Men's Public Restrooms Have Gotten Cleaner---I Should Know

I AM very fortunate, especially as far as Chronic Lyme people go, to have so many of my symptoms decreased significantly: low energy levels, constant muscle pain, constant joint pain, depression, anxiety.

BUT. There is one that has gotten worse: my cognitive abilities.  Specifically, those that involve "auto-pilot", or things that, deep down, we have been taught through many years of social mores, are wrong, or incorrect.

For instance, I have been driving the route I drive, consistently over time, and looked up, and all of a sudden the path is completely unfamiliar and I doubt myself, and have to pull over to rely on GPS.  

Or, like using public restrooms.

First, let me help you to fully understand the complex mess of my brain inadequacies.

We ALL know I have never had much of a filter between my brain and mouth.  Combine that with a wide range of medications, and shit just gets funnier and more and more inappropriate.  Really, it's like a goddamn public service I provide.

A while back, Sky King wanted to go to a grown-up movie, with only me.  We ditched the kiddos, and ventured out.  It was nice---no germy hands in the popcorn, only $30 in concessions.  Truly, a night to remember.

After 472 ounces of Coke Zero, we both had to beeline for the facilities at the end.  I was fiddling with my phone, having missed 9 text messages (WTF???) and like a good obedient wife, was walking a respectable distance from my man (I almost said that without peeing myself laughing...). Unfortunately, he did not have the wherewithal to guide me to the women's restroom. Jerk.

Instead, he walked right in, and straight up to the urinal.  I, hot on his heels, followed him.  Pretty much right away, things seemed amiss.  I turned away from the urinals, and headed to the stall because something in my brain said that a urinal would not adequately meet my needs.

THAT is when I realized I was in the wrong place.  NOT at the sight of urinals.  Nope.  Not me.  Instead, I went toward the stalls (which are not as plentiful for men.  What the hell?)

Then, a massive fit of guffaws ensued, by me, as well as Sky King.  I blasted out the men's room door, laughing (almost to the point of peeing my pants) and ran toward the proper room. Fortunately, no one was coming out the door, or I would have blasted them, in my super-fast quest to erase time by running to the appropriate bathroom.

The only other witness, fortunately, was the ticket-ripper guy. And my husband.  Who has been sworn to silence. 

Unfortunately, he married a big-ass blab.




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Epiphanies, Vol 1

You know when you are going through life, blissfully ignorant, and then you have some MAJOR revelation that leads you to see the world differently than you ever have before, and it skews the way you will look at life forever?

Well, that happened to me, just the other day.

We were watching Billy the Exterminator, on A&E. Maybe because they are crazy.  Maybe because of our recent problems with skunks. I dunno.  But I am drawn.

I realized something profound.  Big Bill and Donnie are not his parents.  It must have been some sort of strange adoption process, I gotta admit.  But, through my keen observational skills, I have deduced who his natural parents are.

PLUS

EQUALS

 

Oh.  And I have a sneaking suspicion that the sunglasses are there to disguise the fact that he is reading cue cards. Poorly.  Always. 

Billy---way to turn a shit job into a show.  You probably get tons of tail because of your exposure.  And, I bet some of that tail is female.  Maybe even human.  Kudos, Bro.

Three Sides of the Same Coin

While sitting in a very interesting training, my mind began to wander, as it does.  I was thinking about how "things used to be" and the differences from now.  Part of the thoughts centered around my quest for relief from what ails me; a sincere desire to get back to the old me.  Now don't get me wrong; I don't want to go back to the lifestyle I once had, flitting from obligation to obligation, falling down exhausted each night, having people remark that hearing my schedule makes THEM exhausted. No, what I want is some part of the energy I once had, and the ability to react to things that sometimes require my complete energy and focus.

Not to mention the ability to completely ignore a "wet floor" sign, rather than go forward with trepidation, simultaneously watching for wet patches and scanning for little old ladies to support me if I start to fall.

It occurred to me during these daydreams that there are three distinct "Me"s.

