So hubby wasn’t coming home for a while, and after my little shot night out, I decided I needed to lay low for a while. Last weekend I had lots to do, work wise.  So I just planned on getting lots and lots done, starting on the taxes, etc. You know, a great, fun filled weekend that would make anyone jealous.

So Saturday began with great intentions, but here’s how it ended up:

9-10: Walked the dogs (yes, that was productive)
10-12:30 – Got swept up in the stupid movie ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’. Yes, the Sarah Jessica Parker 80’s movie.
12:30 – 3 – Drove down to Legacy Books to shop a little bit and do some work in the cafe.  However, the 80’s song ‘Dancing in Heaven’ consumed my mind, and I wasn’t able to concentrate.
3:30 – 6 – Turned on TV to see that ‘Titanic’ was on. I only saw this movie 3 times in the theater and 100 times after it came out, but I watched it again. Oh, and of course I cried as she pried Jack Dawson’s frozen hand from hers and dropped him in the ocean.
6 -7: Watched the most horrific SAG Awards red carpet coverage on TNT. I could care less about the SAG Awards, but for some reason I sat watching at the ugliest guy in the world asked the dumbest questions ever. I guess I spent that hour intrigued, wondering how in the hell he got that job.
7 – 9: Watched ‘The Wrestler’ from my TIVO and got very depressed.

Yep, that was my productive day.

Sunday, I did make it to church, but then spent the rest of the day watching football. As Brett Favre threw his last interception (and in a conflicted state, I laughed and cried) and the Saints kicked the winning field goal, I made a pact with myself. I was not going to watch TV for a week.

Yes, that’s no Oprah, no Seinfeld re-runs, nothing.  Two years ago, this never would have bothered me.  However, now, I had suddenly come addicted.

So I’m on Day 4, and it’s a great success. I have gotten more done than I ever would have imagined, and I’m thinking this needs to become a habit in my life.

Yes, I’m boring, but this weekend has a husband, a friend’s birthday, and a limo all in the plans. So I’ll be back off the wagon in no time, my friends.

Screwed.

I guess I haven’t told y’all. Hubby and I are looking to move. Not too far. Just a place that fits us and our needs better. We have found the place, a WONDERFUL place. Unfortunately the people who live there already know it’s a great place and are very proud of their old houses that they have meticulously kept up. Because of it, they have priced their houses a bit too high. And since these houses pretty much never go on the market there are no comps to tell them that it is too high.

So Hubby and I have waited patiently. We found 2 houses that fit our needs. One, has been on the market for ages, showing that it is over priced. We have been in talks with the elderly owner who just won’t let it go. And then there was another house, priced the same. Same everything. We saw it, loved it, thought it would sit there for at least a month. NOPE. Sold the very day we saw it, with 3 alternate offers that day!

Hubby asked me if I was upset that we didn’t get that house. No, not upset about that. What I am upset about is that 4 fucking people came out of the woodwork and bid on an overpriced house! They fucked with our comps and probably screwed any chance we had of buying the elderly mans house. (The house that I have already pictured growing old in and serving Christmas dinner to my kids and grandkids.) Where did they come from? Are they going to be screwing with me on every house that comes up? I knew it was a desirable area but shit, it looks like I might need to get nasty.

Is it wrong that I want to knock on the new owners door, knee ‘em in the balls and scream, “YOU FUCKED ME!,” then run?

That might be a bit extreme.

I’ve been debating whether or not to write about this, but this morning it hit me , of course I’m going to write about it, why wouldn’t I?

So I’m updating you on my Match.com experience.  (I kinda wish I hadn’t paid for 3 months of this thing, but in the end, I thought I would get some good posts out of it.  And I’m a sucker for you readers!)  The first guy to contact me was, how should I say this and still let Jim know that I love him, an older looking gentleman wearing a cowboy hat.  After further inspection of his profile he said he was 58 years old, but he looked older.  And I would soon learn that I had given him the “gentleman” title too soon.

