Mimosa Mama

Mimosa Mama — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 12:49:01 +0000

Saturday

Does this ever happen to you?

It popped into my head that it would be great to own a piece of property with a creek running through it. A creek with a hole big enough to take a refreshing dip in on a hot day.

Then I thought it would be funny to name it Vaginal Creek, just so that you could say, on occasion, “I’m going to take a dip in the Vag.”

Then I fast forwarded to the day when, God willing, I have grandkids, and how they would grow up calling it Vaginal Creek. I started envisioning the arguments at school as they thought that was a normal name, maybe even them telling their teacher about taking a dip in the ol Vag.

THEN I started thinking about how vaginal is just an ugly word, wondering if I think it’s ugly because of what it is, or if it would have been an ugly word if it meant, say, flower.

That lead me to start pondering the same thing about the word ‘penis,’ an equally ugly word.

This all led me to wonder if y’all’s brains work the same way as mine. I’m thinking, always thinking, of fun little what-if scenarios, and then carrying that through to the implications.

It’s not a process I can control. Lord knows sometimes I wish I could. Sigh.

In other unrelated news, a sunny Saturday is on tap in Oregon, for which I have bought a new kind of champagne to try. Chandon. I’m psyched about creating a little space on the back lawn, chair for me, blankie for Oliver, champagne on ice, and my Kindle in hand. It will be a little chilly, but I don’t care if I have to wear a parka. It’s sun, damn it. And I’m feeling “D”ficient. I cannot wait for summer. You know, days where it’s hot enough to dip in the Vag.

Cheers!

Mimosa Mama — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 13:04:07 +0000

Sunday

Eldon and I went to the movies yesterday, something I rarely do. I dread standing in line for anything, don’t like crowds, and want to smack your kids when they won’t shut up. I’d much rather wait until the DVD comes out and I can sit on my couch with a mimosa in hand to enjoy the show.

But one day, not too long ago, I got an email for a Groupon. You know about these? They are like half off coupons where if enough people buy them the “deal is on.” This deal was to buy a $30 gift certificate for $15. I get goosebumps at deals like that!

The Groupon was for a place in Salem, OR called Cinebarre, which I’d never heard of.

I followed the link to their web site, and as the realization of what they are came to me, I welled up and shed a damn tear.

It’s a cinema. And a bar.

As if that weren’t beautiful enough, they have a full beautiful menu of delicious food, and on the drink menu, big and bold as you please, is something they call “Pulp Fiction” (everything has a clever movie themed name) – MIMOSAS! They sell them by the pitcher!!

It’s sad that this is such a big deal, but so very few places around here sell champagne. And when they make a mimosa, they don’t know that the best champagne is a Brut. But this place, this place served their Pulp Fiction with Domaine St Michelle Brut, a fabulous Washington Brut. It’s not my Korbel, but it’s close. And beautiful.

At any rate, we decided to go out on a rare date to use that certificate yesterday. On the way there, I said, “Isn’t it odd that we are out and about on a weekend, like, going somewhere?” and Eldon replied, “Ya. This is so not like us.”

I am far more boring than anyone ever gives me credit for. Our weekends are for getting stuff done around the house, then kicking back with a drink, and since you’re drinking you can’t drive.

We broke out of the mold yesterday, big time. When we got there we even parked in a two hour spot, knowing full well we’d be in there for three. Living on the edge, wild and free!

Eldon and I were the first into the theater. After sitting there for a minute I was dying for the Pulp Fiction part to start. As I took my cell phone out of my pocket to put it on silent, I mentioned to Eldon that we should have flagged a waitress down in the hallway.

He said, “Are you texting the waitress?”

Oh. My. God. Eldon, non-texter, general technophobe, actually believed that I could pick up my phone and text some chick in the hallway.

I should have pretended that I could, that I’m just that smart, because shortly after I put my phone in my pocket, in she walked, right on cue.