Fun Aimee-
This used to be reserved for the Aimee that had had a wee bit too much to drink.  She's likely to speak loudly, and with passion.  She might fall down, dragging some unsuspecting soul with her.  She is ALSO likely to flail about.  During this flailing, she is likely to hit a girl in the face, and remark, "Oh, sorry about your FACE!", then falling into a fit of giggles while her friends try desperately to keep Aimee from getting her ass beat. (Good gracious-it's truly amazing I made it this far in life without being beaten to a pulp.)

Fun Aimee also loves to hug everyone, to sit on laps of cute boys (cue Pearl Jam music and red Solo cups full of Natural Light) and to generally be the life of the party, even when the party ends.  Good thing Fun Aimee doesn't know the party is over, because Fun Aimee doesn't like shit that makes her stop having fun.  That's the subtle joy of Fun Aimee-there's no stopping that fun train.  Well, a trip to the bathroom to vomit might slow things down a bit.  But one shot of Goldschlager, and she's back on track. (Who would do shots of tequila after vomiting? Eeew.)

Nowadays, Fun Aimee consists of a pain pill and exactly 1.75 glasses of wine. Too little wine and she passes out falls asleep, too much wine and she gets mouthy and will pretty much alienate those she loves.  Also, 1.75 glasses of wine and a pain pill is the ideal prescription for a very happy Sky King. Ambien Aimee would come close for a while there, but Ambien Aimee became reminiscent of Jump-on-the-back-of-a-cop-on-the-street-just-for-giggles-Aimee, and Sky King has grown weary of her antics. WEARY.

Modified Aimee-
This is me, minus the pain pills and wine. I am at about 10% capacity, which would be about 30% for normal humans. Remember, I used to do way too much with immeasurable amounts of energy, so comparing me now to how I used to be is quite dramatic.

I only work about 12 hours per week-anything more than that and I am a zombie.  People have remarked they can see in my eyes when I lose my energy, that the look is obvious.

I also have to save a couple spoons for helping Monkey Boy with homework.  He has some issues that make following directions a challenge.  Some day, his wife will accuse him of not listening to her, and she will be right. He won't ever know it, though because he'll be walking around, saying ".....uh....what?" to everything.

I have had to learn to relax, which in and of itself nearly killed me. Now, I get the whole concept, and I end up on Friday afternoon, all, "Well, what do we have going on this weekend?  Nothing? Again?  Nice...." I do have to get out of the house still, or I will completely explode.

What I would like, when this Lyme shit is all said and done is this:
I want to be able to work part time, spend time with my family, and still have the energy and/or spoons to have shit go down, and I can step things up to save the day.  Really, is that asking too much?  I'm going to call that Aimee, Aimee 3000.  New and Improved.  Not as much swagger as Andre' 3000, but not nearly the potential for felony convictions as Fun Aimee.

It seems like a nice compromise. One I can live with. I hope.

Eleventy-Eleven/Homework

I didn't get tagged-I DID, however, get inspired by my Pal Suniverse, over at, well, Suniverse.  She likes me enough to read me and comment now and then, which is practically the same as meeting me at Starbuck's for a weekly tall- soy-decaf-vanilla-latte'.  And she said consider myself tagged.  And I needed a quick and easy blog topic.   It's like a quickie, but on Internet paper.


Here's the sitch...


Rules: 
1. Post these rules

2. You must post 11 random things about yourself
3. Answer the questions set for you in their post
4. Create 11 new questions for the people you tag to answer
5. Tag them on Twitter, Facebook or their blog

Random Things about Aimee/Fearless Fibro Warrior

1. My feet have grown from a 7 to an 8-this is odd because I have been a 7 since high school, and then I had to start buying 8s about 3 years ago. My theory is I got so fat my feet were the only things left to expand. 

2. I never had Brussels sprouts, cauliflower, broccoli or asparagus as a child-my parents hated them.  I now love them all.

3. I LOVE the Oxford comma.  I feel weird if I forget one. 

4. I can't stand most TV, but I LOVE The Kardashians.  I know, it's a sickness.

5. I always thought my favorite color was blue but every time I had blue clothing (except for Jeans) I wouldn't wear it.  Now, I know my favorite color is green.  When I buy it, I wear it.

