huge issue at first light, I knew I was buying the whole package. It's some days, that I find it difficult to swallow the bigger concepts of compassion and selflessness, when all I want is to curl up into a ball of self-pity and selfishness.

I'm not trying to be an asshole, though I think like one some days.

I have an orange sitting on my desk and from the dismal view in my chair it looks to be like any other orange, but it's not. It's my orange and unlike every other ordinary orange in the world this one's been here since Monday of last week. How long does fruit keep? Will it attract any bugs if I leave it to rot? Will there be a pungent odor of citrus odiousness that follows people like an angry cloud of anti-vitamin C? Can you feel it? My little orange being the demise of the office I work in? People running... tripping... falling... and grasping at the tightly woven carpets trying to crawl away from the awful stench of my decomposing orange. Their fingernails digging into the Berber, clawing through stains that Joe left when he dropped his lasagna. They scream and choke their way through the gnat infested fog as they attempt to make copies of the latest TPS report. ...meh.

Anyways, the reason I'm here today is not to spew forth a wordy worthless rambling about a rotting little orange on my desk. I'm here to bitch about my neighbors... the doomsday house neighbors (on the left.)

We got pounded with snow over the weekend. There is snow ass deep everywhere, so unless you have a snowblower, it's going to take you days to get out of your house. I ran my snowblower and spent about 2 hours clearing my neighbor's (on the right) driveway in appreciation for all the times they've collected my mail or whatever. They are very nice, quiet people and I value their silence.

I was in the process of putting the snowblower away for the day, but I figured I'd make the path to my shed a little wider, and the boys love it when they can jump off the deck into a huge pile of snow. So I was preparing to move a great deal of the fluffy white shit when I heard someone yelling. I looked up and found a fiery beast standing on the other side of the fence. She had a mess of deep red hair falling down around her grumpy face and her eyes were swollen slits behind a heap of wrinkles. I wouldn't go as far to say she is old, but she looked as if life's been a little rough the last couple of years. Add a dash of slut, three parts alcohol, or a wonder bra and this woman could easily make resemblance to Lohan's mug shot.

I killed the auger in attempt to hear what she was saying..

Doomsday Neighbor: "this isn't working for me!" and with attitude she just stares at me while I'm trying to figure out what in the fuck she's talking about.

Me: "What?!?" I wait with baited breath for her response, but she takes too long. I mutter "whatever" and start the auger. Again I can hear the annoyance of yelling. I look over and she's eyeballing me like I'm about to start her children on fire.

D.N.: "Hey asshole!"
....now I have an eyebrow cocked, and I'm waiting ever so patiently for her to finish her idiotic statement.
"You blowing this shit into my driveway... isn't working for me!"

First of all, let me reiterate what I was doing. I was widening a path in my backyard and I was going to make a pile for Mr. 7 & Mr. 4 to jump into. Making a pile in my yard and she calls me an asshole. Cue anger.

Me: "Listen up bitch, I'd like to consider myself a nice fucking person and do things for my neighbors, but since you're obviously a psychotic bitch, you can have fun shoveling today."

She trudges through the snow and starts her car, slams her car door shut, and makes her way back to her house. I had half a mind to chase the bitch down and run over her with the snowblower for scientific testing, but instead I went inside and told A-me about my first encounter with the new neighbors.

I'll end my sweet little story with a question...
Why hasn't anyone changed the filter on this shallow fucking gene pool??

I think I'm gonna eat that orange now, and start a massive post on the doomsday house.

Thanksgiving is over! Am I thankful?
Sure!! My rankled holiday weekend is over. No more visiting with the "crazy cat lady" or my quote unquote - in laws. I am home, finally. Anyways... this crap has nothing to do with my post, so let's get on with it... shall we?

I sit now on the couch, occasionally peering over the laptop at the chick-flick A-me has decided to watch and I sneer at the adolescent idealism smeared all over our television. She is watching "Sisterhood of the traveling pants 2", and if that title doesn't say enough about how fucking corny this show could possibly be, you could take your pick from an ass load of mediocre everyday drama performed by young chicks fresh out of the nest. I obviously, am not that into watching the movie... hence the laptop, hence the sarcastic attitude. This brings me to a profound question of man's will.

What lengths will a man or woman go to in order to get what they want? I'm not talking about something desperately out of reach, but something relatively simple. For example, I will sit through this entire movie thinking the whole time about how I could be playing PS2, but I will continue to sit here occasionally laughing, holding her hand, and acting as if I give a shit. The reason why I subject myself to such humiliation... because I know that my suffering through this agonizing movie just to hang out, turns her on and I will be rewarded greatly once the night is through.

