My ability to love small children seems to be increasing. Shhh... Don't tell anyone.

I remember your first few days here. Two Christmas's ago you were all bundled up in a white and red striped bundler-thingy with a matching beanie to boot. People went crazy shit all over you. Every one's eyes were zombiefied and drool was seeping out of their mouths while playing tug of war over this brand new bundle of joy. Which, is fine, if you're into that sort of thing. Personally, I could have taken or left you. I had a margarita that was bringing me way more joy than you that night. Now you turn the big 02 on Tuesday and it's your 3rd Christmas go around. You're saying words like "Santa, Nana, love you, Papa, Casey, Brad, watch and my personal favorite, the one you beller out non-stop: euh-cah! (Erica)". Which, in all honesty never gets old and couldn't melt my heart more. You've developed the cutest 2 year old personality I know. You're such a charmer. You've single handily wrapped me around your little finger. So, to my most favorite, adorable, ladies man, Happy Birthday little buddy. See you tonight! I'll bring the keg and we'll start working on words like "assclown, bastard, pudwhack and douche nozzle" Luh you.

and no, my new overpriced fancy phone can't fucking capitalize.

in case anyone is curious if its humanly possible to work 20 long, hard hours and then come home to take a hot shower while drinking a cold beer, then a shot of whiskey with half an ambien for a 3:00am snack and still wake up six, very short hours later and be kinda sorta coherent..... it is!

Zombies are really who's to blame.

Hey. Hello... It's me. I know it's been a while. You were all probably wondering if my blogging soul had died.
It did.
Kinda.
I don't have much time but I wanted to check in with ya'll. This blog has totally gone down the shitter. There's no one to blame but myself. I just don't have the time or energy anymore. Not to mention all my humor, wit and charm has totally been sucked out of me.
My big girl job has been stressful.
It's pretty much a fun hating, humor sucking zombie that pays you.
Which is OK. There's just been some casualties along the way.
I may be able to check in with you all more often now. I had to get a new phone because my old one got hit by a car. I'm pretty sure I can blog from it, so hopefully there will be more posts to come. Until then please enjoy this bulleted list of awesome key points that have happened over the last 97 days.

..................................................YEAH.
MY POINT EXACTLY. I CAN'T EVEN FINISH A POST.

Fuck.

Gotta go now. Sorry folks.

On a scale of 1-10, how bad does botox hurt?

Through a series of events, It seems I've developed a bit of a complex.

Well, a new one anyway.

I'm not getting ID'd when I order grown up drinks.

I remember when I was 23 and the waitress would be all "um, can I just see your I'd first?"

And I'd be all huffy about it, and roll my eyes and be all "Jesus Christ, I'm twenty fucking three, this getting ID'd thing is seriously getting totally old".

NOW!?
I'M the one seriously getting totally old. And it blows. It blows old wrinkly balls.

Speaking of, I took my dad to the doctor the other day and as the nurse was walking us out she looked at my father and asked "So... Is this your wife?" And gestured to ME!
What. The. Fuck.
As we were walking out to the parking lot I said "dad, I'm starting to develop a complex about my age. I'm not getting ID'd for drinks anymore and that bitch nurse just thought I was old enough to be your wife.
Which, don't get me wrong dad, you're a hell of a guy and you could totally score with some hot, young thing. But this isn't about you right now, ok? It's about me and how I'm starting to feel like I look like a worn out, tired old hag. Or that creepy octomom's vagina".
My dad, as gracious as he is with his words, said "You just look mature, that's all"

BULLSHIT.

That's one of those bitch moves you make when someone asks you if they look fat and you sugar coat some bullshit answer. LIES! All LIES!
So to prove to myself that I'm still a spring chicken, I went out and partied like a irresponsible, young, rebellious teenager last night.
And do you wanna know how I know that I'm still totally NOT old?
I woke up smelling like stale beer and salsa, with a fresh new round of acne on my face and I'm laying in bed, hungover. That totally makes me like, a 19 yr old frat guy.
Here's to hoping my husband will secretly read my mind and know that I want cheddar jalapeno cheetos and a fountain mountain dew brought to me in bed so I don't have to get up.
IN YOUR FACE NATURAL SIGNS OF AGEING.

Five Years.

First it was going to be Hawaii.

Then it was going to be Australia.

Then Mexico.

Then Alaska.

Our 5th wedding anniversary was going to be the anniversary that we finally took our honeymoon.

Our big dream trip.

Instead?

We finally put sod down and a fence up in our back yard and saved up enough money for a romantic dinner at our favorite sushi restaurant.

Thanks a lot, shit bucket economy.

However, there was one thing in particular that really made our 5 year anniversary memorable.......


























The husband purchased this.

For me.

From New York.

New York is sentimental to us as a couple.

It's where we got engaged.

Right under the big Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center in Time Square.

He proposed with the perfect diamond ring. One that I don't wear very often.

Why?

Because I'm very hard on my hands.

Between washing them 9 billion times a day, weight lifting, bartending and punching things... It's best it stay on my night stand, perfect and unharmed.

No one wants soap scum, weight bar scratches or whiskey on their diamond.

However that leaves my wedding ring finger feeling very naked and noncommitted.

Husband told me I could wear this all the time and beat the hell out of it.

But to me it's almost as precious as my diamond.

It's silver. It's jaded. It's rough. It's unique.

It's perfect.



Thank you husband.

For being the most wonderful husband a girl could ever ask for.

You're brilliant, thoughtful, caring, halarious and handsome.

But more importantly you're mine.

I love you to the moon.

Forever and always.

One day we'll get our dream vacation. Until then, paradise, take your sandy beaches and mai tais and shove em!

We've got eachother.

And a fenced in back yard that we can totally fuck in.

Man-o-risms.

I kind of have male-ish tendencies.

My neighbor called me a man last week and I've been thinking about that comment off and on.

It was in reference to how I had my drink mixed.


My ratio between whiskey and sprite zero was substantially in the whiskeys favor.


But I drink whiskey because I like the taste of it, and I'd rather taste whiskey than soda.


I don't even like soda.


But If you show up to neighbor night with a huge ol' motherfuckin' quart glass of just straight whiskey, it might look like you have a problem....



Aaaaaanyway

I've been thinking about this "Man comment" lately and I've come to realize that I pretty much am a dude trapped in a curvy, pudgy, bleedy lady body.


But who says all the things I like aren't girly?


If I like them, and I'm a girl.... then all the things that make me "mannish" should really, be girly! Right?