Eldon thinks I am a genius when it comes to computers. I could run my antivirus software, which finds something and quarantines it, and if I mentioned that to Eldon he’d be like, “Man, Honey, you’re so smart!” I kinda like it like that. I think I’m pretty insecure about my intelligence for the most part, so having him think me so brilliant is good for my teeny tiny ego.

At any rate, we had a great time. It wasn’t cheap – with our meals, movie tickets, and Pulp Fiction the total bill was right around $60, but with the groupon I only spent $30. True, $15 of that was my money, but I spent that over a month ago, so the pain of that coming out of my budget is long forgotten. Now it’s like free money.

Will we go back? Most definitely! The bummer, for Eldon, is that I made him drive. He had one drink, I had the rest. Since one of us needs to be responsible, he’s the logical choice, even though his driving makes me crazy on a good day. (ya, sidenote, he did stuff like this: I tell him we’re gonna need to turn right up ahead, and he makes no move to get into the right hand lane. I’m like hey, I said we’re turning right up here. You wanna wait until the last second to get over there? He says sometimes right hand lanes end, so yes, he will wait. That kinda poor planning and stupid thinking makes me insane, but it was very important that I not be the driver, so I did my best to shut my mouth.)

I loved Cinebarre. I love the very concept of combining food, drink, and movies. Oh, ya, Sherlock Holmes. It was okay. I’m not much for action films, like I don’t have enough stress in my life I need to get wrapped up in someone else’s – but it did weave enough humor and light heartedness in to satisfy me, keep me from stressing out.

I wanted to ‘like’ Cinebarre on facebook, and my search brought up a page called something like I Will Never Go To Cinebarre. I went to the page to see what their beef was, and saw, “They don’t let minors in except on certain days and times.” No shit, Sherlock (pardon the pun). The final beauty of such a place existing is the complete lack of brats. The shocking part was that the page had 17 likes. 17 like-minded dumbshits, surprised that a bar won’t allow minors. No, not surprised, actively angry.

Idiots.

Mimosa Mama — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 12:05:34 +0000

Wednesday

What’s in a name?

I was talking to a girl at work yesterday who is pregnant. Not just any pregnant, but one of those uber cute types of pregnant that makes you want to rub her belly.

Anyway, we got to talking about names, because it’s like against the law not to discuss the naming of the brat when you’re talking to pregnant chicks. She’s having a girl, and her name shall be Ella.

Ella. Isn’t that one of the prettiest names on the planet? It even tastes pretty on my tongue!

Earlier in the day I had come across the name Ruby, and it had me thinking about how knowing someone of a certain name just ruins it for you. Years ago I worked with a Ruby who was a raging bitch, and if not for her I would probably like that name. Now when I hear it or see it I think of a rather large and angry woman who really needs to pluck her eyebrows. I would not only not name a child Ruby, but somehow like your child a little less if you did. (crap – totally just remembered a really cool Ruby who made me think the name is groovy again – man I’m fickle!)

Mendy, our pregnant chick, said she was considering Bella, a name she liked, but she has a friend who has named her dog Bella. Understandably she doesn’t want the two to get confused, so she dropped the B.

Hmmm, maybe I could get a really ugly dog and name her Ruby.

Parents these days get pretty hung up on making sure their child’s name is original. Having grown up with 5 other Beckys in every class I ever had, I can appreciate that. But they go too far.

If you get too original then you condemn your child to a lifetime of repeating their name, and having to spell it out. Stick with something the rest of the planet has a shot of having heard before. And for God’s sake, make sure it identifies the gender.

I feel bad for people with unisex names, names that belong to both genders, like Kelly, Gene, Riley, Bailey, Devin, Morgan, Blair…. I could go on and on. They are condemned to a life of people saying Mr. when it should be Mrs., or the other way around. What’s worse is if they get all huffy about it, as if every Kelly on the planet is a man. Dude, it’s not my fault your mother is an evil bitch. Get out of my grill.

