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For your kid:  

The day you were born
Was the most blessed day

I cherished you then
In every single way

But now I have to tell you
Something that may sound cold

Get the hell out of our basement
For God’s sake, you’re 30 years old

For your spouse

The day we were married
My heart grew without end

I knew right from the start
I had married my best friend

We’ve been through many trials
Our love still lighting the way

                                                                                  But the economy is pretty bad

So I sold my wedding band on eBay

                                                                                 

For your ex-boyfriend

Once we were an item
We thought our love would be enough

But then you cheated on me with that girl
I broke it off– things were rough

Years have passed and now I find
Life for you have been less than stellar

Your Facebook profile says it all:
Lives with 15 cats in my mom’s cellar’

For your treadmill: 

The day I brought you home
You were filled with such potential

I used you nearly every day
In my life you became essential

But now you’re a symbol of regret
I’m no longer a happy camper

Because I paid nearly 600 bucks
For a glorified laundry hamper


The Dixie Cup List

English: Large concrete Dixie Cup in front of ...

Image via Wikipedia

You’ve heard of the Bucket List: things you want to do before you die
(bungee cord jumping, skydiving, eat sushi).

Or the current popular Reverse Bucket List: things you’ll never do before you die (bungee cord jumping, skydiving, eat sushi).

I introduce to you:

The Dixie Cup List: Insignificant Things I Will Never Do Before I Die

  1. Reach into the clogged sink drain to pull out the assorted grime and gunk with my bare hands.
  2. Sleep through the entire night without either a) getting up to go pee b) getting up to pace the floor worrying about my purpose in life c) getting up to contemplate the allure of Justin Bieber and the subsequent downfall of our country as we know it.
  3. Come to a four-way stop and not break out into a flop sweat over who the hell is supposed to go next and in what order.
  4. Order a cup of coffee at Starbucks without breaking out into a flop sweat and/or mispronouncing ‘grande’ loud enough to hear snickers from the barista and the entire line behind me.
  5. Program my DVR to record two shows at once while watching TV at the same time.
  6. Yell out the awkward phrase, “AWK-WAAARD!” in that awkward sing-songy voice during an awkward moment.
  7. Tell the difference between any of the Real Housewives.
  8. Tell the difference between most politicians (that could be considered significant, I suppose)
  9. Take out the trash (sorry, honey)
  10. Be able to attempt to get up off the couch without making a sound like I was just punched in the gut. Or whenever I sit down. Or reach for the remote.
  11. Admit that I can’t see anything most of the time.
  12. Admit that I can’t hear anything most of the time.
  13. Admit that I can’t understand most things most of the time.
  14. Admit that I’m 41 going on 81.
  15. Listen to any current song on the radio without grumbling to my kids that music died in the early 1990s.
  16. Stop adding to this list. It could go on forever.

Drink Me

NyQuil Cocktail

(Photo credit: trekkyandy)

I had a terrible cold this past week. My head felt like it was stuffed up with goopy wet cement.  I tried hot tea, chicken noodle soup, the humidifier, a neti pot; nothing worked. If you’ve never actually filled your humidifier and/or neti pot with soup before, here’s a little tip: Don’t.

After a few days of slogging around like a zombie, feeling like I was breathing underwater through a tiny straw, I decided to break out those magical red and green pills of liquid gold: NyQuil and DayQuil. I rarely use them, but I just wanted a few hours of relief. A little background: I am one of those people who can’t take many over-the-counter medications. Even one Advil puts me into an instant stupor. For me, downing one shot of Nyquil is the equivalent of being pumped up with a truckload of morphine.

I cleverly made sure I only took one pill the other night. Just one. My husband was home, ready to watch the kids, and I was ready to remember what it feels like to have at least one nostril free and clear. After attempting to open the packaging for over 10 minutes using scissors, a steak knife and a few well-chosen expletives, I popped that pill with a wild look in my eyes. Then a strange thing happened; suddenly I was floating on a pink cloud, stars and rainbows streaking by me as I drifted heavenward riding a wave of lollipops, in a gentle shower of butterflies. Yeah, it felt good. I could breathe again! I was stoned, but hey, I could breathe.

Unfortunately, when one is in this state of NyQuildom, things can get out of control rather quickly.

You will agree to anything.

“Hey, Mom!” my son ran into the room. “Can we throw a ball around inside?”

“Sure.”

“Can we throw it out the window?”

“Sure.”

