tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22621646821528177872024-03-12T17:51:27.275-06:00Coffee Table for TwoRaising myself while raising my daughter. This is about me and everything I'm made of ... (the good, the bad, the downright fugly)Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.comBlogger159125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-42985473843382292802014-09-03T12:58:00.001-06:002014-09-03T12:58:19.229-06:00I am definitely not a grandma!<div style="text-align: justify;">
Sydnerella started grade 12 today. GRADE. 12. </div>
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How is it possible that I have a child in grade 12 when I am only 35? Ohhh right, I was having unprotected sex at 17 with Shit for Brains .... </div>
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Even though I've been teaching Sydnerella to hate babies so she doesn't try to make one for herself, one of my biggest fears has been becoming a grandma by now. 18 years ago, right at the beginning of grade 12, my mom was going to be a grandma. I know it's a little early to celebrate because technically there is still time for her to beat me by another 2 months, but I'm pretty sure this is not the year I become a grandma. High 5. Sure she's had the same boyfriend for-like-ever, and sure I took her to the doctor for some baby-preventing pills (that we all know can fail), and ok, <em>maybe</em> we've allowed the occasional sleep-over between them, but Sydneralla is saving herself for marriage. Right? Right! Also, we have a deal that she isn't allowed to have babies before I'm done having babies ... And though I'm very <strong>very</strong> single, I still have about 5 years to shut my baby-making shit down and how weird would that be to have a my own baby who's younger than my grand-baby?</div>
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I don't think so ..... </div>
Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-66052697608276856742014-08-26T15:00:00.000-06:002014-09-02T15:18:28.974-06:00I'm baaack ...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
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Wow, long time .... And super weird because at pretty much the same time, someone else I know & love is also back from her hiatus <a href="http://www.auntcrazyhere.com/">my Texas bff Christy</a> ... </div>
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So I just spent quite awhile getting reacquainted with my old self here and can't believe how much has changed. And how much has <em>happened</em>. In hopes of rekindling this old blog, I'll hold back so I have more to write about later. One thing I have definitely learned about myself looking back over my life is that I rarely finish what I start. I have good ideas, and great intentions, but then nothing ... One example is that I have quit smoking three times in the last year and a half. I am currently on my third attempt and it's been about 12 days. I already feel fatter. Another example is that I registered for a class on May 1, didn't do any of if, and have to write my final <em>last week</em> ... I suck! So in saying that, I may or may not be back after today .... </div>
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Anyway, in re-reading my oldest blogs, I noticed that I was pretty funny sometimes, and had a lot of happiness to share. Other posts mortified me, so I hit delete <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(no need to be reminded that I'm not gettin lucky...) </span> I should warn you now that I have a lot more crappy updates than good ones, but I will certainly try to find the sunshine in the shit.</div>
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I guess I'll start with Rustykins. I lost her last January. Not like misplaced her and just can't find her, I mean that she's in kitty-heaven. I was in Disneyland last year, literally the Happiest Place on Earth, with Sydnerella and Silly Sally when Rusty got sick. Disneyland for the third time because I haven't quite made up for my mommy-guilt over Sydnerella not having a dad .... Anyway, Mister Sister had Rusty at the vet, and they told me if I ever wanted to see her again, they needed my credit card number, a few limbs, and my first born. When I picked Rusty up a few days later, she was yellow from jaundice, had a shaved belly from her ultrasound, and a feeding tube sticking out of her neck. Then she did this for 5 days ....</div>
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Then, she started getting better ...<br />
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Yay</div>
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"let me out"</div>
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"where the fuck is my food bowl?"</div>
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It was suggested to me back then that I should start up my blog up again because apparently the stories and updates I had were good. And funny. And ridiculous. And maybe I could have helped other crazy cat people dealing with cats who had liver disease, food aversions, pancreatitis, and feeding tubes. Oh sure, tons of stories ... Like when I sat in cat puke and didn't notice until it seeped through my pants. Or how I had to spread out her tube feedings and med administration to every 6 hours, which meant waking up all hours of the night to warm up liquid cat food (that I may or may not have stirred up with my coffee spoon before putting it in my mug) and syringe feed her over 45 minute periods, then chasing her around the house when she wouldn't let me put the cap back in her tube, then cleaning liquid cat food and amoxicillin off the walls.</div>
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Or when I tried to change her litter brand to something less stinky and she revolted by peeing on the floor beside the box while glaring at me, then doing this ... </div>
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Or when she decided she didn't need her feeding tube anymore and pulled it out ...</div>
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Rusty was sick for almost 5 months. We were at the vet at least 20 times and she was on 3 different meds. So yes, LOTS of stories. But the shortest version is that she got very sick, then she got better, then she got sick, then she got better, then she got even more sick, and then she died.</div>
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After that, I did what all crazy cat people do after they send their fur-babies to Rainbow Bridge ... I took a week off work, joined a pet loss support group, got Rusty cremated <span style="font-size: x-small;">(& keep her ashes beside my bed</span>), then became a volunteer and foster parent for an animal rescue organization .... those stories to follow .... Maybe</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Rusty's last Christmas</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">RIP Rusty</span></div>
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<br />Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-62637272003262192692011-12-07T13:20:00.001-07:002011-12-07T13:22:16.000-07:00What's worse than being a crack addict?<div style="text-align: justify;">Being a Twihard. I started reading the books over last Christmas break, and finished by February. Just before the hype of the Breaking Dawn movie start, which I'm pretty happy about since the surprise of Bella getting pregnant wasn't ruined. If you knew just how addicted I am, you would know this is a huge to me. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm neither Team Edward or Team Jacob, though I mock my daughter by by telling her I'm Team Charlie. I'd totally do him. And Edward. And Jacob. And Emmet. And Jasper. And Carslile. But I love the love story. I love Twilight in sappy ways that I don't need to get into. I can't help it. I went to Bella's Bridal Shower a week before Breaking Dawn came out where we were served cupcakes, got our picture taken on the red carpet with a radio host, watched the Breaking Dawn trailer, the entire Twilight movie, and where I won this ...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">In it was a Breaking Dawn t-shirt that fits my ankle, a Breaking Dawn poster, cards, mints, etc. I cheered for myself when they drew my name, my daughter sunk in her seat and put her hood on.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">We watched Breaking Dawn opening night, which I naturally loved. It completed the love story ... er never mind, that's sap again. I just loved it. The following night I curled up on the couch and read Twilight beginning to end, watched the movie AGAIN, and watched New Moon the following morning when I woke up. AND .... I since discovered Midnight Sun on Stephanie Meyers website and can't flipping wait until she's done. There. My dirty little secret. And pretty much all I've been up to recently. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well that, and raising a teenage daughter. Feel sorry for me. Really. As my daughter has graduated from each stage in her life, I though, whew, that was hard. And it was. It's always been hard. Being a parent isn't easy. But since she's turned 14, this parenting thing has gone beyond what I ever imagined. And she's not even as bad as some little bastards out there. But she's wearing me down. I am tired. All these years, I was absolutely one of the parents who thought who thought their kids wouldn't be "one of those kids" (you KNOW you've all thought it), but she is. They always are. She was suspended on the fourth day of grade 9 for going back to school after lunch HIGH. Little fucker. I didn't even know what made me more mad ... That she got high, or that she was stupid enough to go back to school like that. Immediately following, came the lectures, the grounding, the subtle jabs about being stupid. And for awhile, I thought maybe she wouldn't do it anymore. But when I recently found these in her closest ... </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I wasn't surprised. My kid's a fucking pothead. I guess it's better than being a drunk or knocked up ... But I know better. She's 14 ... there's more than enough time for that. Did I mention I am tired? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But someones been looking after me ... A week after winning the Breaking Dawn bag, I won front row tickets to a hockey game ... this was our view .... </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me & T-Bone ... not me and the pothead. And two weeks after that, I won this .... </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">WHOOP. My liver hasn't been exercised since July when I got the hemorrhoids, I'll need some practice. Probably should lose some weight too. And find something for my teenager to do while I'm gone so I don't have to worry about where she's smoking her pot.</div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-86250496422260147742011-09-27T13:39:00.000-06:002011-09-27T13:39:11.034-06:00Disneyland<div style="text-align: justify;">I have so much in this blog that I'd love to share with everyone. Then there's stuff I probably should have used a little more discretion. Too late. I still want to write it because I'm entitled to, but I guess a bit of privacy on an open blog isn't possible. I'm going to keep it closed to those not invited for now, but it kinda sucks. I have Disneyland stuff <strong>now</strong> that I want to share, but only the 12 invited people will read it. I guess writing for you 12 and myself is good enough. For now. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I took my daughter to Disneyland recently. What it means for me to be able to go to Disneyland, or on any other trip for that matter, is probably a little different than the average person. I grew up a poor girl in the hood. When I was a pregnant teenager, I never thought I'd be able to do stuff like this. Actually, as a pregnant teenager, I didn't have a damn clue what I had just gotten myself into. I still assumed that I was going to marry rich. Or some bullshit. It wasn't until I had a few years of hard parenting experiences behind me that I abandoned all hope that anything would ever be OK. Thankfully, I rock and was eventually doing OK. And able to take my kid to Disneyland. Not once, but twice.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Our trip started September 8 at 10am when our car arrived to take us to the airport. A long black sedan, not a taxi. Silly Sally encouraged me to price it out and sure enough, it cost less than a cab would have been. So we arrived at the airport in style. Sydnerella was nervous, so nervous that she puked before boarding the plane. I was almost beside her puking because the plane we were getting on wasn't much bigger than a 4 person cessna. We had to walk down on the tarmac to board, which I've never done before, and it had propellers. I was terrified that a little man would be jumping up and pulling on them to get them going. I swear to god I thought that's how propellers worked. Actually, I don't really know if that's NOT how they work because I was strapped in taking migraine strength Advil and getting my earplanes in place to prevent my eardrums from bursting. Oh, and just a warning to you, never ever EVER bite in to a liqui-gel Advil to get it into your system faster without water. Ever! Fucking gross. I think at the moment I discovered that, I would have rathered feel the pain of steak knives driving into my ears which is what normally happens when I fly. Fucking hell. