40 whole weeks plus a lifetime of moments

Last night, I came home from my book club meeting and my husband tells me that my eleven year old son wants to learn about football... the best players.... the best teams... the worst teams... etc. All the boys at school are talking about their favorite football players and whatnot and he wants to be a part of the conversation and have his own input. My husband gave him two of his fantasy football magazines and my son started to read them last night.

My son has never cared that much about professional sports, so this news baffled me and then the wine I had had kicked in and suddenly, I felt all sentimental and smooshy.

The simple act of my child wanting to study football made me realize that he's turning into a 'real boy'. He’s not just my little baby anymore- with strings to guide him. He wants to form his own opinions and play part in grown up conversations. My son was sleeping when I got home, so I popped my head in there to kiss him good night.

I laid there with him for a minute or two... just watching him. and in that minute or two, I saw the moment he was born... all tiny and perfect.... and then when he turned two... and those little fat cheeks and goofy haircut that couldn't detract from the light and spirit in his big, curious green eyes,... and then when he was four and we threw a big bounce house party and no kids came.... and how he didn't care..... and when daycare school picture day was on September 11, 2001 and how I had to make sure his hair looked cute as I focused on the TV watching the twin towers collapse and he asked me what was going on... and that time he picked me a purple flower from someone's yard because he thought it was pretty like me.... and then his first day of kindergarten.... and his first oral book report..... and when he taught me about the universe and stars..... and when he showed me the difference in the tail lights from a 1972 corvette vs. a vette from 1975..... and that one time I was doing dishes and the bubbles were all sudsy and a tiny little bubble escaped from the sink and floated up into the air and he reached out and poignantly said "it's my souuul".

All these things entered my mind and I watched him sleep so peacefully and as the skin of my cheek brushed against his shoulder as I tried to get a closer look at his lovely face, I wondered how much longer I have to hear him say 'love you mommy' or 'I’ll give you 1000 kisses if you let me have an oatmeal crème pie" [I should really start accepting his offer while it's on the table before I regretfully wish I had stocked up on kisses].


My thoughts shifted to my 9-year old daughter.

How much longer will my daughter still want to hold my hand in public?
Or look over while she plays soccer to make sure I’m paying attention to her?
How long before she starts to lock her bedroom door for privacy or starts to hide her diary?
How long before I hear the words "I hate you!" as my child storms out of the room and I just have to sit there and remind myself 'you knew this day was coming.....'

This is why I WOULD want another baby.
As if to stop time.
Then I remember that it will be the same thing all over again.
I can't end up with 14 children.

*sigh*

Cooties, no more.

Dear [insert name of cute fifth grade girl here],

On the second day of school I started to like you and you are really pretty. Your hair is shiny and nice. When you smile you make me happy. Your smile is beautiful.

[insert name of my cute fifth grader son here]


*sigh*

Aren't elementary school love letters the best?

Ten going on twenty-six

My son and I had a conversation in the car yesterday about starting a new school in the fall. Here is an excerpt from said conversation. You know, not the part about academic structure and education and learning, but... rather... the important part.
About girls.


me: so, are you excited to start your new school in August?
my son: Yeah. I hope there are some hot girls there.

me: *pause* *pause*
::thinks to self- girls have cooties until they are about 26, dont they??::

my son: Too bad Gabbi doesn't go to [insert school name here]
me: You know, this is a smaller school than what you're used to. Have you asked *Logan about whether there are hot girls who go there?
my son: Yeah. I asked him. He said there were a few, but that there were going to be a lot more this next year.
me: Why would that be so?
my son: ::he says nodding with a sly grin on his face:: It's called fifth grade.

*Logan is his friend who has attended this school for a few years now

Thank goodness, my daughter is still pretty sure that boys are gross.
And they are. Gross. If girls have cooties until they are 26... boys are gross until they are like 81.

what to do??? what to do???

In one corner, we have Hell's Kitchen.

In another corner, we have Wife Swap with a Pagan family, which is totally up my alley being that I am a wee bit Pagan and all... but even I must say, they're a smidge..... peculiar.

And a third corner, we have my new girl crush... Victoria Beckham.

So many choices..... whatever shall I do???

Fucking damn it.... I wish we have TiVo or whatever. This is EXACTLY why TiVo is needed. I feel like every time I miss a beat of any of these shows... a part of me dies a little.