6. Even when I was a vegetarian, I loved pate'.  And I crave liverwurst on white bread with American cheese and yellow mustard.  Yummm.

7. Incorrectly used apostrophes drive me crazy. Like in "Praline's 'n Cream".  The Cream does NOT belong to the Praline. I scratched the apostrophe off at an ice cream parlor once.

8.  I cannot watch scary movies. In fact, Scary Movie had me hyperventilating. It might be because I have a hard time discerning between reality and fantasy.

9. I spent most of my early working years in health food stores-3 different ones. This is why I'm such a tree hugger, and hate Western medicine.  

10. Speaking of hippies, I love the smell of Patchouli.  Unless mixed with B.O.

11. When I was younger, I hated my freckles. So much so, that when my parents were gone, I'd apply thick layers of my mom's cover-up to my face, then stand far away and squint a little bit, just to see what I would look like without them.  Sorry, Mom.  I owe you a couple bottles of goop.

That was harder than it looks.  Because I was all, "What would be a random fact?  Well, if I spend a lot of time thinking about it, is it really random?"  Sheesh.  Lighten up, Aimee (As my mom used to say).

Answers to Suniverse's questions:

1.  Do you hate baked potatoes, too? No, but I avoid them because they are a nightshade vegetable. And they suck without gobs of butter, sour cream, cheese and bacon.  Wait, Yes.  Yes I hate them.

2.  Which are your favorite pair of shoes? My Ecco boots.  They were my first pair of nice boots, and I get compliments on them all the time.

3.  Michael Buble - sexy or sexiest?  Show your work. Sexy.  Michael Buble-not Mark Walburg=Sexy

4.  I'm still wiped out from surgery. Is there a pill I can take for energy? Or does meth only come in liquid form? I believe you can crush up meth and snort it.  I'm not sure about that one.  Or you can scam drugs off the tweens-$10 goes pretty far.

5.  Do you still throw away cans when you don't feel like cleaning them for recycling? Neither do I. Of course not.  That would be horrible.  But I can't be....wait, what?  Clean them for recycling? Ummm, yes. I mean, no.  Ummm, I gotta pee, BRB.

6.  What's the grossest thing you've eaten? Some people would say liverwurst.  But I got it!  Back in college, I had my tonsils out.  I wasn't eating much, and could hardly speak. We went out to the local Red Robin, and all my friends made this horrific concoction of leftovers off our plates, and poured ketchup, ranch and cigarette ashes on it.  One of the guys in our group bet me $100 I wouldn't take a bite. I spent the money on new clothes. And in Middle School, I would down ketchup and mustard packets to gross people out.

7.  What does your journal look like? An awful lot like this blog-in fact, it's identical. (Because I don't journal. Was that clear?)

8.  Why do you still have that t-shirt that you never wear? Because someday I will be thin enough that I won't look like a chubby skank.

9.  What have you spilled on someone else? What haven't I spilled? I was a waitress, and horrifically bad at dropping things (Sorry, Sharleen). I do remember one time I spilled an entire soda down a large woman's leg.  I said, "Don't worry, it's diet", and walked away.  I'm pretty sure I didn't get a good tip.

10.  What color would you love your house to be?  A yellow house with a giant wrap-around porch

11.  If you could spy on someone, who would it be? I don't know if i have an answer to this one. I'm really good, not wanting to be in others' business like that. Any more. And I trust people generally, so I can't think of anyone.  Except maybe a celebrity to see what their life was like. Someone like JLo, probably.

My 11 questions:

 1. What is your favorite M n' M flavor?

2. Which state should we turn into an alternative dumping site?

3. Why are cats so damned smug?

4.  Which position in a band makes the person more attractive?

5. Who should we contact if thong exercise-wear comes back into fashion?

6. If you were trapped in an elevator with no hope of rescue for 3 days with Joan Rivers, Snooki, Maury, and one gun with only one bullet, who would you shoot?