I mean, girls can drive motorcycles and weight lift and box and golf and shoot a mean pool game and prefer going to a dive bar for a burger and beer over a nice restaurant and like going to titty bars and like shooting guns and and and....


Hello, it's fucking 2010.


Besides, I have what society would dub as "girly tendencies" too....

I own a pair of spanks.

I have like... 549 different shades of lip gloss.

And I cried during Herbie fully loaded starring Lindsay Lohan.

I don't think I can get much more girly than that folks.

Punching breakdowns in the face one by one.

My mind has been an interesting and confusing place lately.
I've been trying to think of things that have occurred that one might dub "blog worthy" but I haven't had much luck really connecting with one individual instance.

I feel like I'm in a thought propelled tornado.

I have been doing a lot of reflecting upon past events and thinking and wondering about new ones.
I'm also trying to mentally prepare myself for some changes that will be happening soon.
I've been analyzing friendships and have come to the conclusion that I have some that are completely one way.

The last few weeks have been very challenging. I feel like my emotional strength, along with my sanity have been tested in multiple ways.

At the end of the day I'd like to say that I am a truly blessed woman and I couldn't be more forturnate.

So, God.... Universe.... Alla.... Whoever or whatever may be out there.
I would like to say Thank you.

Thank you for giving me my health so that I'm physically able to work my ass off.
Thank you for the challenges you've given me over the past few weeks. It's helped me realize what a tough bitch I really am, and as much as I don't want everything that's on my plate right now, I'm strong enough to handle it. With an unlimited supply of whiskey.
Thank you for the wonderful, beautiful, amazing people you've filled my life with. They are my strength, support and relief in life.

Things are moderate right now and I'm still breathing.

If I can't appreciate that, then I'm an asshole.

If scentsy made a failure scent, I'd totally buy it.

I'm failing miserably at this blogging thing.

Sorry there haven't been any new posts. I've been way super busy with things including but not limited to:

Working
Boozing
Yarding
Camping
Friending
Running
Painting
Lifting
Reading
Regrouping
Worrying
Bartending
Cleaning

And getting plowed with a few ladies and jumping into a lake butt-ass-naked at midnight.

Life's good.
This blog isn't.

You should totally stay tuned though.

Multiple personalities.

This post is going against my blogging identity.

You see, most of the blogs I'm familiar with are used for photos and updates on what current events people are doing or going through in life.

Me?

I use this as a creative writing outlet. An online journal, if you will. A way for me to take a break and let my words express all the twisted thoughts I regularly have that I find pant-shittingly-funny. It's a place where I can be myself and if I wanna say fuck, then by god, I'm gonna say fuck.

I like to share those same funny thoughts in a very light hearted, sarcastic, twisted, and I swear to GOD a very non-homicidal way. *I really do love my husband*

I'm comfortable not knowing how many followers of this blog I have because, to be honest, I get writers fright. I worry that my stories don't flow, or my grammar isn't correct, or that I sound like a big fat douche nozzle.

All valid concerns, really.

There are a few women writers on the interwebs that I crazily stock adore. Their humor, sarcasticness and laugh out LOUD blogs really inspire me to put all of my fucked up, crazy, random, funny thoughts into this blog. I totally get them and love them. One day I hope to aspire to be just like them. Only not just like them, because copy-catters are totally annoying and need to find their own god damn identity.

I don't plan on changing my blogging style, and to tell you the truth, some of my most foul, raunchy posts are the ones that have gotten some very flattering reviews.

So, without any further blabbering, I'd like post something a little out of the ordinary, but please stay tuned for future posts filled with profanity, ideas that make you question my judgement in general and very un-lady-like humor.

Keep on keepin' on bitches.

*One of my best friends, sister, soul mate, life partner, bffers took photos for my husband and I.

We really wanted some new photos for our home, considering the last photos we have had done were our engagement pictures 5.5 years ago back when I was 30 pounds lighter and Blonde.

I couldn't be more pleased with the way these turned out. There are plenty more but my patience is wearing thin with getting these photos to format correctly. They're a little out of order, I apologise. They're all amazing, nonetheless.

None of these images could have been possible without Rebellion Photo. She did an amazing job. One she should brag about for years to come and definitely one to be proud of. Thank you so much sissy. Best birthday-month-present ever.

I love you. *

I'm anxious for the back yard to get done so I'll have some place incognito to bury the husband

Me: "So, Since you're going golfing, AGAIN, the entire next weekend, when exactly do you think we could order sod?"

Husband: "I was planning on the weekend of your birthday"

Me: "Oh, really? Huh. Yeah, That's exactly how I pictured my birthday weekend."

Husband: "I can postpone it if you'd like"

Me: "Uh no. I think we've done enough postponing for procrastinators nationwide"

Husband: "No more complaining!"

Me: "Ugh. Whatever. It will never be done. No grass. No fence. No cleaned off patio. No NOTHING EVER! Humph. This is the worst birthday month I've ever had."

Husband: "You need to stop. You're being very powdy. Plus you only get a birthday weekend. You're being over dramatic."

Me: "I just want our personal FUCKING PARADISE to be paradiseish! Is that TOO MUCH TO ASK?! AND incase you didn't notice, which I'm sure you DIDN'T. My birthday falls on a fucking TUESDAY! Which means, I get two birthday weekends, minimum."

Husband: "Patience. 2 more weeks won't kill you."

Me: "By 2, I know you mean 10. And by the way, it's spelled pouty"

Husband: "The first of August is a good time frame"

Me: "You make me want to punch things."

Husband: "I just bring you back to reality and it sucks!"

Me: "Speaking of things that suck, I won't be. Until the yard is done. Wanna know what I call that?! MOTIVATION. I'm holding you to your stupid time frames, BY THE WAY"

This is text fighting at it's greatest, people.

Now I'm googling the definition of "Fuehrer" because that was his only reply.

And what the fuck, husband? You can spell Fuehrer but not pouty?

Jesus Christ.

This week can go right back to where it came from. And it's only Tuesday.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Destination Heaven: 20 miles south, Bitch.

I've become disturbingly aware of what a small town I live in.
I'm taking a day off tomorrow and I'm going 20 miles south to a bigger town and I couldn't be more stoked about it.
A town that has a TARGET.
I love Target but I never ever ever get to go there.
I work six days a week and on my one and only day off the last thing I want to do is leave the house.
Or shower.
Or much of anything.
So, tomorrow, I'm taking the day.
I'm pulling another one of my infamous 20 hour work days today so tomorrow I plan on sleeping a full EIGHTmotherfucking hours, having an awesome workout, getting ready at my own pace... Who knows, I might even treat myself to a deep conditioning treatment.
Tomorrow I have TIME to MYSELF to do whatever I please with.

