Orion Unleashed

My return....

2010-11-01T19:28:00.000-07:00

I've been getting pushed, and poked, and gently prodded to pick up where I left off with my blogging. It just seems more simple to read someone's blog than to remember why I started doing this in the first place.

I sit here wondering... is it really as simple as remembering how to ride a bike? Has the balance always been waiting there with the motions? Will my grasp on the handle bars of life take the same veiw on reality I once had? I don't suppose a lengthy hiatus really changes a person, at least not their cynical views and sarcastic bite, so here goes nothing...

....and I continue to sit here, debating on what kind of story I want to unleash. Should I carry on about how Halloween went? How the boys and I got through 4 houses before the eternal whine-fest began? Nah... it doesn't seem right to just jump into yesterday like I've been blogging this whole time. Damn. I almost feel like I've been out whoring around with someone else and I've just now realized how good I had it. That awkward fumbling of trying to come back...

Still sitting here.... scratching my head, looking for the right topic to banter on about. Searching for that funny glimmer, that shroud of quirkiness that covers the demon within...

Should I go on about how Mr. 9 is doing, how we've progressed with the medicated lifestyle, or how about how Mr. 6 is literally missing his two front teeth? I could discuss how the non-smoking is continuing, and lie about how I've gained 2 pounds when in reality it's closer to 10. I could drum on about the addition of pets and how the drooling doggies are murdering bandits that mutilated the gerbils.

So much stuff to go on about, and yet for the last year or so my lazy, fat ass has refused to do it.
Well... "new year, new battery, Edna!" ....time to fire up the internet machines and get back in the swing of things.

crazy shit from the mailbox

2009-10-28T16:27:00.000-07:00

Holy shit man! pull your head out of the sand and breathe for the love of barbie dolls in Afghanistan, what in the fuck have you been doing with yourself?

Well, I can assure all of you, that I have finally succumbed to the ridiculous nature that is my own ruin. Yes, yes... I have finally cracked, covered myself in fat free chocolate pudding, and lit my love seat on fire just to save some poor child from Ethiopia with a hair--erm... cleft pallet.

Yesterday I received a flier in the mail notifying me I could save one of those unfortunate children for a beyond reasonable rate of 24$ a month, and then I turned the thing over and damn near screamed. Have you seen this flier? Its like a poster for the rejected cast members of The Hills Have Eyes. How do these people sleep at night? I have an eight year old boy that delivers my mail to me, imagine the nightmares I would have to correct if that article of soul selling reached his eyes? He may never want to buy those wax teeth ever again!

what's this shit?

2009-06-12T19:09:00.000-07:00

Okay... so I obviously suck at updating the blog stuff while I'm in the midst of life changing business, and for those of you that have no fucking idea about what I'm talking about lemme tell ya... moving sucks.

Four long, miserable days of traveling in a 26' cargo truck. Overheating, steep grades, family bickering, and crappy food damn near brought me to my knees. It was a long and hard venture, and it fucking sucked like a toothless whore on a sweaty motel mattress.

...and now that I'm here, it still sucks. We arrived last Thursday and I've unpacked, rehung, fixed, repacked, unloaded, pushed, pulled and crammed stuff everywhere. I'm sunburned, every joint I have aches, and all I can think of at every waking moment is... sex. So there you have it, nothing's changed.

I'm still an ex-smoker, which is ridiculously fucking awesome. I've saved over three hundred dollars and I have already purchased myself a little gift.
Meet Marley...

Marley is a 1 year old rottweiler, pit bull mix that I picked up from a rescue shelter. She is the epitome of what I call a beautiful dog. I'll try to get a picture of her smiling up as soon as I can. I've had her for over three weeks now and she reminds me of that Hanks movie, Turner and Hooch. There is slob... EVERYWHERE.

Me, me, me

2009-05-07T08:50:00.000-07:00

It's not that I haven't tried to blog, it's just that I haven't really felt creative enough to finish a fucking post. So here's a completely random update on the shit going on in my life.

I quit smoking. It's been over two weeks, and yes... every so often I have a craving to go mug someone and steal a Marlboro, but other than that I'm on top of the world. I let go of the nicotine and the dependency all by my damn self. I'm not upset that I quit, but I am a little angry that I didn't quit sooner.

I'm sick, I have a sinus infection, and the medication the doctor prescribed is kicking my ass. I'm in my third day of practice to be the worlds dumbest zombie, I'm thrilled that I only have 2 more pills to take. I would express my happiness with you, but I'm afraid energy exertion spent on my mouth would mean my eyelids will seal shut. This is probably why there is a 3 inch pool of slob on my desk. I can't stop drooling.
Medicine-head sucks and I can't feel my face.

Mr. 5 has fractured his arm but that news wasn't nearly as exciting as finding him in the midst of a bleeding fit. "Oh my, what happened?" you ask...