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">So we arrived at 5pm, Los Angelas rush hour, and spent the rest of the evening doing whatever we wanted. Cheesecake Factory for dinner, a quick walk down Anaheim Plaza, a dip in the pool and hot tub (the ONLY time we hit the pool, which if you remember from a previous blog, did not make me too happy having to switch hotels because of the damn pool ....), then a stroll through Downtown Disney, which was my most memorable part of our trip. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tQCZtVbQgSc/ToIgD0S5FuI/AAAAAAAAAmU/esOH7Jg_XVE/s1600/rainforest+cafe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" kca="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tQCZtVbQgSc/ToIgD0S5FuI/AAAAAAAAAmU/esOH7Jg_XVE/s320/rainforest+cafe.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">We were really there! The excitement kicked in as soon as we walked passed Disneyland and California Adventure and we couldn't wait to get to sleep so we could wake up and go to DISNEYLAND. </div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MOBxUZKCuyo/ToIgdUZqalI/AAAAAAAAAmY/2Jaup9GJrcc/s1600/disneylandcastle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" kca="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MOBxUZKCuyo/ToIgdUZqalI/AAAAAAAAAmY/2Jaup9GJrcc/s320/disneylandcastle.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">For the hour it took us to get ready the next morning, I broke out in a song and dance performance of "I'm so excited, and I just can't hide it" randomly and even though Sydnerella was looking at my like I was high, I could see that she was just as excited, and probably even wanted to start dancing with me. After hitting up the IHOP patio at the East entrance, we spent the next 3 days at the Disney parks. A lot of which was spent standing in line for rides and dodging strollers. Seriously, if your kids are in strollers, they wont even <em>remember</em> Disneyland <em><strong>and</strong> </em>you're just hindering your own experience. Just sayin. Dawdling around the park was great for Sydneralla at times though because she gets motion sickness. A new discovery for me. And being the rotten parent that I can tend to be, it didn't dawn on me to get her some Gravol until 7pm on the last night we were at the parks when I was standing in line to go on the Tower of Terror and Sydnerella was sitting outside waiting for me. I felt so bad that I hadn't thought of the Gravol that I left the line and told her we'd take it easy. We had both went on the Tower of Terror the day before anyway, and she loved it. See ... that's my Goofy </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3__sDF5cVYY/ToIbh--cqJI/AAAAAAAAAmA/XcTwcke58gQ/s1600/towerofterror.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" kca="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3__sDF5cVYY/ToIbh--cqJI/AAAAAAAAAmA/XcTwcke58gQ/s320/towerofterror.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Also, I had been on a few rides without her because even though the roller coasters don't make her sick, she just doesn't like them. Except Big Thunder Mountain Railroad ... She loved that too. Hmm ... maybe her motion sickness just increased when we were doing something that she simply didn't want to ... Like Space Mountain. Space Mountain is so damn awesome I wanted to ride it over and over and over, but refused because of the 50 minute line ups. That, and Sydnerella's selective motion sickness. I wore a nice low cut tank top on that ride and was placed at the front. When I got off the ride, the first thing I noticed was the picture of me with my hair blowing in the wind, the biggest damn smile on my seriously unphotogenic face, and my boobs up under my chin with barely my nipples covered. Good thing Sydnerella wasn't with me to see that, she would have been mortified. Our trip was a lot of work. There's was no down time, no relaxing, and even after a good nights sleep each day, when my feet hit the cold floor in the hotel, they were still burning. My shins, heels, and ankles are still in shock after what I did to them. Thank god the weather was decent. I am a pale faced Canadian, I can't handle the heat. It hit 36 (96F) one day for a few hours, but for the most part, it was 28-32 during the day (82-89F), and down to 18-24 at night (64-75F). Except the morning we went on the Grizzly River Run. It had just rained, was about 20 degrees, overcast, and a little bit windy. And of course, we didn't get wet the whoooolllle way down ride, but hit the geyser at the very end. We were soaked. People looked at us with pity knowing full well what happened as we walked 15 minutes back to our hotel to change. The Grizzly River Run was an awesome ride though, probably my favorite, but I wasn't going to be made a fool again ... <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wqJn2mTolzY/ToId0-ptp9I/AAAAAAAAAmE/hKpmhWw2LDw/s1600/pancho.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" kca="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wqJn2mTolzY/ToId0-ptp9I/AAAAAAAAAmE/hKpmhWw2LDw/s320/pancho.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Yes, that's a rain poncho. And yes, Sydnerella thought I was a total dork. But a dry dork. Of course we didn't hit the geyser all 3 times we went on after I put the rain poncho on, so she was also dry. Without the poncho. Great ride. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Another great ride was Soarin Over California. Great and evil at the same time as Sydnerella and I were both a little green after that one, and that officially put her out of commission for anymore crazy rides that day. And after a bit of some normal 14 year old crabbiness because she was hungry and "just wanted a nap", I poured a Monster energy drink down her throat. $4.75 was a great bargain for her almost instant jolt of energy that lasted the rest of the day. Our favorites were the Jungle Cruise, Indiana Jones, Peter Pan, Storybook Land at night when all the ducks are sleeping beside all the little villages because it looked hilarious, and of course, Splash Mountain. We went on that ride at least 6 times, maybe 8. Just before the park closes and the line up for Splash Mountain has disappeared, they let you ride repeatedly, without getting out of the log. By far, Sydnerella's favorite part of Disneyland. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YCIbTFwreOg/ToIegLJ24-I/AAAAAAAAAmI/q6TSHsemvfg/s1600/splashmountian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" kca="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YCIbTFwreOg/ToIegLJ24-I/AAAAAAAAAmI/q6TSHsemvfg/s320/splashmountian.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">That's my awesome kid in the sunglasses hoping to get wet, and me in the very back, without my poncho.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Sydnerella's least favorite part (besides the strollers and the lack of random places to around the park to nap) was the fact that we went a week too early. Little did I know when I booked back in April, that the Halloween celebrations started the week after we went. And the Haunted Mansion would be transformed to entirely Jack Skellington and the Nightmare Before Christmas. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_i3Y1RnWSJg/ToIfelkeg6I/AAAAAAAAAmM/Y7wsrxXgiKI/s1600/hauntedmansion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" kca="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_i3Y1RnWSJg/ToIfelkeg6I/AAAAAAAAAmM/Y7wsrxXgiKI/s320/hauntedmansion.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">To date, Sydnerella's favorite thing in the world. She's a Jack freak. She was shocked, sad, bummed, and begged to stay an extra week. But when we walked passed this .... </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DFh9t8UKReg/ToIfiruMefI/AAAAAAAAAmQ/c5EF0IcDj2Y/s1600/piratesclosed..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" kca="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DFh9t8UKReg/ToIfiruMefI/AAAAAAAAAmQ/c5EF0IcDj2Y/s320/piratesclosed..jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">she quit complaining about Jack. She knows I'm Pirates-crazed, knows that I pretty much just booked the trip to ride that damn rideonly to find out a week before we went that it would be closed. So we both shared some sadness over this, then moved on. We were in freaking Disneyland. And we had a freaking blast.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qekta1pd3Wo/ToIh99WDQyI/AAAAAAAAAmg/GB9mJD9Hncc/s1600/lionking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" kca="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qekta1pd3Wo/ToIh99WDQyI/AAAAAAAAAmg/GB9mJD9Hncc/s320/lionking.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">California Adventure</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oijACH3SIt4/ToIjNpap-AI/AAAAAAAAAm0/0Wm20L9YYsY/s1600/toontown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" kca="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oijACH3SIt4/ToIjNpap-AI/AAAAAAAAAm0/0Wm20L9YYsY/s320/toontown.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Toon Town (this is the tank that almost showed the twins to everyone at Space Mountain)</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tt1G1h4ihs0/ToIiAEJQOhI/AAAAAAAAAmk/DBIuFo5DA0I/s1600/mickey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" kca="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tt1G1h4ihs0/ToIiAEJQOhI/AAAAAAAAAmk/DBIuFo5DA0I/s320/mickey.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">Hey Mickey, you're so fine, you're so fine, you ... Never mind</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" kca="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0QzKEwuXXXA/ToIiCfqnRYI/AAAAAAAAAmo/ZiThgudjPGY/s320/monstersinc.jpg" width="320" /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">Sully ... Monsters Inc ride kicked ass</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-r4Fdux6aW7c/ToIiKK02DRI/AAAAAAAAAms/syb-hnwEZkI/s1600/pluto%2526goofy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" kca="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-r4Fdux6aW7c/ToIiKK02DRI/AAAAAAAAAms/syb-hnwEZkI/s320/pluto%2526goofy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">96F temps and a long line-up for this pic. Sydnerella was miserable ... Great cover though </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div></div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-21770439512025496482011-09-25T23:23:00.001-06:002011-09-25T23:24:48.145-06:00DAMAGE CONTROL<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-w1KPt86_Zrg/Tn_7oqfoQtI/AAAAAAAAAl4/Q4TO6ugnZJw/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-w1KPt86_Zrg/Tn_7oqfoQtI/AAAAAAAAAl4/Q4TO6ugnZJw/s200/index.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Silly Sally just called me in sheer terror and panic, apologizing like crazy, begging me not to be mad, she did something so bad she was scared to tell me. Finally, she calmed down enough to ask me if it was possible to delete a blog. In particular, one of MY blog posts. Or, my whole blog actually. Why the fuck would I want to delete my blog? Because someone might have caught wind of it who I didn't want to? Well ... who cares, so I swear a lot. So I talk about my sex life. Uh ... talk dirty stuff worse than even my regular sex life .... Stuff that I'd really hope people wouldn't continue reading if they weren't comfortable reading it. And if they did and were offended or judgmental, too bad. <i>Unless</i> it's my dad! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So if you're wondering why I'm making you jump through so many hoops to read my blog that I don't even write in much anymore, it's because my sister, Silly Sally sent our dad the link to my blog by mistake. Or maybe it wasn't really by mistake. Maybe it's because she thinks I'm his favorite and she found a way to fix that. Anyhow, I'm pretty sure I've done enough damage control that he'll never get in to read what a skank his daughter can be, but just in case, this is my last plea ...<b> Dad, if you managed to find your way into my blog, I'm telling you, it's in your best interest if you just close the blog and pretend it doesn't exist. Seriously.</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">To that end, if I ever get back into this blogging that I was so happy to start two years ago, I'll clean it up. A little. Fuck and shit and all those other fun four-letter words wont be included in my little clean up. So more like a de-whoring. Maybe. We'll see.