I even know a woman named Mike. That’s her real name. And she’s a hell of a golfer, which makes sense with such a masculine name. Actually she’s not really manly, but can you imagine the hell her life has been due to a name like that?

And so, when I achieve full global domination, we shall convene a council of names, where we deliberate until we have a long list of acceptable baby names that you must choose from, complete with which gender they belong to. And though it will not be against the law to name outside of the book, you will not be able to claim that child as a tax credit if you do. This will be your penance for the lifetime of hell you burden your child with.

Man, sometimes I’m just a fucking genius!

Mimosa Mama — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 14:07:47 +0000

Monday

You know what should be against the law? The stupid Lexus December to Remember commercials playing on January 1^st. Have we not suffered enough?

Here’s what I would like to happen:

She wraps his phone for his gift, and calls it, so that the Lexus jingle plays. He gets all excited, knowing what that means, and runs for the door, all the while looking at the love of his life with disbelief and joy.

He opens the door, sees the $50,000 car she bought (with his money), and his posture morphs from excitement to anger.

“A hatchback? You bought me a hatchback? What the fuck? Why would Lexus even MAKE a hatchback? How much of our money did you waste on a fucking hatchback fucking Lexus? Huh? I can’t hear you, dumb bitch!”

Or this:

“Red? Red? I hate red cars! I know we’ve never had this conversation, damn it! If I’d have known….. how could I know you would run out and make such a huge decision without me? How could I know that you would think such a big ticket purchase would be a good gift where only you got to choose the shit? Let alone red! How fucking stupid are you? Never mind. Don’t answer that. I want a divorce.”

Whew. I feel better just fantasizing about that.

Having suffered through all of December agonizing over the stupidity of gifting something like a car, I thought I was safe for about 11 months. It should be against the law to advertise December shit in January.

That’s it. I’ve gotta go. I’m spending the rest of my day crafting a letter to my congressman.

Mimosa Mama — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 12:21:49 +0000

Sunday

Tried a new champagne yesterday. A spendy one. Veuve Clicquot (pronounced Vuv Klee Coh’ as far as I can tell).

Veuve Cliquot is a French champagne, and not being a great fan of the French (mostly because they are snobby and try to force the rest of the planet to call their champagnes ‘sparkling wine’), it’s not something I intend to drink a lot of. Oh, ya, and it’s like a $70 bottle I caught on sale for $45, which is FAR outside of this working woman’s budget. I only bought it because Eldon gave me some of his allowance and told me to pick out a nice bottle for us to try. (plus I’m gonna keep the receipt and try to write it off on my taxes!)

Was it good? Absolutely. Was it worth $45? Not on your life.

If I won the lottery last night, as is likely because I’ve got two tickets on my dishwasher this very moment, I will not waste my winnings on ‘fine’ champagne. I will stick with my Korbel (who are grandfathered in, so the Frenchies let them call their wine “champagne.” Man those snobs fry my fanny!).

Last summer at a golf tournament, one of my teammates introduced me to a woman and told her about Mimosa Mama, because apparently this woman is a big champagne drinker. The first thing she let me know was that she only drank Veuve Clicquot. (la tee dah!)

It is quite common, when people meet me and we discuss champagne, for them to try to impress me with the fancy brands they drink. Champagne drinkers have traditionally been snobby, and if you know me at all you know that I could give a rat’s ass about image. If I sense that you are hung up on it at all, I end up sitting back and observing you in an amused fashion, thinking about how insecure you must be to try to convince others of your status.

Enough about that. I write quite extensively on the subject in my book, and if you haven’t read that, well, frankly, how can I possibly like you? Nope. I don’t.

So my niece posted the hint of a family story on facebook yesterday, and it had her dad, my brother “David,” all upset.

You see, we had a party at brother “Rob’s” house a couple of years back. It was a doozy. Actually, I didn’t show up until Saturday morning, and all the fun happened on Friday night, so all I got were the stories. Stories of barfing.

