First world problems are still a motherfucker.

There is a personal sized pool in my back yard.  It is super small and takes up 85% of the whole yard. No grass, no dirt.  There are beautiful tropical plants surrounding it in the spring/summer/fall months.  Around Halloween I put all of the plants in storage.  There really isn’t a “fall” in Texas.  I just use Halloween as the guideline to bring in the plants.

So, it’s December.  The back yard is bare, naked and sad.  The pool is full of fucking leaves.  We don’t even have a tree!  There isn’t a single tree in the backyard and the pool is fucking full of leaves.  They cover the bottom, the stairs, and float on top.  I have no idea where they come from.  Obviously from trees, smartass, but whose trees?  Not mine.  That’s for fucking sure.

Sweet husband bitches and whines about cleaning the pool.  All the time.  It’s true he is the only one who ever cleans the pool.  Just like I’m the only one who ever does the laundry or cleans the floors.  It’s just become his job by default.  Still he rants and raves about filling the pool with concrete or moving to a house without a pool.  NOT an option by the way-I tan on a float covered in oil and I’m not sorry.  Yes, I know that I’ll wrinkle and die of cancer.  It’s what I like so leave me alone.  So he’s King Baby all the time about cleaning out the pool.  It gets old.

The whole family has been under tons of stress lately.  TONS.  I’ve been  trying to be a sweet wife (stop laughing) and I’ve gone out several times and cleaned the pool.  This is gross.  Leaves turn into slimy poison in there.  It’s nasty.  There is a pool sweeper thing.  I named it “Alphonso” because anything that climbs my leg should at least have a name.  Alphonso is a dick.  The hose is permanently bent and he wraps himself in a corner where he is worthless.  When he’s not stuck in a corner, he’s trapped himself on the stairs and is hosing down the back door.  So that you get soaked just trying to help the little bastard.  He’s a total douche nugget.  He doesn’t pick up any leaves because he’s too busy humping the corner or blasting the door and windows with water.  Total.Assface.For real.

Yesterday was actually a pretty good day until I tried to be nice.  No good deed goes unpunished. I went out to the pool to untangle Alphonso from his corner.  I got the long scrubby brush thing and swept the leaves in the bottom of the pool to the center.  The leaves hide in the other corners of the pool because they know Alphonso won’t go over there.  It is like calling “Base” for leaves.  So I’ve got Alphonso rolling around the pool sucking up leaves.  This is totally by accident because he was just on his way to the corner to tangle up again.  I was prepared for that move, with the long scrubby brush thing, and  reached across and blocked him.  Score one for me!  He then rolls around the pool again, accidentally sucking up leaves, on his way to trapping himself on the steps.  Long scrubby brush to the rescue again!  I was totally winning.  I knocked that bastard off the stairs several times making him roll around over leaves.  He kept coming back to the stairs. He really wanted to piss on the door.  Wanted it bad.

I’m sure that to the average viewer I looked like Steve Irwin molesting a crocodile.  I was poking Alphonso with the brush thing and he kept making his loop around and coming back.  I then made the fatal error.  I forgot the cardinal rule about going out to fuck with the pool.  Don’t you know that the next splash I heard was my phone, falling from my sweatshirt pocket, straight to the bottom.

It was amazing how fast that thing went down.  Like it was lead or something.  At the bottom of the steps. Not one of the 2 that I could have reached.  No, all the way to the bottom.  So I, with ninja like reflexes, start to try to sweep it with the brush thingy up the steps.  Nope, won’t go up.

So, in December, I strip naked in my backyard and walk down the steps of the pool to retrieve my damn phone.  It was too cold once it got to my chubby tummy, so I’m trying to pick it up with my monkey toes.  By this time the sweet husband has figured out something is up (naked is his best clue) and he’s giggling at the door.  You know how people ask moronic rhetorical questions that you feel the need to answer?  Like “What are you doing?”  “Why are you naked?”  “How come you are in the pool?”  I’m less than gentle when I ask for him to shut the fuck up and get me a fucking towel.  That works well.

This shit is NOT funny.  And I was pissed.

The good news is that this is Texas and it’s been in the upper 70’s all week.  It wasn’t that warm in the pool, but it could have been a hell of a lot worse.

The bad news is that I got a new phone in May and am not eligible for an upgrade.  And no I don’t spend the extra money on insurance for my phone.  Because I’m an idiot, OK?

So, now it’s Sunday and I can’t go and spend all of the holiday shopping money on getting a new phone until noon.  Because the world doesn’t want me to be happy.

I know, really.  Boo FUCKING Hoo, you dropped your iPhone in your swimming pool.  It sounds awful and there are gazillions of people with real problems out there.  THIS, however, is my problem today and I’m going to piss and moan about it.


PS- I would love to post a photo of Alphonso.  Guess why I can’t?  My phone is my camera!