“Can we also throw around a few soup cans and some of grandma’s fancy teacups from the china closet?”

“Sure.”

“Can I run around the house outside in my underwear while throwing the soup cans and teacups?”

“Yes.”

Later on, my husband wandered into the living room, where I was still parked on the couch, covered in a blanket of tissues, busy drooling and staring at nothing.

“Hey, honey?”

“Uga bugga huh?” I slurred. “Gakka lakka?”

“Can I watch TV?”

“Sure.”

“Can I watch LA Ink?”

“Sure.”

“Can I get a tattoo?”

“Sure.”

“With your name on my butt?”

“Sure.”

“In Chinese?”

“Sure.”

“And you can get one with my face on your butt? And the words ‘Everyday I’m Shuffling’ in Chinese?”

“Huh?…yeah, sure! Love tattoos! They’s good. They’s real goooooood…zubba bub zzzz…” (I think I fell asleep at this point. Or quite possibly I was asleep the entire day and hallucinated my entire family and the above conversations.)

“Mommy! Mommy! Wake up!” My daughter was tugging at my pink cloud and I started plummeting back down to earth, the rainbow-colored unicorns waving at me in slow motion as they faded away.

“Huh? Who? Wha?” I sat up and was buried in a tissue avalanche.

“Can Daddy start my bath for me?”

“Sure.”

“Can I bring all my Barbies in there?”

“Sure.”

“Can I bring Daddy’s shaving cream? Oh–and my books? And some markers? And my pillow? And some chocolate syrup and a box of cookies, y’know, in case I get hungry?”

“Sure.”

“Can I use dish soap for bubbles?”

“Sure.”

“Can I go in there with all my clothes still on?”

“Sure.”

“Instead of water, can I put lots of toilet paper in there instead?”

“Yes.”

“Mom?”

“Huzza? Wha? Huh? Oh, yeah. Go ask Daddy to start your bath for you, okay? Mommy’s resting now.”

“Bath? Mom, it’s morning, you’ve been asleep more than a day.”

“Huh. That’s a bummer. Why is it every time I breathe I get the faintest smell of chicken soup? And why are you covered in chocolate syrup and toilet paper?”

My son refuses to let me take that many pictures of him now that he’s nine. But I thought I’d show you him in action at around the age of two, in the throes of paper shredder heaven. He was fantastic at creating a huge mess. I used my vacuum so much that year it exploded into flames.

My son was beyond proud of his first book he made at school. The moment I saw his cover page I thought the title was definitely an attention-grabber. I was immediately hooked.  I also loved his characters’ names: Freckle and Wrinkle. But then I saw down near the bottom was a dark drawing of a person he named ‘Momma Mean’.  It felt like I had been punched in the gut. Until he told me this was a group project and his partner Cooper came up with Momma Mean. Whew! Dodged that years-of-Mommy-guilt bullet!

My son and I had another deep conversation yesterday while riding home from school. “Mom, do you know what the most important thing in the world is?” he asked from the back seat.

“Love!” I yelled without hesitation. “It’s love. It’s the most powerful thing in life.”

Silence.

“Uh, no, ” he said. “It’s not love. Actually, it’s trees. Because without trees we wouldn’t have oxygen on the planet. And without oxygen, we’d all be dead because we couldn’t breathe for even one second. So you are wrong, Mom, it’s trees.”

I was reading my daughter a book the other night when she gasped and pointed at the page. “Look, Mom! It’s an ellipsis!”

“Huh? It’s a what?” I asked, squinting at the page.

“Ellipsis! Right there, it’s dot-dot-dot! Mrs. O’Connell told us!”

She’s in preschool. I don’t think I knew what an ellipsis was until yesterday. What in the world are they teaching my kids at this school?

_________________________________________________

So I am in the middle of a bad bad bad writer’s block. So bad it’s triple the bad. I took Georgette’s and Fraha’s idea of using photos this week. It was fun, took the pressure off of coming up with ideas, so thank you, guys.

 

Welcome to the dark world of a tortured blogger; a world where the bread and butter of a good post are ideas. Ideas that can make or break writing. Thoughts about life that sometimes marinate and simmer for the perfect amount of time; coming out of the oven all steamy and bubbly-good to be hungrily devoured by the masses. But what happens when the Tortured Blogger attempts to whip up something and throws open the fridge only to find a crusty bottle of ketchup, an already-opened Yoo-Hoo and a few slices of moldy cheese? Let’s listen in as our featured blogger,  The Maineiac, endures this soul-crushing, hair-ripping, head-banging process of attempting to cook up a delicious idea for a new blog post, shall we?

