Thursday, September 23, 2010

The Facebook

I think the time has come for me to get my own facebook page.  For those not aware, my current facebook page is the husband's facebook page.  Well technically his page is my page.  We're not one of those couples with a combined page, like Mr. and Mrs. Sarcasm Goddess.  No, his page just says Mr. Sarcasm Goddess, except that it doesn't say that all, it says his name, Mark W.

Those of you who've read my I Don't Get Technology post are probably all what!  You're getting a facebook page?!  I thought you were against it and didn't get it.  And to you all I say, yes you are right.  But after the latest facebook disaster, I think it is an absolute necessity and yes, it is going to be one hot mess.

What was the latest disaster?, you ask.  Well, let's just say the husband and I were watching The Shawshank Redemption. (Okay, time out.  Have you guys seen The Shawshank Redemption?  Worst. Movie. Ever.  You're probably like, no.  It's such a good movie.  I love that movie.  Yeah, that's what I thought too.  Until I watched it.  Again.  I watched it one time a long time ago and ever since I've been like, it's such a good movie.  I love that movie.  But apparently I had blocked out the bad parts.  Can we say insane amounts of prison rape and beating?  The prison rape and beating isn't graphically shown, but it happens.  A lot. For years.  And it made me sick.  For days.  To those of you all pissed because you've never seen TSR, and you think I just spoiled the movie, RELAX.  I didn't.  It's a movie that takes place in prison.  Of course there's going to be raping and beating.  And now you're probably all if you knew there was going to be prison rape and beating, then why were you so upset?  And to that I say, don't question me.  And also. It was disturbing.)

Time in.  So the husband and I were watching the worst  movie ever when his phone starts beeping like a kitchen timer.  Which can only mean one thing.  People are leaving a message/commenting/whatever-it-is-you-do-on-facebook on Mark W's wall.  I think it's called a wall.  I'm not really sure, because remember I DON'T GET THE FACEBOOK.  So then he starts telling me what people are saying and I start to freak the freak out and run to the computer.  The comments weren't bad or inappropriate or anything.  They were actually very nice and I LOVED them.  They just needed to be removed immediately.  Which made me feel horrible, because these super awesome ladies are my friends and they were doing something that I beg people to do on the daily and now I had to remove what they said and send them a private message to NEVER DO IT AGAIN.  (I know it would probably make more sense if I explained what they said and why I was so freaked out, but it's just better if I don't.  If I did it would probably cause the world to implode or something, and I'm already incredibly stressed out and I just can't deal with that guilt.)  So I sent my super awesome friends, that I love so much, a private message and then removed their comment, which forever removed them from my wall, which I totally did not want.  Which led to more freaking the freak out.  It was finally all resolved but I'm pretty sure I broke Mark W's page forever.  It just hasn't seemed to operate properly since the incident.

I'm kinda sad to be leaving the husband's facebook page.  Somewhere Green Day's "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)" is playing to a slideshow of all the great times we've had there.  Tear.  It really is the end of an era.  I'm not going to shut down his page, because, memories (and because I've heard once you create a facebook page, you have it for, like, ever.  Remember that, you slutty teenage girls).  I think I'll turn his page into The Husband and Sarcasm Goddess facebook page, only with our real names.

One person who's really going to be sad I'm getting my own page is the husband.  He just loved it when I was him on The Facebook, especially when I sent all my girl friends (not girlfriends, I'm not a lesbian Patrick.  Quick! Name that movie!) a martini bumper sticker that said Girls Night Out.  Or after returning from a fabulous Las Vegas trip with the fabulous McL's, I sent my friend Ashleigh a chip-n-dales bumper sticker with the message "next time we're there."  Only instead of sending it to Ashleigh McL. I sent it to her husband Adam McL. because in my list of friends, and in the alphabet, Adam comes before Ashleigh and because Adam's profile picture was what Ashleigh's used to be, and oops.  So what appeared to The Facebook world went something like this: Mark W. sent Adam McL. a chip-n-dales bumper sticker with the message "next time we're there."  Yes, yes, I quickly realized my mistake and there was loud gasping, coughing, sputtering, clutching of the chest and hysterical-spewing-up-a-lung laughing from me, while the husband shouts "what did you do!"  But really, honey it's okay, cuz everyone knows it's me on The Facebook.

