How can everyone at my house like things tidy, yet everyone’s a slob?

I am constantly surrounded by contradictions, and quite honesly it’s really starting to get on my nerves. I am ready to trade half of my family for an untrained puppy, and I would almost be happy to let it piss and/or shit all over the place at this point. Atleast the poor puppy would have the excuse that he doesn’t know any better. Ok I wouldn’t want that all over the house, but after being scolded and properly attended to the puppy would learn to take his business outside. Why doesn’t this work with humans?

ANYway…

What doesn’t kill me, shall surely make me stronger, but damn it your socks stink, and I really don’t want to touch them… how does your stinky socks make me stronger?

For a while now, my sister has been trying to bring back the word “rad”. In my circle of friends it has never quite left, but I am starting to think my close friends resemble the posse in “Kickin’ it Old Skool!” Breakdancin’ homies in their mid thirties in parachute pants - That’s how I roll, BABY!!

Breakdancing is making a come back. Just yesterday my son, who’s nine, said a couple kids in his class were dropping some rad moves. Now he didn’t say “rad”, but next time he will. Apparently they were serving it up on the basketball court…. in their fancy school uniforms sans parachutey goodness.

He even tried to show me some, but I just couldn’t visualize it in khaki and blue polo…. sickening stuff. Even when he began spinning on his back in Wal-Mart Supercenter, I just walked on. If I wasn’t in such a hurry, I would have busted a move there by the eggs, but Brynn had started to get pissed and began squishing the bags of chips and gnawing through my flour tortillas.

ANYway…

We should form a coalition. Bring back all those wonderful words we are missing out on. I am all for “rad” and have made a secret pact with myself to use it in atleast 20 sentences a day. SO far, a few of those:

1.) “I’m gonna show YOU something RAD!” (This is a classic mom comeback when say, your 9 year old, is piddling around looking for something to take to school for show and tell AND you’re standing at the door, keys in hand, with your two year old quickly making her way toward the street to possibly push over the trash can your loving husband set out for you earlier this morning….*breathe*)

2.) Q -”That was an egg mcmuffin and a diet coke, can I get you anything else?” - A-”Naw, that’s rad.”

3.) “WoAH! Backyardagins are totally rad, Brynn!”

4.) “Rad! Thanks for calling! You’ve reached 2mara from AZoverload.com, sorry I can’t take your call, but wouldn’t it be rad if you left a message? AND even radder of me to return your call…. so be rad, and I’ll return the favor!”

The day is young, but believe me I am keeping count of these bad boys. Any words you’re trying to bring back, or am I the only one who’s totally rad?

I have never been a girlie girl. Sometimes I do things to try to fool myself that I am such a girl, but I usually fail miserably.

Last weekend I attempted acrylic nails… again. I get on this kick every year or two and I head to the shop to have them place a set of artificial nails on top of my thin and peeley, unkempt fingernails.

I don’t understand fully why anyone would do this. Now don’t get me wrong, I like the idea for a whole 5 or 6 hours. Before bedtime I have had my fill and have become a bit unpleasant. The next day the full effect hits me. I am unable to type, zip my pants, scratch an itch, or remove one of the many stickers my daughter has stuck to the front of the television.

I thought they were cool a few days into my journey, when I reached into a 12 pack box of sodas and pierced a full can with my daggers of death. It began spewing soda all over my fridge, and for a second I felt like a superhero… until I realized that I looked more like a super villain. As I stare at those white tips, I realize that my hands resemble those of a very bad drag queen. I don’t think I could even pull off a woman – pretending to be a man – pretending to be a woman, in these wretched things.

I am beginning to feel that I may be having an allergic reaction to the adhesive they used to stick these bad boys on. I may be hallucinating, but I notice my husband smiling at me a lot more. Do you think it’s the fake nails? Does this mean he likes ugly men, or do you think it means he likes ugly men pretending to be women? I am getting so confused, and nauseous. I feel my pulse in the tips of each of my shiny, French tipped fingers. My children keep whispering and laughing… pointing and laughing. Do you think it’s my fingernails? Maybe they think they look ridiculous.

OH MY GAWD!!! I DO LOOK RIDICULOUS!!! DAMN YOU ACRYLIC NAILS!!! DAMN YOU TO HELL!!!

SO, a couple of weeks ago, I found out that I am, in fact, lame. Much to my chagrin; I think I am pretty cool. Sadly this comes from my 14 year old step daughter, and she didn’t aim this directly at me… she aimed it at me and my husband. I mean, I know he is lame, but me? No way.

