You don't bring me flowers. Thank you for that.

Over at The Pie, where the Faithful Followers switch topics the way a television switches channels, the topic of flowers came up.

As in, receiving flowers.

From a Gentleman.

Now I love me some flowers.  I love roses, lilies, peonies, sweet peas, daisies, etc.  Except for Gardenias.  I hate the smell of Gardenias.  Oh, and daisies reminds me of a joke:


When is a Vase a Vahz?  When it is filled with Dahzies.

Bahhahahahaha!  I hate it when people pronounce "vase" as "vahz."  So pretentious.  Like pronouncing "endive" as "ondeeve."  Please.

Anyway.  I love flowers.  I love having fresh flowers in a lovely vase (not vahz) on my tables and/or mantels.

But as for RECEIVING flowers from a gentleman, well, I'd rather not received them.

Not because I'm some sort of militant feminist who doesn't need a damn man to buy her flowers because she can buy her own damn flowers but because I don't have a good track record when it comes to receiving flowers from Gentlemen.

A few examples:

Back in my wild misspent youth (read: single slutty days): I arrived at work one morning after an alcohol soaked evening that ended with a walk of shame (if you get my drift) and there on my desk was a massive bouquet of roses, a couple dozen of them, along with a Magnum of Champagne.  My one-night-stand had sent them.  I must have shown him quite a good time (if you get my drift) and he wanted to show his appreciation.  Me?  I wanted to forget the night (and him) had ever happened (parts were big blanks so I guess I did.  Kind of).  He?  Wanted to bring me home to Meet his Mom.  I guess I was That Good.

I reacted by never taking his calls and avoiding him like the plague.  Because I'm mature like that.

Example #2:  I had this friend.  Bob was his name.  He was funny and cute and we were Best Friends.  Partners in Crime.  Cronies.  Sidekicks.  It was strictly a Platonic Friendship.  At least on MY part.  But one day we did the Grownup.  I was bored, is my only excuse.  Immediately I realized it was a mistake and figured we go back to being just Friends.  Without Benefits.

He, on the other hand, thought differently.  As I found out when a couple of days later he brought me roses, professed his love and told me he thought his family's big Christmas get-together would be the perfect time to announce our engagement.  

Huh wha?

Sadly, our friendship, not to mention our "romance" came to a screeching halt as I reacted to his proposal in a very mature manner:  I ran away and avoided him like the plague.  Because I'm mature like that.

Cut me some slack, I was 21.  This Girl just wanted to have Fun.  Not marry a guy who was, shall we say, "underwhelming" in the sack (if you get my drift).

Example #3:  I had made the decision to end a long relationship because I had lost that lovin' feelin'.  It happens.  I was going to meet with him after work and dump his ass give him the "it's not you, I need my space, we can still be friends" speech.  Right before lunch, I look up and there he is, walking toward me with a big bouquet of roses and an expression of such love on his face as my coworkers, who all absolutely ADORED him, applauded and cooed.

And I'm all, "Fuuuuuuuuck."

It was another six months before I was finally able to Officially end the relationship because he must have sensed my feelings and switched into overdrive with the romantic gestures and it made me feel guilty.  

So I reacted by cheating on him every chance I got.  Because I'm mature like that.

Fast forward to when TheManTheMyth and I had been married for about a year or so.

It's my birthday.  TheManTheMyth presents me with a beautiful bouquet of roses.  Obviously to soften the blow of my actual birthday present.  Which was a transmission for the Baja Bug he had given me for Christmas.  Which was something I never asked for nor wanted.

THIS is a Baja Bug:

And they say Romance is Dead.

But wait!   There's more!

One day, TheManTheMyth comes walking in the door with a dozen red roses and a stupid grin on his face.  Instantly my guard is up.

A moment later, my mother-in-law walks in with her little slapdog Tinkerbell (I HATED that dog.) and a suitcase. 

And TMTM tells me that MIL will be staying with us for a couple of weeks and you don't mind do you honey and did I mention that I'm leaving in a few minutes for a Boys Trip and I'll be gone about the entire duration of my mom's stay and look here are some lovely flowers for you because I love you so much because you're the Best Wife in the World and oh look, my ride is here I gotta go. 


And THAT is why I'd rather not receive flowers from a Gentleman.

I survived 4th of July and why I would be a TERRIBLE juror

Let me begin by saying I survived 4th of July 2011.  It was a tough job but someone had to do it.

Actually, it was a piece of cake because ya wanna know what I did to celebrate our Glorious Nation's Independence Day?

Nuthin'.  I did nuthin'.

Oh, I don't mean I sat in a trance-like state for hours and hours on end.  I mean I did nothing special or celebratory.  No BBQing with friends and mass quantities of alcohol, no lighting of fireworks, no waving of sparklers, no battling traffic to get to the beach, no driving anywhere so I could see spectacular displays of pyrotechnics.