Another Klassy Night at the Asherbelle Household

so last night,I drank my wine straight out of the bottle as I sat my lazy ass on the couch and I watched a Science Channel show called "multiples in the womb" where I learned about what happens from the moment of egg releasal to fertilization to conception to when a fertilized egg splits to progression of pregnancy to birth.

Oh, and my son watched it with me. which was kinda odd since I haven't had official 'talk' with him yet... rather the half-assed version that went something like this:

"Do you know what sex is, Cass?"
"It's when two people kiss on top of each other while on the couch"
"M'eh. Alright."

Don't worry ::rolling eyes:: I will have the non-half-assed talk with him. He'll be eleven this year. He is officially girl crazy. I know I need to sit down with him and discuss it so that I'm not a grandma at the age of 36. Gag.

IMPROMPTU POLL: Should I drink straight out of the bottle

while having said talk or drink it from a plastic cup and tell him it's apple juice?

I'm going to drink. So... there's no point in suggesting that I don't.

I'm just sayin'.

Thankfully, he didn't really talk a whole lot throughout this show we were watching. even as the squiggly tailed little spermies (yeah, that's right... I said "spermies") dashed across the TV screen. I waited for the "what in the heck are those things and how did they get where the woman's eggs are? And why do women have eggs inside of them?" He was quite fascinated, really. And even said the very words that many men say... or should say... those words being..."It's a good thing men don't have to have the babies because it hurts too much."

As I took a swig from the bottle, I agreed wholeheartedly.

"Please don't drink too much, mom."

Awesome.

Speaking of awesome... check out this baby cage. Only, I want one for my

husband. Because it would be funny to put it around him while

he was sleepingso when he wakes up, he's all freaked and shit

like "WHAT THE HELL???!!"

Well- whatever........ I think it would be funny.

Asherbelle and Marilyn sittin' in a tree.... my 4 1/2 minutes with Marilyn Manson.

When I was a young girl, I absolutely loved Boy George. I knew he was a guy. He sang like a guy. He had an adams apple. And he was ass ugly without makeup on. It was his ‘stage persona’ that I thought was gorgeous. That lovely made up face….teased hair, glittery outfits.

Enter into the teenage years. I was introduced to the androgynous David Bowie. And oh, hello my delicious Robert Smith of The Cure. Hi there mystery man, Peter Murphy. The Cult. Ministry. Love and Rockets. And even today, the look of Jack Sparrow makes me… rush to the movie theater. Clearly, I have had, for a very long time, some type of innocent fascination for boys in makeup. However, if my own husband were to wear makeup, I probably would not be too delighted. And I would totally laugh at him. Right after I vomited. And I’m pretty sure I would not be attracted to him and his thick, caked on black liner and ruby red lips. Only a select few can get away with this look, I do think. And it is primarily for those who have a bit of a … tortured soul, I think. Oh, and they most likely have to be the lead singer of a band. While my husband has his ‘dark’ side… that's the extent of it and he surely is not dark hearted in any way nor does he have any weighty perspicacity that he feels the need to sing or write about. And therefore, a sun-deprived face with sad, black eyes and ridiculous over-exaggerated lips simply does not suit him.

I think a lot of it is the music, too. Even the music of Culture Club that was so…. 80’s…. so pop….. so bubbly had it's little hurt messages buried inside the lyrics. "Do you really want to hurt me?, "Church of the poison mind". As I type this, I am listening to the Bauhaus’ “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” and it just wouldn’t make sense if a guy withOUT a trace of makeup on was fronting the band. It just makes sense. Like honey, peanut butter and marshmallow fluff smooshed between two pieces of white bread. Not for everyone, perhaps. But boys + makeup= makes sense to me just like a peanut butter honey fluff sammich.

I remember going to this place called The Fine Line during my high school years in the mid-80’s. Everyone wore trench coats. And steel toe combat boots. Including me. I loved being “goth”. “Alternative”. A “freak”. Whatever one wants to call it. At the time, we were different from everyone. Except for each other. But we were only sorta the same on the outside. On the outside, we each hid behind our hair... underneath the black clothes that, even in 100+ degrees of summertime, covered our bodies from head to toe.... and rather than wear our hearts on our sleeves and be a part of the school spirit club, we preferred to lurk in the shroud of mystery that seemed to surround each of us 24/7.