7. How should we promote better voter-turnout in non-presidential-election years?

8. What is your favorite place in California?

9. Where would you want to travel if you could only go to one place ever again?

10. Which of my best qualities make you most prone to stalking me: my demure vulnerability, my biting wit, my hilarious skew on pop-culture, the crazy things I pin on Pinterest, or my winning smile?

11.  When I look out the window, it always seems like it's raining, even when it's sunny. Is that my keen eyesight actually seeing individual atomic particles? Explain.

This would be where I would tag you, which I don't feel like/don't know how/don't care to try.  

Happy Thursday, and stay tuned for double bloggy goodness tomorrow!

 

Proper Table Setting and Other Useless Knowledge

Today, while holding down a couch in case gravity reversed, some friends of ours and we were enjoying some greasy post-drinking grub. Football was on, my jersey was shiny and red, and Sky King was sulking to the sound of penalty flags hitting the field.

Out of the blue, our friend Tommy Bahama said, "What side does the spork go on"? Instead of reprimanding him for ending a sentence with a preposition (because one of my resolutions was to be more compassionate), I told him the answer was quite easy.  Easy, if I knew the way a table is supposed to be set.

A long time ago, my mom spent an entire summer teaching me to be domestic in order to snag a husband so that I could learn to live among humans without causing too many embarrassing moments. Actually, I'm not altogether sure why she did this, but it was incredibly handy. And, I have drawn upon these things she taught me in various times of my life. I have also tried to teach many of these things to my children-thanks, Mom, for such a great idea!

Anywho, during our domestic summer, I did many things: meal planning, shopping, ironing, sewing on a button.  And, I am sure, learning how to set a proper table. Things that have to do with spatial orientation are not my strong suit however, so the lesson did not stick. I know the spoon and knife go together, and you work from the outside, in, during a dining experience. But I can never recall on which side the fork goes, nor which water glass is mine. Being left-handed hasn't helped, either.

But I digress. Let's find out, shall we?

 Aside from the fact that, sign me up for a meal with 4 glasses of wine, there is a clear lack of direction, in reference to the almighty spork. Taco Bell and school lunch programs global-wide did not invent it, however.

Let's break this down.  Spork.  Spoon + fork.  Spoon being the first reference, you could argue that the spoon is more dominant, therefore it is a variety of a spoon.  Or, you could argue that it's a catch-all utensil but has tines, and as such would go where the forks go.  Both are wrong. Or right.  Because I like to argue, and I like to win. But, I also have the answer!  When I told them, Tommy Bahama and his wife both looked at me like I was insane.  Not that this is a new development, but this time, it was a look of, "what the hell did you just say, what does it mean, and how do you even know that" kind of look.

I said, "It goes wherever the spoon goes, because it's a spoon. A runcible spoon.". (I wish you could see my computer screen, because even Word doesn't know what I know-I can tell because it is giving me the angry red line of disapproval under the word "runcible". Hey, I'm smarter than A COMPUTER!)

Anyways-in addition to teaching me how to do a bunch of chores she likely was planning on assigning to me, my mom also had this amazingly annoying habit of referring me to a dictionary whenever I wanted to know what a word meant.

Me: Hey, mom. What's a "sexton"?
Mom: Look it up.

I'd slink off.  Then, about an hour later, she would be all, "So, what's a sexton?" and I'd be all, I gave up.  And she would make me go look it up and come back to her, with the answer.  Super annoying. So then I'd have to dig the stupid book out of the trash, because I didn't like things that irritated me then any more than I do now.  And I would have to look it up. Then I would have to go back to her, and we would discuss it.

