I am going to participate in this.

50,000 words? They don't have to be coherent? I can do that!...or CAN I?

Time will tell. Writing starts November 1st, so better sign up quickly!

This morning it was 60 degrees inside the house. That might not seem TOO cold to those of you with shag carpeting, but we have wood floors throughout the first floor, with the exception of some crappy linoleum in the kitchen. (Said crappy linoleum is soon to be replaced by tiles of my choosing, although Bryan doesn't know it yet. Shhhhh!)

I woke up with Bryan standing over me in long johns, wool socks, a knit hat and a sweatshirt. He was shivering and wanted to know if it was time to turn the furnace on yet. I'm not so much a morning person, and my response to him was "stop being a pussy and suck it up." I also demanded breakfast.

I'm holding out on turning up the furnace this year. I've decided that I am a true Clevelander and that I will at least stick it out through Halloween. Thanksgiving, if I'm REALLY tough. I will not be the first to give in to the weather! I will overcome! A year of parking 1/4 of a mile away from my office and having to walk along Lake Erie in the freezing wind and rain has really given me perspective on "cold." This? Pah! This is nothing.

I was flipping through a haircut magazine, looking for a cut that would take half of the weight out of my crazy witch hair yet not compromise the length at all, since if I just go in and ask for layers they will chop off four inches and give me a mullet. (This I know from prior experience. Also, in non-picture having haircut land, a "trim" equals at least four inches. No, I can't explain it either.)

Anyway, I was tired from working late and not eating lunch and from general angst, and for some reason it hit me that all of the girls in the haircut magazine looked like whores. Whores from Parma. Whore who have an hour and a half to spend "styling" themselves every day. (Actual tip from this magazine: "You DO have time to use hot rollers every morning. Simply heat them up while you are doing your makeup! Let your time do double-duty!" Ha ha ha ha ha! What if doing your "makeup" consists of smearing some concealer on your T-zone and slapping some color into your cheeks? What then?) Upon closer inspection of the model cuts I noticed they had the salon name and location printed on the pictures. Eighty percent of those picutures? Yeah, they were either from Rocky River or Mentor, Ohio. Meaning that there is a very good chance that many many of those models ARE whores from Parma. Meaning that for once my anger was at least on target.

Anyway, I wish they would post pictures of the actual haircut, just freshly washed and air dryed, next to the picture with the half hour of styling done to it. I can't look at a glamerous hairstyle and imagine how it will look on me, with my insane bushy hair and complete lack of effort. Maybe they should put out a haircut magazine called "I just rolled out of bed!" That's the kind of look I'm going for. How will my haircut look when I step out of the shower, into some pants, and run directly for my car? Will it stand up to me laying flat on my back on the couch watching Sex and the City for four hours straight? How about after a night of very sweaty, drunken dancing? Will it stay away from my mouth so as not to collect smears of toothpaste in the morning? These are the qualities I am looking for.

Maybe I should just buy a sassy hat instead.

First, the title of this post is a statement that was actually made to me the day before I left. I'm pretty sure the person who said it was joking, only today as I was preparing to fly back home from Florida I looked in my giant carry-on and saw the following:
A partially-knit worsted weight cotton shawl on wooden needles.
A book of "Garfield" brand easy crosswords (99 cents)
Fisherman's Friend menthol cough drops
Eye cream for "tired skin."
Spare pantyhose (from when? When was the last time I wore hose instead of stockings? I don't even remember!)
After-dinner mints
A wad of toilet paper to use as kleenex should a sudden sinus flare up occur on the plane.
I realized that Michelle my co-worker was correct. I AM old. AND bossy. And crotchety, apparently. As we were waiting for the plane, I sat down with my knitting and was concentrating on a particularly annoying series of dropped stitches when I heard a snotty voice ask "are you CLEVELAND SPORTS fans?" (I was wearing a Browns sweatshirt and Bryan was in orange and brown.) Thinking the speaker was a smart-ass teenager, I turned towards her and started with "Am I a Cleveland fan?" (Imagine this being said with extreme sarcasm while I tugged on sweatshirt and faced the speaker so that Browns logo was visible) "what do YOU think?" At that point I realized that the speaker was a large-eyed eleven year old and that her question was totally innocent, she was just trying to be an adult and start up a chat with a friendly stranger. Crap! Mentally reeling (as her mother started to apologize to me for her overly friendly children while frantically shushing her daughter) I nervously laughed a few times and plastered a big smile on my face and babbled about how last night's playoff game was such a disappointment and tried to save myself by holding a brief conversation with her about Disneyworld. Everyone relaxed and I released a mental "Whew!" I felt like an ass, but in my defense (since I feel that I have to justify the fact that I am small and yet still extremely aggressive) the LAST time someone sneered in my direction about being a Cleveland fan it was a very annoying man in Quizno's downtown who thought he was being the smartest, most charming thing ever, when clearly a simple "hi ladies, how are you?" would have been a much better intro to a conversation. Not to mention far less insulting.