As I recall, one of my nephews was puking in the kitchen sink. I think there was a garbage disposal, but even so you must admit that’s a pretty hairy mess to clean up.

That wasn’t the funny story though.

Brother David puked on the floor in the dining room. When he got up the next morning he denied being the one to do it. But it didn’t exactly take a team of CSI agents to recognize that when he blew his groceries all over the place, his false teeth followed. THAT’S funny right there!

Ya, David. Pretty sure that’s your teeth teetering atop that pile o puke. Get your sorry ass in there and clean it up. Maybe scrub those puke-soaked pearly whites before you pop them back in.

So he’s mortified that she would share that with the planet on her facebook wall, and I thought to myself, “Speaking of sharing that story, why have I not let the rest of the world in on this little gem?”

Oh what fun to come from such a colorful family. So much to share. So little time!

Mimosa Mama — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 12:34:08 +0000

So, I’ve pulled my neck or upper back or something. I don’t know what I did. Fucked it up royal somehow.

It was hurting, then got better, so I got back on my Wii Fit a couple of days ago, and right in the middle of the triangle pose (yoga), I felt a knife behind my left shoulder blade, and I was stuck. Triangle pose is not a pretty place to be stuck.

At any rate, I can’t move my head. It shoots pain up through my neck, which makes driving a challenge. If there is a car coming, I have to hope I can see it with pure peripheral vision, so I just glance and gun it across the intersections. So far it’s worked.

I went to see my chiropractor, who can never hide his amusement when I am in pain. I think the son of a bitch actually looks forward to it.

I said, “Please don’t hurt me!” which fell on deaf ears.

He pushed on the front of me, which hurt, then announced that I’ve got rib(s) out.

To his credit he didn’t break out his little activator thingy. He knows that I know that little clicky thing doesn’t really do anything. He said we will try some ultrasound heat thing that we’ve never done before. After thanking him for not trying to trick me with the activator, he said, “Ya, that thing only cost me $700, and the ultrasound machine cost me $2,200, so it’s a lot less fake.”

Did it work? Who knows? It was no miracle for sure. And I need a miracle.

I told him I wished he could dispense drugs – I really need muscle relaxers. Then he reminded me that I’ve got muscle relaxer in my fridge, and that one glass wouldn’t touch it. No. It would take two. Sometimes, albeit very rarely, I love that man.

I had a business meeting yesterday out of town, with my boss, so I got online to find out how much ibuprofen is safe to take. 800 mg, as it turns out, is safe. So I took that at 4 am yesterday. It let me move enough to shower and get my sorry ass to work.

Right before leaving at 9, as I was almost back to not being able to move again, I thought, “Hey, if 800 mg is ‘safe’ then surely I can take 1,000 mg. They’re always real conservative on stuff like that.” So I took five 200 mg tablets.

Just before putting on my coat I checked one more time for side effects, and as it turns out diarrhea is one of the bonuses of taking too much. That made me laugh, because my boss does not take kindly to that kind of adventure.

When I told her that we might need to bring some tp with in case I started screaming for her to pull over on the side of the interstate, she swore that if I did that she would take off and leave me with my pants down on the side of the road. Not to be outsmarted I told her fine, if that’s how she wanted to play this thing, I would just silently shit my pants in her fancy little car. Ha! She had nothing for that! I won the argument.

As it turns out I didn’t take enough for the gloriously promised diarrhea. Valuing a good cleansing like I do, I was almost looking forward to it. Plus I like to push my boss to her little limits sometimes. It’s good for her.

What got me to thinking about this whole damned thing this morning was the fact that I hate when people post every ache and pain, and/or every slight or act of meanness by some asshole, on Facebook. I’m determined not to be that chick. I like to keep my posts light and witty. I’ve no use for an online pity party. I am not a victim. Like, ever.