Me: Mom, what's "shat"?
Mom:  Ha!  Look it up! I'd like to see you put THAT on your vocab worksheet for the week!  (I did, it's the past tense of "shit" as in, "that dog shat on my lawn" or "while I now use convenient restroom facilities, it is true that I spent the first couple years of my life encased in cotton cloth diapers, in which I had shat")

Me: Mom? What's a runcible spoon?
Mom: LOOK. IT. UP.  And why are you reading poetry from the 19th Century, anyway?
Me: Because you put me in a classroom for gifted kids, instead of in the fun classes that get to do art. (See? I had "Future Evil Genius" on my permanent record, even then!)-Actually, I probably didn't say that, because she would have said, "Aimee, why are you being so damned dramatic?" and I would have had to sulk some more, and I STILL would have to look up the answer to my question once I was done sulking, so I probably said, "I dunno".

So, because I am totally nicer than my mom (unless you are one of my kids, then I am WAY meaner), here you go:
 

From Edward Lear's The Owl and the Pussycat

They dined on mince and slices of quince,

which they ate with a runcible spoon. 

While I was sitting around avoiding ironing and waiting for Atari to be invented, I was reading poetry. And it seems that there was an owl and a cat in a boat, chowing on some grub. With some crazy-ass tool I had never heard of.

So the next day, I got to go to school and be extremely informative at lunch time. While we were all eating our greasy slab of pizza and slurping our chocolate milk out of paper cartons, I said, "Hey guys!  THIS is a runcible spoon!"

It's amazing I didn't get my ass kicked more as a child.

Or maybe I did, and I suppressed it, and all my therapy sessions are going to uncover years of physical and emotional wounds. And then, I will have to spend years in intense psychotherapy, trying to get my childhood back.

In case it takes too long, the runcible spoon goes on the right, to the right of the knife.

Dude-who do you think I am, The Oatmeal?  Or Allie from Hyperbole and a Half? (Like either one of them need more links to their already-completely-adored blogs, but I love them both, so there ya go)  This is the best it gets-y'all are lucky I figured out how to do THIS much. If I knew how to use my scanner, I would've done it on paper with crayons, so consider yourself lucky.

See? In 2012, if you resolved to learn new and interesting things, you can now totally cross that shit off your list.  You're welcome.

Apple Pie and the Forgotten Christmas

This Christmas, we had a wonderful time. Since I became ill, I have struggled tremendously with my inability to do what I want, when I want. This has been a major loss, and like any loss, one that I continue to mourn. However, I have gained quite a bit as well. For you anal-retentive readers, this post will be jam-packed and chock-full of helpful charts and graphs. Well, not that fancy, because frankly I suck at them. But I will use the "tables" feature. Which is pretty damn spiffy, and linear. You're welcome, OCD people.

As I reflect on the year I have just endured, I'm not as sad as I expected to be. I have not lost friends, as many with invisible illnesses do. I have not lost the respect of colleagues, nor have I lost income from the inability to work. I really do have much to be thankful for. I actually thought the losses would clearly outweigh the gains, but that hasn't happened. When I reflect (and am NOT having a pity party, which happens, get over it, who's the sick bitch around here, anyways?), this is what I see:

Losses	Gains
Choice to participate in physically taxing things	Ability to enjoy watching my children
Ability to work full time	Two very capable Directors at work, whom make sure things run perfectly when I’m away
Energy	Time with my children
	Time with my husband
	The ability to rely heavily on those around me
	The ability to roll with the punches day to day, sometimes hour to hour

I could make this longer, but I am nice. And lazy. And I only have a 2 hour spot, because my bitch primary care doc thinks I don't need handicapped parking, so I have to move my car every two hours. When I can find it.

Anyhoo, not too shabby, right? I have really transformed, in terms of some major things in my life. I still try to do too much, but on a smaller scale. I still talk too much, am loud, say the wrong thing at the wrong time. You know, I've stayed awesome. But I have found my voice, fallen in love with writing again, and been able to work on taking a step back to enjoy the NOW, rather than spend so much time stressing about the LATER. I still stress, or else I would not be me, but just not as much.

OK. Apparently, I still veer horribly off-track. I wanted to talk about Christmas.

