I know I've had too much to drink when TLC gets me in the feels.

I was watching Sister Wives on TLC, and these women were, to represent their relationship(s), physically positioning themselves in reference to their husband- and essentially only in reference to him, and it's all awkward and some of them don't know where they should be, and there's a moment where one woman uses herself to link their husband to another wife (which is more than telling in itself), and another ends up behind him, and they wonk themselves into place, both so to speak and literally...

And then the husband says something along the lines of, "Well, fine, but... this is a family. And how does this work if I were to die? Because this is about all of you in relation to each other."

And then I teared up because, seriously, what the hell, ladies? Don't you get that the goal is a cohesive family, not you all as satellites to this (supposedly) reluctant planet? And shouldn't you, as the polygamists, grasp this better than I, the one who is pretty sure to cut a bitch, given the right ratio of "skank-flirting-with-my-husband" to "level-of-my-drunkenness-plus-proper-girlfriend-who'd-have-my-back-depending-on-how-many-friends-skank-has"? Math is only sometimes my strong-suit, but I'm pretty sure it's sound, here.

...so I booted his ass into the ditch.

Connor has to run a trivia game in one of his classes tomorrow. I insisted that he take candy for the winners because how can a game that ends in candy be anything less than kickass? So I picked up some Jolly Ranchers for him, Nerds for me, on the way home from his hockey practice. By the way, convenience store? You're welcome for his stinky self not coming in with me.

I tossed them into his lap when I got into the car:

Me: I got a whole ton of them. Might as well give them to everyone... You can make it raiiinnn. *rainy fingers*

He: Should I stand up on top of one of the desks?

Me: Duck and cover, bitches!

He: You're gonna get a call from my teacher if I do that.

Me: I'll just tell him, "It was funny at the time!"

And then after we giggled over this conversation, he had the nerve to try to hold my Nerds hostage...

I did the friendly thing and did not post this without giving them ample opportunity to respond.

A copy of an email I sent to a company:

Dear Martin's,

What the heck.

Sincerely,
So-Sad-Sarah

And they did nothing! That's it, Martin's! I'm calling you out, for the entire internet to see! For shame! Writhe in the muck that shall now be your reputation!

Sincerely,
So-Sad-Sarah

I had to eventually throw the roll into the back seat of the car.

I was going on a bit of a drive to pick up the kids- off visiting the grandparents. I don't know how it was when you were growing up, but for me, the drive was all about the snacks. As I have zero self-control when it comes to food that is in my vicinity, I knew I was going to stop at some point and stock up on goodies of some sort, so I went with a preemptive strike and stopped before I left town. I got baked chips and Sprite Zero (which is kinda feh, but so is Sprite, thus it's actually somewhat close to the original flavor and is not nearly as aspartamey as a lot of those "zero" or low cal drinks (I'm looking at you, Ocean Spray Sparkling Cranberry.)).

I also got some SweeTarts. What I really wanted were Sprees, which, when I was a kid, was a competing brand to SweeTarts, but apparently Wonka owns them both now? Either Wonka (which I think of as a "he" instead of an "it" or "they") (and the "he" is Gene Wilder, not Johnny Depp) (much as I want to eat him normally) (Depp, not Wilder), is phasing out Sprees, or they are atrociously loathed in my small part of the world. They are not to be found anywhere. So, fine, I bought the SweeTarts. They were my absolute favorite as a child.

I categorically hated them.

I don't think they've changed since I was a child. I think this is my fault. No, wait. I take it back. It's Sam's fault. You see, those SweeTarts tasted oddly similar to those cheap, neon-colored, fruity drinks you get in restaurants that have a "bar". Mind you, I'm not talking about restaurants that have a bar, but a "bar". You know, cute young chick behind the taps who is excellent at twisting a cap off a beer bottle, but you order a martini, and she cocks her head to one side like a confused dog and asks, "Uhm, do you mean an appletini?" No, bitch, I do not.

So then she goes to pull the bartender's guide out from under the bar and you know you're up shit-creek. Here, sweetie, let me teach you an essential life skill. This is a jigger. No, seriously, even if you do find a bottle marked "martini mix", you just leave that where it is.

Now, I admit that there was a short time in my young life when I would have been, "Ooh, yummers! Appletini! Or maybe do you have something pink?"

And then Sam became deeply interested in all things alcohol- including how to mix virtually any cocktail, and stocked our cabinet with thegoodstuff, and now I'm known for returning improperly made margaritas, y'all. Also, there's the possibility that, sometimes, every once in a while, rarely, you might catch me instructing the waiter to have the bartender "taste this" with a sneer on my face.

