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I’m Gonna Need a Bigger Shelf

My awards shelves are starting to look slightly ostentatious, which, to be honest, was exactly the look I was going for.  As soon as they are full, I’m going to make a big poster of all of my achievements, and hang it on my bathroom wall.  I know that sounds uncharacteristically modest of me, but the truth is, we have an odd bathroom.  It has a floor to ceiling window in the shower stall, which, if the shower curtain is drawn back, allows anyone in our living room to gaze upon our toiletry area.  So, if I hang my award poster in there, I can pretend that I left the curtain open by accident and all of our guests can exclaim over my blogging prowess.  I’m big on pretending to be humble.

A few of my recent awards are repeats, but you don’t see Susan Lucci returning her Emmy trophies just because she already got one.  What’s that you say?  She only got one?  Well, that just makes my multiples all the sweeter.

I would like to thank each and every one of you who has recently passed the torch to me:

“The Liebster Award” – generously bestowed upon me by the following:

Wish He Was My Dad

Bumpy Road to Bubba

Poet Prodigy 7

The first one to recognize my Liebsterness, though, was Bassa.  So, I will refer you to my acceptance blog for the fulfillment of my Liebster duties.

Not at all humbled by the above, I was then gobsmacked by not one, but two people who gave me the “Tell Me About Yourself” Award.

Miss Demure Restraint

Muddled Mom

For this award, I’m supposed to tell you seven things you don’t know about me.  You know some pretty intimate details, like the size of my bra, from this blog, so it’s a little difficult for me to imagine what you don’t know at this point.

I’m guessing you don’t know: my name, my first dog’s birthday, my social security number, how many A’s I got in high school, why I don’t talk to my mother anymore, who my godmother is, or where on my body my tattoo of a potato happens to be located.

Actually, we’re all out of luck in this department – because I only know the answer to three of those things.  And none of them have anything to do with the tattoo. My sister, Crash, could probably make some great revelations about me in her next comment – I think she might know my name – but she should be painfully aware that I can tell great stories about her, so I doubt she will be too forthcoming.

O.K.  In the interest of being a good sport, here are my 7.  Well, I’m going to give you 8, so you can have a bonus one.  Except one of them isn’t completely true:

I was the president of my sorority.

I never wanted to be in a sorority.

If Wonderbutt and I could stand on a scale together, we would weigh 185 pounds.  As long as I’m nekkid.  But I don’t really want to try to hold Wonderbutt while I’m nekkid.  His claws are a little scratchy.

I make fabulous cheesecakes.

I moonlighted from teaching by waitressing in a Country/Western bar.

I moonlighted from waitressing by teaching in a gangsta neighborhood.

I’m not really married to a pirate.

I’m really married to a pirate, but my husband doesn’t know.

In addition to telling you some things, I am also supposed to recommend 15 other blogs.  However, I have exceeded my self-imposed maximum word count for today, so I am going to be a rebel (reading Whiskey Rebels for my spelling bee is going to my head), and include that in tomorrow’s post – which will reveal yet another award conferred upon me.

Sorry, I’m feeling a little sassy today, what with all of these awards and the fact that we’ve gone a whole week without Wonderbutt chewing up any library books or spectacles.



Why Aren’t They Called Doughnuts?

I love cookies.  I am the Cookie Monster of the 21st century.  If you take away my cookies,  I will hunt you down.

I am talking internet website cookies.  The ones that remember things for you, like where you have visited, what you have already purchased on that site, and, most importantly, your login and password.  As we have already established, I have a memory problem.  And passwords are about 99% of my problem.

I realize it’s very Big Brother to have these sites tracking everything I do.  And I should probably resent the privacy intrusion.  But I’m getting to the point that I just don’t care.  Kind of like when I didn’t care when I was delivering my baby and my husband and 4 perfect strangers were watching the situation unfold on a mirror on the ceiling.  I had more important things to worry about than my sudden lack of privacy.

So when I periodically have to clean things off of my hard drive and cookies go with them, I get a little cranky.  Suddenly, the sites that have been greeting me by name have no idea who I am.  And I don’t either.

Which person was I when I started my Amazon account?  And what was my password du jour?  I started my internet identity as a fairly whole person, then gradually started splitting into multiple personalities as I attempted to cleverly outwit the brilliant hackers that are tracking every keystroke.

A psychiatrist would have a field day sifting through all of these identities.  Which is fine.  If he can make some sense of them, and discover the *&!@#$#! passwords, I would consider it worth the $1,000 per hour.

I get e-mails on a regular basis (addressed to various different identities) reminding me that I haven’t visited lately, and I feel like a blackout drunk trying to recall when I ever even visited the first time.  I am constantly hitting the “forgot password?” link because, God forbid, there is no regulatory commission for passwords, and different sites have different rules for length, number of letters and numbers you can use.  Many times, I hit the password link, only to be told that I never registered for that site to begin with.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, if there suddenly seems to be a long lull in my blogging, don’t call the police or anything to report that I’m missing.  First of all, remember my Phobia about stuff like that.  And secondly, I probably just forgot my !@$%! blog password.

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