Tomorrow I'm going to Target and Home depot and Zurchers and A BOOK STORE and maybe pier ONE and maybe wherever ELSE seems AWESOME. I don't know, I don't know how crazy I'm gonna feel.
I'm completely uninhibited.
Did I use that word right?

The point is, is that I'm insanely stoked for tomorrow.
Words cannot convey my enthusiasm.

It's a day I'll probably be making payments on for the next 6-10 weeks, but you wannaknowwhat?
I'm worth it.

I work damn hard for my money and If I want to spend what I don't have, then by god I'm going to.

I want some new patio chairs, a new book series and maybe some obnoxiously colored high heals.
Ya know, to make a girl feel pretty.

I wanna eat somewhere AWESOME and have a relaxing time doing so.
I wanna impulse buy and grieve over it later. I wanna be WILD and CRAZY. I wanna drive with the windows down and the sun shining and not give a FUCK about my hair with 80's butt rock blaring out of my car.
I wanna ride a pony and get tattooed with glitter and find a new lip gloss.

Tomorrow I've also been asked to referee a beer pong tournament being held at the local tavern.....

I'm reasonably sure I'll never get to see what heaven is like, but in my book, tomorrow is close enough.

Praying to a God that I don't believe in.

I'm trying to channel my inner sarcasticness.
I'm trying to squeeze whatever ounce of humor I can out of my body and in to this blog.
I can't.
Some things have happened.
Things that have left me feeling unappreciated, taken for granted and most of all, hurt.
I don't know what course of action I'm taking at the moment.
I feel like I'm stuck in between a rock and hard place.
Nothing feels like it's the "right" answer.
I feel lost.
I've spent a very long time and given my all to something I thought was better than what it turned out to be.
At least I know that I did give it my all, with mass amounts of heart to boot.
I've spent time defending you and standing up to people who said anything bad in your direction...
Maybe I should have just listened.




Can I borrow some body's "gut instinct"? Mine seems to have gone on vacation.

The worst 4 letter word of all time? Diet.

I'm going crazy balls here people.
I'm pms-ing, stabby and more importantly HUNGRY.

Last night, while doped up on a 1/4 of an ambien I set my alarm for 5:45am so that I could wake up to run. It was 11:30 and the odds of me waking up at 5:45am after a brief 6 hours of sleep in real land, NOT ambien land, are really, slim to none. I don't know what I was thinking.

I didn't sleep well the night before so I had a lot of sleep to make up for.

This morning my alarm went off at 5:45. The ambien had slightly worn off.
I was all:

"Who the fuck set my alarm for 5:45!?
I don't have to wake up right now....
It's saturday, right?
No.... It's wednesday...
Still, why the hell....
Wait.... I set my alarm.... Last night.... and I vaguely remember vowing to myself and the husband that I was getting up to run because I made the most awesome burgers and home made fries EVER last night and what goes better with an awesome burger and home made fries than FRY SAUCE AND BEER?! Nothing! So of course I had to indulge in mass amounts of AWESOME."

"This bed is mass amounts of AWESOME"

"You really should get up and run, you fat ass. You haven't done shit all week and the chances of you being in a bikini this weekend are slightly elevated and you really don't want to scare people off."

"Oh, and you're having pictures done with the husband soon. WHY!? Because the last pictures you've done to capture your lives together were for YOUR WEDDING.... and it's been 5 years, 2 dogs, a cat and 30 pounds later, and why NOT capture the joys of comfortable, slack-tastic, marital bliss?!"

"This bed is slack-tastic marital bliss...."

"But now you need to work your ASS off so that you're NOT that comfortable, fat, married couple that no matter your achievements, if you're fat, you've failed."

Thanks a lot society, thanks a fucking lot.

Regardless, I didn't get up to run this morning.

I got to work and told myself that I was going to be a "good girl" today due to my lack of cardio this morning.

My self-pep talk went like this:

"Breakfast will be a sugar free packet of oatmeal. Lunch will be your bag of salad. A snack will be your jello pack and then it's off to the gym for weight lifting, running and then you're going to your softball game. Dinner will be lean protein and vegis. You'll be skinny before you know it!"

After the first 15 minutes I had eaten a ball of cookie dough.

Then my coffee.

Then a wheat thins flat bread cracker.

THEN what was left of a box of Parmesan garlic triscut thin crisps.

THEN I licked the salty Parmesany, garlicky goodness of the inside of said box.

THEN I was eating a co-workers strawberry cream cheese out of the container with my FINGER.

THEN a handful of hint of lime tortilla chips.

NOW!? I'm eating my bag of salad in a hellbent effort to cancel out all of my previous bad decisions!

However, instead of lean protein and vegis for dinner, I've already established that I'm making the concessions cart at the softball game my bitch for dinner.

Hello hot dogs, nachos and beer.
Goodbye bikini ready body.

Reason #65631098476 why it's a really good thing I'm not a mother.

I neglect things.
Like this blog.


Sorry I've been absent lately, bloggy friendlies.
It's just that I've been really busy at work/home/work/gym/social life.
Not to mention these god damned allergies.
They're sucking the life right out of me!
I'm sooooo mugfuggin tired. It feels like I've got sandbags attached to my eye lids.
Not to mention my snotface. I'm to the point where I'm so sick and tired of wiping my watery nose/eyes/mouth/facehole that I'm contemplating just letting this shit drip/run down my face.

Anyway, enough complaining/whiny/snappy-whorefacing stabbyness out of this girl.

I'm just trying to feed you all a few lines to let you know that

1.) I have NOT died.
B.) I care about this blog very much, and I OH SO enjoy sharing my take on things with a side car of vulgarity with you all, I just haven't had a lot of time lately and I probably won't for the next few days/weeks/forever.
iii) Yes, I've got some shit randomly in the works... so please stay tuned.

Was all this really worthy of a blog post?

No.

I'm just a rebel like that.

Turns out I AM a tender little flower. Mostly just on bullshit holidays though.

Just when I thought I was totally cool with being motherless, I found out I'm still pretty fragile.

April, May and June can totally suck it.

All three of them have pretty fucking hard days.

The most recent was mothers day.

Yesterday I got busted crying on my couch by the husband.