Orally fixated children like to place any random object in their mouths, this includes clothing; somebody's old, chewed up, flavorless gum; and possibly the handle of a baseball bat that he proceeded to swing at things with. Of course, all children realize there rational thinking isn't such a good idea AFTER they've injured themselves. So bleeding all over the kitchen floor in an uncontrollable fit of tears is the only possible way to inform the world that an awful decision was made. That tendon that's under the tongue, yeah.. it doesn't really care for bunt plays near the swing set.

And finally, the plans to move are finally set in concrete. In four weeks you should expect to see me posting irrational bitch fests about having to load a Uhaul trailer, or possibly unload the trailer, or complain about something else completely unrelated to moving. In any case... Tucson, here I come. I'm so terribly excited, if only I could feel my face.

Day THREE. I quit.

2009-04-24T06:52:00.000-07:00

Today my thinking is getting back to where it should be. I don't feel like such a space cadet. In fact, I felt awesome when I woke up this morning, despite not getting much sleep. My sleep pattern is seriously screwed. I wake up every hour or every two hours, and I sit there for what seems like an eternity before I realize that I am actually awake.

Still have the chills today, but the itching is gone. The irritability is gone. The anger is gone, I feel great. I haven't done much thinking about smoking, I really haven't had much for cravings either. I think today marks the downhill section of the race to quit.

I have noticed my appetite has increased quite a bit. I've loaded my desk with sunflower seeds, gum, and carrots to curb my desire to eat. I have to remind myself that getting over the nicotine addiction doesn't give me an excuse to start some sort of food addiction. Judging by the way I used to smoke if I don't get the eating under control I'll be the size of a small blimp within weeks!

Day TWO. I quit.

2009-04-22T20:04:00.000-07:00

I'm a little disappointed in myself today. My thoughts of smoking and about smoking are more frequent and compelling then they were yesterday. I feel like some sort of creepy, obsessed ex-lover, ducking down in my 1980's sports car as I watch Nicotine pass me by. I know nothing good will come of our relationship, and Nicotine will only hurt me in the end, but it feels so good when we're together.

Apparently, I need a restraining order and some fucking therapy.

I regret this being such a random event; I could have been smart and planned it out. I wish I would have chosen a Friday to quit. It's so hard to focus on little tasks and get things done at work. I've been staring at a static PC monitor for most of the day and I still can't collect enough thoughts to get my work done. Even an attempt to write a few sentences for this blog has taken me an extensive amount of time. It would have been a lot easier to start on a Friday and sleep off the side-effects over the weekend, bet staying asleep has been a real bitch. I have been waking up every hour or so, wide eyed for a brief moment or two before I catch a glimpse of the clock. I scolding myself for being wide awake and a complete fucking idiot at three in the morning.

The chills and itchiness are still with me today, the intensity has not subsided for either. Something new to complain about today though, the back of my legs are probably the worst with "pins and needles." I've consumed plenty of water, a decent amount of food, a few OTC pain relievers, but nothing is helping so far. I haven't felt anything spectacular as far as healing and recovery go, but then again it's only day two and most of time I'm not really giving a fuck.

The junkie hasn't come out of me yet today, but I'm expecting its return in full force. Yesterday was pretty rough as I began rationalizing my nic-fits with emotions that I've never even known about prior to quitting. I was jealous of other smokers that were ingesting all the nasty crap associated with smoking.

Day ONE. I quit.

2009-04-21T17:19:00.000-07:00

My fucking jaw hurts. I am tired of chewing gum. I stole Mango-Berry flavored gum off the kitchen counter this morning and I am sick of it's stale fucking flavor. Normally I enjoy chewing spearmint gum, but since I associate that flavor with occasionally lighting up a cigarette, I've decided to try something new. I have to remind myself every so often not to eat it, it's not fucking candy. I force myself to NOT swallow a new piece of fruity sensation that pounds the withdrawal of nicotine right into the unforgiving clench of my teeth as they chew with resentment.

My skin itches as if I've rolled myself in a pile of insulation just after a hot shower. My feet, hands, throat, back, face, ears, scalp, and places that I didn't even know could itch are screaming for fingernails to rip open my flesh.

Yesterday I wrote down my reasoning to quit using tobacco and I felt good about the decision I was making. After just 12 hours I have turned into a fucking junkie ready to pawn my own mother off to an all male prison for just one drag.

the doomsday dwelling (mi casa es su jaqueca)

2009-04-09T07:45:00.000-07:00

PART 1.

I can’t even begin to tell you that I remember it like it was just yesterday, because I’m getting old and my memory is about as quick as a turtle slathered in molasses, but I’ll give it a shot anyways...