We each had our own torment within, however. Our own wreckage in our lives. I remember going to The Fine Line where it was all dark and creepyesque… and even while listening to the upbeat, joyous sounding Tones on Tail "GO!", everyone danced all sad like… only moving the arms and head… and never looking up from whatever it was we were fixated on at the time… be it the floor… a crack in the wall... our own hands. Just feeling the music. Absorbing it. And relating to it.


Okay, so I’ll fast forward about…. um…. 18 years later. I seem to still have some type of ‘thing’ for boys in makeup. Marilyn Manson, for example. Love him. Love his music. Love his voice. Love his scrawniness. Love his face. But, not without the mask. I need the crazy eyelashes and lips and teeth and that disturbing blue-white eye thing. Totally turns me on. Really. It does.


I have been listening to his music for years now and appreciated it quite a bit. I always found him to be very interesting…. quite clever… and extremely intelligent, at least from the interviews I have seen him on or read. Pretty much a pretty cool guy, all around.

So needless to say, when I found out he was coming to where I live, I was pretty excited. And he wasn’t coming for a concert. Honestly, I don’t know that I could ‘hang’ at one of his concerts. He was coming to the local art gallery that was hosting an exhibit with his watercolor works. And he was kind enough to make an appearance that night. It was, however, a private event. And one needed an invitation.

Good thing I have awesome friends. My husband and I were offered one of these private invites by our friends, who reside downtown and who know the gallery owners. Excellence.

That night, I was nervous. I didn’t know what to expect. I changed my outfit several times in the weeks leading up that night. I wanted to be comfortable, but sexy, and sophisticated, but chic. Normally, I would go with the black dress and black fishnets look. Red lipstick. You know… the same look that I imagined many others would be going with. So, I opted for a gold matte dress with a big, wide red belt that sat high on the waist with red and gold platform heels. I was happy with my decision, especially when I saw everyone else at the exhibit wearing black dresses.

In my mind, Marilyn Manson is like 9 feet tall. Tall. Lanky. Towering. In reality, he is like a mere 6' and he wears big shoes. Well, I’m 5’11 flat footed and I ,too, like wearing big shoes. So, I was about 6’3 that night. When Manson arrived, he towered over most...

But not me. I’m that big, tall girl in the crowd. In a gold dress, nonetheless. Hi! Look at me! I'm a freak!

He was rushed inside the gallery, where only a select few people remained and he was allowed to peruse quietly with only his entourage and new girlfriend. It pretty much, after about 20 minutes, looked as though most of us were not actually going to get to meet him.

I was pretty sad.

Perhaps the stars were lined up in my favor that night. They must have been because I was able to get back into the gallery. But not alone. My friend’s husband basically took it upon himself to make it happen. Everyone in “our” crowd knew that if anyone of us was going to get to meet Manson, it would be me since I was for sure the biggest fan of him out of all of us. So, I was pulled though the adoring fans and into the front of the crowd and the gallery owner saw that he knew my friend and her husband and nodded us in.

Then, there I was. Inside the gallery. A few feet away from Marilyn Manson and his body guards. Oh my god.

Holy Shit.

My friend’s husband [Joey, so I can stop referring to him as my friend’s huband] led me closer to Manson and started calling out his name and telling me that I needed to go up to him.
Yeah. Let me just approach Marilyn Manson and bump into him and be like “oh, fancy meeting you here.” One of the body guards was looking at me kinda funny because I was actually trying to be polite and said out loud “he’s with someone right now and I don’t think it’s nice to interrupt”. I think I was slightly horrified, though very excited to be in this situation, with the idea that in about 47 seconds, I could possibly be standing next to this…. to this…. person who is by far the biggest celebrity I could ever be meeting. Plus, he could easily just eat me or something. Just murder me and rip my head off with his evil teeth and chew me up and spit me out. Because that’s what Marilyn Manson does, right? Thuper Thscary.

Within moments, I was there. We had his attention. Marilyn Manson was looking right at me. I was looking right at him. I might have pee’d a little bit. So I didn’t know what to do exactly except extend my hand out for him to shake.

Lame.

But not nearly as lame as the 40-something-year-old woman before me who was like crying her eyes out after meeting him. One might have thought she had just met the fucking Backstreet Boys.

So he took my hand, after a moment of hesitation… which was probably because I was at his eye level and he was curious as to whether I was really a woman… or a man.