I'm full of needs, and understanding the treacherous nature of SOME women in order to fulfill my needs is an everyday part of life. I'd think of it as friendly manipulation. So, my mind is now wrapped up very tight in thought about this concept of manipulation.

What things does she do in order to get what she wants, and what things does she actually con me into doing?

So... I would like some more examples of "friendly manipulation." What will you do in order to get what you want?

Have you ever watched "Office Space?" Yes, no, maybe, who cares? Well if you have or have not, there is a very annoying line in that movie that rings all too true for my daily life: "Somebody's got a case of the Mondays"

Well, no shit, Sherlock. Nobody likes a Monday, nobody, unless your home life is so devastatingly horrible you spend the weekends in bed crying or drinking yourself into oblivion. That or you're a working fool that is more retarded then sane and you should be slapped with a toaster. Perhaps, you just don't know any better... it doesn't matter, Mondays suck!

I was not shocked, or even a bit surprised this morning when I walked outside to start my car. It's a Monday, I wouldn't have been shocked to walk outside and find the Easter Bunny banging the Tooth Fairy. Nope, it would not have phased me a bit. So when I spotted the flat front tire I shrugged it off as an ordinary Monday occurrence, lit my morning cigarette and started the car as usual.

I have a small can of compressed air in the shed, just enough to get me the 8 blocks to a gas station with an air hose. Unfortunately the shed isn't heated and it was a blistering 14 degrees outside this morning, so the can was frozen. I may as well have been trying to cram a frozen piece of dog shit into the valve stem for as smoothly as this process was working. I took the can in the house and set it in front of a heating vent, hoping it would thaw out and be usable, but as my luck would have it... not usable.
PERFECT!!

I've never had to use the jack that's in my car, not until today anyways, and might I say it's one of the lightest and more efficient little knuckle grinders I've ever used. Of course that's only after you have to spend five minutes trying to figure out how to get it out of the clips. These weren't any ordinary clips either, these were technologically advanced clips that pretty much soldered the fucking thing against the rear fender of my car.
BRILLIANT!!

Not only did I struggle with the damn jack, but I struggled again once the lug nuts were removed. Apparently my wheel and rotor had been coalesced. Fused together in rusted matrimony to remain as one.
AWESOME!!

So I wandered back out to the shed to dig for the WD-40 I knew was in there, but it didn't appear to be in there. At least not for the first 5 minutes that I looked on the one shelf where I kept it. So I thoroughly rummaged through the carton of spray paints expecting it to be hidden amongst them instead. Nope. Another 5 minutes wasted. Becoming frustrated I stood up, took a deep breath, and noticed the little red cap staring back at me from the first shelf. The can had fallen over. Still there, straw attached and everything, was the can of WD-40, right in front.
FRIED FUCKING BREAD, WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!

I lost it. I swore all the way up to my car. I swore as I sprayed the entire contents of the can on my wheel. I swore as I kicked off an aerobic workout of wrenching the wheel back and forth, and back and FORTH AND BACK AND FORTH! I swore as I scared the neighbor lady who had the audacity to ask if I needed help while I was in the middle of my vituperative tirade of why I loathe Mondays. "NO. I don't need any help! Thanks for asking!
gotdamsunovacocksuckinwhoremongralpieceoffuckingshit!!!!"

I'm okay about it now. The flat is in the backseat. WD-40, compressed air, jack, tire iron, you name it... if it can be associated with putting a donut on your vehicle it's rolling around on the floor of my car. I suppose I should get the neighbor lady a fucking fruit basket or something, whatever, it's her own damn fault really...

Yup, another happy Monday.
Happy Monday to all my readers!!!
...assholes.

Tease. I believe this word is derived 98% of the time from the male perspective, and I'll get into that in just a moment.

Last night I'm laying on the floor with Mr. 7. We are drawing Japanese dragons. Actually, I am drawing a dragon, Mr. 7 is drawing something that looks to be your random garden snake, mutilated by a lawn mower. I am focused, the lines are looking awesome, and then I hear two words and three letters in a provocative 900 number voice.

"I want s-e-x."

The lines have gone all warm and fuzzy, or maybe that was just something in my pants. What the hell was I doing? All I can think about is warm and fuzzy. Minutes later I am given the "come hither" stare, and I'm lead into the kitchen where I receive the kiss. The kiss was obviously not your run of the mill peck of routine. No, this was one of those ...I can undo your zipper with a flick of my tongue... sort of kisses that I haven't had since high school.