“Ohhhhh…” THUD. “Ohhhhhhhh….god….” THUD. “Kill me now…” THUD.

The sickening smack of forehead meeting kitchen table cuts through the heavy quiet. “Ohhhh…why…ohhhhh…why?” More thudding. More blinding pain as Blogger’s head attempts to shake a few coherent thoughts loose with every table slam.

“Whatcha doin’?” Blogger’s husband skips into the kitchen oozing with the serenity that only comes from being a Non-Blogger.

“I am dying,” Blogger moans. “Dying, I tell you!” she yells.

Hanging her head, she whispers,  ”It’s all over. I am finished. I have nothing left to give.” A tear slips out of the corner of her eye. ”Nothing!” she yells again as her husband jumps. She sniffs sadly and lowers her voice back to normal,  ”I am empty, I will never ever ever have another idea for a post again. It’s all gone. Forever. I have–”

Blogger hesitates to peer over at husband as he nonchalantly cracks open a ginger ale. He hops up onto the counter and swings his legs.

“Oh, really?” he remarks and gulps some soda, gazing off into the distance with all the concern of someone watching paint dry. Paint drying would get more of a reaction out of Non-Blogger. “Sounds bad,” he rubs his eyes and yawns.

Sounds bad?”

“Uh oh, what did I say now?” his mouth drops open.

“You have no clue what it’s like to not be able to write. I have no ideas at all. Nothing. The well has run dry. The shopping cart has been emptied. The mine has been….uh…mined. It’s hopeless!” Blogger lays weary idea-less head down on top of her notebook, once overflowing with post ideas. The wire binder digs into her cheek as tears spill onto the paper, smudging the scrawled words at the top of the page: “NEW BLOG IDEAS!!”

“Well,” Non-Blogger walks over to peer at the notebook. “What’ve you got so far? Let’s see… ‘EW OG AS’ What’s that mean? I can’t read it. Ew Og… Ass? Honey, let’s start with not writing any more posts about asses in general. That might help you.”

Blogger raises her weary head, her matted hair spilling over her reddened eyes, the spiral binder imprint in cruel zigzags across her drool-stained cheek. She narrows her eyes at Non-Blogger. ”You’re not helping me.”

He sits down beside her and suddenly raises one finger in the air. “Ooh! I can help you! How hard can it be to come up with ideas, right? It’s easy!”

Blogger raises another finger in the air and smirks.

“Okay, I’ve got it!” he snaps his fingers. “How about…our kids! Write about them!”

“Ugh. No no no no no. Been there, done that. I need something fresh and new to write about.”

“Um–cooking?”

“I don’t cook, hello?”

“Food?”

“Bo-ring. Snore.”

“Pizza?” he grins.

“Huh?”

“Is there any left in the fridge? All this thinking is making me hungry.”

“Are you going to help me or what?” Blogger cries.

“Laundry?”

“Don’t even go there.”

“Politics?”

“Very funny.”

“Write about this!” he yells, slamming his hand down on the table.

“What? Are you high?”

“Last I checked, no.”

“Hmm…maybe I can write about this. But you have to know it’s a well-known secret in the blogging world that all of us have writer’s block from time to time so we are doomed to sometimes write about the fact that we can’t write. Other writers get it. They understand. They sympathize.  Except the Good Greatsby. He writes constantly. That guy is not from this earth.”

“Who?”

“Nevermind.”

“So did I help you?”

“Yeah.”

“And we have some pizza left?”

“Get it yourself. I’ve got to go jot this crap down before I forget it.”

Lenore, over at Lenore Diane’s Thoughts Exactly has tagged me. She snuck up behind me, hit me pretty hard and then ran off giggling before I had a chance to tag her back with my lightning-quick reflexes. So now I am IT. I do want to thank her for not tagging me, then driving my head into the ground and sitting on my back while putting me in a headlock and giving me the world’s longest noogie like my brothers used to do during their version of Tag.  But this is good because I have nothing to write about and this will help move things along. With this game of tag, she’s asked me the following questions. After I answert them, I’m supposed to come up with questions of my own, then tag other victims but I’m fresh out of coherent thoughts at the moment. You are very welcome.

1.What is your favorite color, and what do you think it would taste like?

