Category Archives: Blog Hop

Post-It Note Tuesday

 

Insane Morphing Abilities

Mice are strange little creatures, when you think about it. Sure, they’re also disgusting and all rodent-y, but when you realize the abilities of these little germ infested assholes, it’s almost impressive. Not impressive enough to keep them around … but impressive, nonetheless.

I have been impressed by mice for some time now, having lived near fields a couple of times in the past and now, again, in this house. My husband, however, doubted their morphing abilities and didn’t give them the credit they righteously deserve.

We have gone round and round in our mouse debate over the last couple years. He insists they cannot flatten themselves down to nearly nothing in order to squeeze into small spaces. I, on the other hand, know that they somehow dislodge all bone structure and slide anywhere they fucking want to.

On Sunday, I finally won the battle. Not with the mice – but with my husband.

He was under the kitchen sink, fixing a pipe or something. I was acting apprentice for the task and performed minor tasks per his request. From the corner of my eye, I saw the little son-of-a-bitch (not my husband – the mouse) scurry across the kitchen hall area into a cabinet. I swear to God – this cabinet was effin closed and latched.

I shared this information with my husband, who immediately stated that I was either lying or crazy (okay, he didn’t say it exactly like that, but he may as well have). I told him to come see for himself unless he was afraid he would be proven wrong.

I was silently praying there wasn’t some black hole into Never-Never Land placed in some crevice in the cabinet. This was my chance to prove my case. I knew I was right. I’d seen it with my own eyes. Provided I really wasn’t crazy, he was finally going to know I was right. About this. About everything. Always.

As we walk up to this cabinet, I noticed the tiniest little separation between the door and the frame. I pointed this observation out to my husband who literally laughed in my face at the idea that the mouse fit through that tiny little space. At this point, I almost doubted myself and my vast knowledge of mice and their disgusting little habits. My confidence was soon redeemed, however, when we opened the cabinet to reveal the little bastard hiding in the corner of the cabinet, as I said he would be.

Ah, sweet victory

It was at that point, and not a second sooner, that we both realized that we hadn’t really thought this plan all the way through.

There we stood, my husband with his shock and surprise and me, with my smug smile, staring at this little mouse who was clearly in all out panic mode. The little fucker was trying every strategy his Mom taught him. He scurried until he realized there was nowhere to run. He squeaked a little in an effort to call in the troops, he played dead thinking maybe we would simply move on with our lives after having realized he was dead and of no use to us.

As I reached for the wrench from underneath the sink, my husband grabs a box. We both turned around with our “weapons” and looks at each other in obvious disbelief.

I was wondering how the hell he planned on killing a mouse with a box. He was wondering what kind of murdering, heartless bitch he really married.

After I giggled a little at the obvious gender role debacle, I put down my wrench and asked what I could do to help catch the little bastard. As we discussed strategy, the mouse made his way out of the closet and into a crack in the wall.

This crack? Less than a 1/4 inch wide. No kidding. I still insist they morph into slime rodents. My husband – even with no leg to stand on – still somehow insists that I am wrong. This must have been a fluke.

And the best part? I obviously set it up to play out the way it did just to make him think I was right.

Wow.

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My Dysfunctional Oscar Awards Acceptance Speech

“And the Oscar for “Most Dysfunctional Woman of the Year” goes to:”

*drumroll*

“KALI CAPPS!!!!”

*Thunderous applause*

*standing ovation (naturally)*

ME: “I know, I know. I love you too. Thank you, everyone. Sit down! You guys are too much. Thank you. “

*the room finally quiets down*

“Wow, this is so unexpected. It was an honor to be nominated alongside these amazingly dysfunctional women; but to win? I’m very surprised and honored. Ok, let me get myself together. I hadn’t even prepared a speech; I was so sure I wouldn’t win.”

*pulls small piece of paper from back pocket*

“I’d first like to thank my husband. Honey, a day without you is like a day without sunshine. And rain. And volcanoes. I couldn’t have displayed my dysfunction on any other platform better than I have on the one you’ve helped me to build. Thank you so much. I love you”

*wipes single tear from each eye*

*pan down to audience to find husband with proud look on his face, obviously overcome with emotion*

“To my son, who fills my days with love, adventure, and catastrophe: No one could evoke the emotional roller coaster I go through several times a day the way you do. With a simple look or sometimes word, you can get me from enraged to smiles within seconds. You are amazing in so many ways. For this, I am forever grateful and eternally dysfunctional. “

*deep breath*

“Finally, to the root of my chaos; the woman who I unconsciously model myself after  on a daily basis: My Mother. If not for your unwavering example of what true dysfunction really is, and the constant you provided that let me know things would never be constant, I could never have won this award.”

“This, Mom, is for you. I love you.”