It was due to an overwhelming amount of things, but subconsciously, I'm reasonably sure that mothers day played a pretty big role.

I managed to spurt off a couple bullshit reasons as to why I was crying to deflect the core of the emotional spillage, and to get him to quit prying because I'm still trying like hell to convince everyone, including myself that I'm one rad bitch who doesn't need a mother.

Or sympathy.

Sympathy is for pussys.

The husband left the house to go to a family gathering thinking his wife was really upset about our unfinished back yard and her messy house.

All valid, but lets be honest, NOT tear inducing.

I stayed home and watched reality-drama-smut and folded laundry while I finished up being a basket case.

I got myself together and put on a happy face to show up to the family gathering, somewhere between fashionably/obnoxiously late.

Later that evening I was on the phone with my Nana. (My mothers mother)

During our "Happy mothers day" phone conversation she mentioned that my Uncle had called her earlier.

My uncle (Mothers brother) lives in Vegas and I had just gotten back from there. I was able to see him for 3.7 minutes and while it was wonderful to see him, I couldn't figure out why he left so quickly.

My Nana assured me that my uncle really did enjoy seeing me, but after we went our separate ways he couldn't help but to think of my mother the entire day. Nana gracefully said "You are the spitting image of your mother, you know."

This is one compliment that will always bring me to tears.

While it's wonderful to hear, it's always terribly hard at the same time.

As detached from her as I'd like to be, for the sake of protecting my own heart, it always reminds me that we're closer than I think.

So

Here's to you Ma.

Happy mothers day.

From the one and only child you left behind.

It's a sad excuse for a blog post but right now, it's all I've got.

I've heard from a few people that they enjoy reading my blog.

This is very flattering but also very nerve racking.

You see, I'm not always grammatically correct.

Sometimes my stories don't flow as well as I'd like them to.

I'm not really big on punctuation, and rarely know how to use it all correctly.

And thank GOD for spell check. (See, I start sentences with "and." I think that's a no no)

AND to top it all off, Lately I've felt like I've been having to force my creative juices out.

Which has been rather messy.

It just isn't coming naturally at the moment.

The husband and I have been at each others throats for like, 5.7 days straight.

We're both really uber-mega-stressed about completely different things and in hind sight we should really just punch each other in the face and get it over with.

We're leaving for Vegas in T-minus 44 hours and it'd be titties if we could actually enjoy the first vacation we've taken together in years.

Personally, I'd like to make really bad decisions while we're there. I'd prefer that we BOTH wake up in the bed of an Asian prostitute with a bag of blow up our ass TOGETHER, with no recollection of the night before, and actually MAKE some MEMORIES here people.

Anyway, with a lot pending on my plate as well as my mind, I've decided to post a couple of photo's taken over the last 24 hour period that I find comical.

Please enjoy.

She's a desk hopper.

And a groupie.

And a whore.

With sex kitten hair.

But she's a pony.

Sex pony hair?

Our janitors solution to a breaker that keeps tripping every time we turn our lights on.

"Da Printer."

Da bears.

Daaaaaa bears, Da bears, Da bears, Da bears.

Happy Tuesday and much love.

(If you didn't get that last one, google Chris Farley SNL Skits. They're priceless, bitches)

*

The fattest runner you know.

Fuck it, I'm eating a cookie.

I've been eyeballing those motherfuckers all day.

This morning I ran 4 miles.

In 36 minutes.

Now why on earth would I wake up at 5:25 in the crack-ass-of-god-damn, to pound my brittle, unlubricated knee joints into pavement, salivate like an overweight french mastiff and sweat through TWO sport bras all just to throw it away on a cookie?! (Ahem, 2 now.)

Because I'm STARVING.

Because I ate a salad and a tuna pack for lunch.

Because I'm sick and tired of being cushy.

Because my belly chub mocks me.

And reminds me of all the nights spent smoking pot and getting Wendy's at 2am.

I may have a chubby belly, but damn it, it's years worth of being surrounded by wonderful friends who share my love for food, beer and coming home smelling like bong water.

And damn it, those are fond motherfuckinmemories.

I think instead of insisting that my belly fat relocate, I'm just going to scrapbook the shit out of my stomach.

You don't have to tell me I'm inappropriate. I already know and I'm not changing.

I'm kind of a sarcastic asshole.

I kind of like it that way.

However, In the journey that I call my life, I've found that it kind of separates me from the constant norm.

And sometimes that makes me doubt myself.

It makes me wonder if I truely belong where I've chosen to be.

I say fuck a lot.

I may buy expletive onesies for babies because I find them hilarious.

I consider booze to be one of the best gifts to give for pretty much any occasion.

I have a hard time being around tightly wound, judgey people who have no sense of humor.

Can anyone truely go through this crazy fucked up world that we live in without a sense of humor!?

I have my own religion.

I do things on a *planned* whim.

I crave spontaneity. I crave individualism. I crave to be DIFFERENT.

Different makes me tick.

This post may not make sense to most of you, and that's ok. Right now I'm using this blog as my outlet. My personal, most intimate thoughts to be noted, where I can read them over and over again to remind myself that traditional is boring and while I may get knocked around for hunting down uniqueness, In the end, I wouldn't have it any other way.

(Insert cheesey quote here:)

I'd rather be hated for who I am, than loved for who I'm not.

Instead of a subtle hint from God, it took an ass raping for him to get his point accross.

Dude.

So, every year there's this big ol' golf tournament in Wendover, Nevada.

It's kind of a family tradition that everyone goes.

Nothing's better than crossing state lines for booze, blackjack and discount liquor stores, with family nonetheless.

This year it was my turn to be the designated driver.

Last year my motherinlaw was the D.D. and my sisterinlaw and I took it upon ourselves to get pant-shitting-plowed and extremely obnoxious the entire 2 hour drive there.

It was pretty much the balls.

The tournament this year was held last weekend.

I was pretty stoked for a vacation.

Until all the signs from GOD started hailing down on us that it wasn't meant to be.

First of all, we started our day off with a little light shopping. I couldn't find ANYTHING. I was in a funk.

Mommyinlaw even said, "OK, if you don't buy something in this store I'm seriously going to kick your ass"

Bad shopping days are ALWAYS bad omens.

Not to mention I hadn't even had my cup of coffee that morning so I was an extremely assy-tired crab.

I found a coffee joint in the mall. I asked for a simple cup of black coffee and they looked at me like I had a vagina growing on my forehead.