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-7590513870366827442011-09-06T12:52:00.000-06:002011-09-06T12:52:18.271-06:00I'm going to Disneyland<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DWvVSyA1-xg/TmZnBR4ZmZI/AAAAAAAAAlw/xDeRoQAoIKY/s1600/JackSparrow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="157" nba="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DWvVSyA1-xg/TmZnBR4ZmZI/AAAAAAAAAlw/xDeRoQAoIKY/s320/JackSparrow.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">In less than 48 hours, Sydnerella & I will be on our way to Disneyland. Despite the fact that she managed to get herself suspended on the <strong>4th day of grade 9</strong>, I am taking her to Disneyland. I don't know how many people would actually cancel a trip to Disneyland over their kids being bastards, but I booked the damn trip in April and we both really deserve this after the harsh year we just endured so I didn't cancel. Bad?! Oh well, I'm going to Disneyland, and I am FREAKING EXCITED!! </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: justify;">Well, excited, and mad. Leave it to me to find something that pisses me off at the Happiest Place on Earth <em>before</em> we even get there. But I swear to jeezus christ I am justifiably pissed off this time. April, I discovered that the pool in the hotel I booked would be under renos, so I spent a full hour on the phone with Expedia to change hotels. Whatever. Then ... <em>THEN</em> I discovered last week that the Pirates of the Caribbean ride will be closed for renos. Sydnerella and I are Pirates of the Caribbean fans. <span style="font-size: large;">Huge</span> Pirates fans. After Pirates 3, we were bummed to find out that it would be 3 years until Pirates 4 came out. Then we were even more disappointed when it finally did come out and sucked! I wear Pirates t-shirts and when I went to Sturgis in 2007, I made sure I got to make out with the biker dressed as Captain Jack Sparrow. When we were in Disneyland in 2006, Pirates was <em><strong>also</strong></em> closed for renos, but that was at the beginning of my crush on Pirates so I didn't know what I was missing. Seriously. What. The. Fuck. I literally wouldn't have even booked to go this weekend if I had this information in April. I'm pulling my kid of school for 5 days after a suspension during the first month of school for this trip. A trip that will be 99% fantastic and fabulous and magical. But not 100% now. Boo. And speaking of Boooo ... The Haunted Mansion will also be closed to prepare for Halloween time in Disneyland. In early September? Whatever! I probably can't handle haunted houses anyway judging by the way I ran screaming like a pansy in front of a bunch of laughing kids when a scarecrow jumped out at me when I walked up to a haunted house years ago, then refused to even go in. <strong><em>AND</em></strong> California Screamin, the big goddam roller coaster in California Adventure will be closed for renos as well. I am disappointed to say the least. But we're going, and regardless of missing out on what I'm sure would be my favorite ride, I really am FREAKING EXCITED. We have 3 full days to spend in the parks and about 12 hours combined to check out Downtown Disney and Anaheim Garden Walk. And of course, IHOP. Smack dab in the middle of our hotel and the gates to Disneyland. We don't have IHOP where I live, so this a big fucking deal! </div> <div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MHhnAt8y8Fs/TmZikCU8foI/AAAAAAAAAls/q-lPLiHpLEw/s1600/closed.gif" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="125" nba="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MHhnAt8y8Fs/TmZikCU8foI/AAAAAAAAAls/q-lPLiHpLEw/s400/closed.gif" width="400" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Bitches and assholes!</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">Going to Disneyland. Going to Disneyland. Going to Disneyland. Going to Disneyland. Going to Disneyland. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-s7-qMP31Myo/TmZqQZo6rEI/AAAAAAAAAl0/6ZPp1H6cqLk/s1600/DISNEYLAND.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nba="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-s7-qMP31Myo/TmZqQZo6rEI/AAAAAAAAAl0/6ZPp1H6cqLk/s320/DISNEYLAND.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-20093775619275813132011-08-16T12:47:00.000-06:002011-08-16T12:47:40.717-06:00how you can become a gourmet chef too<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The other day, my friend sent me this pic ...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RNZeT7FMvmk/Tkq1vauROkI/AAAAAAAAAlk/kj4klpQfMSw/s1600/New+Image.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" naa="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RNZeT7FMvmk/Tkq1vauROkI/AAAAAAAAAlk/kj4klpQfMSw/s320/New+Image.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Of course, it would look better if the damn this would rotate for me, I don't have time to try again. I called her a rock star when she told me she made those cakes. She replied back "LOL". She has 3 times more kids than I do and a full time job, and <em>still </em>manages to keep active and stay sane without the help of alcohol or narcotics. She is far more superior than me in this area, I am a domestic retard. You saw what my poor kid ate the other night as her special end of summer meal! And for any of you that read my blog, you've probably seen other pics of cakes and cookies that I've screwed up so bad I wonder why my kid hasn't applied for emancipation.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><strong>Well</strong> .... let me show you what I did last night. Made us a gourmet meal that turned out <em><strong>fantastic</strong></em>. Beef tortellini with a rose sauce, asparagus, and garlic parmesan cheese toast. <em>GOURMET</em>. Look at this plate of yumminess ...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>I am a rock star. </strong></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Thank you Olivieri. From my belly and the bottom of my heart.</span></span></div><br />
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Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-48918402230975373732011-08-15T09:58:00.000-06:002011-08-15T09:58:31.887-06:00Breathing a sigh of relief ... School started today<div style="text-align: justify;">On my first day of grade 9, I wore a pair of black (knock-off because we were poor folk) doc marten boots, tall green socks, and a black long sleeved dress. Today is Sydnerella's first day of grade 9. She's wearing a pair of black Doc Marten boots, striped tall socks, a black skirt, and a band t-shirt. Cannibal Corpse? The only differences between us on this day in both our lives are a few inches (in height and bust - to her benefit, not mine), black eye-liner, and eye-brow threading. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-s-99IF5xbwo/Tkk9jjh3CtI/AAAAAAAAAlM/20E_WgHJmEQ/s1600/docs%2526socks.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" naa="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-s-99IF5xbwo/Tkk9jjh3CtI/AAAAAAAAAlM/20E_WgHJmEQ/s320/docs%2526socks.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">Today couldn't have come sooner. Not that I want my baby to continue to age at these speeds, but having a 14 year old daughter unsupervised while I worked all summer was the cause of many near panic attacks, lost sleep, sneaking out of the office early to get home, getting to work late because I had to stay up late to listen for the doors opening, and just a general feeling of uneasiness. Not that I don't trust my own kid, but I kinda don't. A little bit, but not entirely. It's not just her, it's <em>all </em>of them. The agendas of kids that age are on a totally different page than ours ... hell, in a whole other book! </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Today, right now, I am at ease. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">The weekend before school starts is always a busy one. For nine years now, they've pretty much been the same. We do our last minute clothes and supplies shopping, grocery shopping for breakfasts, recess snacks, and lunches, house cleaning for a fresh start, tons of laundry, one last mother-daughter outing, a good dinner the night before school starts, and quite a bit of fighting. This year was no different. Actually, it was a little different. Ok, completely different. I took Thursday and Friday off work, so we did her shopping Thursday. No fights. I haven't been grocery shopping, I did get some laundry done ...</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q2hO0x1G3GA/Tkk9rM8w-UI/AAAAAAAAAlY/1iAHfsAY528/s1600/laundry.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" naa="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q2hO0x1G3GA/Tkk9rM8w-UI/AAAAAAAAAlY/1iAHfsAY528/s320/laundry.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">We did make it out of town on Saturday - lunch in Banff - and that's really about it. No fights. No hair cut. And dinner was nothing special. Literally .... </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HlK1fGtQxuY/Tkk9mkdlSGI/AAAAAAAAAlQ/392ZrtscTEE/s1600/kd+%2526+hotdogs.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" naa="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HlK1fGtQxuY/Tkk9mkdlSGI/AAAAAAAAAlQ/392ZrtscTEE/s320/kd+%2526+hotdogs.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">In my defense, Sydnerella chose this and I gave her the option of any restaurant she wanted. I swear it. And I was cravin' Asian, so this was my dinner ....</div><br />
<div align="center"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6kB6C25G-ss/Tkk9pfOqfjI/AAAAAAAAAlU/FxPJCOMQojs/s1600/asian.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" naa="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6kB6C25G-ss/Tkk9pfOqfjI/AAAAAAAAAlU/FxPJCOMQojs/s320/asian.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
And it turned out pretty good for $6.99 at Safeway.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">So Sydnerella has one more year in junior high and I can't say I wont be on edge until end of June. Praying that just because she dresses like I did, she wont get into the same shit that I did. Praying <strong>HARD</strong> that my little Athiest doesn't turn my hair white.</div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-32347293393128888322011-08-12T21:29:00.001-06:002011-08-12T21:33:02.788-06:00New Kids on the Block, let's rock<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pOIklEsdTao/TkXuco2-rhI/AAAAAAAAAk4/QfM_zGCi7Iw/s1600/donnie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pOIklEsdTao/TkXuco2-rhI/AAAAAAAAAk4/QfM_zGCi7Iw/s200/donnie.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0NuOTgry3Wg/TkXuhe7sxgI/AAAAAAAAAk8/dtU8U_VMgdY/s1600/Joey+Joe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0NuOTgry3Wg/TkXuhe7sxgI/AAAAAAAAAk8/dtU8U_VMgdY/s200/Joey+Joe.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hs9GrtIcLPg/TkXucHCvC9I/AAAAAAAAAk0/fZIYq5Dvh8E/s1600/Danny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hs9GrtIcLPg/TkXucHCvC9I/AAAAAAAAAk0/fZIYq5Dvh8E/s200/Danny.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KSpMbqY3CcQ/TkXuicZyHNI/AAAAAAAAAlA/9Ox6J7FC9Hk/s1600/jon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KSpMbqY3CcQ/TkXuicZyHNI/AAAAAAAAAlA/9Ox6J7FC9Hk/s200/jon.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lv2rQBrK6B0/TkXujglwEZI/AAAAAAAAAlI/fSG8-8LdLYw/s1600/jordan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lv2rQBrK6B0/TkXujglwEZI/AAAAAAAAAlI/fSG8-8LdLYw/s200/jordan.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">1:30am, last Friday night. Saturday morning? I was, as always, on the couch fighting with my eyes to stay open because New Kids on the Block were on ET and I wanted to see them. NKOTBSB actually since they've teamed up with the Backstreet Boys, who ever they are. First thing I noticed was Jordan Knight is still a major babe. I was part of the New Kids mania that started back in 1988, and will consider myself a fan for the rest of my life. During a commercial of ET, I had to run up to my room and dig through my closet to make sure I still had this ...</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9hBJ-cb-FA4/TkXdpCaNzuI/AAAAAAAAAkg/8SrqvGq0ZrA/s1600/NKOTB+scrapbook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9hBJ-cb-FA4/TkXdpCaNzuI/AAAAAAAAAkg/8SrqvGq0ZrA/s320/NKOTB+scrapbook.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Phew. What is it? A near 100 page scrapbook put together by yours truly between 1989 and 1991. I actually feel a little guilty going through it, I think I spent more effort on this than I did my daughters baby book. But I guess at the young age of 11, there's not much else to occupy your time. Here's a peak ...</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Sx9T_KpL4tA/TkXdoXATZKI/AAAAAAAAAkc/H2Qfzr5wA9A/s1600/NKOTB+concert+1990.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Sx9T_KpL4tA/TkXdoXATZKI/AAAAAAAAAkc/H2Qfzr5wA9A/s320/NKOTB+concert+1990.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eh5GPpU9gtI/TkXdqDEhnLI/AAAAAAAAAkk/kcv6SaYVOao/s1600/NKOTB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eh5GPpU9gtI/TkXdqDEhnLI/AAAAAAAAAkk/kcv6SaYVOao/s320/NKOTB.