*deafening applause, tears and smiles all around*

*Cue the music*

*And fade out*

Kludgy Mom

Lessons Learned From A One-Night Stand

I’m participating in a new blog hop. It seems to be right up my alley.
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Awesome, right? I know.
This week’s post: Lessons Learned From A One Night Stand:

After chatting online a few times over the course of about a week, he drove almost 150 miles to pick me up for our date.
Lesson #1: If he drives through more than one county to see you, it’s most likely because he
(a) is married or in a serious relationship and keeps his hoes in different area codes,
(b) has already slept with most women in his area (and their friends from surrounding areas), or
(c) was the  joke of his high school back home and is desperate to create a new image via online social pimp sites
I watched from my bedroom window as he got out of his car (oddly, a different car than the one he was standing next to in his profile picture) to ring the doorbell.
He was wearing a sweater.
I’m not talking about a hooded sweatshirt. Or a zip up sweatshirt. It was not a sweatshirt at all. It was a sweater. A knit sweater. It was thick. It looked scratchy. It was maroon with a picture of something I must have blocked from my memory. I want to say a clown – but I am 100% sure I would have not answered the door if there was actually a clown on this man’s sweater. In any case, there was a man at my door wearing a thick, scratchy, maroon sweater that had a picture on it.  I opened the door and laughed in his face we walked to his car (NOT the car he was standing next to in his profile picture), both with our own set of expectations.
We make small talk on the way to the club (keep in mind that I am about the last girl you’d ever see in any club like establishment. I’m more of a “dive bar with a pool table or two” kind of chick) and he informs me that he had to “borrow a friend’s car for the night” and other obvious bullshit I won’t bother to mention.
Lesson #2: When you smell bullshit for no good reason at all, he’s most likely:
(a) married or in a serious relationship.
(b) incredibly insecure
(c) a man
He proceeds to check BOTH his iPhone and his Blackberry several times, as if he was expecting a call or maybe – just maybe – flashing his bling.
Lesson #3: If a man has not just 1, but 2 trendy cell phones – ask to borrow one so you can call a friend to come pick you up immediately.

We get to the club and he is a gentleman with his chivalrous behavior. The old-fashioned girl in me really likes these small gestures. The tiny bit of feminist in me thinks I should be getting his door. He’s the one wearing a fucking sweater, for Christ’s sake.
Anyways, he pays the door man our cover charges (total: $14) with a hundred-dollar bill. I didn’t think much of it.
I led the way to the bar immediately, knowing this incredibly loud and highly social event calls for copious amounts of alcohol. I ordered a Long Island Iced Tea. He got some frilly girl cocktail and 2 shots of Patron Tequila (my favorite). He paid the bartender with a hundred-dollar bill.
We took the shots and I downed my drink pretty quickly. I was thirsty. We shared some small talk about the scene and other shallow things of that nature when he lets me in on something he should have taken to his grave:
He was on the dance team in high school.
I got the impression that he was not confessing an embarrassing fact about himself as much as he was bragging about his taking part in the coolest club on campus. Don’t get me wrong – a man who can dance can be hot (it’s rare, but it has happened). However, paired with the facts I already had (the picture sweater, the multiple phones, and the attempts to flash his cash), it was everything I could do not to call my best friend right then to share this ridiculous turn of events.
Lesson #4: High School Dance Team = 2 guys who choreograph routines in a garage after school that no one will ever see performed outside said garage.

Okay, so two more Long Islands and 2 shots of Patron later, I’m on the dance floor with my dancing stud and his sweater. I should mention that I don’t dance. At least, not well. But whatthefuckever. I was fairly shit faced at that point and for some reason, I agreed to dance with him. I think it was probably just so I didn’t seem like the stick in the mud/ non-dancing chick I really was. Whatever the reason, I was on the dance floor. And I was dancing. And then…
we were making out.
Swear to God. One second, I’m making myself laugh out loud with jokes in my head about his sweater and how it was probably part of the required uniform for dance team competitions, the next second – we’re making out on the dance floor.
Lesson #5: Guys who wear sweaters with pictures on them and took part in the school dance team ? They are great maker-outers.

I must admit, though I’d like to say otherwise because it fits into my tiny slightly larger than medium-sized box of generalizations, this man (who suddenly earned that title) could make out like a stud. And I love me a great maker-outer.
Long story, short (or is it too late for that?) – I went back to his room with him (he conveniently had a room already since he lived so effin far away and “didn’t want to drink and drive” ) .
Short story, long – I lost 3 1/2 minutes of my life that I’ll never get back.
Lesson # 6: Guys who wear sweaters with pictures on them? Don’t even take them off to have sex.

My Top Ten

I’m participating in the B2S/B2B (for those of you out of the loop, that means Back 2 School/ Back 2 Blog) program with Kludgy Mom. It’s basically a tutorial on how to improve your blog and make the little changes that matter, as well as the major changes, if necessary. I have a point. I swear.

This week’s assignment (of choice) is to list my fears. I’m looking forward to this challenge because it’s something outside my comfort zone. It’s always good to do something that you really don’t want to do. Especially when this particular thing (sharing my fears out loud), I’d avoid due to my fear of vulnerability. lol. When I realized that’s why I skimmed past this option at first, I forced myself to go back just because of the obvious irony it displayed. With no further ado, I give to you, the tools to bring me to my knees. A.K.A – my Top Ten Fears:

10. Crunchy Bugs. Bring on the snakes and spiders, but leave the bugs that crunch underground (or wherever it is they live). I can’t bring myself to step on them so instead, I find myself sweeping them out the door or in most cases, calling the nearest male to come handle the situation. They freak me the fuck out.