My motherinlaw started talking "swanky coffee shop foofy lingo and told me to order a tall skinny girl chia latte coffee on the rocks with a double shot of awesome and ribbons and glitter on the side"

Fuck. What's a girl gotta do to just get one simple. glorious. cup. of. black COFFEE!?

I got my coffee and a chicken sandwich and we were on our way.

We stopped at a gas station to fill up on gas and beer and for me to get into the drivers seat. It had been a minute since I'd driven a stick *That's what she said* So I was a little nervous but I learned how to drive on a stick so I knew I could handle it once I got used to the clutch.

We had a full tank and cooler and we were ready to go.

Until the car wouldn't start.

I turned the key. Nothing.

I turned it again. Nothing.

My motherinlaw says "Oh my god, do you know how to drive a stick?!"

Uh, YEAH, I do... on a car that RUNS!

We popped the hood to start tinkering around with only god knows what. Motherinlaw said something about putting water in a battery or some shit. Then she she said " I KNOW! You push us! You push us and the car will start!"

Sadly, I fell victim to her idea. I squared up with the bumper and right as I was about to show off my man muscles I said "Just try, once more"

She did and by golly, that son of a bitching car started! Thank you Jesus for small miracles.

And sparing people from no doubtingly seeing one big white ass crack popping out of jeans pushing a jetta.

Phew.

I hunkered down in the drivers seat with my diet rockstar, mommy at my side with a cold beer in her hand and we took to the road.

We found ourselves in the middle of nowhere quite quickly.

We were cruisin, shit was great. Then I realize I was going 81 and there was a cop up a head in the slow lane NOT going 81. I hurried and slowed down... and just in case that fucker was going to pull me over... I did something so brilliant I surprised myself!

I got behind him.

Heh. What now?!

But he one upped me.

He started going 45 mph on a god damn freeway.

Now, If I would have tolerated the 45 mph speed limit I'da definitely been a red flag of guilty to him, Right? So I got back in the saddle of the fast lane and did a respectable 70.

I had no idea what the hell the speed limit was, but I was SURE it was NOT 45.

Sure enough, 5 miles down the road I saw the cop increase his speed from 45 to 90 to get directly up my ass with lights-a-flashin.

"Shit. Mommy! Hide the beer cans! Fuck balls. Hide em! SHIT. Cover them up! Hurry! Hurry! I can still see your beer in your can coozie! Hide IT! GOD, GOD, GOD. Did you cover up the open bottle of Ice 101?! Hide hide hide hide. SEATBELT. Jesus. Mother bitch. Ohmigod I'm shaking"

Mommybear had just lit up a cigarette. The officer came to her side of the window. She didn't think that he'd appreciate her smoking in his presence so she did the first thing she could think of. She FLICKED her cigarette OUT the window IN FRONT of the Highway patrol man.

At that point I just bent over and said "Cuff me."

He asked if we knew why he'd pulled us over. Of course we batted our eyelashes and said in the sweetest voices ever. "why, no sir"

"Your registrations expired"


I stupidly stuttered "Uh, Uh, Sorry, this isn't my car. Oh, I mean, It's not stolen. It's hers" *Points to mother in law.*

She says "It's mine. And I didn't even know it was expired, I motherfuckinswear!"

We handed him all the paperwork he asked for and as he headed back to his squad car to check for warrants or whack it or whatever the hell they do that takes them like FIVE years to figure out, we started taking stupid pictures with my camera of us two with a squad car in the background. (It's sooo going in the 2010 family scrapbook).

He let us off with a warning in exchange for our promise that we'd get it taken care of as soon as we got back to town, as we twirled our hair and played with our nipples.

If he would have played his cards right and threatened us with a fine that striking, young, handsome, highway patrolman probably could have landed himself a blow job in the middle of the desert.

He asked if we had anymore questions.

"Uh, yeah.... So.. .What's the speed limit on this road, I haven't seen any signs"

"It's 75 mam. I clocked you in at 81 right before you got behind me."

"Oh. *awkward giggle* OK. Well. Thanks for everything. OH, HEY, one more thing. Have you ever put water in a car battery?"

At that point I'm pretty sure our seductiveness attempt was blown to shit by our stupidity.

We finally arrived in Wendover. Shaken up a little but for the most part OK. We smelled like pee and tobacco.

The first stop was the discount liquor store of course.

Second stop. Hotel.

We were bound and determined to only make one trip so we each loaded up with probably well over 100 pounds of luggage, booze and snacks and shuffled into the hotel cursing profusely and panting heavily.

There we found out that we could NOT have a room key because our husbands didn't

A) Leave keys at the desk for us
or
B) Put our names on the reservation.

So there we sat. In the lobby of Montego bay with our piles of luggage, beer, tequila and chexmix damn near tears.

Madre went and talked to the manager and he "looked a little harder" and found our names.

Thanks for looking real hard the first time, troll!

We made our haul up to the room and freshened up.

The boys were still golfing so we decided it was time to drink and gamble.

And by drink and gamble, I really mean get one bud light bottle and lose $80.00 in 40 minutes.

It goes without saying that Wendover completely made me it's bitch.

The plus side? Quality time with some of my favorite people.

AND

I got to hang out with my dad.

We gambled and drank together. You know, spend totally normal quality daddy-daughter time.

Oh, and I got to see him and all of his friends get completely trashed and take turns hitting the "spin" button on slot machines they'd all put "group money" into.

Oh, and watching him check out the cocktail waitresses with a beer in one hand and a bag of nachos tied around his arm.

He didn't want to loose them.

I think at one point I had heard every one of his friends say how fucking good those nachos were going to be and that they were the best drunken snack EVER!

And that they planned on eating them on the roof.

So.

Wendover, you dirty dirty whore,

Thanks for the memories.

The very very very expensive memories.

Seriously, where do you even get off?

You think you're Vegas or something?

Psh.

We're so still fighting.

It's not so much lazy, as it is pant-shitting fear.

Not everything is the universes fault.
It's time I own up to my own laziness.

I could have gotten up this morning to run.
I really could have.
There was no blizzard outside.
The temperature was a toasty 20.
The roads were snow free for the most part.

I attempted to go to bed early last night so that I was guaranteed eight solid hours of rest before waking up at 5:45am to shuffle my pudgy ass around the neighborhood.

I like to read before bed. It takes my mind off of everything that may or may not be troubling me and it makes my eyeballs ache to the point of a nice, mindless slumber.

I was excited to start a new book last night that was recommended by my motherinlaw. I started reading and was anxiously awaiting my peaceful departure.