Oh, sure, I have times when I feel the urge to play the role of victim, but it so unhealthy, and frankly unattractive. If you have ever posted “FML” like EVER, you might be a victim, and it’s likely I hide your from my own wall, ‘cause you’re such a constant downer. I cannot unfriend you, because you would notice that, and I risk becoming just another in a long line of assholes who mistreat you through no fault of your own.

You think it’s easy being cheesy? No. It takes a lot of mental effort to stay ‘up’ all the time. But I own my life. I own my attitude, for better or worse. And people that don’t, well, I just wanna fucking bitch slap sometimes.

(Ironically I do seem to be blogging about my pain, but not in a way as to induce pity of any kind, so please do not send me any kind of well wishes. Obviously I don’t deserve it.)

Mimosa Mama — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 12:18:38 +0000

Wednesday

Today I am struck by what a horrible woman I make. Not like bad person kind of horrible (you could successfully argue this point, but that’s not what I’m talkin’ bout here). Like there’s this whole culture of shit out there that I’m suppose to care about but don’t kind of horrible.

My wallet is falling apart. A wallet I bought on ebay.

I abhor shopping. Braving the weather, finding a parking spot, fighting the crowds, waiting in lines, the whole bit. So I find ebay a beautiful invention. I can sit in my jammies, without showering or brushing my teeth, and browse an almost infinite selection of exactly what I’m looking for, all the while drinking my coffee and waiting for my glorious wave to relieve me of yesterday’s chow and energize me for the day.

Plus, there’s some sort of sick thrill I get placing a bid in the last few seconds and beating some bitch on the other side of the country. Oh! Added bonus – getting a package in the mail is like Christmas. Sometimes, if I am bidding after too many mimosas, I can forget that I bought something, and when it comes in the mail it truly is like getting a surprise gift, exactly what I wanted, from someone else!

But I digress. I bought the kind of wallet that was leather on the outside, but vinyl on the inside. Duh. The vinyl is now doing what vinyl does, falling apart, and I intend to make the next one all leather.

And so, for about the last week or so, I’ve been browsing the thousands that are available on ebay, and I’m telling you there’s a lot you can learn from this exercise.

First things first.

Brands.

There are obviously some brands of women’s accessories that I was not aware of, or didn’t realize how expensive they are if I did.

I’ll start with Coach. This is a brand I was aware of, I mean, who isn’t? What with Coach insisting on putting those gaudy C’s all over their stuff. What’s the point of that? Is it because the C’s are attractive? Nope. They just busy up the canvas in an attempt to scream to the planet, “Look at me! I have enough money to buy a COACH! Do you see my COACH? It’s genuine COACH! See all the C’s? That’s right. I got money enough for a real COACH! Take that, you whore!”

To me, it’s the trashy kind of thing that a person does when they’ve never had money and they win the lottery. It just tries too hard to impress. As such, I find Coach bags and accessories to be tacky.

Well, most of them. I do own a Coach purse (that I bought on ebay). You see, I do trust the brand to be of high quality, which I value above all else, and I found one that is plain leather on the outside. Plain Jane. Just my style. Ya, it’s got those stupid C’s on the inside liner, but from there all it can do is whisper its name, and nobody hears or cares what brand my purse is.

Same thing goes for the Michael Kors bags, which I didn’t know about until recently. They’ve got these MK’s all over, I think in imitation of the whole C thing. I have a girlfriend (whom I’ll call “Shelly”) who showed me her new MK pocked bag, extremely proud, in a, “Look what I’ve got!” kinda way. I’d never heard of Michael Kors, but having sold cosmetics in my past, I asked her, “Why do you have a Mary Kay bag?”

“It’s Michael Kors, bitch!” (she’s real nasty like that)

I think she thought I was being snotty (who, me?), but my question was sincere. Now, when I see her bag, I imagine it’s screaming, “Michael Kors Bitch!” and I think they should add a B behind the MK.