This takes us back to my car drive and the disturbingly dissatisfying SweeTarts. I taste the first one. Ew, gross. I try a different flavor. Okay, gross, too. Hate blue, skip that. Nope, gross and gross. Okay, lesson learned. I don't like any of the SweeTarts. I know, let me have another one. Yuck. Let's have another. Ohmygod, what is wrong with me? I have no self-control!

Let's have one more.

To Claim the Meditation Was Unsuccessful Would be an Understatement

Dammit, is the sound still on on the television? No, ignore it. Need to learn to ignore sounds if I want to be able to meditate at work... Where would I? The break room? People will think I'm insane. The bathroom! No, no lids. Go to the car- it won't be freezing much longer... It might get too warm, not idling the car, I kill the environment too much anyway. Roll down the windows, open the sun roof. Freakin' traffic. Stop! No thinking... The refrigerator just kicked on. I guess I'm never around actual complete silence. Block that out... What time did I start? Stop thinking! Breathe, breathe, breathe. Now you're thinking about breathing! Now you're picturing the word BREATHE. Focus. The center of the A. Focus. Focused on that flower when I was in labor with Connor. Could I draw that flower now? Oh my god, stop thinking. I could blog how bad at this I am. Clear your head!... Am I really thinking about blogging about thinking about blogging?... God, how long has it been?

I'm mixing my beer and my sudafed tonight. Is this why they card me when I buy each of them?

I think the proof of this fact is that I published this post before I actually wrote it. Score one for the beerdafed. I've never had to retract a post and it took a few minutes to figure out how to do so.

I've got a cold. Whine, whine, bitch, moan. Normally, I just take a sickness like a woman. That is to say, I've got shit to do, I've got to keep moving. This time, I am whining like a total man. You know how they get when they're sick. Life must come to a sudden and painful halt. He is suffering, you must too.

Well, that's me right now. This sucks. I'm talking head-down-on-the-table-at-Connor's-hockey-practice, Ramen-noodles-for-dinner, please-don't-take-too-much-advantage-of-me-kids sick. And it's just a cold.

I did it to myself. Two days before this hell cold came on, I thought, "Gee, I've made it through most of this winter without being ill." I've told you before that I am Murphy's Law's bitch. I am fully aware of this fact. So I immediately followed up this thought with, "For which I am super grateful, god, or gods, or Murphy. Whomever. I am thankful. I am not thinking of this hoping for any sort of irony."

I am also fully aware that it is extraordinarily odd that I talk like this to myself. At least it wasn't out loud.

I've spent approximately 19% of my day at work, these last few days, wiping down things I've touched with lysol wipes. Phones, keyboards, mice, pens, door handles. I even considered anti-virusing customers' credit cards before handing them back. Then I decided that was a lot of work for little payoff. You should all probably avoid aisle 4, though. I had to rearrange that whole bitch today, it's probably all plaguey.

The Irishish Doesn't Suck

While I know it may not be technically true, in my book Irish Coffee simply refers to coffee that has become even more fun to drink by the addition of alcohol. Sure, Irish Whiskey is the traditional route, but that's not necessarily the most creative recipe ever. And I like creating new recipes! Sometimes that's a new blend for mashed potatoes, sometimes it's a new modification to a pie, but tonight! The coup de grace! A new whatever you call liquor in Irish Coffee!

Sam had a hockey game tonight, and what better way, short of a paper bag wrapped around a bottle, to drink in public than spiking coffee? Plus, it's damn cold in most ice arenas. Dual purpose beverage.

Of course, normally I brew up some coffee, and Sam Irishes it for me. Tonight, apparently, cleaning out his car somehow trumped my future beverage slash hockey game enjoyment.

He left it up to me.

Bad move.

I had about two minutes to choose my alky, and I honestly don't know the bottles all that well. Combine that with the fact that the bottles are distributed between the kitchen and multiple places in the dining room (we do it up right, y'all). It could have taken a disastrous turn. It did not. No, really!

At that point I just started pulling every bottle out of the assorted cabinets, snagging any that seemed vaguely coffee complementary.

And thus I grace you with my new recipe for Irishish Coffee! (Bear in mind that unnecessarily dirtying extra dishes in this house is a mortal sin. This is why all the measurements involve eyeballing, not because my motto is "the more alcohol, the better". I swear, that's not my motto.)