So, we had the usual suspects at our house-my family, Sky King's family, some family friends, the neighbor kids that come and go all year long. There was tons of food, and conversation clusters all over-out by the smoker while the turkey and ham did their thing, inside by the tree, in the living room, in the family room, in the kitchen. Even in the kiddos' bedrooms. People meandered and mingled like at any great party. The focus was on the gathering, not the gifts. Kids ran around, inside and out, and it was all in all a great time. My brother had even brought over some apple-pie-drink-concoction that he got from a friend. He passed it around, with a warning to take it easy.

He must not have been loud enough with the "take it easy" warning. That, or people in California don't know what Everclear is (it's the closest thing to grain alcohol you can get, and illegal in CA). Apparently, cinnamon makes grain alcohol taste like love, kindness, and rainbows. Because by the time dinner was supposed to be ready, everyone was feeling pretty good. We have the empty wine bottles to prove it (we use bottled wine for the holidays because we are classy, we save the boxed stuff for the drive-in movies, and for drinking during the week).
But that darn turkey. It just wouldn't get to the right temp! So, Sky King stoked the fire, added more charcoal, threw in some white gas, and used an arc welder. Nothing was making this bird get done.
And, just like any good venue, there are not a lot of clocks around. No one was paying attention to the time, and kids weren't complaining about being hungry because the tables were filled with candies and cookies.
2 hours later, the apple pie moonshine was dusted, and we all stumbled to the buffet line. Casseroles were glopped into plates, gravy was poured, and children were stunned, wide-eyed at the crazed antics of 20-something shit-faced adults. The ones that weren't drunk were hopped up on cold meds.

By the time dessert came, Sky King had endured a tall glass of water upside the head and my parents had told both me and my brother things along the lines of "I never heard THAT story" or, "I'm not sure I want to hear this", because apparently that damned moonshine was like truth serum. One of my sister-in-laws had lost most of the evening, and the next day had to piece it all together from the snips some of us could recall. Most people received or gave an apology or two. I lost my cell phone, but gained my composure. No, wait.  I didn't gain that.  I did get some cool gifts I needed, though.  Also, we have tons of food crammed into the fridge, so we are set for the week. And fun was had by all.

What was the final score?

Gains	Losses
3 pounds	1 Droid X Phone
37 pounds of leftovers	All Droid X Phone notes, apps, etc. (luckily, addresses and calendars were backed up)
1 collapsible cane	3 hours of time by most attendees
1 Xoom tablet

Looks like a Win-win, am I right?

*not really-I don't know how to get liver enzymes, and if I did, I'm sure it would be at least slightly illegal

Apple Pie Moonshine

Credit given to Dave at Good Ole Ways, http://goodoleways.com/apple-pie-moonshine-shots-recipe-with-everclear/dogs-secret-recipe-file/

1 gallon Apple Cider
½ gallon Apple Juice
7 Cinnamon Sticks
1 cup Granulated Sugar
1 ¾ Cups Brown Sugar
4 Cups (32 oz.) Everclear (Grain Alcohol) REMEMBER Add after it has cooled to room temperature.

Combine first five ingredients in large pot, stir in the sugar until it has dissolved and boil for 15 minutes, you are doing this to create a syrup to add the alcohol into. Remove from heat. Let it cool to room temperature, if you don’t let it cool you will lose alcohol due to evaporation. Remove cinnamon sticks and then add 4 cups of Everclear. Pour into some mason jars or glass bottles. This makes about 7 quarts. This recipe will be about 13-15% alcohol or 26-30 proof, it will depend on how much liquid evaporates when you are boiling the ingredients. Enjoy

This Was Almost a Link to a Really Badass YouTube Video...But I Suck.

Today is Thursday.  Thursday is Therapy Day.  No, not physical therapy for some bum knee I injured during a combat tour or a marathon. Therapy as in, "Holy shit, you got problems, girlfriend. Here, come see me every week, at $20 a pop, and we will 'work through your issues'" kind of therapy.

Actually this post isn't even about therapy.  I was just setting the stage.  Dr. M is in this beautiful Victorian in downtown Sacramento, conveniently located near the Gluten Free Specialty Shop (seriously, they should kick down some free Zing bars, as much as I mention them...) and my Acupuncturist's office. I park on the street, and get one of those stickers to put on my window, showing I paid to park.