The new brand I’ve learned about in the last few days is Dooney & Bourke. I imagine there are lots of people who already know about that one, but it’s new to me. I’m leaning towards this brand, because unlike some of the others, it whispers its name subtly, and the way these bitches are bidding on them, I imagine it’s a worthy, quality kind of product.

Beyond brand, it cracks me up to see all the bling that women like on their accessories.

Again, I like my stuff to whisper. Screaming, whether it’s clothes, jackets, or the purse you throw over your shoulder, just reminds me of some white trailer trash who won the lottery and wants the world to know they have class, which ironically means they don’t.

There’s shit that’s just COVERED in bling, silver(like) medallions, bright shiny buttons, 4 inch clasps and the like.

And the shit that’s intended to appeal to the cowgirls are the worst. Big cow-ish print n stuff. Garish.

When I see busy print, I automatically think of Peg Bundy, and I have a severe aversion to seeming like some middle aged woman in mid life crisis.

There’s a lot of loud, hideous stuff on ebay, stuff people are actually bidding on. But then, there are a lot of middle aged women on the planet looking for their shit to scream something.

So what will I end up with? Not sure yet. Like I said, I’m leaning towards the Dooney & Bourke bullshit, but spending $40 or more on a wallet makes my butthole contract, and valuing a good poop like I do, I can scarcely afford to keep that thing shut up tight.

I had a bid going on the perfect wallet this past weekend, but ended up losing it due to an ill timed fight on Facebook with our county Sheriff. Asshole.

My hope is that sometime after Christmas the market will be flooded with unwanted wallets, and I’ll find a good deal.

So I’ll keep on watching the bids, and learning some of the things I should care about, if I were any kind of woman at all. Which I’m clearly not.

Mimosa Mama — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 12:18:43 +0000

Monday

Ya, these Lexus commercials are really starting to piss me off. You know the ones. The wife gives the husband a box, or vice versa, and the box starts playing the Lexus jingle, and as they realize what that means the whole family goes running outside to see the new car he/she bought the other for Christmas.

You’ll think I’m jealous. Well, I’m not. Nothing would piss me off more than a big item purchase like that with me having no say in the matter.

The first thing that would go through my mind would be, “What the fuck?? How much is THIS payment going to be?? We couldn’t have talk about this first?”

Oh, then let’s assume the answer is something stupid like he saved the money and paid cash. My next thought would be, “What the fuck?? You had THAT kind of cash, and you spent it on a car? We couldn’t have talk about this first?”

You see, my own budget is tight, and my husband would have to have saved for, like, 500 years on the allowance I give him (actually, for a $40,000 car, it would only be 38.4615 years), to buy me a car, unless he committed to a car payment without my consent, which might be tantamount to divorce in my book.

But, you say, maybe the people in the commercial are really rich and have no kind of budget restraints (which again pisses me off). Have you seen the cars in the commercial? One of them is a hatchback, for shit’s sake. It’s hideous. If the car opens up like a hatchback or looks like some sort of SUV-wannabe-but-really-I-look-more-like-a-stupid-minivan, I’m not interested. Did it occur to you that something as important as a car I might want to pick out myownself?

So I can think of only one scenario where this doesn’t piss me off.

Eldon wins the lottery, but waits to tell me until after he has claimed the cash.

His love for me, deep but misguided, causes him to want to buy me a car. He shops for the car for me (which I don’t need), parks it in front of the house, ties a big stupid bow on it, and surprises me Christmas morning. Then, in the middle of my ungrateful rage, he tells me about the lottery winnings, right before I kill him, which saves his little life.

We take the car back, I use the lottery winnings to get the oil changed in my Honda on the way to the airport (and I let them talk me into all the other things they always say it needs, cuz I’m loaded, so give me the works), headed for some tropical island, which is what he should have surprised me with from the start, and we live happily ever after.

Take THAT stupid Lexus people. A car is not a good gift, unless it is coming out of someone else’s budget. But a husband to wife? Thanks, but no thanks. I’m now $40,000 poorer, through no choice of my own. Assholes.

