Guest blogger: Anna

Many of you know Anna from her comments on my blog.  And if you’re smart, you’re reading her blog.  Don’t you just LOVE HER??

I asked her to be a guest blogger here for a special announcement.  She graciously accepted. 

You should know that Anna hasn’t even blogged in this much detail about her news on her own blog.  We (the royal “we”) are most pleased.

Yep.

Here she is:

A little over a year ago at Christmas I was sandwiched between two of my nephews in the back seat of the car. I was sitting in the middle so they could have a better view as we drove around to look at the Christmas lights.  During the ride my little 5 year old nephew turned to me and said, “Anna? Are you lonely? You are just a mommy* all by yourself.” I giggled. How sweet that he picked up on my situation. He knew I was his only auntie without a husband.

Well, this auntie is no longer going to be “a mommy all by herself”……

I am engaged. Engaged, engaged, ENGAGED!!!

The who I am engaged to is the very best part… Number 1. They don’t come any better. I really am a lucky girl. Did I mention that he makes me happy? Like annoyingly happy. Like I don’t think straight happy. So happy, that I am writing about it on someone else’s blog happy.

How’s that for news?

Oh yeah… Do you know what this means????? Dunnthat is going to be my mother-in-law. I know. YOU are all jealous. You should be. She is even better than her blog makes her out to be.

Love,

Mrs. nannersbananners-dunnthat.

*I don’t have any children. My nephew refers to all women as mommies, with or without kids of their own.

YAY!!  YAY YAY YAY!!  Aren’t we lucky?  I have to tell you, I’ve been waiting for this longer than she has…fo’ shizzle.

And isn’t she sweet?  I only had to pay her a minimal fee to say nice things about me.  The family discount.

Pays to be related.

Dementia at 49

At some point my joke is no longer funny.  I truly fear I am losing my mind.  Remember this post?

And you all will be witness to my degeneration through my blogging entries.  You’ll be able to actually track my decline.

When you think about it, it’s sort of cool.  In a scientific kind of way.

Last week I was talking to one of my super good friends.  We’re the kind of friends who love each other even though we don’t talk as often as we’d like.  It can be months since we’ve actually connected, and then we do manage to connect and it’s like no time has passed.  We pick up right where we left off.

Don’t you just love friends like that?

In the past little while I’ve actually had something to talk to her about that sort of required her expertise.

See, this friend is a psychotherapist by profession.  And she’s a dang good one.

But she’s a better friend.

Who doesn’t read my blog.  At all.  Whatever.

Anyway, last week I was talking to her…this time through email…and I shared a very personal experience with her.  One that I just don’t care to share with the masses.

This was her response…paraphrased:  “You already told me that.  Don’t you remember?  We talked at great length about this.  I fear you need professional help.  Beyond my capabilities.”

Okay, so I made up the last two sentences.

But seriously.  Seriously??

I am losing more and more conversations with people.  This isn’t an isolated event. 

And I can look right at someone whom I know…I know…and totally forget her name.

Part of this is kind of funny.  But now I’m getting worried. 

Do I not use my brain enough?  Is it atrophying?

Remember me y’all.  Please just say you’ll remember me when I was whole.

Random thoughts

• Random thoughts come to me at random times.  And then I forget my random thoughts by the time I can write them down.  This is a problem.
• I finally ironed today.  Four hours.  It had been so long that some of the clothes needing ironing are now out of style.  I ironed them anyway.
• For two days I tried to fix my cell phone thinking I’d lost everything on my media card.  Nope.  Just hadn’t pushed it all the way in.  Two days.
• My hot flashes have returned.  When I work out regularly they leave.  They’ve returned.  Hmmm.  I hate them.  Seriously – if my inner temperature could remain CONSISTENT I would know how to dress.  BUT NO.  Do I hate them enough to work out?  We shall see.
• My pants are on the ground.  And I look like a fool.  And you are welcome for putting that song back into your head.
• I feel kind of famous in a really backward way.  Daniel Tosh, a comedian who can be really funny, yet sadly quite often crass, has a show on Comedy Central called Tosh.O.  He shows a lot of viral video clips and pictures and stuff.  And in one single episode he showed both back fat lady, which I had on my blog FIRST, and cute kitty, which I posted on facebook some time ago.  Just sayin’.  Here’s cute kitty (and I HATE cats…so this is huge that I enjoy it…and it’s probably just an ugly cat now…this clip has had over 18 million hits as of today…yeesh):

I am a rock star

So I was watching this segment on a local television show about how to make blogs profitable.

The “expert” actually had a math equation to determine what could be charged for advertising.  Take the number of monthly hits, subtract three zeros from that number, then multiply the new number by 1.25.

This blogger used her site as an example of the equation:  80,000 hits per month, subtract three zeros, which equals the number 80.  Multiply 80 by 1.25.  The sum is 100.

By this calculation, she can charge $100 per ad per month on her blog.  And she makes between $3,000 and $5,000 per month.

Good for her.

By her calculations, ad space on my blog would cost right around $1.25.

Per month.

I AM A ROCK STAR!!

Just letting you know now so you can start saving up.