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-e-QHyH54vqA/TkXdvMrATfI/AAAAAAAAAko/d10exqFnamg/s1600/scrapbook+page.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-e-QHyH54vqA/TkXdvMrATfI/AAAAAAAAAko/d10exqFnamg/s320/scrapbook+page.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">I have over 30 posters ripped out of Tiger Beat, Teen Beat, Bop, and the Big Bopper that I had plastered all over the walls in my bedroom. I had every last pic of all the same magazines neatly cut out and taped to loose leaf. Stories, diary entries, newspaper articles, bios and even a hand-drawn picture of Jordan Knight I included in a project I did for French class ..... Uncanny.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1FPNcaNCnaA/TkXkppt7p_I/AAAAAAAAAkw/QgM88aOXHe0/s1600/Jordan+project.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1FPNcaNCnaA/TkXkppt7p_I/AAAAAAAAAkw/QgM88aOXHe0/s320/Jordan+project.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">And I still have these in the same wooden jewelry box I've had since I was a little girl </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Xae-D0IycsI/TkXdhf5Q10I/AAAAAAAAAkY/S5Qk8bRb1Rw/s1600/earrings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Xae-D0IycsI/TkXdhf5Q10I/AAAAAAAAAkY/S5Qk8bRb1Rw/s320/earrings.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">I was 9 or 10 years old when I discovered NKOTB with my then-bff, J. We lost touch over the years, which broke my heart when my daughter was born. We reconnected half-assed a few times, then tried with a more honest attempt when our friend passed away last year. Both her, and New Kids on the Block are a huge part of my childhood memories. One of my favorites was trying to convince everyone in my class that I was related to Danny.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">New Kids on the Block, let's rock, it's Christmas time, we gonna celebrate it with a rhyme. Danny D are you ready? Ready as I'll ever be steady. You know Joey Joe is ready, Jordan and John, yeah come on, we got a Funky Funky Christmas going on ..... </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I swear on my cats life, I just typed that from memory, stopping to dance a little. Sad? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My interest for the New Kids started waning when Donnie Wahlberg was arrested. I literally,<i> literally</i> cried when I read this in the paper. Then, I did what any rational 11 year old would do after hearing their soon to be husband started a fire in a hotel, I scratched his face out of the clipping and added it to one the last pages of my scrap book. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-89JDUY4gfiI/TkXdvppkhjI/AAAAAAAAAks/mOpr1ckyew4/s1600/the+end.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-89JDUY4gfiI/TkXdvppkhjI/AAAAAAAAAks/mOpr1ckyew4/s320/the+end.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">Fast forward almost 20 years, and New Kids on the Block were making a come back. I took Sydnerella to an NKOTB concert where Lady Ga Ga and Natasha Beddingfield opened for them. The arena would have been like shooting fish in a barrel for any late-20's to mid-30's man looking for a wife. A wife with baggage I suppose. Every woman in that age group in the city was at that concert, and all of them brought their kids. The men stayed far away from that concert, so no new baby-daddy for Sydnerella. Not that I was looking, I was there to introduce my daughter to little bit of my past. And I was so happy that the NKOTB t-shirt that I got for my 11th birthday still fit .....</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dX4-pLp30Sg/TkXcL5wGrTI/AAAAAAAAAkQ/uWq1RNsftZs/s1600/n737695397_4821052_1408.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dX4-pLp30Sg/TkXcL5wGrTI/AAAAAAAAAkQ/uWq1RNsftZs/s200/n737695397_4821052_1408.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
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Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-45889827067745429702011-07-26T23:34:00.073-06:002011-07-27T00:36:38.588-06:00my grass is greener<div style="text-align: justify;">The grass is always greener on the other side? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IAX9_33oJGg/Ti-sdNaCgXI/AAAAAAAAAkE/K2J49fg7D_0/s1600/beingsingle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IAX9_33oJGg/Ti-sdNaCgXI/AAAAAAAAAkE/K2J49fg7D_0/s1600/beingsingle.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I spent the weekend at a cabin on a lake with T-Bone and three couples. Silly Sally and her probably soon to be fiance, my bff and her husband, another close friend and her husband. Both husbands who will not allow their wives, MY FRIENDS since before they were their wives, spend weekends away with me alone. Why? Because Single Stacy makes them uncomfortable. Because Single Stacy can coerce their wives into three-ways and orgies and all sorts of lying and cheating. Even though ... <i><b>even though</b></i> one of the couples has 4 affairs under their belts between the two of them, <i>NONE</i> if which I arranged, took part in, condoned, encouraged, or anything of the sort. Ahem. The Couples Retreat was arranged after a casual comment that we should have a girls night at this cabin that was quickly shot down by the two married women, while the two single women secretly prayed that we'd be going solo. No such luck. Good thing I like the two husbands, my probably soon to be brother in law, and T-Bone. So the four of us ditched all the children we have between us, loaded our vehicles with Albertan beer because BC charges PST, and drove out to a cabin that sits a block from a lake and has baby deer living under the wrap around deck. Ahhh summer. There was some obvious differences between the marrieds and the singles, but all put together in one house for 60 hours, the eight of us had a fantastic, sunburned, exhausting, well fed weekend. And I walked away secretly wishing that I was one of the marrieds, at the same time though, grateful I'm not. {Side note, I already refrained from inviting the spouse from one friend because his anti-Stacy bullshit was taken too far awhile back and he's on my shit list ... the rest of them should beware!} If any of you are reading this, you know I'm joking. If you're not reading this, then I'm totally not. Ha. I'm really not out to build an army of single people for me to hang with just because I don't have a husband. I've made shitty decisions that have landed me in shitty relationships that have led me to bouts of singledom. What-the-fuck-ever. Yes, being single has its advantages (1. This is MY remote, bitch. 2. Make your own damn sandwich. And 3. I technically can date/kiss/boink whoever I want), but it has its disadvantages too, and one of them is not being trusted by your married friends spouses. And because I don't have a husband or a full time boyfriend, but I <i>do</i> have a lawn full of goddam weeds, I was swindled by a door to door sales person into allowing them to spray weed killer on my lawn in exchange for $200. So yes, in more ways than one, my grass is pretty fucking green. But I pay for it. Out of my own damn pocket. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qqcoH5MmlFU/Ti-ufutVcgI/AAAAAAAAAkI/fzbxhOg3CWk/s1600/bambi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qqcoH5MmlFU/Ti-ufutVcgI/AAAAAAAAAkI/fzbxhOg3CWk/s320/bambi.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Bambi #1 and Bambi #2</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Gsbc7LOlAFo/Ti-ujSYpZ7I/AAAAAAAAAkM/6AwdshVXATE/s1600/burned.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Gsbc7LOlAFo/Ti-ujSYpZ7I/AAAAAAAAAkM/6AwdshVXATE/s320/burned.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Son of a bitch, where's the aloe?</div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-78000359090124975402011-07-16T02:37:00.000-06:002011-07-16T02:37:02.494-06:00What the Stampede taught me this year<div style="text-align: justify;">My body is failing me. I've been watching it grow and shrivel and sag and do all sorts of weird shit since I turned 30. I'm wearing padded bras, sometimes when I sleep because I so desperately want to keep the twins away from my gut. I have a mass of spider veins on my calf and apply thick layers of cream to my heels. I choose full booty panties over thongs. I'm growing a second chin. I think I even mentioned on accident awhile back that I found nipple hair. And on Wednesday, I went Stampeding, and my body reached a new low. Stampeding is what party animals do during the 2nd week of July here in Calgary ... or what is called Cowtown this week. The rodeo and the chuck wagons and the carnies and the entertainment come to town. And everyone takes their stetsons, cowboy boots, and plaid shirts out of storage. Corporate offices not only allow, but encourage western wear for the week. The party and the drinking begins. Married men and women put their wedding rings in the little pocket in their wranglers and they go stampeding. CEO's, VP's and everyone beneath them come to work hungover, maybe even still drunk. Sometimes even sleep (or fuck) in their office if a party was close enough and they can't find a cab. Anything goes during Stampede week. For kids and people with no sense of drunken adventure, the Stampede is about rides and cotton candy. But since turning 18, it's been a shit show. A fun, rowdy, crazy, shit show. Like most, over the years, I've slowed down. When I once was able to go hard for at least half the party, I've just been reduced to one day. And even this one almost killed me. Or did something funky my ass at least. What!? Wednesday, I started drinking at noon with about 200 others from my company, and about 10,000 others around the city. It was late compared to some years when we'd start drinking at some pancake breakfast in a beer tent by the office. It was my company Stampede party and I was in a Go Big or Go Home situation. After a few hours at that party, I joined Silly Sally, some friends, and random co-workers to a rocking outdoor concert. It was a frigging blast. John Fogerty is fantastic, his voice hasn't aged at all. Unlike my hands. We drank, danced, smoked, sang, drank, smoked, drank, then hopped onto school bus shuttles to an after party, where, yes, we drank some more. Nobody we were with puked, fell down, got beat up, took a random dude home, or got lost, so it was a good time. No .... it was a great time. Even though I was on the couch the following 24 hours it was a fun. fun. fun. hammered. hammered. hammered. However .... After 14 years of Stampeding like a grown up, I learned a pretty important lesson and am suffering miserably. Drinking for 12 hours straight can, and in my case <i>did</i>, lead to a case of hemorrhoids. Literally, my second attempt at Stampeding just ended with me standing in the drug store with a drunk dude buying munchies and slutty looking thing buying condoms. Then there was me, hunched over the isle at the back, trying to decide between Preparation H and Anusol. </div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-20069015638238695332011-07-04T14:19:00.001-06:002011-07-04T14:20:38.052-06:00Happy July-Long ....<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ieLEMB9ANCQ/ThIcFettj4I/AAAAAAAAAj4/upffe4S4ROQ/s1600/canadaday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" i$="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ieLEMB9ANCQ/ThIcFettj4I/AAAAAAAAAj4/upffe4S4ROQ/s200/canadaday.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wLhIzva3eLc/ThIcG3Iv3iI/AAAAAAAAAj8/KwAwKznWi68/s1600/4thofjuly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" i$="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wLhIzva3eLc/ThIcG3Iv3iI/AAAAAAAAAj8/KwAwKznWi68/s200/4thofjuly.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The short version of everything since last checking in .... Including pictures because I'm seriously short on stories and words. Last week Sydnerella turned 14. She finished grade eight, soccer ended (miserably after starting undefeated), and I wrote my final exam. Sydneralla was mistaken for a 21 year old on her birthday, so I'm sure I have a few more grey hairs, some of them nipple, I was given an inhaler because I can't breath very well all the time, I tried to quit smoking but decided after 24 hours that wasn't going to work for me. My stomach continues to grow because I am a potato chip and french vanilla coffee cream addict, and I continue to see T-Bone once every two weeks for lazy sex, a movie, and take out food. I really don't care what's going on with us right now because my head is still in a weird place and because he bought me this for my birthday .... </div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GzOxhX4neI0/ThIMZFu2AgI/AAAAAAAAAjU/NyxbvduddDs/s1600/Coach+bag.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" i$="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GzOxhX4neI0/ThIMZFu2AgI/AAAAAAAAAjU/NyxbvduddDs/s200/Coach+bag.