I remember it was another glorious and mud filled spring, filled to the brim with opportunities of moving into the doomsday dwelling. The birds were chirping until their beaks shattered, and the doomsday house was opening her doors wide to welcome in her new tenants. Yeah, the house that swallowed people whole in the summer and spat them out to a cold cruel world in the winter was waiting with baited breath to antagonize me and my family once again. Being easily led by the house’s false seductions, I casually carried on my ritualistic voyeurism from the back deck to watch the new bait move in.

I don’t recall how many individuals were moving in, but I know the family appeared to unfold like an accordion out of the vehicles, teenagers here, a whiny brat there, and grown up or two somewhere in the midst, but all and all it was a shitload of teenagers. At this point I should have been hearing evil trumpets of destruction blaring in the background, I should have heard unearthed angels crying for me in desperation, but there were no sounds to forewarn me of the tiring days that lay ahead. None.

The family was Mexican, and just to clarify, I don’t point that out to be a racist or stereotypical blockhead; I point out that their Mexican heritage quickly became a part of my life when the music began playing out of their windows at all hours of the day. My peace and quiet smoke breaks out on the back deck were now accompanied with a frantic and frivolous set of maracas! YIPPY! Fucking Skippy!

The younger teenagers of the house were active basketball fans playing loud and obnoxious games of two on two that could be heard day in and day out. From the school bells until the sun went down I could hear them playing. Ka-thud. Ka-thud. Ka-thud. KA-THUD. P-TANG. Thump thump thump. AWESOME!

Fortunately, none of these actions sealed my neighbors’ fate of disapproval until one fine, summer day I was mowing the lawn. While my headphones were screaming Metallica or some other such thrash metal band to keep my legs motivated, something caught my eye. It wasn't their paper plates scattered through my lawn, or their beer cans caught under the fence line, what I spotted was a three foot tall cannabis plant hidden in their backyard. Yes, three fucking feet of home grown Mary-Jane growing right there on the other side of our swing-set. I even gathered a second opinion from A-me to ensure my drug testing adolescence wasn't playing tricks on me, and astonishingly enough, she agreed with me for once. Our neighbors’ lawn was undeniably infested with cocklebur and weed. MARVELOUS!

We were rather appalled by this growth between our houses. This damn plant was now hindering the bonds of neighborly love. How could we really come to enjoy basketball filled evenings set in the ambiance of a Mariachi band when we can't get over the damn drugs in the back yard? Do we jump the fence and take the damn thing for ourselves, make brownies and forget where we even live? Do I run over there with the weed eater and turn that damn thing into chopped parsley? Do we become the nosy, annoying, neighborhood watch type of neighbors and call the police, or do we sit back idly until their harvest season?

It turns out we really didn't do much of anything at all, except tell everyone we knew about this massive shrub. Jokes were made, drug tests were threatened, and no brownies were eaten. Shortly after that fine summer day another fine summer day rolled in and the shrub was gone. A shovel and a very large black garbage bag sat by their door for a day or two before I witnessed the oldest teenage boy placing the large bag inside of a red, faded, four door jalopy driven by another "old" teenager. A drug deal, right here next to my back yard. NEAT!

The doomsday dwelling lived up to my expectations for those first spring and summer days, until the day that the woman tossed the man and children to the curb. Things were said, things were broken, and then for a moment, things were quiet.

on the couch, again

2009-04-02T21:48:00.000-07:00

I would love to meet the guy that came up with the phrase "sleeping on the couch is like camping, we really don't mind." I would give anything to inform him that he's a fucking idiot, and after three consecutive nights of sleeping on the couch my back hurts. I wake up screaming with charlie cramps in my legs, and there's a draft coming from the front door that pushes my testicles clear past my tonsils. The guy's a fucking prick for ever giving the notion to ladies that it's "okay" to put my miserable ass on the couch for some fatuous comment I made, which is now irrelevant because I don't fucking remember what it was I said anyways. So here's to you, asshole, I'm now blaming you for all my problems.

...PS! I swear, promise, and with some other empty version of truth, plan to write the next installment for the doomsday neighbors one of these days. Maybe when I get a little more sleep I'll consider it.

Flood T-shirt

2009-04-01T07:44:00.000-07:00

If anything good were to come out of flooding, it would be highly marketable, and soon enough, everyone I know will own one of these awesome t-shirts.

dude, you're flooding!

2009-03-30T07:18:00.000-07:00

Lately the phone rings, I answer it and then immediately I realize I am now jammed in the middle of someone else's cell signal, because I don't have an Aunt Fern that floated away on a rickety boat the last time this happened, and I can't recognize anyones voice so I sit there with this baffled look on my head wondering "who the fuck is calling?" Meh.

To fix these communication errors caused by a flooding of cellular signals, additional wireless towers have been brought into Fargo. Apparently when your town is under the gun for destruction everyone and their damn dog feels the need to call and ask
"are you stayin' afloat?"
"is your head above water?"
or some other, equally asinine comment about flooding. Yeah, aren't their inane comments just fucking clever?