I’m going to die from Hantavirus

SPOILER ALERT!!  Children, turn back now…

Berenstain Bears are not real.  Real bears don’t wear hats and overalls and dresses.  Real bears don’t live on honey.

Real bears eat meat.  Real bears eat YOU.  Sometimes while you’re sleeping in a tent in the Uintas.

Spiders don’t talk.  They don’t spell words.  They don’t have people intelligence.  Charlotte is not real.

They do eat nasty insects.  This is good.  As long as they stay outside to do it.

Pigs don’t talk.  They aren’t friends with spiders. 

But they are very yummy. 

Just sayin’.

Birds don’t dress pretty girls.  They don’t sing harmony while braiding your hair. 

Some talk.  Some are pets and friends.  They do serve very valuable purposes in their own realms.

But mostly, they just poop a lot.

Stuart Little is fiction.  Real mice don’t talk, wear pants, drive cars or skateboard.  They aren’t cute and they don’t play well with people.  They aren’t useful examples of being quiet at the library, such as “Whispers” the mouse at my local library.  Please.

Real mice are disgusting dirty vermin with no practical use.  They are ugly and they are pooping machines.  I swear they poop more than they eat.

And they can kill you.  Hantavirus.

Let me share my philosophy (shared by my daughter-in-law) on non-human, non-pet living creatures:  You are welcome to ALL of outside.  Outside is YOURS.  You may have it.  You are welcome.

Once you come inside, I will kill you. 

Mice have infiltrated my home.   I don’t know how this happened.   I feel so dirty. 

I have absolutely no emotion over the death of mice in my home.   Let me explain.

One night last week I had a guy here working on our home wiring.  I hadn’t eaten all day, and so while he was working I ate my dinner.  He had to talk to me about something, so he came into my kitchen while I was eating.  I kept eating.

While we’re talking, I hear a SNAP from under my sink.  I said to him, “That was a mouse.”  He said, “Can I see it?”  “Sure.”

He opens up the cupboard and gives me a commentary, “Wow.  It’s still moving.  It shot blood clear across the cupboard.”

I took another bite of dinner and went over to look. 

Yep.  Dead.  A lot.

I went back to my dinner and kept eating.

I DON’T CARE!!  You came in my house you disgusting vermin!  Moreover, if you make me sick I will kill all your relatives!

Oh, who am I kidding.  I’ll kill all his/her relatives anyway.

On a more humane note, I don’t think he/she suffered much.

Yep.  Still don’t care.

My Hot Pocket

Please tell me why.  Why oh why do I watch The Bachelor?  Seriously, the show is an inane, vapid piece of drivel. 

I have never once watched this show without wanting to bash my head against a wall after I watched.

But I still watch!  I’m sucked in by the drama – real or otherwise.  I mean, who behaves like that??  ON TELEVISION??

Do they not think someone is going to see it?  Yeesh.

An example from last night:  Jake, the bachelor, who is dull as dirt, proved himself to also be dumb as a box of rocks. 

In dramatic fashion, the show revealed that one of the girls had an “inappropriate relationship” with a staffer on the show.

Duh duh DUHHHM.

Jake was floored.  Couldn’t believe it.  And even sadly said, “I thought she might be ‘the one.’”

Okay, dude, you really are dumb.  The rest of the universe could see that coming from miles away.  This chick was a nutjob from the start.

Then there are all the really crazy girls.  And I mean crazy.

Except for one girl.  There’s always one girl I quite like. 

This time her name is Ali.  So cute and down-to-earth.  A genuine “girl next door” type.  Except for when she dropped the “f” bomb last night while referring to the girl who boinked a staffer.

Hilarious.

Anyway, I like her enough that I want to find her and WARN HER away from boring, dumb Jake. 

Ali, sweetie, YOU CAN DO BETTER!

Probably on the next Bachelorette I’m guessing.  Because the success rate for romance generated by this show is so far, um, zero percent.

But I can’t stop myself from watching, you know, just in case.  Just in case something eye-popping happens.

It doesn’t.

The Bachelor reminds me of Jim Gaffigan’s “Hot Pocket” routine:  “I’ve never eaten a Hot Pocket and then afterwards been, ‘I’m glad I ate that.’”

If you haven’t seen it, treat yourself:

The Bachelor is my Hot Pocket.

Sigh.

Girl crushes…

The following is a conversation through email and text between me and my girl crush, who will remain nameless, except to say that her name rhymes with “Bemily.”  Bemily announced her pregnancy through her family Christmas card.

ME:  I just want you to know that I am officially breaking up with you.  I can’t believe that I have to find out about your news from your Christmas card.  Just know…you’re no longer my girl crush.  I’m moving on.

BEMILY:  Such harsh words.  Come on!  I was being creative!  I told everyone that I love in a Christmas card.  It’s actually way too early to tell people.  I’m only 6 weeks, but I thought it would be a fun way to let people know.  Will you ever forgive me?

ME:  You told EVERYone in a Christmas card – whether you love them or not.  I still love you, but we can no longer be exclusive.  I’m still breaking up with you.  It’s not me, it’s you.

BEMILY:  I need some time to think about us.