Lavender. I would think it tastes like the moment you lick that bar of soap in your Grandma’s bathroom on a dare from your older brother. Tangy, scary…yet strangely soothing.

2.Do you sleep on your left side, right side, back or stomach?

Left side. Always left. Good for the heart, helps prevent stroke. Also helps prevent me from hearing my husband’s incessant freight-train-meets-a-dying-water-buffalo-while-a-jumbo-jet-soars-overhead snoring.

3.Do you floss your teeth?

I only floss the ones I want to keep.

So, no, I never floss.

4.Do you close the lid before flushing the toilet?

Always. I once read that even with the lid shut, germs are sprayed up to 10 feet in all directions. I’ve lost sleep thinking about this fact.

5.How many times a day do you brush your teeth?

Is this a trick question? Are you a secret dentist?

6.How many times have you brushed your hair today? If you are follicle-challenged, how many times have you rubbed your bald head?

Well, as you can see by my picture, I like to refer to myself as Forehead Challenged.  It’s pretty high. I think I read somewhere that has something to do with high intelligence but I really couldn’t figure out what the article was trying to say. I rub my forehead a dozen, maybe a million times a day. Usually when I’m listening to my kids argue. I brush my hair once a day. I’m lucky I brush it that many times.

7.Do your feet smell? (Go ahead and check, we’ll wait.)

Yes, they do. Like lavender, coincidentally enough.

Are you a secret podiatrist?

8.Do you have any Ben & Jerry’s ice cream in your freezer? May I have it?

No. But I do have a bag of frozen peas that’s been hiding in there since the Clinton administration. You’re more than welcome to it.

9.If you notice food stuck between someone’s teeth – do you make an effort to tell him/her? If not, why are you so cruel?

I would always tell. I am from Maine, where tact goes to die (along with manners, fashion, etc). People here don’t mince words. We’d think nothing of telling someone their shit stinks. By the way, Lenore, during this entire interview you’ve had this giant chunk of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food between your teeth. It’s quite distracting.

10.What feature do you most like about me?

That you never shower.

okay, sorry…

I’m being serious now…

………

………

That you never shower.

I know, I know. Sorry. Now I will really be serious…

You are a genuinely kind, sweet and sincere person and I just know we’d get along famously if you ever come up this way.

11.Don’t you think I should be discovered, while I sit doing nothing, and become famous for my writing?

Absolutely. We all should. Still waiting for WordPress to pay us for all the time us bloggers sit and toil each day to come up with lines like, “I broke my ass” and other gems such as, “Me likey chocolate.”

__________________________________________________

Behind that card is a silver flask with his name on it

Recently in the news, you may have heard Wheel of Fortune host, Pat Sajak, admitted  he was sloshed more than a few times during a taping of the show.  Then another story broke soon after that actor Daniel Radcliffe of Harry Potter fame (never heard of it) admitted that he also showed up to work half in the bag during filming.

Well, the Maineiac has a little secret to tell the world: I am drunk right now. Always have been. Always am. Helps with the creative process.

________________________________________________

I’ll close with yet another ‘cute kiddo comment’ story:

I was sitting on the couch, watching Downton Abbey (thank you very much Angie) and getting very confused trying to make out the words those lovely English folks were sputtering (I had to dig out my Mainah-to-English dictionary more than a few times) when my five year old daughter plunked down next to me.

She sighed loudly. She put her legs up on my lap and sighed again. Ten minutes went by and I continued being sucked into the servant world of PBS’s Downton Abbey. Finally, she put her arms behind her head and asked, “Mom? What are we doing here?” I paused the TV and turned to her.

“What are we doing here?” I repeated.

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s a very good question. Some people think that we’re here to learn new lessons. Others think we’re here to love one another. And  I especially think we are here on this planet to help one another in any way we can. So to love, learn and help. I think that’s why we’re here.”

At this point her eyes were bugging out of her head.

She sat straight up and yelled, “No! I mean ‘what are we doing here?’! Are we gonna watch Caillou or what? I’m waiting!”

Strange Love (True Blood)

Image via Wikipedia

The snowflakes drifted down in slow spirals, landing on my cheeks like bits of delicate lace. Through the frosty glass panes in the front door, I saw him standing inside the foyer, waiting for me. I drew in a sharp breath. A bolt of searing hot electricity flashed down my spine, sending tingles to the darkened corners of my heart that had long been neglected. Despite the cold, the heat emanating between us was radiant; a blistering flame threatening to engulf us both with its power, leaving nothing but dying embers in its wake.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he had whispered to me on the phone earlier that day.