Apparently, Megan’s parents are cool… she can cuss in front of them.

I’m taken aback, here. For one, how does she know we won’t let her do the same? I have never said anything about it. I do however have a 2 year old, and I don’t want her flipping though her Potty Mouth Pamphlet while we are casually shopping in the neighborhood market. That most definitely won’t win me the “Parent of the Year” award.

SO…

Let’s list the facts here… you tell me what makes me lame:

1. I manage and maintain a very kickASS music website (www.AZoverload.com)
2. Above reason has me conversing with both local and out of state bands… all the time
3. I get “on the list” to many local shows
4. I can take her with me… but since I am lame – screw that
5. I host a kickASS BlogTalkRadio show
6. I’m trying out to be a badASS roller girl
7. Last weekend I took her to get her FACE pierced.
8. SHE’S 14!!!!!!! WTF DOES SHE KNOW ANYWAY!!!

My 9 year old thinks I am AWESOME! He’s such a good boy. I think I will let him cuss, but she better beware my bar of soap.

We’ve been in our new house for a few weeks now, and there are still boxes lying around. I am so sick of boxes, but that doesn’t make me unpack them any faster.

To take a beak away from looking at boxes, I decided to organize my super kickASS pantry. There are about five long shelves that stretch about 100 yards and wrap the corner. This pantry is massive, and I have gotten lost in there about half a dozen times already.

Unsure of my organization habits, I searched the internet on how to organize this particular area of my home. Most sites talk about using labels to mark containers that hold similar items,

Personally, I think that sounded incredibly boring and like WAAAAY too much work.

SO…

I opted for the simple color coding method with the secondary method of descending sizes.

While working in the blues I noticed that I had a can of Spam. I am not particularly fond of Spam, but I remember buying it for my husband. Although I am not really sure when I purchased it, the thought occurred to me that Spam might actually last forever. I mean if there were actually a nuclear attack, Spam might be one of those things that would survive totally undisturbed.

It makes me wonder if it could be used to protect against radiation/nuclear fallout. If we could smear it all over our bodies like sun block 3000. More than likely though, we would have to make some sort of paste and just cake it on. The survivors would look like visitors to some meaty day spa… layered and wrapped.

Could you imagine these spamalicious people just walking around?

I am sure it would take a while to get used to seeing people all meaty, but “what if” during this time aliens decide to check in on us and see what the big boom was all about. Would seeing us all red and beefy make them hungry? Would they dine on our holocaust survivors or would they flee… scared of all the MSG.

Just a thought. I get distracted easily these days. My pantry is still not completely organized, as I begin the screen play for the new claymation project “Spam Wars” – title coined by none other than our favorite blogger, Eric Marier.

How do you like your Spam?

~2

You say I’m weird like it’s a bad thing. I think it’s a brilliant compliment… one I strive for at times. Other times it just kind of follows me around, like that bit of toilet paper hanging on for dear life to the bottom of your shoe. The one that no one tells you about and you discover it at the most inconvenient time….

ANYway…

6 Degrees came about when I was talking to my best friend, you may know her, Kemari, about a conversation I had with my husband. It was bedtime and we were both laying in the dark (me and my husband NOT Kemari GEEEZ weirdo). He was probably close to sleep, but my brain was dancing frantically with all sorts of nonsense.

“Chris,” I said. He grumbled something that resembled “huh” or “what?” so I went on, “How big is a football field?”

This woke him up. Something about mentioning football to guys awakens their inner caveman or something, and he’s not even particularly interested in football… well college football, sometimes. “Why?” he asks and rolls onto his side and looks at me.

“Well I was thinking about the ocean, and I thought I would compare it’s depths to lengths of football fields.” His eyes widened as if they were asking me why I would even bother thinking of such a thing when I should be sleeping. “I was just wondering how many undiscovered species of animals are lurking at the bottom and what they might look like.”

“What brought this on?” geez always questioning my genius.

“I just saw a thing on MSN today with this new weird fish.”

“Why football fields?” he asks.

“I dunno. I think it was on the news or something… just came to me.”

Recalling the story to Kemari, I found it humorous that I can turn football into an aquatic adventure; how my brain randomly flipping though various thought somehow linked these two together.

“It’s kinda like that Kevin Bacon thing.” I said

“It’s your six degrees of weird,” she replied.

Kemari coined it… now you’re stuck with it.