Until I read about kids running through a forest, tripping on a tree stump and matter-of-factly landing on A DEAD BODY.

Not just any dead body. A body where the eyes and mouth have been GLUED shut.

A body where ants were crawling through her nostrils and dried sweat and blood had left a trail of suffering upon her face.

A body who's hand had been sticking out of the fresh earth with fingers dangling down in a mangled mess from being CHEWED ON BY RABID DOGS!

I read to the point of my eyes being tired enough to shut and succumb to sleep without a fight.

I turned off my lamp and started thinking about my morning itinerary.

"I'm gonna wake up, take my NO Xplode, Change into under armour and OH MY GOD WHAT IF I FIND A DEAD BODY ON MY RUN!?"

"What would I even do!? No one is awake at that hour! There was a body found in this little city not too long ago, what If I come across something like that?! This shit really happens now-a-days. Even in this little rural farm town"

"Rural. Everywhere I run has at least 2-3 open fields along my way. What if I encounter a rabid dog? Or a wolf?! Or a mothafuckin MOUNTAIN LION?! I can't outrun a god damn jungle cat! I have weak knees!"

"It would smell my fear and devour me. Who around here would even intervene between me and a damn cougar?! No one. No one would. Why? Because I'm a dick and I don't like to talk to my neighbors, that's why!"

"I should really start being nicer to people"

"But what if me being nice gets mistaken for me wanting to die by the creepy neighbors who live on hillbilly row. They'll wait for me to jog by with my Ipod blaring in my ears leaving me completely unable to hear my attacker approaching me with a gag-rag covered in chloroform and they'll nab me and tie me up in their back yard with their 34 parted out old rusty combines and halfway-cars with creepy naked dolls laying on the dash and then it's just like that damn movie wrong turn!"

"I need to google sunrise time"

"7:03am. That's not gonna work. I need to be hitting the pavement by six a.m. SHARP."

At this point in the night I tossed and turned while debating back and forth with myself in a fear induced sweat.


I came to the conclusion that I've got one demented, ill-humored motherinlaw and the thought of my last meal being a protein shake was far more terrifying than tangoing with a puma or winding up somewhere between "bumfuck and you got a purty mouth" with toothless hillbillies hootin' and hollerin' about.

Not this time death, Not this time.

I'll live to debate waking up at the ass crack of dawn another day.

FACT: The universe is a dirty bitch.

I feel fat.




I haven't been able to stick to my usual crazy workout regimen due to working an insane amount of hours between both jobs, being sick with gamboo and the weather deciding to DUMP an approximate fuck load of snow down on us in the month of APRIL.




See, Universe, I think you're confused.




APRIL SHOWERS, MOTHER FUCKER, APRIL SHOWERS!




This snow bullshit is seriously cramping my style.



And my bulge.



Although, with 3 inches of snow on the ground it's perfectly acceptable to wear a hoodie in April.



Thus, hiding my bulge!



And enabling me to unbutton my jeans after stuffing my face full of nachos and beer.



OK, Universe, I take it back. You're not a dirty bitch.

Running on Jesus juice fumes

I think Jesus is a fair man.

Yesterday I worked 20 hours STRAIGHT and with his crazy miracle working skills, he enabled me to not only wake up on time for my "regular job" but somehow, I'm still forming sentences.

And for the most part they're all English.

The last 9.5 hours were the most grueling 9.5 hours, like, ever.

I didn't even have time to drink water.

Or pee.

Or breathe.

Last night was inmotherfuckingsane.

And somehow I managed to wake up at 7:30, after 3 hours of sleep, and make it into work by 8am.

I probably would have promised someone my first born child in order to stay in bed and get the sleep that's so much needed right now.

I've got this weird thing though, with my "regular job", which really, should be called my career, but I've convinced myself that I'm not old enough to have a career, because that's like, completely grown up-ish and old, but I've been here like, 7 years, and I still totally love it, and I passed all my big girl tests in a hell bent effort to advance my education and become more of an asset to my company and OH MY GOD, I'M SO TALKING GROWN UP!

Icky.

Anyway, as I was saying, I've got this weird thing with my "regular job" about not letting my bar tending interfere in any sort of way because, this "regular job" I speak of, is my career, and it totally takes priority over a part time bar gig.

So, as dirty as my figurative balls may get from dragging in the dirt, HARDCORE, I can't ever bring myself to call in sick because I have to prove to myself that I can totally handle everything I've so stupidly piled on my plate.

And that, people, brings me to NOW. I'm here. Working. *cough* diligently.

I was even on time and had my hair done.

I threw a glittery headband on the top of my noggin because:

A.) Obnoxious glitter sparkling a-top my head distracts from the blood shot, droopy eyes.

2.) It also distracts from my dry, peeling face. Like I've said, sleep makes people pretty and skinny and I ain't gettin none of it, homies.

C.) Glitter camouflages the beer that's still in my hair from last night.

4.) Glitter looks fun. Fun equals refreshing. Refreshing equals ready to fucking rock and roll.

And ready to fucking rock and roll just permeates professionalism and awesomeness.

I've ingested an entire pot of coffee and I'm limping all over the office, but damn it, I'm here. In a totally fake good mood because I have priorities people!

My lower extremity's feel like they've been bludgeoned.

Like that scene in Misery where Kathy Bates takes a sledge hammer to James Caan's feet.

Ew. I know. It makes you cringe to replay that scene. But sadly, that's exactly how I feel.

I've done some hard core workouts in my day. I've ran many-a-miles and I'm here to tell you that nothing, no, NOTHING, physically beats your ass into a bloody motherfucking pulp worse than bar tending.

Don't roll your eyes at me in doubt! It's TRUE.

I'm not a whiner, and most the time I play like a champion, but I'm one whiney, angry, hurty, crying, stabby bitch after bar tending.

A few things have made this day delightful despite my lack of REM cycles.

1. I got my five new lip glosses in the mail today. I'm sure you're all dying to know, so the flavors are as follows. (In no particular order because I love all my little preciouses just the same)

• Lemon drop.


• Taffy go lucky.


• Twisted citrus.


• Bananas. (This shit is bananas. b-a-n-a-n-a-s. Couldn't resist)


• Slice of heaven.

How can you NOT buy something called a slice of heaven!? Honestly.

HAVE YOU NO SOUL!?

To my suprise I didn't have ANY of these flavors. Out of all 2.7 million lipglosses I own, none were even remotely close to my new little treasures.