The people that ordinarily are too damn busy to call, write, or acknowledge that they once knew you are now calling at all hours of the day. They pick up the phone with eager little questions aimed on satisfying their gossip habits, and finally they sucker you into listening all about their lives. Your house could be burning to the ground while you float off in a bathtub as these fuckers tell you about how the economy is pinching their pockets and they are expecting their begonias to flower like crazy this year. Well, fuck you and your flowers!
Pricks. I hate these drama pirates. I would shut my phone off... but then my mother, who is concerned, wouldn't be able to get a hold of me. I would just not answer the unknown numbers... but then if it's that code red alert I'll end up floating off in the bathtub anyways.

Some random drunk woman from "around these parts" was unknowingly trying to sabotage our river protection. Click here to read the short article.
Could you imagine waking from a hang over only to learn that you single handedly flooded peoples homes, and destroyed their lives? Think of the restitution she'd have to pay?

In other news, my garbage cans are still full from lack of collection, and I haven't gotten any mail in over a week. The US postal service could possibly be afraid that small, vicious, ankle-biting dogs are floating around. That whole theory about no mail means no bills? Bullshit. Funds from my account are still draining as efficiently as ever, even though the banks here in town are closed. In fact, most of the businesses around here that are not "essential" are closed, but hey, at least the bars are open!!

just keep swimming... just keep swimming

2009-03-27T14:50:00.000-07:00

I'm experiencing some serious climate shock, and I'm fuckin' sick of it.
Last week I flew into a balmy 90 degree Arizona, it was fantastic, considering I was flying out of a blistering 14 degrees. This is probably why I contracted an upper respiratory infection. You can never go on vacation without ruining it, can you?!

However, this Tuesday flying back from Arizona wasn't so bad, I was greeted by a warming 55 degree pouring rain. The 3 feet of snow that was on the ground when I left? GONE!! I can see my yard! I can walk on the sidewalk without fear of breaking a hip! I can check the mail in my slippers if I want to! The following morning I turned on the television...

and HOLY FUCK! Welcome home, Orion!!

The raging red river that is just 6 cross blocks from my house, is now 24 feet over flood stage. I can't see my yard anymore! There's 8 inches of snow on the ground. Schools are closed because of the blizzard, but vacation has ended for me, my fuzzy little friends, I have to go to work. I'm trying plug my basement drains, reevaluate the sump pumps, shovel out the driveway, salt the sidewalks, check the city site, and what ever the fuck else I need to do. Do I have to go to work? Do I have to evacuate? What the fuck is going on? Why did I even come back?

This is just too much for me, and all that i have stuck in my tiny little mind is the forgetful and funny little blue fish from Finding Nemo... "just keep swimming... just keep swimming..."

crap i hate (vol. 2)

2009-03-18T13:09:00.000-07:00

I hate packing for trips. I hate trying to calculate how many fucking pairs of socks I'll need, and what if I accidentally spill orange juice on my underwear? Crap! I better pack 4 extra pairs of socks just in case the lotion bottle explodes in the plane.

I hate that it doesn't even matter how little I pack, because half of the shit will still be all nice and folded when I get back, and then I can bitch at my own stupid self for the back aches associated with lugging around 70 extra fucking pounds of my own shit -shit that I didn't need in the first place.

the doomsday dwelling (mommy poppins)

2009-03-16T08:00:00.000-07:00

The next tenant of the doomsday dwelling was a rotund, single-mother with at least 2 children, one of which was still in diapers as it ran up the gravel drive. No need to chase the baby though mom, the yard is locked down with rusted chain-link fencing and 4 foot wide cocklebur thistles. Never mind the broken window panes, the old shingles accompanied with rusted nails, or the old tires serving as mosquito hatcheries on the other side of the garage; this place is a dream for any parent!

I noticed she owned a light blue Chevy Astro van complete with rusting fenders and sagging side panels. Speaking of sagging, while batting lashes at the landlord she was trying to repair what looked like a swallowed pair of underwear underneath her spandex pants; and why is it that no matter how much you attempt to not notice these things, they just fall out and slap you in the face? Nobody really wants to watch someone pick at their ass. It's not fun, but we still see it and it still grabs our attention.

Anyways... I sat in amusement as a greasy toddler waddled awkwardly up and down the gravel drive, his diaper enshrouding all but a head on little red shoulders, a lanky set of monkey arms, and a set of knobby little knees. You could see her parenting skills were finely tuned as she felt no need to observe the child as it continued to sit in a 3 inch deep puddle of mud.

It was a nice change of pace to have someone in her situation settle in next door. The family was hardly around, and when they were home, unlike the last neighbors, I couldn't hear every conversation they had. Occasionally I would see her pile the kids in the van, fix her Wal*mart uniform, and barrel out of the driveway. But all in all they were quiet. A month or two had passed before I had completely forgotten about the house on the left. Not that my ADD helps contain my attention on the more interesting matters of movement, but it was fucking quiet over there, I could sleep, so I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it through Halloween. I even admit to enjoying it when she left their festively carved pumpkins outside to soften up on their front steps until Valentines day.