But apparently not everyone knows it's me on The Facebook, because recently it was Adam McL's b-day and I said Happy Birthday! complete with the exclamation mark and jazz hands.  And he responded "thanks bro" so either Adam thinks I'm a dude or he thinks Mark W. gets really excited about his bros' birthdays.

Yes, I'm going to miss all the good times.  Like when Mark W. told Kinsley he loved her dress or when Mark W. told Tabitha, right after she had a baby, that he hopes her vag will be feeling better and back and action soon.  Don't worry, that was sent over the private message thingy.  I didn't check with the husband, but I'm pretty sure he would have lost his s.h.i.t. had I posted that for all the world to see.  He's so uptight.

Anyhoudini, be on the lookout for my page.  And if I friend request you, you better accept or I will develop all kinds of issues.  More than the ones I already have.  If you friend request me and I don't accept right away, don't take it personal.  I'm pretty facebooktarded and sometimes it takes me awhile to realize what's going on.  But if it takes me more than awhile, then you should take it personal because it probably means I don't like you.  I kid.  I love you.  I really do.  So let's be bff's on The Facebook and we'll have good times.  Not as good as the times we had on the husband's page, but we'll do our best...Just Kidding!  We'll totally have way more fun on my page!  See you there!

Thursday, September 16, 2010

This Story Really Isn't All That Interesting and You Should Only Read It If You are Feeding Your Baby at 4 a.m., are bored at work, or someone is holding a gun to your head forcing you to read this

Please pardon the title.  I got tired of capitalizing the first letter of each word. 

I couldn't be more lazy if I tried.

Today I ordered a chicken bacon ranch sub, with a side of ranch, from Dominos.  (And I wonder why I'm gaining weight.)

I walked into Dominos and told the Dominos Dude I was picking up an order for Kelley.

Dominos Dude: Shelley?

Me: Kelley

Dominos Dude: Shelley?

Me: Sure.

Dominos Dude: Oops.  I wrote down Shelley.  Wait...did you order a sub?

Me: Yes.

Dominos Dude: I have an order for a Shelley and a Kelley.

Me: Oh, it was probably my twin.  Well, technically, she's not my twin.  When I was little I had a friend who looked a lot like me and we used to pretend we were twins.  She would say her name was Kelley and I would say my name is Shelley.  Which means you were right when you called me Shelley.  How'd you do that?  Oh my gosh, do you think the Shelley who placed an order is my long lost twin who technically wasn't my twin, just a friend who looked a lot like me?  I should stick around until she shows up to see if it's her.  But I guess if it was her she would have said her name was Kelley.  Unless she did and that's why you kept saying my name is Shelley.  Shelley's kind of a weird name, don't you think.  I mean, it has the word shell in it.  Shells are something you collect at the beach.  You can't just throw an "e.y.", or a "y,", or an "i," or an "i.e." at the end of it and call it a name.  That'd be like someone looking at the sand and saying "you know what would make a good name?  Sandy."  Wait, that actually is a good name.  Okay, it'd be like someone naming their kid Beachy or Oceany.  Those are horrible names.  Um, unless your mom or your sister or your mother or your wife is named either one of those.  Then they're totally awesome names.  You're not going to spit in my sub are you?

The Dominos Dude said nothing.  Possibly becasue that entire soliloquy happened in my head.

Why do I feel the need to share these things?

I Don't Want To Be His Mother, But Sometimes, There's No Other Way (Updated)

This posted has been updated to remove information that the husband has deemed too personal to share with the world.  My bad.  I should have checked with him first before posting.  Sorry, husband.

Tonight the husband decided to do battle with our dog Cody.  By "do battle" I mean Cody was in his psychotic frenzied mood in which, if you even get in his general vicinity, he will freaking cut you.  Seriously, his nails are like razor blades.  You feel the slice, you look down but don't see anything.  A few minutes later blood is dripping down your leg.  When Cody gets in his frenzied psychotic mood, the husband likes to egg him on by lunging at him and pushing him as he jumps in the air.

Tonight's psychotic frenzy took place in the garage.  "I'm anticipating some new scars," I said.  Sure enough a few seconds later, the husband had blood dripping down his leg.

Of course, being a typical boy he did nothing about the blood and let it crust to his leg.

Then, as we were in the bathroom getting ready for bed, this happened:

Me: You need to clean that so you don't get flesh eating bacteria and they have to amputate your leg.  I'm pretty sure I won't be with you any more if you have an amputated leg.

The husband grabs a towel and walks to the sink.

Me: No! Don't use a towel!

The husband: Well then how am I supposed to clean it?