In the moments I spent staring down the clock in hopes that Mr. 7 and Mr. 4 would reach bedtime before I exploded, she fell asleep. She denied me of my conquest once again. At this moment I am led to believe she is intentionally fucking with me.

To me this is sort of like explaining to your child on Christmas Eve that Santa will be coming down the chimney, bearing an ass load of gifts to make all their dreams come true. Then at eight o'clock when little Timmy is setting out the cookies, his eyes glazed with excitement as he sets out the milk, you explain to him how Santa, the fat bastard, is just another random tall tale that crushes the hopes and dreams of kids all over the globe.

Total let down.

I can't even count the number of times this sort of "let down" has happened to me in the last six months, but I can tell you that one time, because of alcohol, I passed out before my opportunity. Teasing, 98% of the time... it's her, but that one time will continue to haunt me as every conversation about s-e-x arises.

I'm not that slow of a learner. I swear. I got it. I'll never do it again. Promise.

I'm not trying to be a stereotyping blow hard who's panties are still in a wad from my own childhood let downs; I know that divorces, breakups and separations can be nasty, but what's up with the whoring?

My mom signed her divorce papers and sooner than the courts could stamp a seal on that sheet of paper she was between the sheets. I fucking hated her. I hated that she would sleep with every Tom, Dick, and hairy penis she could find. It pissed me off, and I lost a lot of respect for my mother when she went through that phase.

A phase, and it's only women that go through this phase, because men are too damn stupid. They get divorced/separated/what have you and 1 of 2 things will happen.

#1 - They will rebound immediately, because A. they were already fucking a girl on the side or B. they can't stand to be alone so they are easily scooped up by that desperate weird chick that has not had a date since her 7th birthday party at the roller skate rink when all the "mean" kids called her and her sister "pork 'n beans."

#2 - They will end up alone because she divorced him and he just can't get over the idea that she really didn't love him this whole time and why? why? why?!! Sharon just tell me why?!?!?! and then the guy will become a shut in with a set of binoculars because Sharon put a restraining order on his dumb ass for stalking her and stealing her dirty underwear through the divorce process.

Recently divorced women open up their own red light district to fulfill their release of sexual desires. What are you trying to do, fuck away the last 10 years? What the fuck is this? I'm watching a friend of mine do this, as I type, and it takes everything I have not to walk up to her and say "Your kids are going to fucking hate you for being a trashy ass whore, bitch, grow up."

Get a divorce, fine, be a whore, fine, but keep the guys out of your home until you're fucking serious about one of them.

You've just recently become involved with someone, and only months ago you were starving yourself with depression from your last relationship. You've dropped a few pounds and haven't been eating right. So when you make that comment about being fat, that new guy/girl in your life will do just about anything to prove you wrong, because you are. Your cheeks are sunken in, and your face is gaunt, and that's what attracted them to you, right?

Now let's fast forward a few months, okay one year... let's move ahead one year. You've been eating healthier. Of course you have, you're happy, you're still in the stages of lust and infatuation, but you're still not fat.

You're having sex two or three times a day come hell or high water because you... are in love. You bust your ass at work to come home early, or so you can make that phone call, or what have you... because you're in love. After a few more months, things start to become comfortable. You settle into one another, you begin the nit picking of things you used to find "cute", but now they are just fucking annoying, and would you please, please pick up your fucking underwear?! Just once, would you listen to me instead of that fucking Ipod.

Yeah, you know where it leads... the sex? Yeah, not so much anymore. You don't get those butterflies when they call you anymore either, instead you give an immediate eye roll, or maybe you even let out a sigh when you read their cuddly little number on the face of your phone.

You stop thinking to yourself "God! I can't wait to see them!" because it's been replaced by "What in the hell do you want now?"

As the years roll by you find yourself some evening planning a "date" or some other inspiring event to spice up the love life, and you hear "Oh my God, I'm so fat!" Instead of putting up the uplifting defenses about how they work so hard, or have been under a lot of stress... you don't say anything, and believe me... it does not go unnoticed. Because at 2:15 in the morning, when you're midway through a taxi ride home and all you can think about is getting them into bed, you'll hear about it. "Why didn't you say anything? You just sat there, and agreed with it."

You won't be able to let go of that sexual frustration. You'll spend another night watching cheap internet porn instead of dividing and conquering because you just don't fucking care anymore. Because you don't want to hurt their feelings by saying "yeah, you're fat. fix it." and you're too fucking shallow to encourage them in the right ways to get off their lazy asses.

Yeah, it's okay... you can say it. I'm an asshole.

