Family Circle

I just sent the email telling my dad that I won't be at the big June birthday bash. All three boys and the dad were born in June, throw Father's Day into the mix and suddenly you find a reason for a big party one Saturday in June. It happens every year at my grandparent's place at the river. I used to try to go every year, but I've started skipping it the last two years. My stepmother apparently hates me. The last time we were together, Christmas '05, she didn't speak to me or even make eye contact with me the whole time that Big Daddy and I were there. I don't know what her problem is with me, I really behave myself around her. There has never been any blow ups and really no reason why two adults can't be a little more friendly. But she makes it very apparent that she wishes that I would drop off of the face of the Earth whenever I come around. So I don't come around. The only thing I can think of is she's pissed because I have forgotten her kid's birthday for the last couple of years. But whatever, I make no associations within myself of him being my brother. As far as I'm concerned, he's just some little boy who calls my dad Dad.

I remember when they got married. I got an email that day informing me of the impending nuptials. It was just some random Wednesday afternoon in her living room, not a big affair by any stretch of the imagination. But I wasn't invited, just informed. I had just started dating Big Daddy, and I had checked my email from his house when I got the message. I remember sitting on Big Daddy's couch and crying my eyes out. It is really a wonder that he continued dating me after that. It was like that for the next couple of days. It was as if someone had died. I would be driving in my car or walking through the grocery store and just spontaneously break out into tears. After a few days I pulled myself together and dropped off a wedding gift on their front porch, a picnic basket that cost $75, which was about $70 more than I had to spend at the time. I did the right thing, right?

The problem with me also happens to be my greatest attribute. I always, always, always do the right thing. Well, unless I'm drunk, but that's another post. No matter what the situation is, I can step back, quickly analyze it, project the outcome of options A, B and C and end up making good choices and doing the right thing. Doing the right thing has been good to me and gotten me a good life. But the problem with doing the right thing is I spend 80% of the time being pissed off and disappointed in those around me who can't ever seem to make a good choice or do the right thing. It really does take a toll being perfect.

And since I always do the right thing, instead of being at the annual June birthday bash, I will instead be down at the beach shopping for a new oceanfront condo with my beach Realtor, who also happens to double as my mother. Because apparently the universe was going to insist that I spend the weekend with at least one of my parents.

And one more quick snippet from the "I always do the right thing" files.

You know I'm a gambler. And when I'm not in Vegas or Atlantic City flushing my money down the toilet, my local version of gambling is buying 5 lottery tickets every Tuesday and Friday. Apparently someone in the next county over from where I live, and the county where Big Daddy and I both work purchased a $44 million winning lottery ticket on Tuesday. I was in the bathroom applying deodorant Wednesday morning when Big Daddy came in and announced the news. To which I responded, I wonder if it is anybody that we know. And then simultaneously we both said, I hope not.

So Yeah

I think we're going to move. I'm not sure where or why, but Stacey Loves Me needs to find a new home. I'm probably being paranoid, but we've been here for almost a year and it is time to move on. A rolling stone gathers no moss after all.

So this is what I need you to do, send me an email at hotlipslovesyou@gmail.com so I can email you the new link. I think I know the four of you, but for those I don't know, there will be a painless security screening and DNA collection (courtesy of pissy).

If Eve would give me a 1/2 day seminar on how to erase half my blog and make this private and make that disappear, then this might not be neccessary, but she is tight lipped about her security secrets. So we'll have to pack our bags like foster children and keep on keeping on.

Thank you.

Fuzzy Wuzzy Was A Bear

Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair.
Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn't fuzzy, was he?

Yes, Arcturus, it was one of these in the passenger seat of the Caravan.



I am not sure what has happened to me, but this week I got a serious case of the slackers. I only managed to make it to work three days, and one of those days it was only for a couple of hours. Yesterday I got a call from Dr. M saying that she had a horrible family emergency to attend to so she would be leaving work post haste and joining me in the pool. She doesn't share the same love of floating as I do (I just don't get it) and only dips in the pool quickly to cool off and then immediately climbs back out. So yesterday as I was floating and she was sitting on the side of the pool talking to me, I happened to catch a glimpse of a tuft of yellow pubes poking out of her bikini. Ugh.