Brew up a whole bunch of coffee- whatever will fit in a thermos (or several), but with space to spare; into the thermos it goes. Find the Van Gogh Double Espresso Vodka (Double Caffeine- says so on the label!). Pour a bunch of this into the same thermos. Find the Irish Whiskey because something has to put the "Irish" into "Irishish". Pour that into the thermos, too. Man up- pour some more in there. Coffee sometimes needs lightener, right? Know what will lighten this? Add a hugely healthy splash of Godiva White Chocolate Liqueur. You don't need much because the alcohol content therein is notsomuch; don't waste too much space, but chocolate is chocolate, ladies and gents! Add some sugar because, yes, you manned-up with the Whiskey, but it's still got to be palatable. Use a straw to sip a bit of this still incredibly hot mix out of the thermos. Add a dash more sugar because you're still not that manned-up. Congratulate yourself on your ingenuity.

The final step is hearing your husband mention whipped cream, but not until the car has already left the driveway, and swearing under your breath at that obvious miss. Make a mental note- must reattempt recipe right after you get home from the game soon, but with addition of the heretofore neglected whipped cream.

Don't forget some sort of mug to drink out of at the game. Nothing says "lush" like falling ass over teakettle backwards off the bleachers trying to suck the bottom out of a thermos.

This post has too many links. I'll point out --> the important ones.

I was looking at -->something online this morning that reminded me that I have a crush on Wil Wheaton- this is thanks to thebloggess, who, years ago, reintroduced me to the grown-up version of him. It's just more proof that I'm a nerd-boy-groupie. So, there I am, totally immersed in stalkering Wil Wheaton, when Sam calls.

Sam: Hey.
Me: Hey, I'm gonna have Wil Wheaton's babies, if it's all the same to you.
Sam: What? Why?
Me: Huh? What do you mean?
Sam: You want to have more kids?
Me: What the hell? Of course not.
Sam: But... why do you want to have his babies?
Me: So he'd be the one impregnating me? Der. What the hell is wrong with you? (Yes, I do actually use the term "der". Twelve-year-old-pathetic, I know.)
Sam: Uhm, okay?

Which sounds exactly like permission to me.

So then I hop over -->here to find Joseph Gordon-Levitt, ohmyfriggingod, playing a guitar and singing and, ohmyfriggingod, did I mention I'm also a musician-boy-groupie, too? Hell yes. Just a man and a guitar. And Sam is too stubborn to learn guitar, dammit. I didn't know it could get better than seeing him on this Details magazine cover, which I had propped up on the desk at work as inspiration for not only me, but my coworkers, too. (Because I'm all sorts of generous. What? Most of the guys I work with are gay. And the ones that weren't took one look at the magazine and changed their minds. Yes, they did.) And then Sam took me to see Inception, and then this video?

I can't handle stalkering two people at once. It's too overwhelming.

And that, Sam, is why I didn't clean the house today. It's your fault, really.

An Early Morning Calamity

Oh, the humanity...

"The president is cock-blocking our vacation."

This is not a phrase I ever expected to utter, yet there I was, last Saturday on Bridge Street in Bar Harbor, Maine.

Little did we know, back in November when we started planning this trip, that, the day before we left, Obama'd be like, "Bar Harbor? I hear their lobstas and local brews are kick-ass! Count me in!"
"Uh, no, sorry, Barack. This is a family vacation," I said.
"No problemo!" he replied. "I'll bring the first-fam!"

Obviously this was not going to go well.

So we finally get to Desert Island (that's desert as in "we don't desert our soldiers!", not like, "damn, it's hot in this desert!")(okay, yeah, like "mmmm! brownies and ice cream for dessert!), and damned if Google Navigation didn't go, "Here's your hotel!... What?... What do you mean, this isn't even the right goddamn road?". So, fine, we have to just drive along the right road- there aren't exactly a lot... hmm. Detour. Off the road our hotel is on.
"Listen. Michelle, the kids, and I just need a little privacy."
"Oh, do you, Barack? You need an entire block? A block that spans a quarter mile?"
"It's not me, it's the Secret Service."
"Screw the Secret Service! This is Maine! The only thing that's going to come after you is a moose! And the Secret Service cannot protect you from a moose! Those things are vicious!"

Which, let me just interrupt myself here and say this, this situation right here is exactly why I am a map-kind-of-girl, and not a depend-on-any-stupid-gps-system-kind-of-girl. The island, in essence, has no cell reception. This is bad when you need directions, but the rest of the time? So great. You know that dude who is blocking the sidewalk, gabbing business on his cell? Not in Bar Harbor. Know that annoying middle-aged woman, yelling into her phone about the amazing view at the top of that peaceful mountain? Not in Bar Harbor, baby.