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">As little as I care about brands and accessories, I sure do love Coach bags. And I love LOVE this purse.</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I've mowed my lawn twice since I took this pic .... The first mow-job took 45 minutes and I almost passed out. It was literally a jungle and I don't think I even have grass in the back anymore, it's think weed type grass. Whatever. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="149" i$="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uAeMOOl-zLY/ThIN8SQLaPI/AAAAAAAAAjw/6ZvknaDe6oE/s200/Rusty+of+the+Jungle.JPG" width="200" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Sydnerella asked what she could do around the house for extra money. I was due for my cleaners to come in anyway, so I gave her a list longer than anything I've ever done myself, and she did at all. Then told me it wasn't so bad and I should just clean the house myself. I told her to zip the lip, get to work, and handed over $40 when she was done.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="150" i$="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TDjafkI-_Qc/ThIOBv1QVoI/AAAAAAAAAj0/djM0oyPhUBY/s200/Sydney+working+for+a+living.JPG" width="200" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">A bird shit on my living room window.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G3Hj-5cOScQ/ThINm_z5DLI/AAAAAAAAAjY/GpY-jDHcLV8/s1600/bird+shit.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" i$="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G3Hj-5cOScQ/ThINm_z5DLI/AAAAAAAAAjY/GpY-jDHcLV8/s320/bird+shit.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">After spending $915 to get my drivers license and my registration renewed since January 1, I got fucking pulled over 2 weeks ago. I was going 13kms over the speed limit, seriously bullshit. That's like 6mph for you American folk, serious waste of $115 and a demerit.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-keeLugH67Ag/ThINs3P4pjI/AAAAAAAAAjg/p_NODRpN4l4/s1600/dammit.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" i$="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-keeLugH67Ag/ThINs3P4pjI/AAAAAAAAAjg/p_NODRpN4l4/s320/dammit.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: justify;">I sent a Happy Fathers Day text to <a href="http://www.auntcrazyhere.com/"><span style="color: magenta;">Aunt Crazy's</span></a> Uncle Bubba and got this reply: <strong>"Thanks. Send naked pics".</strong> So I sent this ...</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lTHemyvtyfg/ThIN5sr7ofI/AAAAAAAAAjs/6OPPeNg483M/s1600/naked+pic.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" i$="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lTHemyvtyfg/ThIN5sr7ofI/AAAAAAAAAjs/6OPPeNg483M/s200/naked+pic.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">He said he sure hopes that's my arm or else I have a hairy ass. He's a 36 hour drive away and refuses to fly, so I guess he'll never know. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">I was out having a smoke before my exam last Thursday, when I saw <em>this</em> .... </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uAeMOOl-zLY/ThIN8SQLaPI/AAAAAAAAAjw/6ZvknaDe6oE/s1600/Rusty+of+the+Jungle.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-35urzf7ddOA/ThINyHmGZ4I/AAAAAAAAAjk/y4PjJz7qdsk/s1600/tired+east+indian.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" i$="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-35urzf7ddOA/ThINyHmGZ4I/AAAAAAAAAjk/y4PjJz7qdsk/s320/tired+east+indian.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><em>This</em> being an elderly east Indian woman sleeping on the vent in my building lobby with both shoes off, holding one leg up behind her back. I have no fucking idea.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TDjafkI-_Qc/ThIOBv1QVoI/AAAAAAAAAj0/djM0oyPhUBY/s1600/Sydney+working+for+a+living.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">And finally, last Friday was Canada Day. Every Canada Day for the last 5 years have been spent at the horse races. A combination of great friends, sunshine, beer gardens, and losing a ton of money because I only bet on the horses whose names I like. I had all intentions of taking a few blackberry pics to do up a good blog of the weekend, but this is all I ended up with. I'm a brunette if you're wondering.</div><div align="center"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nTpxDaJKutE/ThINpgPbHLI/AAAAAAAAAjc/bsMwOPBP8ks/s1600/Canada+Day+cleavage.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" i$="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nTpxDaJKutE/ThINpgPbHLI/AAAAAAAAAjc/bsMwOPBP8ks/s200/Canada+Day+cleavage.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-14779575555543064892011-05-31T09:11:00.001-06:002011-05-31T09:13:56.086-06:00Parental abuse, bumble bees, and renewing my drivers license<div style="text-align: justify;">My morning started at 4:30am! The window in the computer room stays open most nights in the spring. A nice breeze comes in and Rusty sits there all night I'm positive. At 4:30am today however, I was rethinking this allowance for my cat. I was rudely awoken by two neighborhood cats partaking in Wrestlemania 300. This had my cat running through the house with her tail puffed snarling and grunting, trying to bust out the window. I don't know if my neighbors saw or heard me running through the yard pssst-ing, but I was not impressed. I went back to sleep, but my Spring-filled morning didn't end there. I was almost attacked by what I thought was a mini-mouse just as my foot was coming down on it in my basement. I had 1 millisecond to rethink that step and it almost sent me on my ass. I got closer to this ball of fur that was waddling on the floor and it wasn't a mini-mouse. It was a fucking bee. A big ass fuzzy bumble bee. I don't want to start complaining about Spring so early, but my gawd! Professional fighter cats, steroid addicted bees, not to mention the 50 worms that committed suicide in my garage from last weeks flood like rain. Maybe Summer is better than Spring.</div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">Now to what I had started typing up the other day .... There's a happiness we can all feel in the city now that the sun is out and the snow is really gone. And I've had some really good days lately. Not for any particular reason. It must be the sunshine. Sunday started with cuddles from Rusty, a cigarette, and A&W breakfast with coffee .... (ps A&W coffee is NOT good). Sydnerella had a two hour soccer practice and I had to get my drivers license renewed. Actually, it was supposed to be renewed on my birthday, but since it was supposed to be the end of the world, I figured I didn't need to renew shit. Just like that Camping lunatic, I was wrong. So I headed to the registry to pay a bunch of fines that had turned into convictions because that would have really sucked to get arrested over parking fines. It would have been worse if I crashed the car last week when Sydnerella was punching me repeatedly to get the color right of the bunch buggy we saw, THEN arrested. We were both in our pajamas, which she thought would have been hilarious until I told her not to laugh, she'd be in foster care. She looked down at her pajama shorts with hearts on them and apologized for the punching me. What I should have done to get back at her is put that damn bee in her room when I left for work this morning. Anyway, this years renewal wasn't just the "pay the bullshit renewal fee and wait for a new license to come in the mail" ... It had been a really long time since my picture and other information had been updated. I had some work to do. The first step was to get my eyebrows done, where I almost punched the bitch again for asking if I wanted my upper-lip done ... No, whore, I don't. I had to wait an hour for the swelling and redness to disappear, and I had to do my hair. When I was feeling like I looked a little more decent than on a regular day, I headed over to get my picture snapped. I even applied some coloured shit to my lips so it might look like I have some in my pic. It did alright ... similar to what I look like after I eat spaghetti. Between that and the scowl I must just always carry around because my passport photo looked the same ("Hey, I'm going to fucking Disneyland ... gggrrrrrr"), I made them take another picture. I didn't look as miserable, but my lips were still clown-ish. The registry lady assured me it didn't matter because the pics are in black and white anyway. We'll see. I also had to update my weight. Bitch. I guess I wasn't fooling anyone using the same info from my learners permit I got when I was 15 years old. Oh to be 110lbs again. According to my new drivers license, I'm still about 20lbs lighter. It's the ass, really, it's not ME. But the scariest shit that took place at the registry was picking up the book for Sydnerella to study for her learners permit. This disturbed me for two reasons. 1. I can't be old enough to have a kid who can drive! And 2. I saw a sign that said this: <strong><u>The knowledge test* is available in 9 languages in addition to English.</u></strong> Fucking really!? It is my opinion that people should know how to read English to get a drivers license here. Just me? Anyway, I can't wait for the day Sydnerella's driving and we pass a punch buggy. She'll get hers.</div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-11559982968541207282011-05-29T00:22:00.000-06:002011-05-29T00:22:45.705-06:00It's midnight. Do you know where your children are?<div style="text-align: justify;">Mine just got back from 7/11 and she was with a boy. I was sneaking over there to buy a pack of smokes - I'm still pretending she doesn't know I smoke even though she sees me take my pack to the garage and smells me coming back in a few times a day. She was walking through the parking lot while I was driving out (hiding my new pack of smokes under my leg) and instead of giving her shit for leaving the park behind the house where she'd be, I thought I'd be the cool mom and stop to offer some money. She's going to 14 next month and see how she has successfully managed to gain total and utter control here? Why am I allowing my 13 year old to roam the streets at midnight with a boy? Three reasons. 1. I don't want to fight. 2. She was with a chubby boy who looks like he can throw a punch that I know she doesn't want to kiss. And 3. She's wearing sweat pants and a hoodie. About 30 minutes before I agreed for her to go out, we passed two of her girlfriends from school on their way to the fast food places, much further away, wearing itty bity shorts and tank tops. Soooo ... when the fight was just about to start, I decided that I would rather know my kid's staying within 4 blocks of our house and is covered the fuck up. There! I just successfully justified a parenting decision that most wont agree with even though there's something nagging at me that this isn't completely ok. I fear for my sanity and pray that this next stage of parenting doesn't kill me.</div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-14733122261452944962011-05-19T14:02:00.000-06:002011-05-19T14:02:16.582-06:00May 21, 2011<div style="text-align: justify;">I've been too caught up in planning how I'm spending May long weekend, so I don't what all the hype's been about surrounding May 21, besides the fact that it's my birthday. That's right ....<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JAEA1hMLTuM/TdVvAplKsUI/AAAAAAAAAjI/VnyUWDXJ1U8/s1600/Judgement+Day.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267px" j8="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JAEA1hMLTuM/TdVvAplKsUI/AAAAAAAAAjI/VnyUWDXJ1U8/s400/Judgement+Day.gif" width="400px" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So I had to do some reading, figure out what the hell is about to happen. This clears up a lot. Phew. I'm assuming that I wont be one of the 200 million going to heaven that day and this bums me out a little. I've already booked my trip to Disneyland in September and given that Sydnerella hasn't really done anything to piss God off that bad, I'll probably be going to Disneyland alone. If the earthquake doesn't destroy it. I guess that's just wishful thinking. Scrap that ... My kid <em>did</em> recently tell me she doesn't believe in God, she believe in Science. I guess she'll be with me until the bitter end. I feel ripped off because we wont get to see how Bella looks as a vampire, <em>or </em>pregnant. Another thing we'll miss out on is the Walking Dead, Season 2. Unless, of course, <em>WE</em> will be the walking dead. But I have a feeling it wouldn't be nearly as cool to have the world taken over by Zombies as it seems on TV. At least I have this guy close by ....</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Wait ... the Rapture doesn't have anything to do with Zombies ... got off track there, sorry. Between now and October 21, I have a quite a list of shit to get done. I wont even waste my time with the marriage bullshit, but I think I'll get a ring. A big fat diamond ring. As a matter of fact, I think I'll get big and fat myself, there's no holding back now. And fuck this cold arctic weather, I'm going to Texas to float the Guadalupe River. Smoking Marlboro menthols and drinking American beer with clamato juice for as long as I can. Who's with me?