“Oh, really?” I had purred and bit my lower lip as I twirled my hair in my fingers.

“You’re gonna love it,” he had promised in that silky voice that drove me mad. “I can’t wait for you to get home.”

And now, after eight agonizing hours at work, I was home.

He threw open the front door with such force, a gasp escaped my lips. I ran to him. The space between us electric; filled with the pounding pulse of aching desire and raw lust. His strong hands slid hungrily underneath my heavy down jacket, squeezing my yearning body ever so close to his, enveloping me in a passionate embrace that was almost suffocating. His breath heavy and hot in my ear, he teased, “This is your night, my love. Yours.”

I stood trembling, unable to speak and frozen in place as he kneeled before me, gently sliding the snow-caked boots off my legs; my breath quickening with every tantalizing touch.

“I think you need some warming up,” his said, his voice as slick as a snake slithering toward its prey. He wrapped his arms tight around my quivering legs.

I nodded slowly, still in a trance, willing to relinquish my very soul to this man. “Yes!” I begged. “Please, do it now.” He caressed my feet, slowly placing them into my soft brown slippers. An instant rush of release; the dam finally bursting and giving way to a thunderous flood. “Oh, yeah,” I murmured, my voice barely a whisper. I wiggled my toes and sighed.  “Ooh….that feels so good.” I shut my eyes, surrending to the pleasure. My arms limp and powerless at my sides.

“Please, don’t make me wait any longer–you must come with me now,” he demanded.

“But–what about the kids?” I asked, snapping out of my reverie and nervously glancing around the quiet room.

“No worries. They are gone for the night,” he whispered. His feather-soft lips brushed against my cheek while his hand trailed slowly down my back. I shivered. “We are all alone,” he breathed into my ear.

He held me even closer, tracing the outline of my trembling chin with his finger.   “Come, darling, please…” he pleaded. He took my hand and led me down the darkened hallway.

One glance to the left and I squealed with delight; the clothes in the laundry room sat stacked in several tidy piles.   “Oh, you didn’t!” I yelled with disbelief and squeezed his hand. On the right, the bathroom sparkled in the moonlight, smelling of fresh lemons; the toilet seat and lid, down.  I felt my heart stop. I suddenly couldn’t breathe. My eyes watered as my hand flew up to cover my mouth.

“Oh! Honey!” I cried.   “You cleaned!”

“Wait, there’s more,” he said as he led me toward the living room. Flames from a dozen candles danced with the shadows on the walls. In the center of the coffee table, a silver bowl filled with Godiva chocolates. A bottle of red wine gleamed in the candle’s glow.

“Oh, sweetie!” I gushed. “It’s all so beautiful!”

“Shhh…” he soothed and pushed me down onto the couch.  He leaned my body back onto the cushions and stroked my hair. Our eyes locked, the flames of desire licking at our souls in a near explosion of searing heat as we edged ever closer to becoming one.

“For you,” he said and ceremoniously placed the remote into my trembling hands.

“Oh, no, honey…I…I couldn’t…” I protested. My heart skipped a thousand beats. I gazed down in wonder at the buttons, all shiny and begging to be touched.

“There is an entire season of True Blood on the DVR, please…watch all of it.”

“But I–”

He placed his finger on my lips.  “Shhh….it’s okay. Please. Do it. The dishes are done, the house is clean and I’m going to put the last of the laundry away. There is nothing more for you to do now but watch your show…” He handed me a glass of wine and a hunk of silky dark chocolate. “And we can do it….all….night…long.”

“All night?” I asked, blinking.

“Unless you want to talk about your day at work?” he asked, leaning back, his eyebrows raised in genuine interest. He started to rub my feet in mesmerizing circular motions. The day’s strain melted away from my body with the gentle touch of his hands.

“What was it you told me yesterday?” he continued.   “That Debra told Lisa about Sue and she didn’t even care that Sue wasn’t speaking to Lisa anymore because of the time she caught her rolling her eyes at what she said about Wendy?”

“Yeah! I mean–huh? You really want to talk about that now?” I sputtered inbetween bites of chocolate. Swigging back a gulp of wine, I sighed, “And it wasn’t even what she said it was–”

How she said it,” he said, smirking.