I’m sitting at my computer and I have several browsers open when I hear a sound I’d never heard before:  Plink.  First thing I think of is that someone is IM’ing me on Facebook, so I go to that browser, nothing.  Then I realize I have Match up in another browser, Plink.  I go there.  This “gentleman” herein referred to as “MCG” (Match Com Guy) had typed the following (and I’ve copied it straight over, this is not my grammar, it’s his):

MCG:  Hey Sabrina!, ,  Love you eyes!/Swoon!, , I know Ima be too old for you but I just had to say I could make your toes curl!

MCG:  You need your toes curled?, ,

ME:  No.  That sounds, painful.

MCG:  That’s because no one hs done it right to you.  I could do it right to you!?

ME:  Thank you for the compliment on my eyes.

MCG:  What do yoi7ur toes look like?

ME:  Not curled.

MCG:  Oh baby!!@!  They need some curlin!

ME:  OK.  I gotta run now.  Thanks for the IM.  Take care.

MCG:  Are you gonna take those sweet ass feet with you when you run?/??

ME:  Yes, they’re sort of attached if you know what I mean.  They leave me no choice but to take them with me.  Gotta go now.

Two days later, almost the exact same conversation takes place.  So now I’m scared to even log on to Match because they’re obviously not good at weeding out the creepers.  Like , did he forget he’d already asked me about my toes?  Was his cowboy hat on too tight?  Was this an isolated incident?

No, this was not an isolated incident.  My husband pissed me off one day so I gave another Match my cell number.  Dumb.  Dumb.  Stupid ASS ME!  Initially he was very sweet and talked about my heart and where it was leading me and such.  Then he began his sexual hail storm.  This guy is one year older than me and has very cute pics on his profile.  Then it turned ugly Sunday night.  I will be referring to him now as NMCG (New Match Com Guy)

NMCG:  That’s it!  I’m going downtown to meet a squirter!

ME:  Well have fun with that!  Let me know how it goes! Lol

NMCG:  I have to!  YOU WON’T FUCK!

(So, obviously my knee jerk reaction is to say OH YES I DO!  I’m the fucking-est person I know!  I have the iFuck application on my iPhone!  I was insulted.  Then I realized I was insulted not because I do fuck but because he had just belittled my intelligence.)

 ME:  What do you want with me?  You’ve got a “squirter” waiting for you.

NMCG:  Well I could wait for you if you just say WHEN!

(like how he’s yelling at me in ALL FUCKING CAPS?)

ME:  I’m afraid I can’t/won’t work in your timeframe.  I am really trying to get back together with my husband.  This texting was fine before you went coo-coo on the sex talk.

NMCG:  What the hell do you want?

NMCG: HELLO?!?

ME:  I just want friendship.

NMCG:  OK.  Friendship.  Let try that!

ME:  Ok.  I gotta get up early tomorrow.  Night.

Nothing for 2 days, this afternoon:

NMCG:  HELLO!?

I am so not responding to this guy.  What a total douche!  And a total Stage 5 Clinger!  If I were reviewing Match I would give it 0 Collintini’s right now.  I feel really bad for the people on there that are actually trying to find someone , it’s CRAZY out there, man!  And yes, I did mean to yell CRAZY!

NMCG just texted me again:

“How about you sit on my lap and we talk about the first thing that pops up?”

G-ross!

So I decided that my parents truly did a number on me, and I’ve started going to a head doctor. I’ve been enlightened, challenged, and overall, am very glad that I am going.

So as I was going over the original questionnaire, it asked how much alcohol I drank a week. Typically, I have a glass of wine close to every night with dinner. Then by the time you add in our Thursday housewives gathering, a few happy hours, and maybe one night during the weekend, my cocktails add up.

So, honestly, I was probably low balling it when I wrote seven. He looked it over, and said ‘whoa, how many drinks per week do you have?’

Hearing the shock in his voice, I immediately started trying to explain. ‘Well, I have typically have a glass of red wine each night.’

So my question is, am I a raging alcoholic to the outside world? What is normal?

So I’ve mentioned her before, the ‘friend’ who competes, and really wasn’t a friend, but I still called her ‘friend’.   The ‘friend’ who I closed the curtain on once, she apologized, and so I tried again.  Of course I tried while keeping her at arms length. 