I went to the grocery store this evening and I was waiting in line for the check out when confrontation broke out between between an older man and an older woman about who cut in line; apparently it's now a race to see who can toss away those monthly social security checks. I raised my brow and sneered at the two, knowing I was next in line, when the gentleman in front of me gave me a nudge. I immediately noticed his figure and how he was standing with one leg locked, arms locked, and hands on his hips, but he still didn't strike me as gay until he spoke. He reminded me of my friend's four year old daughter, and how she always speaks as though she's a princess. His voice started off in a lisp and escalated into princess speak. He stated "I wish some rich old man would fight over me like that", and he ended his nonchalant statement with a wink.

What?! Who pulled the rabbit out of the hat, and what the fuck just happened here!? I'm not sure what appalled me more. Was it what he had just said, or was it the fact that he winked at me after he said it, or was it the fact that he could have been under the assumption that I was gay.

I tried my damnedest not to show my aggravation over his comment by redirecting my attention to the elderly people still bickering over line position, but it still bothered me. Even now... it still bothers me.

I do NOT have an issue with gay people what-so-ever. It's just not my cup of tea, end of story. I don't want to think about it, talk about it, watch it, or witness it... just like I don't want to witness the high school sweethearts making out in the mall either. Keep that shit in the bedroom or where ever, just not in front of me.. k? Thanks.

My problem with all of this? This is the third time it's happened in a rather short period of time. I was verbally forced to go to a drag show a couple of months ago. A local club known for being the hot spot hang out for gays was the place of entertainment. I'll admit, it was worth going and very entertaining. We laughed hysterically most of the night until we were too drunk to notice the hilarity. After all, it's not everyday you get to see grown men parading around in pink sequined miniskirts, or adorned in a flashy set of stiletto heals.

Towards the end of that evening, when dancing with my girlfriend, I was given a proposition. A young woman pulled me aside and asked me if I was ready for the greatest blow job of my life. Intriguing enough, sure, until she pointed out the gentleman offering the rim job. A lanky individual wearing cowboy boots, a cowboy hat, and he also sported a van dyke. He was about as "manly" a man could get, aside from his flamboyant dress attire.

For obvious reasons, be it male or female that offered me the oral sex I declined, and shortly there after we left the club due to my uneasiness.

Prior to those episodes I once found myself awaiting the company of a few friends. I did know that we were walking into a gay strip club, I did know that I felt uncomfortable, and I did know that it would be a short wait. What I did not know was that my now ex-girlfriend would be called a tramp by a transvestite, and I would find it ridiculously comical; causing her to get pissed at me and walk out of the strip club while I waited for my drink. Not two minutes into my wait I felt something brush up behind me. Fortunately for myself I was not naive enough to believe the bitch walked her frumpy ass back into the bar, I turned around.

I stood there. Shocked. Bewildered. Confucked over what my eyes surveyed. A juiced out monster of a man wearing nothing but a bright yellow G-string and not seconds ago that damn thing was rubbing up against my ass. Fuck the drink. I'm out.

Yeah, I'm a phobe. When it concerns me and my ass, yes. When it concerns the neighbor guy's ass, not so much.

Seriously, I can understand the strip club and the night club. I walked into them... but the grocery store? Do I have a faulty "not gay" sign? WTF?

So I ask Aime if I appear to be gay. She chuckles briefly and says "Why?" She doesn't say... NO. She says "Why?"

I notify her that I don't find her reassuring at all, she laughs again and tells me "Stop it. I don't ever want to hear you bitch about being uncomfortable until you have to schedule a gyno appointment for yourself, and the day you have an ice cold metal probe rammed in your VA-jay jay is the day I'll give a shit if you got hit on by a gay man."

I probably should have spent the night on the couch...
you know, the whole... camping trip excursion from the bedroom because you were too fucking stupid to keep your mouth shut. Yeah, I'm there, actually... let's hope that I was there.

The real problem is when you are not quite certain what it is exactly that you said, but it is rather obvious that you did, indeed, say something you shouldn't have. So i spent most of my night in the basement fixing a computer, working on tattoo flash, and building a new layout for my blog...

I could look at the brighter side of the night and say to myself, "well... at least I got some shit done." I could think of the nasty attitude I received last night and this morning as just her feisty coyness. I could give my infamous puppy-eyes, whip out the flowers, and apologize for my worthless existence. I could think that i'll be able to go home this evening and have the slightest inclination of what I've done to unveil the atomic warhead that's awaiting my arrival...

Meh, why the fuck would I think about any of that shit? Now is the time for me to stand behind my comedic expressions and my sarcastic charm that she loathes...
Because this time, if I'm going to be spending a slice of life on the couch or in the basement... at least I will have an idea why..