We laughed.  We watched True Blood for 10 hours straight.  Exhausted and spent, the first pale rays of morning light spilled onto our entwined bodies, still curled together as one on the couch, basking in the afterglow of a perfect night.

“Honey?” I asked with a slur, still drunk on wine and chocolate.

“Yeah?” He reached over, absent-mindedly twirling my hair with his fingers.

“Do we have any Excedrin Migraine left?”

“Yes, I’ll go get you some.”

“I love you,” I whispered.

“I know.”

“It’s just…what with the red wine…and all that chocolate…it’s a migraine just waiting to happen and I–”

“Shhh…it’s okay. It’s okay. I know,” he said, tenderly rubbing my temples. I began to shiver again. As he drew my hot pink Forever Lazy Snuggie tighter around me, his arms created a safe haven of pure bliss I never wanted to escape.

“Oh, and honey?” I asked, grabbing his hand.

“Yes, my love?”

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Our current culture is driven by drama.  Some of it real, most of it imagined. Seems like these days everything has to be packaged into little sound bites in order to get our attention. With all the digital technology out there– and because we now have the attention spans of a gnat– we have to be crafty with what we throw out there. We need a hook. Things have to be almost like a cliffhanger if we are to get anyone to notice us and our humdrum existence.

For example, once on Facebook, a friend of mine posted in her status update: At ER!!! That was it. Nothing about who was at the ER, why they were at the ER, if anyone was dying or not. Just ‘at ER’. After a flood of concerned comments she posted again: False alarm, just a migraine!

For fun, I once posted on my facebook status a single word as a little experiment to see how people would respond. I typed: Oregano. And then I sat back and waited. The comments flooded in and it turned out to be the most comment-generating status I have ever seen on my facebook page. That may say a lot about our social lives or just that oregano is a riveting conversation starter.

We all seem to want this attention, even if it’s brief. Even if it’s not a genuine crisis. My own 78 year old mother does it now.

I’ll come home and see a message on my machine (I know, I am the last person on the planet to still have a landline and an answering machine) I’ll hit play and her frantic voice fills the room, “Darla! Darla! Are you there? I know you’re there! Darla! I need you! Darla? Daaaaarlaaaa? I need–” then she’ll abruptly hang up. Naturally, my heart starts to race and I call her back, thinking the worst. “Mom? Are you okay? Is it your heart again? Do I need to call 911? Did you fall down? Did aliens come to abduct you? Did you eat an entire pan of brownies but there’s no milk? What is it?!” and they’ll be a long pause and then she’ll laugh and say, “Huh? Oh, no, dear. Goodness, nothing like that! I just wanted to tell you that on Dr. Oz he’s doing an entire show on pee and poop! Can you believe that? Poop!”

Why, yes, mom. I can believe that.

Cute Kiddo Quote of the Week: My nine year old son fell down and got a big scratch on his foot. He could have received the Academy Award for Best Actor for Dying a Slow and Painful Death. After he stopped crying, I tucked him in on the couch, brought him some apple juice and a cookie, turned the TV on Phinneus and Ferb and leaned in to hug him (he squirmed away) Then I asked him, “Do you need anything else before I go?”  Without missing a beat he grinned and said, “A twenty?” So after I brought him $20, I told him he could have it as long as he let me give him one hug. Who says money can’t buy love?

Shameless Begging for Votes I am in The Good Greatsby’s caption contest again.
Mr. Skittles and I would appreciate it if you’d take a second out of your busy day and throw us a vote. If you want. No pressure. Oh, and he wanted to tell you all something before I go…

Little monkey

Image via Wikipedia

After Maineiac lost her last caption contest in a crushing defeat to Peg-o-leg, I ran away. I was quickly captured and forced to live behind these giant yellow bars that I  probably could squeeze through enough to escape my captors and taste my glorious freedom, but since I’ve lost the will to live, I didn’t.

English: Saimiri sciureus. Français : Saimiri ...

Image via Wikipedia

I spent many long, cold and lonely days praying for Maineiac to have another shot at caption glory, my only sustenance a few rancid Circus Peanuts that had turned green from decay.

English: A small monkey. Singapore.

Image via Wikipedia

It’s been a brutal winter while waiting for my beloved owner to spring me from this hell. Time has not been kind: my fur now a ghastly white, my tired bones ravaged by arthritis, my face  forever frozen into a mask of unrelenting hope; hope that you will vote for Darla’s caption here. Or vote for The Life of Jamie, Ape No.1, HoaiPhai, or Perry Block. I will forgive you because theirs are funny as well.