Not that it matters now, but she never shoveled her sidewalk. That's the only thing negative I can remember about that tenant, until the landlord apparently got fed up with her late rent payments. I know this because I could hear them screaming at each other in the driveway. He barked at her to pay the rent. In response, she screamed at him to fix the roof and sped off in her Astro van.

The following day when I came home I noticed the landlord was at that house, and there was a massive pile of furniture, clothing, toys, and other various household items on the curb. All evening long I watched the landlord pull shit from that house and put it on the curb. I missed when the woman returned, but A-me said she was out taking pictures of her belongings and threatening to retain a lawyer. Needless to say, after that I did not see the single mother hanging around my hood.

Next up... the reigning champions of the fucking doomsday house. These fuckers put every resident on my block in a continual state of contentious rage and I can't wait to share their bloggy goodness with the rest of you.

the doomsday dwelling (beauty and the beastly fish killer)

2009-03-11T13:05:00.000-07:00

The topic of today's discussion is the doomsday house, and how I wish they would tear the damn thing down, occupants and all. At this very moment something inside of me wishes that nosy fucking landlord would just die, and yeah... I mean that exactly like it says there. I want the bastard to get smeared by a speeding bus, and I know that's rotten of me, but I don't care.

I've been living in my house for around 3 years now and I've come to appreciate the neighbors to the right of me. They've collected my mail while I was away on vacation. They are very caring, and disturbingly enough, their nosiness comforts me when they know I'm out of town before I do.

The house on the left however, is a completely different story, and I found that out the first week I moved into town. The doomsday occupants, at the time, were a rather young couple that I assume at one time could have been high school sweethearts. She looked like something out of a sports illustrated magazine with her blond hair and legs. Legs, that's all I can really remember about her. Anyways... he looked something like a young and aspiring Sean Astin with big teeth, matted hair, and a fucking myriad of camouflage outfits to hide his true goonie.

The first 3 months I listened to the voices shriek out in sexual angst. Their college bodies and preschool minds clashed like titans through the evenings. She would yell about school and working, he would yell about sex and booze, and I would sit and watch Fox TV on a 13" monitor. A 13" monitor that couldn't drown out the shrill voices bickering over a ninety-dollar-case-of-HPV. A 13" monitor because I didn't have my TV yet, and I didn't have my family yet. I had only had the faintly comforting voices of Fox TV and the neighbors before my real entertainment arrived.

The neighbors kept me up most nights, and prevented me from napping most days. My lack of sleep must have impaired my judgment, because I found many of their arguments amusing. I thoroughly enjoyed the time she chased him out of the house with a flip-flop, whipping him in the head as she vehemently scolded him about a fishing trip he had taken two weeks prior. Apparently she didn't like that the beer cooler outside was still full of fish and water, but thank the lord he saved the beer from getting warm in this 80 degree spring of heat.

Eventually, A-me and the boys moved in. Eventually, the book dodging sweethearts moved out, and eventually, from the comfort of a lounge chair on my deck, I watched the landlord dump out the beer cooler in mid August heat. I watched him gag and heave as he reeled his arms back to cover his nose. The flood of a tempestuous cloud of decomposing trout over took the scrawny man as he ran to the lawn to let the consistent choke escalate to the dry heaves.

I watched him pull furniture, rugs, clothes, and a mess of other shit out to the road. I watched him as he "cleaned" the house and gave tours of the available space; and later that fall I watched the next tenant move in. So stick around my page this week for another exhilarating post about this shit heap of a house I endearingly call the doomsday dwelling.

crap i hate

2009-03-09T06:55:00.000-07:00

Daylight savings time.
Sweet mother of flame retardant biscuits, I am tired, and this isn't your usual yawn because I'm not quite awake yet and it's a Monday tired. This is an agonizing, my head is going to smack my keyboard if I don't find something to prop my head up, tired.
A few people are stupid enough to tell you that the time change doesn't really effect anyone and that's it's all in our heads. Is that why I was wide awake until 3 a.m. last night, because I was up agonizing over how unaffected I am with this time change?

Living in North Dakota.
We are having our 4th or 5th blizzard warning of the season. Driving on roads that have 1 inch of solid ice pack from the rain we recieved last night, and watching the snow begin to stick as cars careen into the ditch gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling inside. Even though last month it was too fucking cold to snow! When you can wake up and see a sun dog, or walk outside and see your breath crystalize before it falls to the sidewalk... you must be a complete idiot for living where you do. And yeah, I'm a complete idiot.