PSS- I tried leaving it in a bag of rice, like it said to do out on the internets- didn’t work.


ADOLSS and why aren’t there awesome drugs for it

MiniMe says I’ve got ADOLSS.  This stands for Attention Deficit Oh Look Something Shiny.  Sometimes I need to choke MiniMe.  Usually when she’s exactly right.

So I had this chain of ideas that involve joining a traveling club, buying and restoring a vintage camper, buying and restoring a vintage truck to pull said camper, and somehow managing to get myself a 1956 Thunderbird.  My ADOLSS would like to vomit out this whole story in a 70 mile post.  Cause I remembered that I had a blog today.  I’m gonna try to just stick with one facet of this nonsense.  You know what kalliope music sounds like?  Me too.

So I’m going to tell you about my new old car.  Like I said, it’s a 1956 Thunderbird.  It is going to be beautiful.  It is not, today, beautiful at all.

Here’s a full frontal.

On craigslist it said it was a “barn find”.  This, in the old car world, means that some old coot parked his awesome-mobile in a barn 56 years ago and forgot about it.  He proceeded to live and die.  Then the grandkids to go Papaw’s farm to clean out his crap.  They go into the barn and find the awesome mobile.  They say, “Look at this super old piece of shit car!  Let’s sell it on craigslist cause it is old and a piece of shit.”

This is NOT what happened in our case.  The listing said it was a “barn find”.  Let me tell you this car NEVER saw the inside of a barn.  It was possibly “barn adjacent”.  The drivers side had rust, lots of rust.  And a fully functioning community of FIRE ANTS living a happy life in the arm rest.  INSIDE the car!  Oh for the love of all things holy, fire ants inside the car.

Calling this car a rust bucket isn’t really fair.  There are a lot of parts of her that are in pretty good shape.  Ever notice how cars are always female?  The T-bird is female because I said so.  And her name is Grace Kelly.  Because of the “Can I have your number” MadTV skit AND because Grace Kelly was hot as shit and she got to be a real live movie star and then a princess.  Like a real live fairytale.  And she was just a badass.

Look at me, I’m the fucking bomb. It’s true.

Sometimes Minime says I’m like a hummingbird on meth.  See above.  Damn kid.

Hubby took this photo. He's Ansel Freakin' Adams.

Hubby took this photo. He’s Ansel Freakin’ Adams.

Anyway, Hubby and I started looking for parts for GK and went to buy a gas tank from a guy who had “lots of T-bird parts”.  We expected to find a dude with a box full of odds and ends.  Holy shitsnacks that is not what we found.  This super cool old dude and two of his buddies used to restore Thunderbirds.  The one who owned the property with 11 garages, 50 bajillion parts, tools, lifts, etc. died a few years ago.  His family didn’t want to mess with anything in the shop so they asked the other two guys to sell off all of the stuff.

Hubby and I were like kids in a candy store.  There is enough stuff to build a few cars from scratch.  Seriously.  For the next week we pulled the car apart in our garage at the house.  Hubby would call “Jim” every day or so with questions like “how do I get XXX off” or “what does XXX do”.  Finally Hubby asks “Jim”  to come over and look at the car.

“Jim” comes over and starts working with Hubby.  “Jim” gets his phone out and calls his buddy, “Bob”, to come over.  My T-Bird has now become the “Jim and Bob Show”  These two guys put my car on a trailer and drove it off to their deceased buddy’s house-the one with the tools, parts, lifts and stuff.  It’s like they have been waiting for a project or something.  They are like ninjas.  And they can do all of this car stuff.  And they are nice.

“Jim”, “Bob”, and Hubby. Sorta. Well, not really. But kinda.

So I basically got screwed on craigslist and then stepped into a giant pile of lucky shit.

I’ll try to remember to blog more.  There’s some pretty funny shit that’s happened the past few months and I should write it down.

Oh shit!  I forgot something important!  My car smelled like a diaper full of shrimp in the Sahara.  I mean it smelled bad, super bad, UBER bad, knock a buzzard off a wagon of corpses bad.  After looking and searching and trying all kinds of crazy tricks the scent was located.  My first passenger, Stinky.  Not sure if Stinky was a fat mouse or a small rat.  He was mostly goo and fur.  Trust me, it was a very bad thing.  He’s in a better place now.

RIP Stinky, you nasty smelly fucker.

Brilliant man-STUPID TV


My husband watched the most asinine crap on TV.  I mean, it is completely ridiculous.  I can feel my IQ slipping by just being in the room while that shit is playing.

The man I married is a genius.  Really.  He started his own company in our dining room 3 or so years ago.  Today he’s got about 20 employees, including me.  The things that he’s able to manage are truly amazing.  He’s able to keep so many plates spinning that I’m astounded.  I couldn’t be more impressed or proud of his business acumen.  His ability to think outside of the box and try new things is awesome.