We stood there while some cameras flashed. And I know we spoke about his cats and his divorce agreement and who got what cat. Other than that, I’m not sure what was going on. Except…. my one little observation. That being that he was fiddling with my belt around the backside of my waist. Like little nervous fidgets. Like he really was pretty uncomfortable with everything going on. Like someone who often feels awkward might be. A person who has insecurities like anyone else. And this shyness and anxiousness is bottled up inside this big, crazy guise. It was incredibly endearing. Sweet. Soft. It made him human.

And not that I ever thought otherwise, but he is just this little wonderful spirit trapped inside this big, ridiculous world of paparazzi and fanatical crazies and judgmental idiots and stupid crap. And here I am… standing next to the guy who got blamed for the incident of Columbine. A guy who, in the eyes of some, has single handedly destroyed the minds of some of today’s youth. And he stood next to me… with his right arm draped around my waist for a photo op…playing with my belt. He probably didn’t even realize it. But I immediately recognized it. And inside, I was smiling because I always suspected that he was completely opposite of how he is sometimes portrayed, both by others as well as himself.

Maybe he’s not ‘your cup of tea’. Maybe he doesn’t make music that you enjoy listening to. Maybe he scares the bejeesus out of you. Maybe he believes in something different than you do. Maybe he has made choices that you would not have made.

Heaven forbid some of us stop to think that maybe we’re the ones who are different from “everyone else”.

Unfortunately, that photo op got very fucked up because my digi-cam died on me. Joey desperately tried to take a picture. To no avail. He even handed me the camera and I saw that it was, in fact, turned to the ‘on’ position. Manson even looked at it. Nothing. No life in it. I had already been standing next to him for a little while and I really felt as though my time with Marilyn Manson was up. I thanked him for the chance to meet him and told him I was a huge fan. He smiled. And not one of those “I’m going to cut you up into little pieces” smiles. A real smile.

I was ecstatic that I had just met him. It hadn’t really sunken in at that time. Then, I felt my heart break a little when I realized that I had no damn picture of it. Nothing. Everyone else had pictures. The ‘professional photographer’ there told us that we could pay $300 for a copy of what she had in her camera. I considered it while Joey went to the bathroom and I stood outside the door playing with my stupid digi-cam.

Suddenly it turned on. It fucking turned on without any problem. As if to say “Haha! Fuck you! That's what you get for being such a lamewad!” Joey came out of the bathroom and I showed him the camera. We both were completely perplexed. And Joey, once again, became determined that we were going to get a damn picture.

Manson and his bodyguards were moving around the gallery and Joey once again called out his name. And Manson, once again, looked right at me. And once again, he smiled a gracious smile. And I think… he remembered me. So, of course… I looked right at him and said, as any classy lady would say, “my camera took a shit on me.” He motioned for me to come back next to him. I happily obliged.

Even though I’m certain that that night at the art gallery is now a very, very distant memory in the mind of Marilyn Manson, for a brief moment in time, he “recognized” me. Ten or fifteen minutes had gone by from our first meeting to when the words “took a shit on me” spewed out of my mouth. That is awesome to little ol’ me.

Later that same evening, I flashed back in my mind to the fact that I was talking to Marilyn Manson about his cats. Of all the things…. I asked about the cats.. How stupid am I? But, then I had to tell myself that that asking about Lily White was SO much better than saying something like, “So. Marilyn…you got a myspace page?” Could you imagine?

No matter how dumb we might think we are sometimes. There is always something dumber that could have gone down.

Remember that. And feel good about it.

Oh, and... he is now my "friend" on my myspace page. Yeah. That's right. Don't be jealous.

Um. Wow. Hi there hot, young singer boy.

"Do you get infatuated much?" I asked myself after about 42 minutes of continuous youtubing this artist.
"Not really", I said to myself.
"Obsessed?"
"That might be a better way of describing it."





There are tons of live versions of this song that I found... but this one is my fav because his voice isn't drowned out by screaming lunatic fans and dumb girls who are screaming that they "love him"... as if he even notices them. Stupid bitches.

::doodling Paolo loves Asherbelle on her notebook::

I also like this version because the camera mostly focuses on him and not the crowd and not the instruments. It gives me the most satisfaction, for sure. Musically, I mean.

Of course.

Diagonal Walkers

You know who you are.

Please stop it.

You will get to the other side of the street, path, road, walkway much FASTER if you stop walking at an angle.

"We need to start having more awake sex"

... this is an actual quote by my husband earlier today during a conversation we were having in the car as we left Target.

Look, I've been kinda busy lately. I just have. I'm doing 4739824932 different things. And I've been very tired at night.

And in the morning.