</div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-24226514847151456492011-05-17T15:11:00.003-06:002011-05-19T14:04:50.743-06:00what's worse than being stood up for a date?<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Having a dude leave in the middle of a date!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'll back up, but not too much because there'd be 19 years to cover off here and I just don't have that kind of time, as you can tell with my random blogger drop ins. Those who miss me will be happy to hear that the cable guy is coming Saturday to fix up our internet and I have discovered how to go on the net in privacy mode, so I'll be back on blogger in full swing in no time ... Probably Saturday to blog any craziness that happens on my birthday, or lack there of because I'm gettin old ... Back to the dude who left in the middle of our date ... </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ok, it wasn't a date. And it wasn't some random dude. So I totally lied. But it <strong>was</strong> a guy who I'm kinda diggin and who's diggin me back, and we <strong>did</strong> have plans to go out, and I <strong>was</strong> going to jump his bones. But here's why it wasn't really date .... I've been crazy about this guy since I was 13 years old. We played stupid games for years, ya know, cuz we were kids an all. Lost our virginity to each other and had all sorts of fun together ... yeah, <em>that</em> guy. The Pilot. By the time I got knocked up in grade 12 by Shitface, the Pilot had joined the army. Instead of moving with him like he had asked, I stayed with Shitface and the Pilot moved on. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">{Insert several more years worth of stories that I may or may not get to one day. Stories that I was certain would end up being the greatest love story of all time}</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">By the time T-Bone "broke up with me", the Pilot was getting divorced. He's been back to the city a few times since and we've been hanging out. And stuff. Who I remembered as a cute, geeky, kid is now a man. A hot, sexy man. Last Friday, he was back and we spent the evening together. Met up again Saturday. We were in the middle of deciding what we were doing the rest of the day when he got a call from his mom that he had to go deal with something. I think. I didn't hear the conversation. I was in the shower gettin all ready for the raping he was about to get when he knocked on the door and told me he'd be right back. Again, that was Saturday. He hasn't been back. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">No phone call, no text, nothing. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
And that, my friends, is worse than being stood up.</div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-60130915665886317232011-04-18T14:21:00.001-06:002011-04-18T14:25:50.957-06:00What's mountain cake you ask?<div style="text-align: justify;">Sydnerella and I baked a cake last night …</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4K3HRndml-4/TayWlytOsgI/AAAAAAAAAi0/-WRVF_aUdz0/s1600/cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" r6="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4K3HRndml-4/TayWlytOsgI/AAAAAAAAAi0/-WRVF_aUdz0/s200/cake.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">Sadly, this is not what our cake looks like. Before I get into the story, let me give you a little idea of how domestically challenged I am. I have lived in my house for 21 months and have never cleaned the toilets. Ever. I hire cleaners. Not because I’m rich, not because I’m spoiled. It’s because I'm a domestic retard. My cleaners are not to be mistaken with <em>maids</em>. I don’t have someone walking around my 1200 square foot house with a feather duster 24/7. Although that would be really fucking cool. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A husband & wife team comes in for 90 minutes as needed to scrub the bathrooms, counters, floors, all the shit that I don’t do. I pay $75 if you’re curious, so I’m not taking food out of my kids mouth to afford this luxury, it’s reasonable and to me, it’s worth it. Judge all you want, ya know you’re jealous …. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">I may have to find new cleaners though since the husband is in treatment for a gambling addiction and the wife is ginormous and has wicked b.o. when she sweats …. AND because she literally dropped a deuce in my bathroom after she cleaned it <strong>while I waited at the door for her to leave!</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">In short, I know what <em>may be</em> contributing to why I’m not married. In the bedroom, I’d be a rockin wife. I wouldn’t make my husband wait or beg, no matter how much he pissed me off. On the contrary, I’d end up wearing him down … But in the kitchen … Well, let’s just say he’d go hungry … sexually satisfied, but hungry. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">Back to the cake … the cake that not only confirmed potentially why I am single, but confirmed that I’m a useless mother too. Here’s how the baking of our cake went down …</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I have one cake pan. I actually bought the damn thing myself a few years back when I made T-Bone some brownies. Brownies that ended up going bad in his work truck (I’ll never bake for a man again). My cake tin is just a small pan, obviously not meant for cake because on the back of the cake mix box, no where did it say how long to keep the cake in the over for a tin my size. I also lined the pan with tin foil so I could easily lift the cake out and not have to clean the pan when I'm done. Seriously. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Cake # 1 came out of the oven … Ummm ....?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LahNZ2sFtKA/TayWooJ8nkI/AAAAAAAAAi4/513n1OEw8lw/s1600/cake+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LahNZ2sFtKA/TayWooJ8nkI/AAAAAAAAAi4/513n1OEw8lw/s320/cake+1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">We're making a two-layer cake and I figure at this point, that there's still hope. Which there was ...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mvHSoxBK0c4/TaybYi-6btI/AAAAAAAAAi8/HF_JuNiEvhc/s1600/cake+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mvHSoxBK0c4/TaybYi-6btI/AAAAAAAAAi8/HF_JuNiEvhc/s320/cake+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
That’s better. I don’t know what the hell caused the first to morph into a mountain of cake. Sydnerella is standing beside me, icing and butter knife in hand in attempt to make the monstrosity look like a cake, shame mixed with horror is in her eyes as we end up with this ....</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4xJip2SDZjo/TaybaPsS53I/AAAAAAAAAjA/nxcZqMNMHXs/s1600/cake+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4xJip2SDZjo/TaybaPsS53I/AAAAAAAAAjA/nxcZqMNMHXs/s320/cake+3.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: justify;">My final thoughts: Well, I spent some quality time with my kid, who I mortify more and more each day. And the cake tastes good, in the end, it all comes out looking the same anyway.</div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-56810509143440490562011-04-15T12:02:00.000-06:002011-04-15T12:02:56.061-06:00I am a kitty cat<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IBoxfKt2nxQ/TaiFNKIQyuI/AAAAAAAAAis/s4qWIqHKPBA/s1600/kittycat.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" r6="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IBoxfKt2nxQ/TaiFNKIQyuI/AAAAAAAAAis/s4qWIqHKPBA/s320/kittycat.bmp" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">When I was 3 years old, I decided I was a cat. My mom says that I crawled around and meowed. All the time. I don't remember, but I've always been a cat person. I used to drape my 20 pound cat around my neck and call him my mink collar, of course his name <em>was</em> Minky. Or Minkinkio, yes, I even had a song ... He used to wear infant clothes and get around in a little stroller. I was 20 when he died and I cried for three days. Now, I have Rusty, who I almost love as my own kid. If Rusty had never pissed down my vents, they'd be tied. </div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">As much as I love cats, Rusty is my only cat-child. And I've never thought of incorporating my kitty-love into my sex life as I recently watched on CSI (you are a sick fucker if you think I meant people who screw cats ... ) And I've also never had the desire to become this ....</div></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uv2_xhGxg1U/TaiDhUGwuYI/AAAAAAAAAio/stUQzxj80DM/s1600/cat_man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" r6="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uv2_xhGxg1U/TaiDhUGwuYI/AAAAAAAAAio/stUQzxj80DM/s200/cat_man.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">However, today, it was confirmed that I am, in fact, a kitty cat. My manager told me so. I have no idea what she's talking about, but I'm hoping this isn't what she means ...</div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7ITAx4JgyG4/TaiDec7qI1I/AAAAAAAAAik/ZK85PIN_--Q/s1600/_uglycat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" r6="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7ITAx4JgyG4/TaiDec7qI1I/AAAAAAAAAik/ZK85PIN_--Q/s200/_uglycat.jpg" width="200" /></a></div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong>From: (stacy's manager) </strong><br />
<strong>Sent: Friday, April 15, 2011 10:45 AM</strong></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong>To: Stacy (kitty-cat)<br />
Subject: RE: work crap</strong></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong>Not to worry…..you are a “kitty cat” and I am sure they didn’t take any offense!!! </strong></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><br />
<br />
<strong>From: Stacy (kitty-cat) </strong><br />
<strong>Sent: Friday, April 15, 2011 10:43 AM</strong><br />
<strong>To: (stacy's manager)<br />
Subject: RE: work crap</strong><br />
<strong>Yes, this information came to me AFTER a very stern e-mail I sent to them earlier in 2011 haha, I will definitely leave them alone for now </strong><br />
<strong><br />
</strong><br />
<strong>~Stacy </strong><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong>123.555.6969</strong></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H8oNcaixtT4/TaiFlMPeZbI/AAAAAAAAAiw/VDtiFiFXK7A/s1600/wtfcat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" r6="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H8oNcaixtT4/TaiFlMPeZbI/AAAAAAAAAiw/VDtiFiFXK7A/s200/wtfcat.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I have no idea why this kept coming up in my searches for kitty cats, some of you might like it</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div align="left"></div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-7918259015676007592011-04-13T13:43:00.000-06:002011-04-13T13:43:58.982-06:00shut up stupid face<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" r6="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-j1XOstfE-eM/TaX23ojFuHI/AAAAAAAAAig/hvyXzno3v7I/s200/shutup.jpg" width="200" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">T-Bone said we're back together. Not after he came grovelling at my feet begging for forgiveness, just after he simply decided that we were. I admit, it was hard to let go of him when all sorts of bad was happening and I felt like I needed him, but I was not expecting him to call me his girlfriend recently. Sure I was naked in his bed at the time, but that doesn't mean relationship. I thought this had shrunk into a booty call / friend type thing (if there's such a thing), not grown back into a relationship. I thought maybe it was my nakedness that made him call me his girlfriend, but then called me Auntie Stacy to his little niece in front of his family a few weeks later and I can assure you I wasn't naked then. What. The. Fuck. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Since just after Christmas, he'd been acting all boyfriendy again. When I asked him why he called me his girlfriend, he said "shut up stupid face" (seriously) and kept doing the boyfriend type crap ... well, everything T-Bone ... not normal boyfriend crap. I told him one day a few weeks ago that if he wants to be my boyfriend, just show me. Maybe tell me he can't live without me (gag) and that breaking up with me was a mistake. Try something, man, really. He mock pouted for an hour and said he didn't like my ultimatum. So I drove him home. I went back over a few hours later though because we had plans that neither one of us wanted to break (part 1 - poker and beer. part 2 - sexy time). We laughed it all off because that's what we do best. I know laughing wont get us much further, but I have a feeling he'll be the next one to get hurt. <em>I think</em>. If he has feelings. One thing I notice about myself is within all my mental poop, I seem to be able to turn <em>my</em> feelings off and on when I'm on defense. My emotional involvement with most people is very low. I have actually been told in the past that I don't even have a heart. It was kinda in a joking way, and I know I do have a heart - duh - but I'm fairly certain it doesn't work the same way as everyone elses. I don't hate too many people, even though I say I do <strike>daily</strike>. I can genuinely love someone while not being able to tolerate them. And of course, I separate sex from relationships (whore! remember). I've never had any true enemies, but I also don't know if I've had any true loves. So I guess I've always just taken the good with the bad when it comes to having a dysfunctional heart. Anyway, I thought I'd spare T-Bone the relationship talk. Again. But when he read a message I had sent to <a href="http://www.auntcrazyhere.com/"><span style="color: magenta;">Aunt Crazy</span></a> the other day, he got all pansy again and that's when I get pissed. It's like talking to a deaf-mute toddler doped up on benadryl. So ... commence relationship talk. <em>Again.</em> Then he snaps "look, I'm not getting married!" (a repetitive comment he tends to make to get change the subject when he's uncomfortable) Well, fuck, I guess! I hadn't even mentioned marriage AND I kinda figured since, um, HE BROKE UP WITH ME! He thinks it should be as easy as knowing we love each other and should just enjoy what we have in the moment. Sure, in the perfect little world he's created in his dim mind maybe.What-the-f-ever. I still don't know what I'm going to do (except maybe find someone random to sleep with), but I thought I'd blog about what I can make sense of this since he specifically told me not to talk to anyone about our relationship because it's none of their business. Or because he knows he's the stupid face and doesn't want people to shit on him? Well, since he also doesn't seem to want it to be MY business either, I thought I'd share it with the world. Or all 64 followers I have. </div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-78553400620367923902011-04-11T13:05:00.001-06:002011-04-11T13:08:41.203-06:00more of 'my kid makes me laugh'<div style="text-align: justify;">When people hear Sydnerella call me "Mom" in public, we are noticed. She is 5'5", 2 inches taller than me. She has beautiful striking features. Also, she looks 16 years old and I look about 25 (until you come really close and see the wrinkles that are starting to form). The looks are of confusion. If she had any resemblence to me, maybe they'd believe we are sisters, but there's nothing. She is her fathers daughter. And not just physically. We can both look up at the same clear blue sky and when I say "wow, it's clear", she'll say, "It's pretty cloudy". Her dad believed he had light brown hair. It was actually as dark brown as hair gets before black. His eye sight was fine, he just liked the argument. It was never even about being right. If I had pointed out his hair was light brown first, then he'd say it was in fact dark brown. I want to punch him in the throat much more than I've ever wanted to punch my kid in the throat (like you haven't ...). I'm thrilled that my kid has many of his (good) features and it's a riot living with her and her sense of humour. She's quick and sarcastic and doesn't miss a damn thing (that's not a good thing often actually). Her logic and reasoning is creative. When I recently mentioned I have a friend who lives in Kentucky, she was impressed that I had a friend from the Eurpean country of Turkey. Kentucky Fried Turkey? See ... creative reasoning. A few weeks ago, just as I was about to pop a blue skittle in my mouth, she grabbed it from me. Viciously. Said she loves the blue skittles. She was sitting in the car laughing at me for pouting over my stolen skittle (she's mean too) when I hit a bump in the road and the skittle flew from her hand. Now who's laughing?? I was happy, she was sad. Since she found the skittle in the car a few days later, she is and always will be the clear winner of the skittle battle. As she is in most battles (I know, I know ... I over-compensate for picking a shitty father for her). And did I mention she's mean? I came down the stairs with a little bag of treats that I found in my carry-on bag while pulling out my passport. I hadn't used the bag in 6 months since my last trip. "Geeze mom, hiding snacks in your room now???" My explanation was never heard over her laughter and judgement and she brings it up often. At inappropriate times. That her mom hides food in her room. But everytime she tries to make me look like an ass, I bring up the time she told me that there IS a country that starts with a W. Winnipeg!</div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-76166468336922610902011-03-28T13:23:00.000-06:002011-03-28T13:23:23.941-06:00I am so screwed<div style="text-align: justify;">And not the way I'd like to be (I can't help it) .... My final exam is in four days. I've been trying to study, and by trying, I mean carrying my binder of shit around as if I'm really going to open it. I studied today at lunch though, which was moving along nicely. Read and understood at the same damn time. Until I came to this part in module 4.8:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>Following the allocation of the source points, the rule-based approach would follow the direction of flow in the network diagram to the next point where the flow would combine with another stream or would diverge to two or more streams. In the case where flow combines, the values from each of the feeding streams would be accumulated for use at the next downstream point in the network diagram. If this subsequent point is one where the streams diverge, then each diverging stream would have a “rule” indicating which source owner values are on this diverging stream along with the calculation order of the rule. An additional or secondary rule will be required on each of these diverging streams if the allocation rile does not assign ownership proportionate to the available owner values. This additional rule indicates which source owner values will be allocated to the diverging stream if one of the owners or source owners does not have sufficient values to match the value of the diverging stream. In this situation, one or more of the source owners will make up the shortfall associated with the first allocation rule. These “make up” volumes can be either sold to the owner who is short or they can be “contributed” to the stream by the appropriate source owner.</em></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dxN0EH7nXB0/TZDew6txukI/AAAAAAAAAic/jxaXkLMX7nU/s1600/huh.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" r6="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dxN0EH7nXB0/TZDew6txukI/AAAAAAAAAic/jxaXkLMX7nU/s200/huh.gif" width="181" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">Then a few more sentences down, I read this:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>This keeps unnecessary complexity out of the allocation logic and reduces the chance of error and disputes.</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Fucking really!? </strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And this is what I get when I google "diverging streams" (which, by the way does not auto-fill when typing which means WTF <em>a lot</em>) ....</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S4XWs1_irmw/TZDet3bIgGI/AAAAAAAAAiY/aqNgv9Wychk/s1600/diverging+streams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" r6="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S4XWs1_irmw/TZDet3bIgGI/AAAAAAAAAiY/aqNgv9Wychk/s320/diverging+streams.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: justify;">Um, nope. Pretty sure that has nothing to do with oil and gas or allocation or secondary fucking rules. 72% on the open book mid-term?! Yep, I'd say I'm pretty screwed.</div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-60922678376230936452011-03-23T10:07:00.002-06:002011-03-23T10:10:53.200-06:00Working Wednesday<div style="text-align: justify;">The title was a toss up between Working Wednesday and Hump Day. I decided against Hump Day even though I like humping more than I like working, working is pretty close behind. I'm one of these subtle ass kissers who gets great bonuses and raises and perks and oooh I love my job .... And because there's been no humping lately ... wtf? And because I just learned in the elevator that our offices are closed Friday, so today really isn't hump day.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was reading a blog recently about working in an office and all the crazy shit people have to deal with and how many absolute morons some people have to work with. I've shared many office stories with friends & family, and sometimes I'm surprised that more people don't get fired for punching a co-worker in the back when they walk past them in the hall. Sometimes I can't believe <em>I</em> haven't punched someone in the back in the office ... or at the very least, stapled someones fucking hand to their fucking desk ... Moving on ... I can't remember the blog I was reading now, which is too bad because it was very funny. It's not like I make a whole lot of time for blogging lately anyway. But reading the work blog made me realize that I haven't shared much about work, but I've shared probably too much about my sex life (or lack of lately .. sigh ...) and my pooping schedule. Although, there's a little of that in today's blog too ... I don't know why I do it ...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's a picto-blog. Which took most of yesterday afternoon to write and is now intruding on my smoke break since blogger only lets me upload two pics at a time before kicking me out and making me sign back in ... If this was any other situation, I'd take it as a hint ... </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I've been working in this office building for just under 18 months. I work here with over 50 other "accountants" while the rest of my company is in another building two blocks away. They didn't do this because accountants are that horrid to work with (even though I've heard people state this ... seriously, <em><strong>WE</strong></em> rock!!) but because we were tight for space in the other building and the company doesn't believe in cubes, pods, shared offices, etc. That's right ... we ALL have our own offices with our own doors ... yah boi. In a month, we move back into the other building when more floors open up and it saddens us. Me a lot, because ...well, look at my view .... </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-DpmsT8lzfMc/TYj40EfgKyI/AAAAAAAAAh4/REv--P3XCIk/s1600/view+-+summer.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-DpmsT8lzfMc/TYj40EfgKyI/AAAAAAAAAh4/REv--P3XCIk/s320/view+-+summer.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Summer view above, bullshit winter view below (TODAY's view ... good christ I'm sick of winter ....)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/--nW7QlZHVQw/TYj42zRNAqI/AAAAAAAAAh8/TUaGRJcpdhM/s1600/view+-+winter.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/--nW7QlZHVQw/TYj42zRNAqI/AAAAAAAAAh8/TUaGRJcpdhM/s320/view+-+winter.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Again, yah boi.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-CFk38oel03I/TYj_bL-HCtI/AAAAAAAAAiA/x7XsCZ2_c-Q/s1600/downtown.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-CFk38oel03I/TYj_bL-HCtI/AAAAAAAAAiA/x7XsCZ2_c-Q/s320/downtown.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I'm in the tallest copper building on the right ... And the bridge you see was used in some shooting/exploding/fight scene in the a Steven Seagal movie. That's right ... Steven Seagal once stood exactly where I'm driving in this pic (not a Steven Seagal fan, so there's no excitement in that statement whatsoever just thought it'd be a nice addition to my blog today). </div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-K3vhqrYTWYM/TYoaKbCvODI/AAAAAAAAAiU/jL26zzIRAmA/s1600/Steven-Seagal--C10056290.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="158" r6="true" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-K3vhqrYTWYM/TYoaKbCvODI/AAAAAAAAAiU/jL26zzIRAmA/s200/Steven-Seagal--C10056290.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">We are moving to the shorter concrete building behind the lion. Right in China Town, which is always entertaining, even more than Steven Seagal <em>really</em>. So my building, I will miss. The food court, I will miss. My smoking crew, I will really miss. Especially on the days the guy who puts his cell phone under his earmuffs and talks hands-free is around. Some of the office bullshit, I will not miss! Thank god they're splitting up the accounting department so I no longer have to listen to the woman who groans in a sexual manner when she uses the washroom, no longer have to watch for lip stick on the mugs when I make my breakfast (everyone knows who you are!!), and no longer have to restrain myself from punching the lady that sent this to the entire floor one day .... </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-3FrdkQcgCNI/TYj_eR82t6I/AAAAAAAAAiE/41dB0HsdEzk/s1600/stolen+soil.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="87" r6="true" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-3FrdkQcgCNI/TYj_eR82t6I/AAAAAAAAAiE/41dB0HsdEzk/s400/stolen+soil.gif" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What. The. Fuck. She has a silver mullet though, so it's pretty clear she's not all there ... ya know ... in her head ....</div><br />