Fortunately that story does not in any way describe my entire trip, which was delightful. I was unable to catch a pig since I am over 18 and therefore (a-ha! This is where I tie in my title again!) "too old." I was very disappointed because greased pig wrestling has to be the funniest thing I've ever seen. Part of the fun is that there are rules to prevent injuring the pig in any way, so people were tending to dive too early to avoid hurting the poor little thing, and would end up with a face full of mud, instead of a handful of hoof. My favorite part was when they had the four and five year olds try to catch a baby pig, because they let the parents into the mud pit to make sure no one falls down and gets hurt---hilarious! Especially the little girls in pigtails being followed closely by big, burly country dads. I realize that when I discuss Florida in this blog many people are probably wrongly assuming that I am speaking of the Florida with white sand and warm gulf water and wide, sparkling streets. The permanent vacation Florida, as it were. No, sorry, I was actually in Webster Florida, which is totally landlocked and very...I'm trying to think of a nice word...southern. Not in the "I've always depended on the kindness of strangers" way, but the type of southern where when you are talking about it you peer around to make sure no locals are listening before whispering "southern" behind the back of your hand. I love my in-laws, but I would never want to live there. (Finding a big beetle in the bed the first night did not help any, and finding a banana spider the next day sort of sealed that thought.)

Yes, this trip was certainly more satisfying than the whole "sponge museum" debacle of 2006. I had a good time, although Florida is still too hot and humid, and the more populous parts remind me of Parma, Ohio.

Upon our return, we learned that our cat sitter (who shall remain nameless) managed to lock her house key in one of the days and this person and a family member had to skulk around the front yard in socks to break in. Luckily one of the windows was left unlocked. I wish I had video of this event. Sorry the crock pot lid was on that chair under the window! That was not planned, I promise. *shifty eyes*

Anyway, now I am back and work will resume as normal tomorrow. I'm very nervous to see what has been left for me in the two days I was out. With any luck they just knocked all of the files off my credenza and set fire to them and I will come back to a clean desk. It probably won't happen, but a girl can dream, can't she?

Aaaaaaahhhhhh, Ohio.
It's good to be back!

Tomorrow I am leaving work early and heading to Florida.

I know, I know. "Oh Steph, you're soooooo lucky. Pack me in your suitcase!"
Well, screw that. I hate Florida. Nevertheless, we are going to go swelter in BFE central Florida, and I will hide from the sun under a giant hat and a lot of sunblock.

Why am I torturing myself for four days in a state where people go to die?
My in-laws have a farm there, and this weekend is their town's annual pig wrestling contest.

Now, I can't promise that I personally will be wrestling, since I need to protect my tender belly and all the displaced organs therein, but everyone ELSE will be wrestling, and that seems like a pretty amusing way to spend a Saturday. Also, I never see my in laws and that will be nice. It will be nicer when they move back to Ohio, HINT HINT, for any of them who happen to be reading this.

Side note: Must every contestant on the Price is Right be batshit fucking insane? Is that, like, a requirement?

Before agreeing to see a man doctor for your girlie-appointment, be sure to check a few things:
1. Is he young and cute?
2. How well do you know this doctor? Are you on a first name basis? Have you seen him throughout his career, beginning with his tender days before he was actually a full-fledged doctor? Are you what he actually refers to as his "success story?"
3. How big are said doctor's hands?

I swear, if I decide to have a baby or seven, I am going to do all that I can to ensure that I will be seeing an all female staff. With luck, these women will all be in their sixties, they will all have had dozens of babies apiece, and there will be no men saying "now try to relax" as they gaze up at the ceiling and lunge blindly at your personal regions. Let's bring gynecology back to the ladies, where it belongs! A man may be the nicest and most experienced doctor on the planet, but when all is said and done, he probably does not have a uterus.

Today is our one-year anniversary, and thus far the celebration has gone as follows:
1. Carve pumpkins that look like each other. Some of us are better at pumpkin carving than others. Pictures will be posted later. (I won.)
2. Eat steak and pasta.
3. Watch the American Auction channel and try to learn auctioneer patter.