So to sum up:
Mr. Skittles thanks you. Me good monkey. Me love you forever. Methinks Circus Peanuts taste like poop. If you don’t vote, then please send me some real food instead, preferably Hostess Twinkies. Ooh ooh ah ah!

Some of you may know I am currently on a job hunt. I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for an eternity now. My daughter is five and will be in school full time this fall, so it’s time.

Plus the other day I called up the automated teller at our bank and she snidely said, “Your current balance is: diddly dollars and squat cents.” Sure, we’re broke. But did she have to be so mean about it?

Some of you may also know I have been babysitting an 11 month old at my home since she was three months old. While it is sad to say goodbye to her after practically considering her a member of our family for almost a year, I have to admit I am giddy with excitement to be forever done with formula, bottles, diapers… baby food being flung at my face (on some days, diapers being flung at my face) etc. It’s bittersweet to know my baby-caring days are finally over, but it’s also a door I am ready to walk (okay, run) through and never look back.

As fate would have it, there is a full time job opening at my daughter’s elementary school for an Educational Technician. Something I’ve done in the past, so thankfully, I will not have to submit to the superintendent of schools my poignant but 100% fake resume, Mom for Hire. Which is a smart move because I would hate for the school to give me a poignant but fake ed tech contract and/or poignant but fake paychecks.

So it seems the Maineiac is embarking into the working world again. Scary.

I have to tell you that I did consider other jobs before I applied for this ed tech position.

Steven Tyler (left) on American Idol with fell...

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Judge on American Idol
I can slurp out of a Coke cup while crushing a singer’s dreams with the best of them. Also, I can pull off the raggedy-anne, gypsy, never-know-what-crazy-s***-will-come-out-of-his-mouth Steven Tyler look no problem.

Andy Rooney’s Replacement on 60 Minutes As you can see with my old post here, I am very curmudgeonly, I’m getting older, and I’m generally plain ticked off at all the stupid little things in this world. Like mixed nuts. What is the deal with those? Really poaches my eggs. Frosts my cookies. Bunches my shorts. Fries my taters.

Paula Deen’s Assistant My experience with two young kids (and a husband) have enabled me to hone skills such as: slapping your hand when you reach for the cookie jar, hoarding all the M&Ms in a secret place or wrestling the Reddi Wip out of your death grip before you overdose.

Kim Kardashian’s Butt I don’t think more needs to be said here.

Newt Gingrich’s Ex-wife I think I may already be one, who knows really.

Extreme Blogger Much like the couponers, but with less money saved and less stacks of useless boxes of toothpaste in my garage.  Ideally, I would like to start writing two or three posts a day, every day for a solid year. And get paid for it. After I start my real job, I am afraid my posts will be about once every month. You’re welcome.

Which reminds me to tell you all that I will continue to read your blogs. I will be laughing or crying over your posts. Probably laughing through tears. Or maybe even scoffing and rolling my eyes. Who knows? But rest assured, I will be clicking that damn ‘Like’ button we all love so much. (Still waiting for the D’oh! button k8edid)

So wish me luck and a fat paycheck that is real.

10) ” We are having way too much sex lately.”

9) “Hey! I’ve got a great idea! Let’s invite your mom over for dinner! Hell, let’s invite my parents over too! Maybe we can all sit around and talk about religion and politics! It’ll be a blast!”

8) “It is way too quiet in here.”

7) “Eh. What’s one more kid?”

6) “There.  Laundry’s done. Dishes are done. The house is picked up. Kids are gone. Guess I’ll just crack open a cold beer, sit down on the couch and watch a marathon of House uninterrupted for the rest of the day.”

5) “I don’t know what it is about him, but I can never get enough.  That Newt Gingrich is hot.”

4) “More kale, please, Mom!”

3) “Oh, that’s okay. I didn’t really want that new Nintendo 3DS with the Mario Kart 7 game anyway. These tube socks and the sweater with the kittens Grandma made me are just as good.”

2) “Ohhhhh, Mommy! Julia and I are getting along again! And we’re sharing! I love her so much!”
…and the number one thing you will never hear at my house…

1)  ”Well, now that you mention it, your butt looks ginormous in that outfit. Truly, it’s stunningly monstrous. Nah, wait a second…turn around a little for me…..uh… nope, I was wrong. It’s not the outfit that makes it look big, it’s just that your ass is huge.”

(image: moviespad)

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