Mimosa Mama — Sat, 01 Oct 2011 11:36:05 +0000

Saturday

Success in life does not come from holding a good hand, it comes from playing a bad hand well. – Dennis Waitley

I am lucky. People hate me for it.

As a race human beings are hard wired to resent a winner.

There are a couple of good reasons why I win with a considerable amount of frequency.

First, I play the odds.

I’m often asked to sell tickets of all kinds for fundraisers. I’m quite good at it. It’s really a skill born of a double whammy – I’m a pushy witch and unafraid of your rejection so I find it quite easy to lay on a little pressure. And, having been raised Catholic, I’m a super-star guilt thrower. After all, I am always raising money for a good cause, so not to buy my tickets would be akin to sin, or so I sell it.

One of the lines I get all the time from people who are trying to resist my “charms” is, “Oh, I never win anything.” The answer to that is obvious. The only way to be sure you don’t win is not to play, right? Besides, as I mentioned, it’s for a good cause, so it’s not about winning at all (I don’t personally buy that – it’s always about winning for me – but it’s a great line to guilt you into your purchase). It’s about raising money for the children (I generally don’t like children). Or the Chamber of Commerce. Or United Way. Or the Lions Club. You get my drift. Make it about the cause, not the prize, and they fall for it every time.

I rarely miss an opportunity myownself to buy my chance at glory. The numbers are just with me that I will win some of the time, and so I do.

Secondly, I expect to win. Brian Tracy, a motivational speaker, often talks of the “superconscious” capabilities of the human brain. This superconscious is like a connective energy hovering over the planet, and if you tap into it things just happen for you.

He says that to the exact degree that you believe something is going to happen, it will.

If you expect that there will be a good parking spot at WalMart, hold that spot in your mind’s eye. Create a crystal clear vision of someone coming out and loading their bags into the trunk, shutting the trunk, getting into their car, and pulling out at the exact moment you are pulling in. They are holding your spot for you.

If you believe that this will work with a 60% confidence level then it will play out in your favor 60% of the time.

I expect to win with about a 50% confidence level. Each time I lose something, anything, I rejoice that one of my losing moments is out of the way and I am that much closer to my next score. I will actually envision myself losing some drawings or contests just to get one out of the way, throw a bone to the regular losers. That’s when it’s your chance at long last.

And so I win. Often. And the collective moan from any crowd when this happens is terribly predictable. And understandable.

I do, after all, relate to your resentment. I tend to share it with you on my off days.

Mimosa Mama — Sat, 24 Sep 2011 16:24:27 +0000

Saturday

Before I piss off some of the finest people on the planet, let me say that I know some perfectly beautiful couples who share a facebook account, but it never ceases to annoy me. Here’s why.

When it is Jane John Smith’s birthday, do I say Happy Birthday to Jane? Or John? I never know who I’m speaking to.

When Jane John comments on my status, I don’t know whether to call him/her a bitch or an asshole. Gender counts in proper facebook responses.

I assume that they do this out of complete “oneness” – I can hear the conversation, “Nothing I do shall be hidden from you, Honey. Let’s do this thing together!”

(Oh, I just puked a little.)

My mind can only grasp that this is born out of some sort of insecurity. If you’re trying too hard to show that you have nothing to hide, I find it much more likely that you are hiding something (me thinks thou dost protest too much).

Sigh.

Then again, one of the happiest couples I know share a page, and if they are tricking me into thinking there is nothing wrong when there truly is, well, they’re doing a good job. I know stuff. I can smell insecurity like a wild animal smells fear. No, they smell clean, free of worry that the other could cheat.

Still, nothing says, “I don’t trust you, Sugar Lump,” like not having a little space and freedom on any front.

I don’t know the answer. Just here to tell you that it annoys me. Even if that’s wrong.

Happy Birthday Jane John, you bitch and/or asshole!