People who have the world by the balls and don't seize the opportunity just make me go insane. Dr. M is a case in point. I can't imagine a better scenario than being a hot, blonde doctor (M.D., PhD as she likes to point out). She's 5'9, 125 lbs, C cup boobs, Blonde/blue, nice face, funny, smart, successful, loaded and the bitch doesn't get a bikini wax?!?!? Da fuck?

I give up.

Horse Power

The other day Big Daddy brought me an Ipod Shuffle. It is tiny and pink and clips onto my shirt. Sadly, the Shuffle has more than enough room for the 150 songs I have on itunes. So there is that.

Please excuse my absence. I've been incarcerated for the last 15 days. I was supposed to do 20 to life, but with good behavior and the terrible problem of jail overcrowding, I got out in just over two weeks. Which is too bad, because if anyone is cut out for a maximum security women's prison, it's me. C'est la vie, I guess.

True Story. Yesterday while driving down the highway at speeds upwards of 62 miles an hour, I began to pass an early '90s Dodge Caravan. As I approached the vehicle from behind I could see something in the passenger seat that was nonhuman, a Golden Retriever I decided. Nay (excuse the pun). As I got closer I saw that it was a not of the canine species at all but a HORSE! A tiny little pony, but a horse nonetheless was riding shot gun in that minivan. Nice. And I thought to myself, Self, if anything brings you out of your self imposed blogging disappearing act, this is it.

I had to take a personal day off from work yesterday and somehow found myself bobbing around my pool solo in a noodle chair. I must have dozed off for a second, but I was soon awakened by the loud slamming of the backyard gate. When I threw my eyes opened I was shocked to find a man standing at the end of the pool watching me. I almost shat my tankini bottoms. It turns out it was the creepy pooper scooper. And the thought crossed my mind, Too bad he's not hot because I think it would be totally fun and B movie to lead his ass inside and fuck him real quick right about now. Luckily (?) he wasn't fuckable.

And I think it is this line of thinking like a man that got me invited to a bachelor party Saturday night. Of course I would be the only woman there, well, that will have her clothes on, well, that will have her clothes on at least until midnight. So yeah, dirty old man, that's me.

And now, because my life doesn't suck, I'm going to go smoke a bowl and bop around in my noodle chair for the next 2 to 3 hours.

Mister Blister

I have the biggest nastiest blister on the pad of my right index finger (I burnt myself on my crack pipe). It is really getting in the way of how I like to live my life which consists of lots of typing and masturbating. Dr. M keeps telling me that I shouldn't pop it, so I haven't. But God damn.

My life has become a whirlwind of Realtors. I've got two different Realtors in two different cities. What? I need a vacation home. So the hunt is on. Now, normally this type of thing is right up my alley, but this time around I find myself just exhausted. So far nothing makes me happy. The thing is, I already have a pretty nice house. I don't want anything shittier than what I already have. And since I'm willing to add a couple of hundred grand on to the value of this house, I feel as if it should be substantially nicer. But yet, I'm just not finding that.

The other problem is that the Realtor I'm working with in town is way too nice. I like her as a person, but god damn, as a Realtor, I'm sick of her being so upbeat about everything we look at. This hinders my true self quite a bit because after a couple minutes of her sunshiny persona saying how much she loves everything in the room, I feel like a big whiny complainer when I just point out the stuff I don't like about it (and since I'm apparently very picky, that little list can be quite large.) So the last house we went to see I decided to just not say anything at all and just take it all in. So when we left she mistook my lack of complaining for a sign of love and wanted to know if I wanted to write a contract on it. Um, it was built in 1996, has green carpet in the master bedroom and the back splash is tiled with tiles that have veggies painted all over them, what do you think? So yeah, that's when I narrowed my search to built in the last 5 years, but I honestly think it needs to be narrowed even more. Of course she lives in a house that was built in '93, cedar roof and brass fixtures and all, and just doesn't understand my line of thinking. So I think I need to cheat on her with someone cattier, like a gay man. Yes, that's what I need, a gay Realtor!