So we chat every now and then.  She lost her job, just as she was about to have a baby.  And so she decided that real estate, which she had been slightly playing with, was going to now be her career of choice.  So she had the baby, and a few weeks later she had a Christmas party.

So the night of her Christmas party, I had just had the worst discussion with my husband EVER, and I really thought we were at the end of the marriage.  I also was in between my doctor’s visits for the lump I had found.  Needless to say, I really wasn’t in the party mood.  She only lives a few doors down, so I ran up there so I could see the baby, drop off the gift, and simply and quickly say hello and then go back home to wallow in my own self pity.  We chatted for a bit.  I let her know what was going on, and that was that. 

Then Christmas Eve came.  I had to run to Target for a few last minute grocery supplies.  That was the day we were in a crazy blizzard, and I had a little incident  in the parking lot (which was me screaming at some idiot driver).  So jokingly,  I updated my Facebook status to the following: Finding a way to move back to Phoenix as quickly as possible.  Snow makes me crabby.  Yep, even on Christmas.

So weeks go by, and I don’t hear from ‘friend’ until I got a text message last week.  It didn’t say, ‘hey do you have cancer?’  Or ‘hey, how’s the marriage going?’  Nope, it said ‘hey, if you’re planning on selling your house, I’ll be your realtor.  Or for any other real estate needs you have.’  (The second part is still my favorite.)

I stared at it for a moment and wrote back ‘????  WTH are you talking about?’

She just said ’saw your facebook and thought you were moving.’

Now mind you, I don’t need someone kissing my ass 24/7.  However, I would like to know that someone is actually my friend versus just another way to get a client.

I’ve now closed the curtain on the friendship for good.  Oh, and yes, I will be sticking with my old realtor, in case I ever need to sell my home.

Dear Jim,

I promised you Hubby’s collection of old porn. I was going to drop it by your house, ring the door bell and run. But, life got in the way and Hubby gave it away last week.

Who did he give it to? The random heavy freight delivery guy that dropped off his new woodworking tool. Somehow, and I’m not sure how this happened in the 5 minute conversation, porn came up. The guys side job is selling it on the internet at a huge profit. So, as the driver’s tip, Hubby have him all of our porn.

So sorry Jim.

Please forgive,

Twila

Were you guys wondering how the holiday went with my crush?

It went well. We had a great time and our kids had a blast together. She also loved some of my designs and offered to sell them in her ultra hip store. Plus, thanks to Crush and her husband we upgraded our kitchen.

But, I am no longer crushing. Not because I don’t think she isn’t rock my world cool. She is. She is for someone who only sees her from a far. I got to see her close up. Maybe not a good thing.

You see, I’m an equal opportunity friend. Gay, straight, Black, Asian, Christian, Hare Krishna, whatever. Chances are, I will like you for who you are. But there is one thing that irks me and no matter who you are I can’t stand it.

People who run late.

I’m not talking about the random few minutes late because of traffic. And I know that everyones clock is different so 3:00 on my watch might be 2:50 on yours. I can handle that.

What I can not handle is 1 1/2 hours late. Or already knowing that you are late and still taking your dear sweet time getting ready. It just doesn’t compute in my mind. My brain completely melts down when shit like that happens. I am a time FREAK and throwing me off by not 30 minutes but 90 minutes is just too much for me to handle. I do have to pat myself on the back, I did not have a panic attack. I just took MANY deep breaths and thanked my MIL profusely for watching the kids while I was playing shopping tour guide.

Which brings me to another reason why I no longer have a crush on Crush. While I do believe that she brings some good things out of me… she also brings the shopper out of me. The “money is no object” shopper out of me. DANGEROUS! She shopped all 15 family members to exhaustion. It was amazing. And sooo not something I could handle on a regular basis.

So, back to her fabulous, unaware of time, life she has gone. And here I stay, hoping to visit her with no kids and no itinerary, so that time will not throw me off again.

We’re sending you away today to find your funny.  So What You’re Famous is friggin hysterical.  I wish she would write more often.  She definitely fits in with us!  Go, check it out.  I think she certainly can give Perez a run for his money!

