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.

It's much like pointing out that a child does not ethnically resemble his parent.

The first time you tell someone that they look too young to have had whatever child they have, it's a compliment... or, at least, can be meant as one.
The second time you make the comment, it becomes mildly uncomfortable to the target. Target is the appropriate word here because the statement has become pointed.
The third and every following occurrence, you are simply begging for an awkward conversation about teen pregnancy and what it feels like to be a statistic.
Are you looking for some sort of confession?
Are you my priest?
Did my Catholicism unlapse without my noticing?
Have some couth.

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.

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.

But only the beers you serve with lime. The regular kind of beer is full of uck.

Sam and I stopped by a quick-stop-and-go-gas-station place for beer. I set it at the register and sort of stepped away so Sam could pay. Okay, what I really did was turn away and stare longingly at the enormous candy display behind me, reciting (In my head, only, thanks. I'm not completely insane.), and this sounds like The Little Train That Shouldn't, "I don't need candy. I don't need candy. I don't need candy."

And as I'm standing there, trying to ignore the Whatchamacallit, I sort of sense... the woman behind the counter is doing... nothing?

I look at her curiously. "Hi," I say, trying to prompt her ass to just ring up my beer, already.

But because I am obsessive about the candy (and also, to get some, I must choose one before the bitch hits "total"), I turned back to the display.

Yet there is still no beepy-beepy meaning she's ringing up. But there is, "Uhm, do you have any ID?" So I turned and smirked (okay, and snorted) at Sam because, seriously? Neither of us will ever again pass for traditional college students. But he handed over his license, and she studied it. And studied it. Then she handed it back to him (I assume, because at this point I was still obsessing with the SweeTarts), and I hear, "I'm going to need your ID, too."

...

Aren't we being a tiny protective of the beer?

But I held my tongue (mostly) and handed over my license so we could just get the hell out of there. Seriously. Bitch. Wrap up the beer. Oh. Mygod.

It wasn't until I was climbing back into the car that it occurred to me. Okay, so maybe my obsession with the candy display, the awkward ignoring of the activity at the cash register, my continuous back-turning to her. Maybe it looked a little bit like me turning away to hide my face? And that dude, the one who was obviously old enough to buy booze, but he's with that chick who isn't making eye-contact, who's acting kinda sneaky? And who isn't, for whatever reason, making the purchase herself. Huh. Maybe someone needs to call the cops.

*My friend Cassie thinks it has something to do with the amount of swearing in-front-of/at my mother that I do. The crap here is me censored, people.

This is my blog. Welcome! It's not terribly popular, which is fine because then I'd feel some obligation to write something of quality and also on a regular basis. And, honestly, maybe I do have time for that, but I'm far too lazy. It would definitely cut into my lazy time.

That does not mean I don't pay attention to what's going on with it, though. I see how many times it was visited in a day, I see what people are reading, I see where they're reading it from (both physically and how they found me). Mo Diva- obsessed with food, this girl, but totally dedicated to thoroughness on said subject- sends a lot of traffic (the good kind) my way. Also, I pay attention to who is following me- I do check your sites, just in case you don't use the stalker software I do. (By the way, Andy? For clarity, your "hoo haw" and my "hoo haw"? We're totally referring to different things (assuming I ever mention my hoo haw). Let's not get these things confused, okay?)

I'm related to close to half of my over a dozen followers, so it doesn't take a whole lot of "paying attention", but I noticed a while ago a new picture appeared, but the number hadn't changed. Eh. People change their image. No big deal.

I looked closer today. Y'all? My mother unfollowed me. This? Will be a rift bigger than that between Candi and Tori Spelling! How dare you unfollow me! (Shut up, Cassie, it's not a "technical issue".) I'm not sure what I did*, lady, but you are never seeing my children again! Also? I'm taking all my sisters with me! (They're totally going to take my side on this completely rational issue.) You will be stuck with just Dad to talk to! How do you like that, huh?

Ahem. Sorry about that... to Dad! You can come, too, except you never read this blog (which is a good thing because he might make me take down the bat video) so you won't know about this trouble... Wait... You never read this blog! You get to stay with Mom! Is a little loyalty too much to ask from family? (Don't answer that, Cate.)

Even the WHITE HOUSE Has a Flicker Account

It's true. All the photos are from Pete Souza, the official photographer. But really, I'm the one sharing with you, so it should be me you thank, not him. (All photos used with permission? I dunno, it says I can, so I do.)

First, some things I like (but maybe aren't so funny):

Barack Obama is left handed.This only pleases a lefty, I know, but, honest to God, it delights me.

Here is the Royal First Couple sitting on the floor at their daughter's basketball game.Who knows, maybe they asked for chairs and were denied them. (Sure.) Regardless, they copped a squat right there on the edge of the court.

Notice how he's different from everyone else in this photo?Not only is he sharing an umbrella when everyone else is not, he's the one holding it. How many times have you seen shots where the "important" person is being followed by someone who is holding the umbrella for them, while the holder himself is getting soaked?

All that being said, he is still a typical man.

"What are you looking at? Get your ass over here and take this shovel, you jerk."

Then there are some that are a little confusing. Yes, we're in a poor economy. Yes, we all need to tighten the belt. But aren't we taking it a little far? How does this look to those other snooty countries?

"We don't spring anymore for decorators to hang paintings, movers for the furniture, or upgrades to electronics. Kiss your dreams of a flat screen and an ipod good-bye, Mr. President. And you might want to find yourself a hammer."

So, here, there were a lot of comments about how mentally stressed and exhausted the president was, sitting in a budget meeting.

"Mentally exhausted? I'm just bored as hell."

Finally, just to entertain myself...