Because who knows how to party?

Not this gal.  At least, not any more.

I used to, though.  There used to be a time where it wasn't considered a successful July 4th unless July 5th was spent suffering from epic hangovers, various burns and mystery bruises.  Among other things.  Things that may or may not have included the words, "Uh, Who are you?" or, "What the hell did I DO last night?" or "Dude, where's my car?"

Good times.

Nope, them days are gone for me.  And I don't miss them because I have become a cranky old lady who does not find enjoyment in drunken shenanigans any more.

So I spent the 4th doing housework, taking Gracie Lou for walks and watching the "BBQ Pitmasters" marathon on TV.  Which was a stupid thing to do because I was STARVING when I was watching.  

"Never watch food shows when you're hungry" is a rule to go along with "Never go the the supermarket when you're hungry or you will come home with Scooterpies, Bugles and Soda."  Don't ask me how I know this.

I'm still craving BBQ today.  So guess what's for dinner tonight?  Spaghetti.  


I will probably never be picked to serve on a jury.  Because every time (okay, once) I've been told to report to a courtroom for selection, I've admitted that it would be 99.9% impossible to keep my piehole shut and not discuss the case.  I can't keep a secret so why would I keep quiet about a criminal case?  Please.

Anyway, it's probably a good thing I won't be serving on a jury any time soon, especially after being dumbfounded by the Casey Anthony verdict of Not Guilty.  It would be very difficult for me to separate my personal feelings (THAT BITCH KILLED HER DAUGHTER!) from the legal aspects of "Did the defense provide Reasonable Doubt?"

And it would be difficult for me to focus on trivial things like Evidence when I'm thinking to myself, "That lawyer is a assbag douchecanoe and where did he/she get that suit and those shoes!  Sheesh!" and then during boring segments keeping my mind from wandering toward things like "I hope Teemu Selanne doesn't retire" and "Pulled pork and fried dill pickles sound so good right now!" and "I hope there's another season of 'My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding!'"


Because that's how I roll.


God Bless America.

Just some random stuff

For some strange reason, I have been craving onion rings and french fries.  Or as Jack in the Box called them, "Frings."  Oh, now I'm really hungry for JitB tacos and Frings.  And my kid has my car right now.  He went running off to the local "Build a Bear Workshop" to make something for his girlfriend.  That boy has quite the romantic side and I have no idea where he got it.  He certainly didn't get from his father.  Or me.  

See if you can guess what this is:

Go on.  Guess.

I took this picture myself and I think it's pretty darn neat.  Very abstract.

So Prince Albert of Monaco and Charlene Wittstock are married.  And hell yeah I totally believe that she tried to bolt prior to the wedding.  3 times if the rumors are true.


On one hand, you know it's bad when the bride has to be forced to stay in the country by having her passport confiscated but on the other hand, she and ol' Albert, who hasn't seemed to learn that old adage, "Use a condom and you will learn, no deposit means no return," have been together for how long?  She had to have known what she was getting herself into.


However, didn't Charlene look like "Dead Man Walking" during the civil service.  There was no joy in Bugville there.


Oh! and Princess Stephanie.  Holy crap she looks like hammered shit.  Rode hard and put away wet.  Like she has spent way too much time in dive bars.  Like she had run off and joined the circus or something.  What?  Oh.  Yeah.  She DID run off and join the circus.  I half expect to see her on "My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding."


And SPEAKING of "MBFGW" how much do I love this show?  I love it more than chocolate.


I am completely and utterly fascinated with this show.  From the (ahem) virginal young girls dressing up (and dancing) like they were pole dancing skanks to the gargantuan wedding dresses that are too big to fit down the aisles of the church.  I so want to try on one of those massive dresses that they can't seem to walk in without goosestepping.  Why is it so hard to walk in those dresses?  Scarlett O'Hara didn't seem to have any trouble navigating HER massive hoopskirts.


I doubt MBFGW will be back for a second season, though. 

Dammit.

But speaking of a show that is coming back for another season, "Two and a Half Men" will supposedly be killing off the character of Charlie Harper to make room for Ashton Kutcher's character.  

To which I say, "Bad." 

This is supposed to be a COMEDY and killing off the main character is just kind of, well, a Bummer.


The writers can come up with something much more funny than killing off Charlie, which would really be a "Fuck You Dude" from Chuck Lorre to Charlie "My Cheese Slid Off My Cracker With a Vengeance" Sheen.