Lemon drop reminded me of the most fragrant shots that I make at the bar. They look like sunshine and smell like bunnies. Or fresh lemons.

Whatever.

Taffy go lucky sounded delectable. And sticky.

Twisted citrus reminded me of twisted sister and who doesn't want some twisted sister in, on or around your lips!?

I WANNA ROCK!

Bananas makes me think of Gwen Stefani, gorillas and potassium.

Last, but certainly not least, A slice of heaven. Need I say more?

Good job naming your lipglosses, Victorias Secret.

You black demon, marketing assholes.

The ups man ALSO brought me a white and orange hoodie from Vs that says "Beavers" all down the back. And get this, the lettering is velvet. So, technically.... That would be.... Furry Beavers. Which, lets just be honest here folks, that's fucking comedy.

If you can't understand why that's comedy then you must have lived under a rock for quite some time.

Hopefully ya'll know the movie Misery too... Otherwise, It may just seem like some crazy-coffee-cracked out-sleep-deprived-no-sense-makin-furry-beaver-hoodie-wearin-lipgloss-addict just posted a blog about entirely nothing really.

That's odd.....

Gnight.

Sometimes the universe is one bi-polar bitch.

Come.
As you are.
As you were.
As I waaaant you to be.
As a friend.
As a friend.
As an oooold enemy.

*****************************

No, the party don't start til I walk in.
Don't stop.
Make it pop.
Dj blow my speakers up.
Tonight, I'ma fight.
Til we see the sunlight.
Tik toc on the clock.
But the party won't stop.

*****************************

I feel like makin love.
Duh nuh. Duh nuh. Duh nuh.
I feel like makin love.
Duh nuh. Duh nuh. Dun nuh.
I feel like maaaakin looove toooo yoooou.

*****************************

A long December
And it's easy to believe.
Maybe this year will be better than the last.

*****************************

Walkin down this rocky road.
Wonderin where my life is leading.
Rollin onnnnn, to the bitter end.
Finding out along the way.
What it takes to keep love living.
You should know
How it feels my friend.
Oooooh, I want you to staaaay.
Oooooh, I want you today.
Cuz I'm ready for love.
Oh baby I'm ready for love.

******************************

I CAN'T SLEEP PEOPLE.

CAN'T.

I'M SOOOOO SLEEPY, YET FOR SOME UNKNOWN REASON, MY SUBCONSCIOUS HATES ME AND WON'T LET MY BRAIN STOOOOOP-PUH ALREADY.

Sleep makes people pretty and skinny. It's a proven fact, and I ain't gettin NONE of it.

Why?!

This week's been kinda crazy.

It's been filled with sunday afternoon minor breakdowns, cramtastic studying, test taking, Salt lake driving, Thai food, running, lifting, tequila, good friends, celebrating, beer, wings, more running, more lifting, sqeaky loud co-workers that can't use their big girl words so they just make lots of uber annoying high pitched squeels all the time, beer, panties, beer, birthdays, Mexican food, furry slippers, coffee, picture taking, beer, crazy minded creepos coming into my office and threatening to sue, coffee, nutella and a pretty navy blue nail polish.

Notice how sleep didn't make an appearance at all during my week?


Instead I have my own personal dance club running all nighters in my head.


Playing hits from the 70's, 80's, 90's and nowzies.


I feel cranky and stabby.


More so than usual.

What if I'm developing a sleeping disorder that's leading to an anger problem that's intertwined with some sick twisted overeating issue that results in making me feel fat and worthless, hence making me depressed and just wanting beer and more comfort food!?

Do you SEE the vicious cycle?!

Last night I was pretty blunt and very forward/aggressive with my sisterinlaw by saying "You're uppity bitch friend is here and if she so much as blinks at me wrong I'm going to fucking punch her in her throat"

She wrote me back saying "You make me laugh"

She gets me. Sometimes. Hopefully.

In a desperate attempt to self medicate myself with retail therapy I bought like, 5 new lip glosses yesterday, and some knee high socks that have a picture of a frothy ice cold mug of beer covering the calf and they say "cheers" on the feet.

Lip gloss and beer socks.

Oh and some little booty sleeping shorts that are all furry weird, with rainbow leopard and zebra print all over them. It's like the 80's fucked the zoo. They're the balls.

Oh and a bracelet that says "I heart boobies"

I was gonna buy a Venus fly trap, but it was brought to my attention that in the description of the product it was only a 2 inch high, baby terrarium.

What the hell am I supposed to do with 2 inches?

(That's what she said)

Seriously though. How am I supposed to grow a beef eating monster plant with only a 2 inch clearance?

Total bullshit.

I don't want a plant that would get full off one fruit fly.

I want a plant that I could feed fucking gerbils to and threaten my dogs with if they even so much as place one grimey paw on my couch.

Ok universe, I'll trade you one roid-raging-mamal-eating plant for good uninterrupted solid sound sleep.

Complete with all the fancey REM cycles and shit.

Do we have a deal?

A celebration is in order.

Today I PASSED THE 1717 - AGENT'S ESCROW EXAM - PART II

This is the part where I'd probably try to be funny and witty and all sorts of what not, but to tell you the truth my brain hurts.

I think I've forgotten how to use my normal big girl words.

Instead I'm just going to let you know that today was off the chain. I avoided parking fines in Salt Lake City, I passed my final test, I met up with my brother for lunch, (he suggested a Thai restaurant and I've been dying to try Thai food so I was totally stoked about that) and being the generous, loving, kind hearted brother he is, he even bought my lunch.

Stay tuned to my blog. I know how much of a slacker I've been lately. I promise to improve.

Until then, salud.

Jazzed diggity BOOYA!

All the long nights, brain numbing days and beer filled pop quizzes have totally paid off.

YESTERDAY I PASSED THE 1716 - AGENT'S ESCROW EXAM - PART I

BOOYA!

I passed with a score of 81%.

Not to brag or anything, but as I was getting logged out of the testing center the lady there told me that my score was one of the highest scores she'd seen for someone taking it for the first time.

Then she offered me a chair and some juice because I was shaking violently and had broken out in a profuse sweat during the 2 hour exam and had peed myself a little.

It was like donating 19 gallons of blood taken through the biggest needles on the planet and then going into an epileptic fit afterwards.

Fucking terrifying I tell you.

Afterwards I walked around the campus of the University of Utah, among my fellow colleagues, with my chest puffed out and a shit eatin' perma-grin on my face.

I left with my passing exam in hand and a $15.00 parking fine.