Mondays.
Mondays are a continual state of necrosis on my life. They just eat away at everything. I can't even look forward to the weekend without being reminded that a Monday immediately follows.

bankrupt fairy

2009-02-24T11:49:00.000-08:00

On Thursday Mr. 7 lost his fourth tooth. A-me and I were rather excited that this dangler was finally gone. The damn tooth had been lose since Christmas and it just would not sit uniform with the rest. Mr. 7 would smile and all you could see was that tooth coming at you like some visual affect from a 3D movie. And Mr. 7 was excited as well, seeing how his bankroll was getting a little low and that 2 dollars would really help him through this stretch of financial drought.

On Friday morning while we were all participating in the zombie shuffle, Mr. 7 came down to inform us that the tooth fairy must have been super busy. So busy she didn't pay him a visit.
Holy shit! We forgot! We suck! We should have that fuckin' fairy's wings ripped off!
Unfortunately Mr. 5 wet his bed at 4 in the morning, so it was rather obvious that while Mr. 5 was battling the Uri-demon he scared off the damn tooth fairy.

Fortunately enough the tooth fairy was able to visit our house while Mr. 7 was at school. I found the winged little wretch dancing around the living room leaving a dollar bill and four quarters sprawled out on the coffee table. That tooth fairy is evil, and I believe she's using drugs.. she just left! Could not even fly her happy pixie ass upstairs to deliver the money. Bitch.

I picked up Mr. 7 at school, he was excited. At first I thought he was excited to see if the tooth fairy had paid him a visit, but he clearly proved me wrong when he showed me an additional aperture in his smile. Both of his k-9's are gone, but at least now he can eat an apple without biting himself in the nose.

We hurried home to discover the tooth fairy had, indeed, left two dollars under his pillow, and the excitement stayed with him all night until he passed out on the living room floor.
Do you think the fucking tooth fairy would have been smart enough to make the switch while Mr. 7 was sleeping on the floor? No, of course not, the bitch tried to forget again! So I had to grab her by her fuzzy little slippers and shake her around a bit. I tossed her around like some cheap, Tinkerbell knockoff and forced her up the stairs. I had to help her dig underneath Mr. 7's pillow. The baggy that should have been close to the edge of his pillow was shuffled back underneath his head. With stealth, sweat, and determination the tooth fairy and I had to lift his head and pull up the pillow in order to retrieve the tooth.

I was relieved once the deed was done. Mr. 7 wouldn't wake up to a disappointment, and I wouldn't have to deal with that doped up fairy for a while.

Monday when I came home from work Mr. 7 proudly showed his toothless smile, and with excitement he pointed out another gap in his acrylics.
Fuck.
So the tooth fairy is comin' around again... any more loose teeth and I'll have to take out a personal loan for this bitch.

valentines gift ideas to win her over

2009-02-10T21:07:00.000-08:00

#1... A three day old, half eaten donut with the filling squeezed out.
To me this says: Hey beautiful, even though life has encrusted you with a hardened shell and pulled the goodness from within you... I'd still eat you.

#2... A neon green, plastic ring adorned with some sort of rock candy.
To me this says: I dug deep into my pockets to buy you this wonderful gift that's as cheap and tacky as you are, and even after I've chewed up the sweetness about you, you're still colorful.

#3... A small crystal glass that used to be a candle holder.
To me this says: Now that our flame has vanished into the air you appear to be empty inside, but at least you still smell good.

#4... A three foot, hand crafted, pink macaroni heart.
To me this says: Even though we're broke because you won't stop buying shoes... I still love you. Put this in water for 20 minutes and we'll have a fine, romantic dinner for two.

#5... The MEGA Rock Ballads cassette.
To me this says: You may be old fashioned with your warped body, latex pant-suits, and your 30 inch bangs of ratted Rave... but I love you for the loose play back you give to me time and time again.

#6... A 13 foot, inflatable cupid to stake in the front yard.
To me this says: Even though a subtle hint of wind can knock us down, and the neighbors can see just how fast I go limp when the lights go off... my love still grows for you every time you turn me on.

all day relief

2009-02-09T14:34:00.000-08:00

My house has been under attack of the rhino-cold-virus thingy for about two weeks now. I thought I was fucking invincible as I watched A-me go down for the count twice, Mr. 7 and Mr. 5 out for a couple days, and I had nothing but my normal sneeze here and there. Unfortunately on Saturday I realized I am a mere mortal. I woke up at the butt crack of dawn with a neon green softball jammed up my right nostril, my face was fucking melting, and then there was what felt like a wool jacket on the inside of my throat. Awesome!

Punk skull pajamas, fuzzy wool slippers, and a big brown leather coat are the items that accompanied me and my 20 foot pile of bad hair, to the local drug store... and they were OUT!!!!!!! of my usual i feel like shit medicine. So I purchased what I thought was the next best thing. I purchased this:

Once I got home, I ate the breakfast of champions, and no, I really don't know what it was... I couldn't taste it. Shortly there after I shuffled into the living room, mouth gaping wide open, drool plummeting to the floor, eyes lethargic and reddened like some movie extra from Shaun of the Dead.