The AAC is an awesome channel, and not just because the AAC is special because the auctioneer likes to shout things such as "I sooold it, you booought it!" and "I soooold it cause you stooooled it!" (He also shouts "great googly mogely.") There is ALSO an amazing background guy who shouts "YEAH! $250!" at various intervals, and holds telephone conversations at extremely loud volumes.

I seem to have a special talent for auctioneering. I'm loud, I speak quickly, I rarely make sense, and I'm a pretty good imitator. (Imitatratess?) All you need to do is count down and up at the same time, while routinely shouting what you WANT people to bid, peppering in some Southern phrases all the while. "I got 190-1 , 190-2 looking for 200-1-got 200 looking for 250-1 250-2 great googly moogly I got 250 I SOLD it you BOUGHT it!"

I practiced on Bryan and the dog and it seemed to work pretty well. I sold a pair of grey Lion Brand worsted weight leg warmers to Harold the cat and am now working on selling my dignity to Louise the cat for 50 cents.

I'll let you know if I soooold it. Hey, at least you booought it.

Stephen Tyler Jr. goes into the vet tomorrow morning to get a little operation, and I am very happy. He'll be there overnight for recovery and observation, and he will come home on Wednesday a changed boy. I'm hoping that he will chew fewer things and bark a little less. I think we will all be much happier, if only for the reason that his improved behavior will mean that I will yell a lot less. Hopefully there will be less standing on the porch at 6 am in a bathrobe, stage-whispering "STEPHEN TYLER GET IN HERE RIGHT NOW!" (For all the good the electric fence does, there's still that pesky little issue of actually getting them to come to the door when you call them.) My legs will heal as he settles down a bit and stops running towards my legs at full speed when I come home from work, causing giant dog head shaped bruises on my thighs. I am also very relieved that he will no longer be able to father little bastard-puppies, because as cute as he is, the last thing I need is for one of the people in our neighborhood who can't seem to master restraining their own dogs to wander over to our yard and whine that little "Dale Earnhardt Jr. Jr." had a mess 'o puppies who all look a little Ridgeback/Coonhound-esque.

That's one thing that DOES piss me off a lot. If you really loved your dog, wouldn't you at least make an attempt to keep him near your own yard? Sure, dogs get out. Even the most stout tethering system can pull out of the ground, and dogs chew through lines, and sometimes they do dart out from under you when you're on your way to work in the morning. That happens sometimes. It should NOT happen every morning. What makes it even worse is that responsible owners who keep their pets in their own yard have no way of keeping other dogs OUT, unless we spend lots of money on fencing.

Even if the dogs are friendly, there can still be incidents. The last thing I need is some female coming into my yard and ending up pregnant with a batch of puppies destined either for the pound or for a life of wandering the neighborhood, producing more unwanted puppies.

I suppose you could call my attitude strident, but when I really sit and think about it, I feel the same way about people, too. Litters of puppies are a lot like litters of babies in many ways, and when I make this statement I am thinking of one particular young man I know who seems to think that he is to sperm what Johnny Appleseed is to Ohio's many orchards.

Anyway, Bryan is a little pouty about Steve, and I suppose I can understand that. He's feeling empathy and I guess I should cherish that quality instead of mocking him inwardly, although I DID veto the idea of getting him a "dog whore." (Only because your mom is busy tonight, OOOHHHHH!)

You know, when you think about it, it'd probably be a lot cheaper for humans to go the vet for similar operations. Probably better conditions, too. No one waking you up at four, no one asking you dumb-ass questions about your period...you get to leave with a cute little bandanna....I may have to think about this. I don't like babies, anyway.

Yesterday I overheard someone bragging about being a genius, as though it was some great weight on her young shoulders. Don't worry, sweetie, it'll pass. (Coincidentally, the day before I heard the genius remark, this young woman was talking about how all you needed to do to "sound smart" was to "throw in a few long words, such as substantiate.")

It might be that I'm a huge raging bitch, but lately I've sort of wanted to reach out and strangle people for no real reason. Things that normally made me roll my eyes are now causing me great inner rage. At the same time, I realize how difficult it is to even live for five minutes without annoying another person, and that makes me sort of sad. Who am I pissing off today? Are we all just a bunch of assholes? Some call this "perspective," although I think it's probably closer to "PMS."

Since I'm in full crotchety old woman mode, I've decided that this weekend I'm going to get my Christmas knitting in order. Step one: finish the acrylic church lady scarf I took from Jenny's car and present it to her as though it is an amazing present filled with hours of skillful craftswomanship. Which I suppose it is, if you count knitting in the dark while watching reruns of Sex and the City with my pants open and a glass of wine to be fantastically skillful.