9. Becoming paralyzed from the waist down. I’d be seriously bummed if I couldn’t walk anymore, but the real loss here is the fact that I’d have to goodbye to orgasms. Let’s get real. Dennis Leary knew what he was talking about when he said that happiness comes in small doses. I get pleasure from sex, drugs, and chocolate. I don’t do drugs anymore. I’ve eaten enough chocolate to last a lifetime (or 2). If I lost the ability to experience an orgasm, I might shoot myself in the face.

8. Never finding a niche. I really want to get paid to do something I love doing. I know everyone wishes for that, but I think it’s necessary. I don’t want to wake up every morning and wish I didn’t have to go to work. I want to be good at something, enjoy doing it (for the most part, anyway), and get paid at the end of the week. I’d settle for being good at something and getting paid to do it. Or maybe even just loving it and getting paid to do it. I just really hope I can feel accomplished in some way before I’m 60.

7. Screwing up this “Mommy” thing. I know everyone makes mistakes. I know I’m pretty much winging this whole thing, considering I have no experience with kids or anything closely related to a family life before recently. But none of that is my kid’s fault, and I hope my inexperience and lack of knowledge doesn’t somehow cause severe emotional trauma or something. I’ve read books. I take advice. I feel like I kind of know what I’m doing at this point. But it still scares the crap out of me to think I’m responsible for so much of his outlook on life.

6. Regressing. I’ve had my share of traumatic events and life changing moments. These have each caused me to see things more clearly in one way or another. I’ve learned lessons and changed as a person in many ways. I used to be manipulative and cunning. While I am still calculated, it is not (often) in a way that will harm anyone else. It’s more in a “think before I act” kind of way. I slip every now and then, while angry or emotional, back to the “old me”. Mostly this happens in my thoughts instead of my actions … but I’m afraid I will slip big one day, and it won’t be pretty. I don’t want to set that example for my son and most importantly, I don’t want to be that person ever again. In the same category, I suppose, is my tendency to gravitate towards the same type of person; that person being someone who is not good for me or is not on the same path as I am. I’m tired of abusive relationships (abusive in different ways, but abusive just the same). I’m tired of being abused and mostly, I’m tired of abusing. The only way that will change is by changing my choices and behaviors during these relationships. I usually start out okay, but regress when I feel as though I’ve been a fool in letting someone into my teeny tiny “circle of trust”. This is unacceptable. I’m hoping that, in this case, my fear of regressing will keep me in check.

5. I am afraid of going to jail. This fear is one I am holding onto for dear life. As soon as I forget how much I hate jail, I’ll be back making money the easy way and inevitably, back inside. My son is too old now and far too dependent on his Mommy to have me disappear for months or years at a time. My heart breaks just thinking about not being able to see his face every day, and worse, his not being able to see mine to reassure him that he’s loved by his Mommy and perfect in my eyes.

4. I am afraid my dog, Dexter, isn’t immortal after all. He’s just gotten a tumor removed and after the biopsy, the vet recommended he see an oncologist. Dexter is my first born son, as far as I am concerned. And although he seems to favor my husband in the recent months a little more than me, I understand. Since the kid, I haven’t been able to properly spoil him like I used to do. In any case, I can’t imagine life without this dog. He’s been with me for 10 years now. We moved here from Texas, where he was born, 7 years ago, and we’ve both grown up so much since then. He’s who I cry on (literally) when I need to cry without explanation. He means the world to me and I’m scared to death he’s not going to be here one day. I have never even considered that to be a possibility, believe it or not. It’s a lot to accept.

3. I afraid that I don’t know the truth. This covers a lot of ground because when I say “the truth”, I mean the truth about all kinds of things. From something simple like “who really ate my chocolate pie I left in the fridge?” to something huge, like whether or not God exists. Not knowing is the absolute worst feeling I can have. I’d rather know the truth – even if it sucks – than be lied to, misled, or question my own sanity.

2. I’m afraid of wasted time. Not so afraid that it paralyzes me or prevents me from moving forward with my life, but in a way that constantly has me doubting whether or not I’m making the most of my time here, while I can. Am I kicking a dead horse? Am I quitting or am I just moving on? Am I happy? Am I stable? Which is more important? These things flood my mind from time to time. The worst part is that this questioning myself? It only causes me to waste more time. Lol. Irony, at its best.

And now for my #1 fear of all time:

1. I am afraid of not being good enough. Not a good enough mom, wife, person …. you name it. That, my friends and strangers, who may be reading this blog for the very first time and are now aware of my deepest, darkest fears, is the root of all my fears, in a nutshell.

That’s it for me today, as I am officially emotionally drained and feel like I’ve just done step-work all over again. I hope I wasn’t too serious or boring. Those of you who came for a laugh and are bitter about not getting one, um … sorry about your luck, I guess.

I’ll be back to my normal, sarcastic with a twist of cynical self tomorrow. I bet you can hardly wait