And Big Daddy, bless his heart, sometimes I wonder how we ended up together since we apparently don't have anything more in common than a shared love for filet mignon and yelling at people. But the other day as we were leaving one of the houses that Ms. Happy Sunshine just got done showing us, we both leaned into each other and simultaneously whispered, Eh Gross, it has an asphalt driveway, and I knew I had found my soul mate.

So there.

Stop The Insanity

The good news: After only four consecutive days hitting the gym first thing in the morning and eating an apple for lunch, my butt already feels higher. This is good for two reasons. 1) Hopefully it will save me about 10 grand and I'll get to forego that Brazilian Butt Lift that I have convinced myself has become life or death surgery. And 2) at this rate, I'll be ready for that triathlon much sooner than I thought. 2009 instead of 2011, perhaps?

The bad news: I've been suffering from a bad hair day since approximately mid March. This is uncharted territory for me because as I've documented here before, I've got great hair. But a couple of bad choices while sitting in the chair at the salon, and now I'm paying the price. Now you have new insight into my sudden contemplation of going Susan Powter. Because one bad hair choice begets another.



Jesus help me.

My house smells like rotten oranges. This is very perplexing considering the vast amounts of fragrant lilies I have stashed in every corner of the house.

And while I'm busy bitching about my house, the barking dog situation around here has finally pushed me over the edge and driven me to call a Realtor. Or maybe I should just call a canine hit man. But seriously, something's gotta give. On my best day, my sanity is just hanging in there by a thread. When you mix in 5 incessantly barking, howling, yipping dogs, I pretty much end up rocking myself in the corner drooling and talking to Jerry Orbach. (God I miss you, Lenny Briscoe)

I can't complain to the neighbors because for one, I'm a great big pussy when it comes to such things. And for another, I'm somewhat of a hypocrite. I have a big bumbling clumsy puppy that spends a large amount of time out in the backyard. As a matter of fact, I think that's what the three yippers next door are barking at all day. Weather permitting, I throw her out in the backyard while we're at work during the day. It is either that or she sits in her crate in the house all day. God knows she's nowhere near well-behaved enough to run free in the house while no one is home. But here's the thing, she doesn't bark. I swear. She just isn't a barker, I'm not even sure she knows how. I know half of you don't believe me, but trust me, the bitch doesn't bark. So even though she may be the object of the barking, she isn't the actual barker.

So I came up with a plan to send her off to doggie daycare for a month or so, just long enough to establish a pattern of her not being here during the day. Then I could finally send Big Daddy next door to complain without looking like a total hypocrite. That's when I found out that doggy daycare is $25 a day! That's $125 a week! $500 a month! Da fuck? They aren't taking care of a newborn, it's a fucking dog. I could have a convertible for that price. That's when I decided it is probably just cheaper to move.

Triathlons Are For Lovers

It is fairly obscene knowing how much work I have piled up and waiting for me but yet here I sit blogging. I have so much work to do, in fact, that I took the day off of work to get it done. What's more obscene? There is a very good chance that after I finish this little post that I'll throw on a tankini and float.

I'm in the middle of reading Nutrition for Dummies and I've started hitting the gym every morning again for the first time in a year. Why? Because a very lovely and wonderful yet very obese friend of mine recently told me she was going down to the beach to do a triathlon next month. That's not all, folks. Apparently this will be her fourth in the past year or so. What the fuck? I couldn't do a triathlon if my life depended on it. But yet here is this gal who is almost 100 pounds overweight doing her fourth such event with apparent ease. Or as much ease as you can do a fucking triathlon. Her training regimen? She stops drinking and smoking the month before. Needless to say, that made me pretty much feel like shit about myself. So now I've decided to go all Jackie Warner on your asses.

A fucking triathlon. Give me a break.

This reminds me of the time that my not so smart college roommate entered the PhD program.

All right, bitches, it is time to go float. Maybe I'll even swim a couple of laps to train for the triathlon that I am planning on doing in 2011.

Love,
Sugarfoot