Yeah, I took one of these pills. Just one, and this one pill that took an act of fucking congress to open. Holy MOTHER of God! just fucking open already!!

Within minutes I felt like a monkey stuffed in a fish-bowl. My eyelids felt like they had been pulled back over my forehead. Vision, slightly fu- hey! how did we end up at the movie theater? Is this my popcorn? Where the fuck is my toothbrush!?!?

This shit gets five glorious fucking stars. I wasn't even aware that I had a face, let alone a runny nose or a stuffy head. Sunday morning rolled around and I could still feel residuals, I still felt like I had snorted 14 pounds of cocaine, I felt fabulous. WHAT COLD?!?!?! I don't even remember having a weekend.

reality cooking

2009-02-04T11:34:00.000-08:00

Are you one of those people that's easily inspired? I am... I get motivated like no other. A-me watches a hip-hop dancing competition on TV and within seconds my foot is bouncing up, down, side-to-side and I wanna bust a move!

The same thing happens to me when we sit through another compelling drama movie that's already been produced. And don't act like you don't know what type of movie I'm talking about, cause you know!! The "Dangerous Minds" remake EVERY other year with some troubled teen making it big time in some fucking prep school for the kids with gifted legs. Yeah, THAT movie. I hate those movies, and yet, every time we watch one I wanna glide my happy ass through the house and break into a Micheal Jackson choreographed episode of coolness. An episode I'm sure looks something more like a case of epilepsy, but whatever.

This past weekend A-me and Mr. 7 were glued to Food Network, and whaddya think happened? Yeah, I wanted to cook. It's not like I CAN'T cook... I can grill, and I can microwave, and I can make eggs... but I normally don't stray too far from home with the cooking routine. So this was all very new to me, this ...compelling and annoying NEED to cook something, very annoying.

I tripped over an awesome blog, and in it I found a recipe that seemed... too easy. And when I read it I began drooling over my desk like some Labrador on hunt because the thought of eating it was consuming my motor functions. So I contemplated over actually following through with this, I mean... this is serious shit! This is like selling a new car, if I hand out a lemon... my reputation is ruined. So I thought about it for an eternity that took up 32.8 seconds before I committed myself.

I made a list of things I didn't think we kept in the house that I would need to purchase. I secretly checked the cupboards, the spice rack, and the refrigerator. I made small little adjustments to the recipe, making it more my own and doubling the fear of fucking it all up.

The following evening I went to the store. Alone.
I inspected things. I looked at limes with an inquisitive nature and tried to act like I had some sensible knowledge for what a good lime looks like. I picked a green one.
Yeah, me... all by myself, I picked out a fucking lime. Move the fuck over Rachael Ray, Orion's in the kitchen now!

I looked at green onions, and yeah... I know those aren't IN the recipe. But I did it anyway... I picked out green onions. I picked green ones. And I was gonna put those in the recipe! Yeah, me... I made that choice, I fucked with the recipe, because that's what chefs do.

I made my selections, and with excitement I sped home from the grocery store. I threw everything on the counter, and dug out the cooking devices, and washed my hands. Yeah, me... I washed my hands, and not because they were green.

I followed the directions... step, by step, by step.
I didn't spray myself in the eye with lime juice. I didn't slice off a finger when chopping. It wasn't hard. It was easy... too easy.

So with skepticism, we ate the Monterey chicken. I was expecting faces of terror from the boys, grimacing with agony because this molten substance was melting their teeth. I was expecting A-me to throw her nose into the air, shove her plate forward with disgust, and proclaim that this is why we don't try new things. Nothing.

It was fucking awesome. It was easy.... and now all I want to do is cook something else.

DAMMIT!

smile!! or not...

2009-02-02T14:37:00.000-08:00

This past weekend was "family photo" day for A-me and the boys. After 4 years of watching this little tradition, I never realized just how much preparation is involved for the perfect 8 x 10. Hours, yes... HOURS at Old Navy. Finding matching shirts that were exactly the same, but not.
(Did I just go over your head? If so, that's okay, I'm still not sure if I understand this concept.)
And for a shocking end result, you'll be blown off your rickety little swivel chairs to find that I... yes, I picked the shirts. Polos like I wear, complete with matching "dead stuff" on the front. Mr. 7 wears the blue and brown, Mr. 5 wears the orange and brown, sorry... vermilion, for you fashion trendy fuckers. Scary isn't it? My boys are "just like me" with their ripped up faded jeans and their shirts with "dead stuff." I feel so proud.

Yes, feel so proud until Mr. 5 won't fucking smile to save his soul. Stick his tongue out? YES! Smile? No way. I couldn't have slapped myself with a rubber chicken to make that boy smile "pretty." I've seen him smile more at the doctors office when they pummeled his legs with shots, but this?!?!?!
He smiled like an Easter Island head.