Then, there’s the flip side.  This man comes home after making huge deals, solving mind-blowing problems, and managing a herd of cats and needs to relax.  His idea of relaxation is crazy.  He props himself up in the bed, or snuggles up on the couch and turns on the TV.  That is not the issue.  The issue is WHAT he’s watching.  Storage Wars, Pawn Stars, Pawn Wars, The Batchelor, Cajun Billionaires, Cajun Pawn, My Hillbilly Vacation, and any other stupid shit he can find.  He loves it!  AND he records hours of it on the DVR.  So there is never a time that he’s without Cajun Storage Pawn Wars.  He can summon this shit with the push of a button.  Lord Almighty I’m not kidding.

It’s as if he has an allotment of brain cells each day.  He uses up every one of them at the office.  He’s got enough to feed himself when he gets home.  Then it’s all over.  I won’t be surprised if I find him drooling in front of the TV someday.

On the weekends it is about 50/50.  He can teach himself Joe Walsh licks on the guitar in an hour.  He can make impossible shots on the golf course.  He was a ranked semi-pro tennis player.  All of these things are awesome.  He will do things with me that I never imagined a man would do.  He takes me to the Farmers Market almost every weekend.  He loves to go with me to antique shops and junk stores.  He’ll even shop at the mall patiently with me AND carry packages.  He’s got impeccable taste.  I would totally trust him to choose an outfit for me for just about any occasion.  No kidding.  He is so wonderful with the child that no one knows that she’s not his biological daughter.  Unless somebody asks, they assume that they are blood.  The man is the whole package.  Seriously.

Found a rattlesnake on the course that day too. ♥

Then, he wants to “relax”.  The TV comes on and his eyes glaze over.  Good grief.

Still, I love him like crazy.  I can always find something else to do while he sits in front of the mind numbing box.  Like blog about it.  I’m sure that he could fill a box with crap that I do that makes him crazy.  But he doesn’t have a blog.  Tough noogies.

Once upon a time…

So, here goes.  Since it was suggested to me, twice, that I should write a blog…here I go.  This may be the first and only post.  It may be the first of many.  Having the attention span of a gnat, there’s no way of knowing.

How I chose a title.

I, being me, went to Google and looked up “how to start a blog” and then started reading.  Naturally the only thing that I really noticed was an article, somewhere, that said, “You don’t want a stalker.”  It’s like they were reading my mind.  No, I don’t want a stalker.  Yes, I am self-centered enough to imagine that throngs of readers will flock to my blog and hang on my every word.  One of them may be a deranged bad guy who wants to be my stalker.  Do. Not. Want. So if you are a person who happens upon my blog and thinks, “Hey, I’m going to be this gal’s stalker!” I’ll say to you, no thank you.

Then I started wondering, since I’m obviously going to use my name as a title, what the hell am I going to use?  I rolled it around in my mind for a little while.  My husband made a suggestion of calling it “KristiJoSueLynneMarie”.  Well, that’s just silly, I thought to myself.  Then I wondered about some catch phrases that apply to me.  And my family’s all time favorite came to mind.  And so I used it.

How it happened.

Years ago my then fiancée took me and my daughter snow skiing in Breckenridge.  There were many disasters on that trip.  So many that he’s actually never taken us again.  The child, not being an athlete, really wasn’t too interested in skiing so much.  She decided to spend an afternoon in the cabin with the daughter of the other couple who traveled with us.  When we come back from skiing, the girls were REALLY happy to see us.  This is unusual.  So the child begins to tell the story.  While the girls are playing around on the computer, someone knocks on the door.  The child goes to the door and opens it, and no one is there.  Back to the computer and more goofing off.  Then knocking, again.   Child goes to the door, doesn’t open it, look out the window.  Nobody there,again.  Getting a little miffed, she was.  I guess this went on for a while and the 2 girls got themselves good and freaked out.  Eventually my child sneaks over to the window and peeks out and sees…

a woodpecker.

Keeping in mind that this is a twelve and thirteen year old telling this story.  Lots of drama, flailing and running around, the anticipation was killing me.  And I uttered perhaps the stupidest sentence ever.  Yep, that’s it.

What was it pecking?  This was followed by the most insane and out of control laughter that has ever happened anywhere.  Then comes the oh so creative answers to my question.  “The house, Mom, it was a housepecker.”  “A tree, it’s a treepecker!”  “Snowpecker?”  “Don’t be a hatepecker.”  It went on and on.  Still does.  And now I know what they’ll put on my tombstone.  Great.

This brilliant question, comes back to bite me in the ass, A LOT.

I’m not saying that I haven’t said a ton of stupid stuff.  Sometimes, when I open my yapper, words just fall out.  I don’t know what to tell ya.  It happens.

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