How's this for explaining Charlie's disappearance:

Charlie runs off to, oh let's say Monte Carlo, and then gets arrested for aiding and abetting Charlene Wittstock when she tried to run away from marrying Prince Albert and he gets thrown in jail and then Princess Stephanie breaks him out and she takes him hide out with the circus and he ends up falling for the bearded lady and he, Bearded Lady and Princess Stephanie live in a menage a' trois in a caravan.

Are you listening Chuck Lorre?  

THAT'S comedy.

They call him, 'The Fidgeter"

I love TheManTheMyth.  Really, I do.  If I didn't love him, I wouldn't have married him and made his life a living hell for these past 22 years.

But he has a Habit.

A Bad Habit.

A Habit that drives me circus-freak crazy.

You see, he fidgets.

He is completely incapable of sitting quietly.  When he is working on blueprints, his foot is tapping, his knee is jiggling and he tap tap taps his pen against the table.

When he is watching the Tee Vee, he tap tap taps the clicker.

When we are eating dinner, he jiggles his foot so much that the table shakes.

As I type this, he is tap tap tapping his foot.  Loudly.  Incessantly.  Annoyingly.

There have been many a time I have reached over and snatched whatever he is tapping  right out of his hand.

I have slammed my hand down on his jiggling knee and snapped, "STOP. IT."

He does this in bed and it shakes the whole bed and I start getting motion sickness from the swaying, shaking bed.

I. Hate. It.

One day, I know I will finally snap and go postal on this infernal tapping, jiggling, fidgeting.

The worst thing?


He is completely unaware he is doing it.


God help me.

But it's a Dry Heat

So I was gone this weekend to the beautiful and HOT city of Palm Springs where my seester and BIL have a beautiful house and I did not bring a computer with me so my only method of web-browsing was with my 1st Generation Motorola Droid and it just doesn't cut the mustard when it comes to catching up on the various blogs I follow.  But it does work splendidly for playing Words With Friends.  At which I suck.  So if any of you play WWF and want an easy win, play against me.  My WWF name is Another Kelly.  It'll be like shooting fish in a barrel.  Like Wayne Gretzky playing against a team of 5 year old beginners.   Like betting that Sarah Palin will say something really stupid and ignorant.


THAT easy.


Anyway.

I mentioned it was HOT.  I had Thing 2 take a picture of the temperature while we were en route:

100 degrees before 10:00am.  We had been watching the temperature gauge climb every mile and we bet that it would hit the Big Triple Digits before it hit 10:00am and we were right.

But it's a Dry Heat.

We spent the weekend lounging in the pool:

and I worked on my melanoma and I can now say that my legs have enough tan color that I can wear shorts and be only somewhat moderately embarrassed instead of REALLY embarrassed.

Yay me.

But the highlight of our weekend was getting to witness a baby bird take his first flight and leave the nest.

Right outside the back door of the house, a Dove had built a nest on top of one of the columns.  And we think Mama Dove was more than ready for Junior to leave the nest, seeing as how she had pretty much stripped the nest of any sort of cushioning and comfort.  Junior was basically sitting on a piece of grass and stucco.

Seriously, there wasn't anything left of the nest.  So we observed Junior all weekend and he observed us cooing at him and on Sunday morning, he started getting up and walking around his little perch.  Not once did he flap his little wings or show an indication he was going to fly the coop so we figured he was looking for Mom & Dad to bring him some breakfast.

I decided to snap a picture and about 5 minutes later, while we were watching, Junior flapped his little wings and we had lift-off.  We were SO not expecting this and he didn't get very far, smacking into the next column and falling down into the bushes.

And of course we screamed and went running to make sure he was okay.

He was.  Although he looked at us like, "What the hell?"

Ma & Pa Dove came fluttering down and hung out with Junior, nudging him to a more secure area and hopefully, he got the hang of this here flying thing and is off into the Wild Blue Yonder.

We would have loved to have stayed another day but some of us (Not me!) had to work the next day so we packed up our stuff and headed home.

When we were driving away, we watched the temperature gauge on my car climb to 114' in about 5 minutes.  

ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN DEGREES.

But it's a Dry Heat.

Thr Rooster Crows at Midnight

So Gracie and I are on our morning walk at our local park, which I love because nobody is there in the early morning hours except for a couple of fishermen and the firemen from the station right at the entrance out for their morning jogs and the cadets from the Police Academy on the north side of the park out for THEIR morning runs and do you wonder why I love this park so much?

Another reason I love my park is because of the flora and fauna I see every morning other than the hot and hunky firemen and police cadets.  The flock of Canada geese and their babies, the regular "Mother Goose" type of geese and their babies, the ground squirrels who chirp a warning whenever we get near their "village" and the tree squirrels who will mug you and steal your car keys if you don't hand over some peanuts.  There's also hawks, osprey, swallows, ducks, raccoons, possums, a fox once in a great while and coyotes.