Me, pointing to the shower: Get in there and use soap and water and clean it.

The husband gets in the shower and I start brushing my teeth.

Me: Are you using soap?

The husband: Yes, mom.

Me: What soap?

The husband holds up the bar soap.

Me: Oh, the soap that's been sitting on the shower floor?

Something happens next that I cannot reveal, but let's just say that it is typical boy behavior.

Me: What is wrong with you?  This is so going on my blog.

More stuff happens that makes the husband say: You're treating me like a child.

Me: Because you're...

The husband: What, I'm acting like one?

Me: Blood is dripping down your leg.

The husband reaches for a towel again.

Me: No!  I don't want blood all over the towel.  And that one's not even clean.  Do what you do when you cut your face shaving and stick toilet paper to it.

The husband does as I say then walks out of the bathroom with the bloody tissue.

Me: Where are you going with that? Don't throw it in that trashcan or the dogs will get it out because there's blood on it.

The husband sits on the edge of the bed and begins dabbing at the blood: I wasn't finished.  Jeez, you're so bossy.

Me: I'm sorry for caring about your bloody cut.

The husband: Cunt?


Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Celebrate Good Times

Sorry I've been MIA for awhile.  I've been high.  From excitement.

Drum roll please...............



I have a new follower!  Which means I have fifteen followers!!  Woo to the Hoo!

Let's all welcome Sandy to the circle of awesomeness.

Welcome Sandy.  I and my followers hereby dub you awesome.

Here is your award:

No, not that box, you perverts.

Her cornhole box. 

No, cornhole is not code for some other hole on her body.  Cornhole is an actual box that people try to throw their bean bags in.

No, bean bags is not code for some male body part.  What is wrong with you people?

Cornhole is a game you play when tailgating.  It is an actual wooden box that has a hole in it that people try to throw bean filled bags in to.  You get one point for landing your bag on the box and three points for getting it in.  (Thanks to the Jersey Shore, that is pretty much the dirtiest thing I've ever said.  If you don't know what I'm talking about you are missing out on some high quality TV.)

Just to clarify, Sandy one time broke her cornhole box.  Her actual box is intact.  I assume.  I don't know for sure because I haven't seen it.  I mean, we're friends and all, but boundaries, people.

So um, welcome Sandy and thanks for following.  I'm sorry I talked about your box.  My readers are dirty pervy whores who made me do it.  Please don't unfollow me.

On a somewhat related note.  You know how when you're trying to type a letter or a memo or create an envelope or something like that in Word and that stupid paperclip comes up and tries to help you?  That thing is so annoying.

Friday, September 10, 2010

Conversations With The Husband

Me: My coworker told me how he and his wife start each day.  It's so nice.

The husband: How?

Me: Whoever gets up first makes the coffee, then they both drink it in bed and talk about what they're going to do that day and any big plans they have for the week.  Isn't that a great way to start your day?

The husband: Yeah, I'll try that tomorrow.  I'll bring you the coffee and you'll smack it in my face.  You'll dump it in my lap and say "how's your day going?"

A few weeks ago the husband and I went to a Japanese restaurant for some yummy sushi.

The husband: I feel like why is Chinese food so much better than Japanese food?

The husband: I meant Chi- Japanese is better.

Me: I feel like why is it better.  What does that even mean?

The husband: I meant why is Chinese food...

The husband: sigh

The husband: Why is Japanese food so much better than Chinese food?

Me: I think that's a matter of opinion.

Later when we are leaving the restaurant and selecting peppermints from the giant bowl of mints and candy they have by the front door, I gasp and point to some fortune cookies in the bowl.

The husband: What?

Me: That's not right.

The husband: What?  Fortune cookies at a Chinese rest-  Dammit!

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Someone's Getting Stabbed

This post started out as marriage advice; however, this is the third time I'm attempting to write this because my computer is a douche and decided to shut down for no other reason than being douchey, so now I'm feeling stabby and this post will still contain marriage advice but probably also a whole bunch of other crap that I, in no way, take responsibility for.

So here goes the marriage advice.  Did you know that 86% of marriages that end in divorce do so because of mixed signals?  I'm not entirely sure that that figure is accurate or if that statistic actually exists.  It's highly possible that I just made it up.  But statistics make people sound more credible - according to an article in Cosmo that said 93% of people take advice more seriously if that advice contains facts and figures.