Sabrina gives it 4 out of 5 Countini’s.

Smart, witty, and funny.  All three things describe this blog.  I love the entertainment topics that she picks, and how she puts a new spin on them.  They’re all easy reads, yet, it’s not just a preaching or telling of the story.

My only downfall with this blog is that I wish she would write more.  I’m not a fan of blogs when you keep going back and nothing is new

So Elanah gives it 3 out of 5 Collin Countinis.

Blogs, blogs, blogs. This is the best one we have reviewed. I like. Go check it out yourself.

Twila gives So What Your Famous 4 out of 5 Collin Countinis.  Pretty good after some of the other shit we’ve read. 

So I’m a true born and raised Wisconsin girl, and yes, a Cheesehead at heart. When the Packers go to the playoffs, it’s a big deal, and a reason to get together and have a good ol’ time.

So Sunday afternoon, it was ‘game on’, and four of my girlfriends and I hit up Vernon’s, a local hole in the wall/Packer bar. Now, let me back up because during the Superbowl last year, I went back to Phoenix to spend it with friends. One of my best friends grew up in Steelers country, and we watched the game at Harold’s which is one of the largest Steelers’ bars outside of PA.

Now, during the Superbowl, we decided it would be really fun to order ‘touchdown shots’. Yes, shots brought to us every time the Steelers scored a touchdown. There were only a total of 3 touchdowns, so all in all, a fun, but not insanely stupid activity to make the game more fun.

I think you see where this is going.

So on Sunday, I told the waitress to bring them out after every touchdown. The first quarter was frustrating, to say the least. However, then it progressed into the highest scoring playoff game in the history of the NFL. And from what I heard, one of the most exciting ones, EVER. You see, I don’t remember because by touchdown #5, I lost of a little, tiny bit of memory. Okay, so maybe a lot of memory.  Things I slightly remember:  Jumping up and down, screaming, hugging randoms and high fiving friends, a trip to RA afterwards, and my sister calling to tell me she was sad.  Oh yes, and when my sober friend drove us home she told me the garage door opener in my car was broken.  So I spent several minutes in the freezing cold trying to figure out how to break in my back door.  When I ran back to the car, at a loss on how to get into my house, we discovered she was pressing the wrong button.

Monday was a rough one, and I will never, ever, ever play touchdown shots ever again.

I’m a kick ass cook. My daily dinners have been called gourmet by many. I am constantly asked what recipes I use and my friends all have their special requests when they come over.  At any moment I can whip up a orgasmic meal. I’m like the Mac Mothafuckin’ Gyver of cooking.

But, just like every Top Chef, I have my fails. Almost every fail involves flour.

This one started with my obsessive ways. I wrote up my weekly menu and sausage sandwiches were on it. So while writing my shopping list, I realized that instead of buying the hoagies I could bake them since I found a recipe for it over the holidays. The way cooking works for me is that an idea will literally eat away at me until I try it. I talk about, dream about it, and plot out how I will manipulate it into my life. Therefore, I was GOING to make these fucking hoagies. My family needed it damn it!

Only problem, I suck at any baking of breads. But that doesn’t stop me. I make up the dough. Already, it’s kinda messed up because instead of paying attention, I’m talking on the phone with my friend. I tell myself it’s not a problem and throw it in the fridge to slowly rise. (I’m not insane, that’s what the recipe called for.) It rose… good deal.

3 days later its time to bake. I pull out the bowl and it’s already not looking to promising. But, not willing to let a lump of flour beat me I decide to trot on and make the dough into hoagies. This is where it went bad. In order to get the dough to cooperate I found myself actually jacking off each roll. That crazy flour would not budge so here I am with Eldest by my side, trying to form a lump of dough into a small man’s hard cock. Gently squeezing and massaging.  After finally getting my dicks in a row I let them rise again and then baked them.

This is what turned out…

Rock hard tiny cocks. I mean….ummmmm… ok, please don’t ask me how it got into this shape. Or, what that random bubble is in the middle is. I think I have blocked it out.

I rarely admit defeat in the kitchen, I think this is going to be one of those times.