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Mainly, I want to get the hell out of here because of what happened two weeks ago ...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-eLHTSaixLOA/TYkC52kgtJI/AAAAAAAAAiM/xLCzck_guxA/s1600/washroomclosed.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" r6="true" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-eLHTSaixLOA/TYkC52kgtJI/AAAAAAAAAiM/xLCzck_guxA/s400/washroomclosed.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">That should read "Washrooms Closed FOREVER". Which, if you've been reading my blog, you will know that this just doesn't work for me. This is more than a slight inconvenience since construction wont be finished until we leave the building. Fuckers. My comfort zone was fucked with. Last Thursday was the first time I stayed late since we had the toilets taken from us and when shit was just about to hit the fan, I couldn't find the damn air freshener. They moved all of our toiletries into the hall when the construction started, but it had been moved since, and not down to the counter of the washrooms we're now forced to use. I went on a panicked search of the office and finally found it ... This is where it now stays ... </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0e-9NmkV_0s/TYkCy7s6uiI/AAAAAAAAAiI/IhcF9HS0Y8s/s1600/febreeze.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0e-9NmkV_0s/TYkCy7s6uiI/AAAAAAAAAiI/IhcF9HS0Y8s/s320/febreeze.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">In my desk drawer. I literally stuff it in my over-sized Coach bag and take it with me when I have to go ... I think ... I <em><strong>think</strong></em> I just crossed the line of office crazy lady ...</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And lastly, where the real magic happens ...</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-zt9ny4xgBuY/TYkHCmGIYkI/AAAAAAAAAiQ/uNKXtRTi1OI/s1600/officespace.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" r6="true" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-zt9ny4xgBuY/TYkHCmGIYkI/AAAAAAAAAiQ/uNKXtRTi1OI/s400/officespace.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;">Two monitors because I'm that fucking important, my own hand lotion since I couldn't find the bottles from the washrooms when I tore the office apart looking for the febreeze, a Robert Pattinson calendar that Sydnerella bought me for Christmas (which is actually the source of a lot of conversation when people walk by), and coffee that I drink in the same mug most days so I KNOW who's lips have been on it (mug also from Sydnerella for Mothers Day one year). My phone is blinking with new messages because I never answer it or check the messages (ever), and if you look really close, there's a toy oil truck and a whale under my monitors that I won at a lunch n learn. Oil company. Whale oil. I don't know either. </div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-60936036402721506992011-03-10T13:50:00.002-07:002011-03-10T14:00:00.025-07:00just stalk them until they come to you<div style="text-align: justify;">So I'm sitting here doing what I normally do about once a week at lunch ... <strike>getting to know</strike> reading my favorite blogger over at <a href="http://www.midgetmanofsteel.com/">Mental Poo</a>, Moooooog35. And by favorite blogger I mean the dude who writes the funniest blog I've ever read who I was planning on marrying once I got around to figuring out how. 1. Because I know he's on the market. and 2. He makes me pee my pants. Given my current relationship status, this is exactly what I'm looking for. It's been going on for several months now, maybe even close to a year, so I started doing what every other woman does when they find the person they're going to marry and started stalking him. Well, I mean just reading his blog, twitter, <strike>mapquesting the drive from my house to his</strike>, and most recently watching his youtube vids. I stopped short of friending him on facebook just in case my <em>"limited profile"</em> facebook friends found their way to my blog and that really wouldn't be a good thing. Especially my 13 year old ... even though I did include her on a list of contacts who got this text from me last night: </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><span style="color: #0b5394;">Can you do me a favor and text me back? My friends don't think special ed kids can text, but you'll show those fuckers!</span></strong> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I really don't want her reading about why her momma sometimes has no vagina hair and gives a mean hand job. End of story. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Back to the point of todays and my weekly rendevous at Mental Poo. Just minutes after posting my last comment on <strike>my fiance's blog</strike> Mental Poo, my blackberry light starts flashing. It's a friend request on facebook. From Moooooog35 @ Mental Poo..... So I'm either not doing a very good job keeping facebook or youtube separate from my dirty blog. Or my stalkee has become my stalker. Or maybe ... maybe Moooooog35 digs me. Or at the very least, wants a hand job. Anyway, I have to get a move on ...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">(because I just received this message from my sister and have to call her to ask what the fuck: <strong><span style="color: #0b5394;">Tyler just broke our neighbours back windshield by throwing frozen FUC&?$G turkey at it!</span></strong>)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">... Moooooog35 is a bit of a celebrity to me, he makes me laugh pretty damn hard, has recently told me he hearts me on youtube, and actually knows I exist. I remember this feeling from seventh grade when the cutest boy asked me out ... only, when it happened back then, it was publicly announed that it was a big fat joke after I said yes. So, no, I guess it's not the same ... Here's hoping .... </div> <br />
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</div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-48083515979037130922011-03-02T13:34:00.003-07:002011-03-02T13:38:07.433-07:00ramblings from a continuing ed classroom<div style="text-align: justify;">I got 72% on my open book exam last week. Open book! Obviously, I have problems. I normally love learning about anything related to the oil patch, but it's getting hard. And I'm getting bored. I'm dreading school tomorrow because of the really boring instructor. He's not the usual guy, the funny guy. I just may skip. And this is why:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">(copied word for word from my last class after doodling wasn't even keeping me awake)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><u><span style="color: #674ea7;">Learning Crap Related to my Job</span></u><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #674ea7;">Yawn. Repeatedly. Am I in the right classroom? These people look familiar. I've been in oil & gas a long time and I have never heard of what's coming out of this dudes mouth. Wait .... he just said something about being suspicious. And I am. Very.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #674ea7;">I've never yawned in class. Even in high school. You don't yawn in your sleep silly. Until today, right now, which is why I am writing this. Holy shit. He just said "holy shit". I looked up to the projector and he's right. Holy shit. A million dollar mistake that will make the auditors happy. The fuck?!</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #674ea7;">There are 12 students in class today. About half the usual size. It's minus 85 degrees today, my faux husband leaves tomorrow, and I really wish I was part of the other half of the class right now.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #674ea7;">I did choose to take these classes, hell, I even paid for them in advance hoping I pass so my company pays me back. One thing's for sure ... If I am ever faced w/ this crap on the job, I will walk away ... oooh diagrams ...</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #674ea7;">Why is it that the only person who asks questions in class is the one with the thickest accent? My opinion is that she wouldn't need to ask so many questions if she knew English. Just sayin ... christ, here she goes again. Quite entertaining when the instructor attempts to answer.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #674ea7;">Speaking of accents ... I sit in the back row, which gives me a disturbing view of the bald spot on the back of this good looking guys head. He has a sexy and exotic accent. Why isn't he asking the questions? Why isn't he teaching the class?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #674ea7;">"If ya can't draw it in a picture, ya wont know what yer talkin about" .... huh!?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #674ea7;">I just raised my hand to a "how many of you ..." question. I am such a nerd. I wonder how many times I can yawn before I offend this guy? And again, without the diagram, I'm "kinda hooped" ... His meaning of "hooped" is a little different than mine me thinks.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #674ea7;">I've been in oil & gas longer than mostly everyone in this current class and I am <u>certain</u> they have no clue what the fuck he's talking about either. I'm flipping through my binder and writing these ramblings furiously, I must look really damn smart.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #674ea7;">The more questions accent-lady asks, the longer we sit here. Wonder if anyone else want to throw shit at her? Guess that groan from across the room answers my question. I snorted out loud to that. I am finding it humorous that every time I stop writing and try to pay attention, I yawn. Back to my work of art. 90 minutes to go ... </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #674ea7;">Good christ, I lied. Glory, hallelujah, etc. "Any questions?" he asks. People are shoving their books into bags. Say a word bitch and they wont find your body.</span></div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2262164682152817787.post-56915220483830849432011-02-24T13:18:00.001-07:002011-02-24T13:19:50.755-07:00moose jaw is in the middle<div style="text-align: justify;">I'm going on a road trip. I haven't decided <em>when</em>, but I have decided <em>where</em>. Mapquests suggested route tells me it will take 6 hours and 35 minutes to get there. That's 426 miles. Well since I'm Canadian, that's actually 686.39 kilometers. And also because I'm Canadian, I'll be making regular stops at Tim Hortons along the way. Then obviously, a bunch of bathroom stops. That will add another hour on to my drive. But I probably <em>do</em> drive faster than mapquest suggests, so let's just take that hour back. So six and a half hours for me to get to Moose Jaw. Seven hours for him to get to Moose Jaw. That's pretty even. And from what I just discovered this past week, well worth the drive even if it is to just turn around and come home almost right away. What's in Moose Jaw you ask? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">This! Obviously!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--83ZSzOYZqY/TWa7FN-4wYI/AAAAAAAAAhk/0L2bDKTQxWU/s1600/days.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" l6="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--83ZSzOYZqY/TWa7FN-4wYI/AAAAAAAAAhk/0L2bDKTQxWU/s320/days.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">....... aaand lets not forget Mac the Moose</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rd-3LKNep8U/TWa7HaW8xlI/AAAAAAAAAho/bVS6lRyz4yA/s1600/mac.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" l6="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rd-3LKNep8U/TWa7HaW8xlI/AAAAAAAAAho/bVS6lRyz4yA/s1600/mac.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">I'm leaving you with that because I have to go deal with this text I just got from Sydnerella:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><em><span style="color: blue;">"Mom, okaay so, the schools gunna be calling after school to confirm a doctors app. Pleease tell then i have one, this will be the last dt i skipp, i promise"</span></em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>Stacyonthecouchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01890762246400326494noreply@blogger.com4