Just kidding.  Cosmo doesn't have articles like that.  Their articles are all about sex.  Like the top 5 things NOT to do to get your man in the mood:

5. Punch him in the testicles
4. Light his nipples on fire
3. Laugh at the size of his penis
2. Tell him you fantasize about his brother
1. Say, "are you sure it's hard?"

Really Cosmo?  Did we really need an article to tell us that punching our man in the balls will not assist in achieving an optimum sexual experience?

But lighting nipples on fire?  You obviously didn't include the husband in your survey, because that totally turns him on.

Okay, fine.  He totally hated it that time I tried and now I'm banned from using lighters.  Which means all the candles in my house are purely decorative now.  Thanks a lot Cosmo.

As I was saying, mixed signals in a marriage can lead to divorce.


The wife who tells the husband, "sure honey, go out and drink with your friends while I clean house from top to bottom getting it ready for your mother's impending visit."  And the husband's like, "are you sure you don't need my help?"  And the wife says, "do whatever you want honey."  And the idiot husband goes out and has drinks with the guys.  And when he gets home he's ambushed by his wife who stabs him in the kneecap with a broken broomstick.

That's a classic case of mixed signals.  Well, technically it's a classic case of mixed signals.  But it's more the case of the husband being a total moron.  Here's a tip guys: if your woman says do whatever you want, DON'T DO IT.  What she really means is, if you do what you want I will stab you in the kneecap.

I feel the need to point out that this example was purely an example.  Not a description of a situation that has actually happened to me and the husband.  He would never leave the cleaning of the whole house for an impending mother-in-law visit entirely to me.  He actually does his fair share of cleaning and is quite good at it.

So, that was just an example.  And not a very good one.  The following, however, is a very real life example of mixed signals the husband and I recently had.

Road trips with the husband are super fun, but also mildly frustrating.  He likes to listen to talk radio.  I like to listen to music.  I usually win because I pitch a fit until I get my way the husband is nice; however, deciding on what type of music to listen is like trying to cure cancer, accomplish world peace, insert your own cliche here.

Recently we traveled to Gainesville to see the boys of old Florida fumble a whole bunch of snaps (I love you Gators, but really?  Really? Fumbling snaps?  You're breaking my heart. Also, Steve A-douche-io, you suck.).  The husband was working the radio controls.  He scrolls through the stations and stops on pure crap.

Me (after what is probably only 5 seconds but feels like 50): Really?

The husband: You don't like this?  I was just going to leave it here until you told me you were going to stab me in the throat if I don't change the channel.

He changes the channel.  "I'm in the mood to listen to rap music."

The husband is almost never in the mood to listen to rap music.  Usually car rides go like this:
       Me: Rap music yay!  Salt Shaker. Get Low.  Miss New Booty.  Miss New Booty again.  And again.  Yay for new booties.  This song is great. 
       The husband: Have you seen my gun?

The husband scrolls through the rap stations and stops on a song talking about french fries or some such nonsense.

Me: French fries?  Really?  This song is dumb.

The husband: Not all rap songs are about bitches and hoes f*cking.

Me: N*gg*s and hoes, honey.  It's n*gg*s and hoes that f*ck.

Stoopid rap song:  French fries. French fries. Blah blah blah.  Girl I'm gonna eat your french fries.

Me: Please change this.

The husband: Kelley, I don't know any of the latest rap songs because I always change the channel.  Now, let's listen.

Me: I'm going to stab you in the throat.

The husband changes the channel.  He continues to scroll and finds not one decent song.  Seriously XM radio, you have like 5,000 stations.  Can't you devote at least one of them to music that doesn't make me want to bash my head through a wall.

The husband stops on a song.  Apparently he likes it.  It sucks.  I try to wait it out.  The suckage continues.  Finally I can take it no longer and I explode.  "Change this right now!!  I can't take it!!! AAAAAAA!!!"

The husband: You think you can tell me to change the channel a little sooner, you know, before the frustration builds and you explode?

Hello? Can we say mixed signals?  Apparently threatening to stab him in the throat is okay, but raising my voice is bad.

Now, there's some marriage advice for you.  If your spouse if frustrating you, resort to physical violence.  But don't, under any circumstances, talk in a slightly elevated voice.

Somehow marriage advice about avoiding mixed signals turned into advice on how to communicate or resolve conflict or get your way or something like that.  Which makes me think I'm not so good at this marriage advice thing.  Also, I think I just said it was okay to stab your spouse.  It's totally not okay to stab your spouse.  You shouldn't do that.  That's probably the best advice I've ever given.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Forces of Evil

Last night, all the forces of evil collided.

