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.

A bloody rectum would ruin anyones day.

It's no secret I would be a terrible parent. From time to time I'll ask my sister in law how shit's goin'. She'll usually say good, and inform me of any problems her kid (Rykee baby) is having. I then feel the need to drown her with a bunch of bullshit suggestions that you should, clearly, never do to a baby.



For example:



If Rykee baby is constipated I tell her to give him a cup of coffee to help loosen him up and if that doesn't work pop a cigarette in his mouth and teach the boy to light up and inhale. He'll be shittin in no time!



There was a recent round table discussion about correct punishing methods. Spanking vs. time-out, etc. My solution was simple. Roll up a news paper and slap him on the head with it while saying NO firmly, of course, and then maybe rub his nose in whatever he did wrong and say "NOW GO KENNEL!"



Whenever they aren't able to make it to some sort of "grown up only" event due to not being able to find a sitter I simply say "Dude, kennel the bitch up and lets go! He'll be fine"

These are as far as my parenting skills have taken me.

I'm well aware these are all very non-maternal instincts. My sister-in-law is also well aware of what a sarcastic asshole I am and she'd never actually take any of my advice (or ask me to babysit) so the coast is totally clear.



Being that I am a sarcastic asshole most days, it's only fitting that I get the most asshole-ish dogs ever.




Thanks a lot, Karma.



For Christmas I received an electric blanket. It's warmth and coziness is nothing short of paralyzing magic. Coincidentally, my dogs thought so too. Those persistent little bastards would fight tooth and nail to get up on my couch onto the oasis of warmth and awesome. The problem with that is, I DON'T WANT MY GOD DAMN DOGS ON MY MOTHER FUCKING COUCH! The couch that I paid A LOT of money for. The same couch that has had nearly half of it's body reupholstered due to my bastard dogs licking, biting, clawing, poking, scratching, wrestling, rubbing and EATING IT!



Shit, I have THREE pillows right now that need to be reupholstered! Can you blame me for not wanting these demon spawns on my couch!?



No, the answer is no.



In every effort to keep my baby Satan's off my couch I relinquished the rights to my warm woobie.



"You assholes can have mommies Christmas present if you promise to stay thefuckoffmygoddamncouch!"



It worked like a charm. As long as I turned their blankie on in the mornings and at night when we were home they stayed off of the couch and willingly took residency on the floor in a slobbery, docile, comatose state.



It was pure bliss.



The other morning I discovered wires jetting out of said awesome, magic woobie. Then I discovered that my male dog, Dax, was pissing blood out of his asshole. Dax was raced to the vet, fingered like a Jr. High whore and sent home with pills that we have to hide in bologna.





Bloody diarrhea really sums up my week. I think I've cried at one point every single day due to frustration, work overload, random bullshit, stress and dead dear on the highway.






Somebody hide some magic pills in my bologna!