In honor of being totally rad I think I'll take the rest of the week off from studying and spend it at the gym, with friends and family and getting some MEGA house work done.

I get to start hitting the books hard again next week for the second part of the test that must be passed within 90 days or I have to start allllll over again.

As much as I'd like to say that crazy-stressed out-panicky-overeating Erica is gone, she's only taking a short break from the crazy.

The crazy resumes next week and in full force, mind you.

The second part is all math.

Which normally would be fine.

Except Math and I had a total falling out around the sixth grade. Math called me stupid. I told math to suck it. Then I made out with maths boyfriend purely out of spite.

Since then, Math and I haven't talked.

This is going to be interesting.

And awkward.

Because Jesus wants me to be happy.

Today is ash Wednesday.

Ash Wednesday is the 7th Wednesday before Easter and the beginning of lent.

A day of fasting and repentance, if you will.

A day to refrain from eating red meat, drinking alcohol and engaging in any sort of personal pleasure.

Everyone knows that Wednesday is also backwards day.

A day of self denial? I think not.

Tonight I think I'll go out for steak, beer, chocolate and prostitutes.

Purely out of respect for backwards day.

Can physical violence be the answer, sometimes? Please?!

I've been with my husband for a total of 8 years this March. We've been married for almost five. Through those five years we shared the same bed for 3.5 months. That is all. I'm a light sleeper and somehow my husband seems to get kazoos lodged in his nasal cavity each and every night. At first all my friends told me to "just hang in there." "You'll be used to it in no time." "Pretty soon you won't be able to sleep WITHOUT his racket."

I call bullshit.

I made it 14 weeks. The longest 14 weeks of sleep deprivation in my life. I gave up and moved into my own, separate bedroom.

That, ladies and gentleman, saved our marriage.

And kept me from getting locked up on homicide charges.

Sunday I pulled a little trick out of my hat and surprised husband with a room that was off the heezey.

The Anniversary Inn has an awesome room called "Jesse James hideout". It's the balls.

Big screen TV, in-room pool table, 2 person jetted jacuzzi, table and chairs with Ice buckets for your booze and a bed so tall you have to take the stairs to get on it.

It's the kind of room people have sex everywhere EXCEPT the bed.

We stayed in our room for nearly 24 hours. Check in was at 3 and check out wasn't until noon.

Things were going swimmingly.

Until I wanted sleep.

Husband was watching sports center and I had drifted off into a peaceful slumber. Suddenly the lull of the TV in the background was replaced with what can only be described as a catastrophic symphony of bullhorns, kazoos and those little recorders you get when you're in like, 3rd grade, to play Mary had little lamb. Yeah. THOSE.

Due to our romantic night in, I thought a slap on the head and a "shut the hell up" would really take away from it all.

So, Instead of slapping, I gently nudged him. He stopped.

For one minute.

The night continued with his indescribable snoring.

Seriously, It's like, nothing you've ever heard before. Trust me.

It's 3 am. I hadn't gotten much sleep from the night before.

I'm freaking nutty balls tired.

I've got earplugs jammed so far down my ear holes that they're starting to ache.

I'm tiredly searching for any solution for sleep:

My god.

Seriously?!

Can he NOT hear himself?

This sucks.

There's lots of extra pillows, I could probably make a bed in the Jacuzzi.

Bathroom floor?

I did NOT spend this kinda cash on a room to sleep on the bathroom floor.

This bed is freakishly high, Maybe I could sleep under the bed.

Does sound rise?

No, It's not heat you retard.

Damn.

What else could I jam into my ear canals?

Is this worth going deaf over?

I could deal with being deaf.

The deaf girl on heros is pretty cute.

Sharp object to implode my ear drum?

Bottle opener.

No, that'd be messy.

Mother bitch.

I want to hurt him.

By the sweet grace of god, and the wall mounted thermostat fan set on super duper turbo high to drown out the sound of my own personal hell, I was finally able to drift off to sleep and get a few hours of rest under my belt.

Monday we parused around a few shops. Went and had a beer at the White Owl. Ate some lunch and then, my fat ass took permanent residency upon my couch for the remainder of the evening. Husband even left the house for a little bit so I was able to watch all my reality, trash TV in peace, while stuffing my face full of chips and salsa, white chocolate popcorn, pizza and diet root beer and not be judged while doing so.

What?

I needed comfort food to help me cope with werewolves, suicidal deer, no sleep and the bruises on my knees thanks to a certain pool table.

Happy Valentines!

*

A Valentines Day railing.

It's 3:00am. I'm driving home after a long night of moonlighting at the local pub. It's late but I'm still totally hopped up from the neon lighting, blaring of karaoke speakers, five hour energy shot and the redline pill I took at 10:30.



I turned off the highway with excitement knowing I had a big fat greasy floribertos burrito and a ice cold beer waiting for me at home to help me wind down.



Yes, my night cap involves a 4 pound burrito. Don't judge me.



My eyes are set on the road. My stomach is growling. Mama's ready for her burrito when SLAM!



"Ohmigod. What was that?! Did I just hit a garbage can?! Oh shit, I took someones mailbox out. No, no... Couldn't have. Nothing was in front of me. Think Erica, THINK!"



"Vampires?! Werewolves?! That damn wolf man movie is out. I bet it was a werewolf. Is it following me?!"



Now is when I decide it's an OK idea to call husband.



"Husband. I hit something. I hit something in my car."



Husband: "Well what was it?"



"Well if I knew I wouldn't be calling it SOMETHING! I didn't see ANYTHING. Nothing was in front of me. Something slammed into me and shook my entire car! Sounded like it hit my passenger side toward the back of my car. I think I'm being followed by pissy werewolves."



Husband: *sigh* "I'll meet you outside"



"BRING SILVER BULLETS!"



I pull in to my garage. Husband comes out, We both walk around to the other side of my car to see what kind of damage my poor, beat to shit SUV had sustained. Sure enough, a big'ole hunk of my bumper had been knocked out and I had scrapes down the side of my car.



That's when I saw it.



Hair.



NOT human.



Hair in the cracks of the bumper and in my tire wheel well.



"Babe, look, hair! Think it's werewolf hair?"



"No, I'm pretty sure you just scared a deer and it ran from it's shadow into your car"



"You mean to tell me, some cute little precious deer was just napping in the snow and when I turned off the highway I scared it so the fucker ran INTO MY CAR!? If it was scared why didn't it run away from me instead of railing poor rodeo?"



Sigh.



Not the kind of railing I had in mind for Valentines.