And this week, there's a new resident residing at the park:

He showed up a couple of days ago and just hangs around this old, abandoned ranger station and kind of looks as if he's thinking, "How the hell did I get HERE?"  


I have no idea where he came from, it's not like he was flying south and looked down and said, "Hey!  Now there's a nice place to hang for the Summer!"


Unfortunately, I think his days are numbered, based on the interest shown by some of the fishermen.  I think they're thinking, "DINNER!" if they can catch him.


Years ago, when the Vietnamese boat people first relocated to the area, the chickens that had roamed the parking lot at Knott's Berry Farm for decades started disappearing.


America, Land of Free Catch-Your-Own Chicken!

Great.  Now I'm having a craving for Mrs. Knott's Chicken Dinner.

Anyway.


So then, I'm driving home from the park this morning and I actually hit a crow that didn't fly fast or high enough and does anyone know if that's a bad omen?  I'm thinking it is because I've got a big ol' cold sore/fever blister showing up on my lip and I got bit or stung by something, I don't know what, on my sternum area and it hurts like a MoFo and it's big and swollen and bruised-looking and did I mention it HURTS?  Oh, I'm REAL attractive right now.  Jason Statham should be knocking on my door any minute to profess his undying love for me because I'm such a catch right now what with my herp and my bite between my boobs.


But on the Good News Front, Thing 1 was notified that he is the proud recipient of a couple of grants that will cover all his tuition and books for his entire sophomore year AND the first semester of his junior year.  How relieved proud are we?

Okay, I gotta go put medicine on my Herp.


Beauty, eh?

I have a new Gypsy Wagon!

No, I don't mean that I have a REAL Gypsy Wagon:

 Although I would LOVE one of these because how cool is this thing?  If I lived on a large property, meaning just a bit more than the 6,000 square foot lot my house in the 'burbs sits on now, I would have one of these and use it as either a guest room or my own little sanctuary.  A place I could just chill out in and maybe read some taro cards or peer into my crystal ball and yes, I really do have a crystal ball.  Quartz crystal, not lead.  Although I don't actually have any taro cards.  Yet.  Sorry.

Anyway.

In case you're wondering, my family calls me, "Gypsy" and my car is the Gypsy Wagon.

Clever.

And Original.

Anyway.

As you may have read previously, I've been going through a bit of a car saga.  My old Gypsy Wagon, a leased 2008 Saturn Vue is getting returned and TheManTheMyth and I had different ideas for a new Gypsy Wagon.  He says "Used" and I said, "New."

And since he's the Breadwinner of the Family, he gets his way.

So I found an acceptable "previously owned" vehicle and yesterday we went to purchase said vehicle.  Which was at a dealership.  Because they offered better interest rates than the bank would if we did a private sale/purchase.

Anyway.

TheManTheMyth looked at the car I had found and thought it was acceptable.  

Then he took it for a test drive.

And was Not That Impressed.

But since this was to be MY Gypsy Wagon, he shrugged and said, "Well, if you're okay with it..." and while it wasn't my first choice for a car and did not have my beloved satellite radio, I could live with it.

So while our Sales Guy was running my credit report, we wandered around the lot, looking at the New Cars to pass the time.

New cars.  Which TheManTheMyth had said a big, fat "NO!" to.  And do you like how I ended that sentence in a preposition?

Anyway.

We're looking at the new cars and TMTM says, "Why didn't you look at these?  These are nicer!" as he points to a certain car.

And I remind him of his "We aren't getting a new car!  You don't need a new car!" vow.

And he says, "But this is better than THAT car, it has way more room inside.  And more headroom.  This is better." 

And I say (while hoping against hope), "But you told me we aren't getting a new car!"

And he looks at me, then looks at the New Car and says, "But these are better."  And for a split second, I thought he was going to say, "But these go to Eleven" and 10 points for anyone who gets that.

We looked at the sticker price then looked at each other and then looked at the sticker price again.

And then our Sales Guy comes out with my credit report (which was excellent, thank you very much) and says, "Let's go do the paperwork on (used vehicle)."

And TMTM points to the new car and says, "We want this one instead."

Behold!  The New Gypsy Wagon!

Okay, so it's not a real wagon; it's a Chevy.  And pay no attention to the fat broad making the sweeping gesture.  It was a long day and I was tired when my sister took this picture and my hair looks like crap.

But my new Gypsy Wagon has satellite radio, which the used car did not, Bluetooth, which the used car did not, the LoJack system, which neither the used car nor my Saturn did not and it gets kick-ass gas mileage, which my Saturn most assuredly Did Not.  And it came with a full tank of gas, which is always appreciated and I am absolutely giddy at the though of not having to fill up on a weekly basis.

How did I not see that I'd get a new car.  I have a crystal ball.  I should have seen this coming.