Today when exiting, I saw a dude, looking a little home-deficient, swaying to the internal soundtrack. He had a "casing the joint" look about him. Except he wasn't in a 40's movie, so let's just say, he was lookin' funny.  And not "red nose-big shoes" funny.  More, "smash window grab cash from front seat" funny. Which meant he would be aiming for my ride-the Swagger Wagon-and it is this particular moment when I remember I got cash back this morning, and I chucked it on the passenger seat.  You know, because I'm an idiot.  The least I should do when I do stuff  like this is leave the damn window down, right?

Anyways, I'm looking at the dude as I come down the steps, but I got my cool-ass stunner shades on, so he's none the wiser.  He's groovin', checking things out.  He shuffles over to the wrought-iron gate of the house at my parking spot, and grabs the railing, swinging himself partially onto the cement that is the bottom portion of the fence. He sees me, and kind of freezes, like he's totally supposed to be there.

Being cool, I avoid looking at his direction, casual, all "I see people messing around with their wrought-iron fences every damn day, I have no interest in you". I  get in to the car, and can't dial 9-1-1 fast enough.  But still cool, right? Because maybe this drunk homeless person that is too ploughed to be worried about me, in broad daylight, watching him trying to jump the fence is some sort of actual threat. Riiiiight.

At this point, I get totally paranoid, because you hear that calling 9-1-1 from a cell is bad news, so I start to second-guess myself. I call anyways, and get patched through to local dispatch. I describe what I have seen, including "....and currently he is now kind of hanging from the fence, because as he was trying to jump it, he got hung up on the wrought iron posts on top, and now he is trapped.  He's pretty drunk, from what I can tell." I hold tight, while they try to send someone my way. At this point, a cruiser goes by, and another busybody flags him down.  So Johnny Law comes over, I hang up, and proceed to watch the whole thing., as it happens right in front of my car.

And what do I have to prove it?  Nothing.


Do I not completely suck? 


I called Sky King to tell him all about my adventures.  He's all, "you taped it, right?"  I'm all, "NO!  I was on the phone with the cops.  Stupid Droid, can't video while in a call, maybe this will be the one thing that makes me cave and go to the iphone---I could have taped it. If he had been tased, I totally would have had it!".  Sky King's all, "Yeah!  Well, then what happened?"  I'm all, "Then I hung up, and the cop was getting burly with the dude, and the dude was reaching at his jacket, to show the cop he didn't have anything, and the cop was all, 'put your hands where I can see them' and 'I don't want to have to tase you' and th...." "Wait.  WAIT.  THEN you started taping, right?".

:::silence:::

"No."

"Arrrgggghhhh!  You TOTALLY SUCK!!!!  You had this totally awesome potential blog post, and you didn't even tape it!!!  Awwww, you are such a loser!"

I tried to argue that nothing had happened.  But the fact that had the guy been tased, his retch and/or vomit would have been close enough to splatter my car was too much for Sky King to handle. 
I told him I was still blogging it all.  And, I was going to spin it my way, and it was all about how much I hated my Droid phone, and how this will finally sway me to the Apple underworld, and SK was all, "man, you suck.  You are such a liar." and I countered with, "It's my blog, get your own blog.  I can do what I want. You're not the boss of me."  Things went downhill from there.

Later, I sat to write.  I mused. I contemplated. Then I fast-forwarded to me, sitting with Oprah (in an alternate reality where she still has a show, still has a book club, and is now featuring me) and I got all James-Frey-guilty-conscience-y. 

So here it is.  Not nearly as fabulous as it could have been.  Especially had the guy been tased. Sorry. All I have learned is that I need to not suck when cool shit happens. And spelling "wrought" is not my finest skill. Hell, I don't even know if "tased" is spelled right. Spellcheck on blogger isn't hip to cop lingo, I guess. So. Much. Fail.

Sky King: 1
Incredibly Sexy Smart Funny Bloggy Chick (Me, dummbass!): 0