I was a little frustrated. Even more so after the fat, obnoxious photo-taking bitch wouldn't stop asking me if I wanted to be in the photo with them. NO, this is something special, something sacred, and no matter how deep I can possibly infiltrate the camp of Heart A-me, there's some things you just don't fuck with, like a mother's traditions.

oh yeah, and visit my other half. No, not her... HERE.

an informative post...

2009-01-30T11:45:00.000-08:00

1. Admitting when you're wrong.
No, that's not what this is about...
I'm making a conscience effort to reply to my comments. Some of those comments are fucking hilarious, some of them are better than my post and if they are better than my post...
watch your stupid little fingers cause someone might glue them together in your sleep. Or something. Never mind. Hey!! who wants coffee?!?!?!?!?

2. Be thankful for others.
Yeah, don't let that bitch take advantage of you like that... she needs to know when she..
umm... I put a link over in the navigational pane (right---->) and it says "flash me." And no, it isn't an up link for topless photos, but if you're interested in doing that... you can reach me via email. It's actually a link to some of my own personal flash. Bitching and complaining about completing my portfolio is getting me nowhere... so if you have ideas, comments or suggestions ...please feel free to post them over there.

3. Let go of the past.
Santa's a dick anyways... and I think he's the reason my feeds keep getting resent! I recently did the feedburner/google switch and everything was great. But then the next day came along and it keeps re-feeding? my posts. SO I'M SORRY!!!! Alright!! I didn't mean it... just fuckin' let go of it already.

random phone call

2009-01-29T17:15:00.000-08:00

Orion: Hello?

A-me: Can you pick up the boys tonight?

Orion: Sure, why?

A-me: I have to work late, and then I need to swing by the grocery store to get bread.

Orion: Why can't we just do that at home?

A-me: Do what at home?

Orion: Get bred.

A-me: We're almost out, I have to get some.

Orion: I can give you some...

A-me: oh-my-god (sigh) so you'll get the boys tonight?

Orion: only if I can have the girls.

A-me: ---

Orion: ...hello?

this communication thing, it's too much

2009-01-29T09:42:00.000-08:00

I read a really funny, funny... well... I read this article this morning and it got me thinking. It reminded me of the second grade. And, before you start asking me why I have correlated the "sex talk" with second grade... eh... never mind.

I became ill with the chickenpox and I felt like dog shit. I had NEVER missed a day of school before, and I loved school, so when the teacher and principal hauled me into their office I began crying. I couldn't understand why they were towering over me and probing me with questions. They tossed out massive words at me like "infirm" and "peaked" oh! and "vomit." Vomit was the tailspin word, I heard those big HUGE words and began to cry, all I could think was mom's gonna be so mad at me.

The principal asked me if I felt like I was going to vomit. She didn't ask if I felt sick, or pukey, or yucky, and she didn't ask if my tummy hurt. I had no fucking idea what THAT word meant! So I said yes. And it was like a fucking bomb went off... in seconds the nurse, principal, and my teacher were scrambling around the office grabbing garbage cans and fumbling with the phone and... this was all very traumatic for me. Sitting there on that little padded bench watching them grab blankets, buckets, and then... then they started feeling around my head. Pressing their hands to my forehead, looking inside my ears, and they spoke in this foreign language of giant words, and holy crap, I just want my mom!

Eventually my mom arrived, and when I spotted her in the doorway I began to cry uncontrollably and profess my plea for lenience. She chuckled lightly and told me I was sick.

...I am?

socially challenged

2009-01-26T12:57:00.000-08:00

Despite what you might think (Bee!), I don't hate everyone. I am very social at my job and while I'm out and about, and I can usually get along with damn near everyone, but the number of people I can't stand is beginning to expand faster then Kristy Alley's ever-widening ass. I am becoming socially inept, the thought of some unsuspected conversation lurking around every corner is inverting my personality. This shit is serious! I'm almost afraid to leave my little cube-farm. A-me believes this is caused by the large populous of "hicks" and "red-necks." that live in this area. I prefer the less sensitized terms "shit-kicking cowboys" and "hillbilly mother fuckers with only 3 teeth."

ME: We have 13 engines on the floor in assembly, they are returns, they have been reworked, and they need to get placed into stock.

GUY WITH NO TOP TEETH: So these engines, is there something wrong with them?

ME: No... they have been fixed, they are under warranty, so put them into stock.

GUY WITH NO TOP TEETH: Well where should I put them?

ME: On the shelf, with the rest of the inventory?!

GUY WITH NO TOP TEETH: So can we use 'em then?

ME: Yeah, they've been fixed. Do you have any other questions before I willingly throw myself into that wood-chipper?

GUY WITH NO TOP TEETH: So just put these on the shelve then?

.....shudder. It's people like this that give me the "creepy-crawlies." They don't even have to say anything.