ME:  You know…I give and I give and I give, but I just don’t feel like you’re as committed to me as I am to you.

Can I just say how much I love it when people “get” me??  Truly, this exchange provided me with genuinely painful belly laughs that I really needed at the time.

Good job Bemily.  Who reads my blog.  And comments. 

FYI.

I still love you, Bemily.  But just as a friend.

Random Thoughts

• My awesome kids (with husband’s help – thanks dear) gifted me Cutco knives for Christmas.  YAY!!  Dropping massive hints *does* work!  I’ve used the knives exactly twice.  And cut myself exactly twice.  (Now I know you’re not going to believe this, but those things are sharp.)  I’m a spaz.
• Delta Airlines sucks.  That’s all I’m going to say about that.
• I was watching “Nature” Sunday on PBS.  And saw…a human mother nursing a wolf cub.  Another nursing a piglet.  Was presented as “normal” in some cultures.  That’s right.  You heard me.  Ew.  Ew ew ew.
• The all-day chocolate diet makes me feel anxious and crappy.  And mean.
• I have been home from vacation for four days.  And have yet to go to the grocery store.  It’s like an orphanage around here.  “What do you want??”  “Please, sir.  I want some more.”  (Name that classic.)
• Cheeseburgers on a Mexican grill with fresh salsa must have some secret nefarious ingredient.  SO ADDICTING!!
• Why does string cheese always taste better when it’s pulled apart?
• I find it quite humorous that whenever a bad television movie portrays desolation or despair the emotion is signified by the sound of a hawk screeching.  And if it’s really desolate, you’ll hear whistling wind.  Especially if you’re in the desert.
• The other day in the shower I accidentally pumped out some Nioxin (a really great tingly shampoo) in my hand when I meant to pump out shower gel.  Decided to move ahead with the commitment and used the shampoo as shower gel.  NOT…THE…SAME…  Yowch.
• Sometimes when I get out of the shower and pull my hair out of the towel I think, “I could really rock the dreadlocks look.”  Probably won’t, though.

A good flossing, once a day

I got a massage today.  Before you think unkind thoughts about me and my state of spoildom, I must inform you:  I not only needed it, I deserved it.

Ever had one of those life lessons that prompts an otherwise normal, kind human being to punch someone in the mouth?  Even if they don’t deserve it necessarily?  But they’re looking at you with that vacant, apathetic, incompetent look that just makes you think you could seriously find yourself breaking from character and smacking them?

And enjoying it?  Just a little?

Just somebody…have some accountability.  Take some responsibility. 

FIX IT!!!

Let’s put this in perspective:  No one died.  No one is terminally ill.  No one got hit by a car.  No one is in a coma.  No one took all my money (yet).  No one killed a cat.  No one confessed a desire for an alternative lifestyle.

It was just a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

And I would have LOVED to have gone to Australia.

If only…

That is not what this story is about. 

This story is about a massage.

I went to a massage therapist I hadn’t been to before.  Didn’t care.  Needed.  A.  Massage.

In the worst way.

Cute girl.  Nice girl.  She did a good job.

Until…

She got to the backside of my legs.  I am on my stomach.  At this point, most therapists will kind of curl/fold the sheet discreetly and modestly to uncover a full leg, including, um, the buttock region.

This is fine.  At no point in time did I feel that she was taking liberties with my, uh, large backside expanse.  However, things did get uncomfortable…

The sheet began to recede to uncover the buttock region.  Then, oddly, Becca (the therapist) kind of pulled the sheet taut between her two hands, distancing them about two feet apart.

I don’t know how to delicately put this, so I’ll say it the best way I can…she then kind of see-sawed the sheet into my buttock, uh, smile.

Yes, she did.

So there I am, face down, naked, my face in the halo hole of restfulness, and my eyes pop open.

It occurs to me, I think Becca just flossed my buttocks.

So, not only do I have that uncomfortable set up, I now have a massage occurring on my leg region while there is a packing of sheet in my, uh, bottom smile.

Not comfortable.

Upon one buttock and leg’s completion, she popped the sheet out of its secure holding, covered the expanse, and then walked around the table and repeated said flossing from the other side.

That was just…weird.

I can’t say that I’ve ever had my bottom flossed.

Until now.

Elf on the shelf

How does Santa know if you’re naughty or nice?  He has help.  From an elf.  On your shelf.

Some great mom somewhere started this tradition with her kids long ago and now she’s rich.  Rich, I tell you. 

Snaps to her.

But here’s the thing…anyone else creeped out about the idea that someone is watching them all the time?  All…the…time.  I would think this would give kids nightmares.

Is this really the best way to motivate kids to be “good”? 

Kind of reminds me of Orwell’s 1984.

I’ve watched enough television to know that everything we do electronically can be tracked:  credit card usage, cell phone calls, GPS navigation, etc.  I certainly don’t have anything to hide, but ew. 

Kind of.

The only entity I’m comfortable with watching me all the time is God.  

And sometimes I’d prefer He miss a few things I’ve done.

Anyway. 

Back to the elf.  On the shelf.  He has stuff to hide as well. 

I think he’s a cross-dresser.