So, being our resourceful selves, we find our way to the hotel. Guess what the front desk clerk is yammering on about? Did you know that normally there are soooo many rooms available? But not now! Lots of Obama roadies! Not to mention the media! Blugh.

The next morning we head down to the Sand Bar. In Caps. This is what Bar Harbor is named for. It is a sandbar which, at low tide, is exposed, giving a path over to an island. The locals just call it Bridge Street because it is, indeed, a continuation of the road. Twice a day. At low tide. Low tide varies, obviously, but you're looking at about twelve and a quarter-ish hours between each. This means, oh, for example, 9:30 am and 10:50 pm on a particular day. This means that if you- for some reason- miss an opportunity to go, you have to wait until the next day, that is unless you want to get lost in the woods by moonlight.

We parked a block away at eight am, and walked down the road. As we got nearer to Bridge Street, I started slowing, looking at the several police cars parked in the road. We got to the corner across the street, where a local was standing with her dog.
"So... did they actually close down the entire sandbar?"
"They sure did."
"Wow."
"Yeah. It's too bad, it's his favorite walk." She indicated the dog.
"That... kinda stinks."
"Well, it's not every day you have the president come to your town!" True excitement in her voice, though I can almost guarantee she never caught a glimpse of him.
"Yeah, well, this isn't my town, lady, and this is some bullshit!" No, this is not what I said. What I actually said was a muttered "guess so", but it's sure as hell what I was thinking.

So then I went to schedule a flying-tour of the entire island, only to find out that the whole island had become a no-fly zone for the entirety of his stay.

*crickets*

Okay, that last paragraph was crap. Yes, the island was a no-fly zone, but the hell if we have the kind of money for a plane tour.

In honesty, we had such a great time at Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park, and the president's visit actually impacted us very little, other than what I already mentioned. Lots of "Welcome Mr. Prez and Fam" signs everywhere. The mini-golf offered "free game if your dad is the president"*. Obama/Biden '08 signs. Just some "yay to you for coming" stuff.

*Barack Obama is my baby-daddy.

Googling "band-aid" and "braille" gets you- along with *this* topic- pages that provide really stupid pick-up lines. Gentlemen, don't use these.

Apparently pharmaceutical packaging in the EU is required to have braille on it, as of this year.

This is the most boring first sentence of a post I have ever written. Blah.

Anyway! What this means, in some ass-backward way, is that the latest Band-Aid brand bandages that have made their way into my abode have braille. It's possible that off brand ones would, too- truly, I am not a brand snob- but I can't find any in my possession that do. (This doesn't mean that they're not currently sold with braille. Possibly the ones I have just pre-date this six-month old new mandate (that doesn't actually apply to my little spot of the world, yet here we are with braille boxes)... What? They're bandaids adhesive bandages, they don't expire. Or maybe they do, but I can't make myself care about that.)

So I present to you a couple of examples of said bandages:

That's right, Spongebob bandaids. I know you're jealous.

Now here is the possible conundrum. I am not blind. I don't currently know anyone who is. This raises two issues. A! I am not... fluent? literate? in braille. And B! I don't have anyone to ask.

And this is where I sound like an asshole. It seems like, really, it shouldn't be so hard to figure out, like, gee, I think I can decipher the code, play matchy-matchy with a braille cheat sheet. But this makes me sound like that filthy american who can "yo ahblo el esspanyolo". Because maybe I don't get the subtle nuances of braille. Maybe the little bit of extra space is exceptionally significant. Perhaps there's a symbol not listed on any sheet I've found, or maybe the language differs in other countries.

Or maybe Johnson and his son are the assholes.

Because, as far as I can tell, that says "nand-aid". Go ahead, google "braille" and get your own cheat sheet. Even Wikipedia isn't solving this one.

And this is where I make you, my dear readers, feel like assholes. Because someone needs to comment and educate me. Or someone needs to comment and redeem me. And the bit where you feel like an asshole? I'm assuming most of you are as "fluent" in braille as I. But someone has a blind friend. And that someone's reaction is going to be, "Hey! This girl thinks she knows braille better than Johnson and Johnson! Get over here and look at this and prove this bitch wrong!" Yeah, see? You're an asshole. At best you'll, "Uhm, dot-dot? And then one that looks like a colon?"

So, instead of dragging your blind friend over to the computer to look at my Spongebob bandaids, just go ahead and treat them to, oh, I don't know, a shopping spree at the grocery store? And just, all casual, hand them a box of bandaids.

Let me know how it goes.