It started with the truck.  Did I tell you the husband got a truck?  A month or two, or six ago.  I'm not really sure.  I'm trying to block its existence from my mind.

Don't get me wrong, it's a nice truck and all, but a new truck equals car payment.  Something neither the husband nor I have ever had.  A car payment means I can no longer spend four hundred dollars a month at Ann Taylor we can't afford our mortgage.

I mean, technically we can afford our mortgage, in that we still pay it every month, but the point is, car payments suck.

But he had to get a new truck when he left his job to start his own company, which, oh so conveniently coincided with the World Cup.  What luck that he suddenly works from home, where there just happens to be a TV, which just happens to show hours upon hours of men running up and down a field in the hopes that after eighty-nine point four minutes of playing someone will score a goal.  And everyone's all woo-hoo and the stadium is filled with the sound of cicadas on crack.  But at least the game is over and your team won.  Yes, there is four minutes of stoppage time, but it took eighty-nine minutes to score one goal, there is no way anyone is scoring a goal in four min-


Seriously, how the hell did he do that?

Great, now the score is tied.  How long is overtime?

There is no overtime?  They end in a tie?  So basically what you're telling me is if these two teams hadn't played at all, the outcome would have been the exact same.  You're telling me if the players of these two teams spent the afternoon in their hotel rooms drinking beer and entertaining hookers it would have made absolutely no difference in their standing, because a tie's a tie, whether the score is zero zero or one one.

I'm calling shenanigans.  Can we watch a real sport now?  Like football.  No, not American football.  Just football.  With helmets and padding and big bulging men in spandex.

To summarize all that, the new truck is evil and is responsible for stupid sports.

It's also evil because I need a step ladder to get in it, my feet don't reach the floor and I have to manually adjust my seat.  The husband gets an electric adjuster that not only makes the seat go forward and back, but up and down, adjusts the lumbar support and performs magic tricks.  My seat has that metal bar underneath that you have to pull up on then shimmy your ass back and forth to move it forwards or back.  And you better make sure you hear it click in place or you'll be riding along and someone will slam on the brakes and you'll be flung to the back of the vehicle, which thankfully isn't that far because it's a truck and I don't care what people say about how big the cabin is, and how much room there is in the back.  It's a truck.  The backseat sucks.  I vowed to the husband that I will never sit in the backseat.  Ever.  We could have that truck for fifteen years and I will never step one foot back there.

So the truck was evil force number one.

Number two was our small, single-car driveway and the maniacal bushes that line it.  The husband is still learning how to is really good at parking the truck and gave me plenty of room to exit the evil truck.  And by plenty of room, I mean he pretty much parked on top of the bushes.

I open the door, free fall from the truck and miraculoulsy land on the small sliver of driveway. And there I shall stay for the rest of my life because I cannot move.  In one hand I hold my shoes - I've been wearing five inch heels all day and my knees are shot - while the other hand clings to the open door of the truck.  I can't close it, because then I will lose my balance and fall into the evil bushes.

I attempt to turn.  Enter evil force number three.  Something lands on my foot.  My bare foot.  I scream my head off, fling myself into the bushes and attempt to run, which is ridiculous becuase I'm crammed between a truck and bushes and there is no where for my feet to go.  So instead of running I just flail around like a spaz and hope the inertia of my movement will propel me out of peril.  Except doesn't inertia hold things together, like keeps the earth in orbit or something?  Or not.  I'm not a scientist.  I'm A VICTIM.

I vaguely remember the husband reaching for me, trying to steady me, trying to help.  It was pointless.  Sweet.  But pointless.

I finally free myself from the clutches of the truck and bushes.  Step on the grass - evil force number four - and run upstairs to our front door.

I am frozen in horror.  I hear cursing and muttering from the husband.  He comes to the bottom of the stairs and asks for my keys.

Me: Do you know what just happened?

The husband: I'm guessing a lizard jumped on your foot.

Me: Lizard.

The husband: Do you have your keys?  I dropped mine in the bushes and the flashlight is locked in the car.

Me, eyes wide, vacant: Lizard.

The husband: Can I have your keys?

Me drooling, crumbling to floor: Lizard.

The husband takes my keys from my purse, unlocks the truck, grabs the flashlight and journeys into the bushes to retrieve his keys.  Where he was eaten alive by lizards.