My husband had just been dragged to two stores... where I spent about two and a half hours comparing buckets, household cleaners and microfiber cloths. I spent forever trying to find cleaning produccts that are without bleach, petroleum, amonia, strychnine, LSD, skin flakes, and things that are impossible to pronounce.

He did, however, get to leave with some Star Wars figurines (did I mention my husband is only eleven?) , some mini bottles of beer (totally dumb seeing as how he'll just drink 2 or 3 of them at a time instead of just one regular sized bottle, but... he thought they were "cute"<--- I'm assuming the fact that he called these beer bottles "cute" was directly related to my standing in the aisle for sixty... three... minutes.... comparing labels as he quietly withered away into a state of boredom and insanity-- he even began mumbling hypothetical conversations about himself to himself at some point). Anyway, back to the beer... he got beer.

So I'm starting my own business. I'll tell you more about it later... once I have a real grip on everything. But, clearly... I'm not meant to work for anyone. I'm too spoiled and prefer my freedom. However, I would like to help bring in some income around the house. Because I want pretty things. And the condition of our carpet is slowly sucking my will to live so it needs to go and we need to either tile our house or do some wood flooring. Whatever. At this point, I'd just assume rip up the carpet and just have the concret that lies underneath.

So I feel pretty tired right now. Mostly because of one store in particular. I probably shouldn't say which store, should I? They might try to come after me or I might offend someone. Let's just say that it rhymes with Ballfart. This store about killed me. Does anyone like going there? For real? They can't possibly. There is NO WAY anybody actually doesn't mind going to to this place. I go like maybe once a year. And each time, a piece of me dies. My dad called while I was there and I HAD to talk to him because we don't get to talk all that often. So that probably took an extra 30 minutes where I just stood and chatted. I can't talk on the phone and shop at the same time. After I was off the phone, I found my husband rummaging through a ginormo bin of Spanish DVDs. By the way, this particular store does not seem to have any non-toxic, eco friendly household cleaners. None. Zip. Nada. I had not realized that the people who regularly shop here... at this "Ballfart" store... are not ones to give a shit about the earth. I wish that had occured to me prior to making the decision to go there this morning. That would have saved me from the headache and from having to take my second shower for the day upon my return home. I'm passing on this news to you so that you are, at least, spared from having to go had you considered going for that reason.

Target, on the other hand, ....I could live there. Had my husband not been with me making bored faces, grabbing a quick feel of my boobs when nobody seemed to be looking, coming up behind me and poking my ass with the broom handle which was positioned appropriately at his crotch area, and showing me some type of beverage that had a horrible, horrible clown like face on the front and him saying "look Babee! A clown!", I might still be there.... happy.... and alone. .....with nobody poking my ass or tugging at my shirt. I swear, sometimes it's easier to have my own children with me instead of the husband. You know what I'm talkin' about.

Anyhoo, chances are... there will be no awake sex tonight. Besides, I already had butt love with the broom handle in the Target aisle.

Sorry, can't eat chicken. Please pass the mutton.

Has it really been a week already? Since I was watching the future youth of America on the Maury show?


I'm checking out the possibility of eating for my blood type. My friend, who is currently visiting me from out of town, turned me on to this website that tells you exactly what you should, and more importantly, should NOT be eating based on your blood type. Apparantly, I've got everything all wrong. Seriously, with the exception of goat's cheese and pineapples, EVERYTHING else in my normal, routine consumption is listed on the "ABSOLUTELY NOT ALLOWED" column. Nice.

Also, according to this chart, peeps with my blood type (B+) are most prone to things like chronic fatigue syndrome when not properly eating. totally. explains. everything. I have been addicted to avacados lately. I bought five of them a couple of Fridays ago... nice and firm they were. And the next day, they were PERFECT for eating. Just a little soft... but a lovely green.... not smooshy like for guacamole... but ideal for cutting into little cubes and smothering in white wine vinegar, a little salt, a little pepper, and covered in creamy, wonderful, heaven-like goat's cheese. I ate two of them.

The next day I ate the other three. In one sitting. Same way as mentioned above. I was draggin' ass the whole rest of the weekend. Avacados are in my ABSOLUTELY NOT section. So not awesome, this news. And I can't have coconuts. Or buckwheat. And for Mother's Day, the hubband and the children made me, as per my request, buckwheat pancakes. [assisted with the draggin' of the ass that weekend, I'm sure] I am also not supposed to eat eat pork. or chicken. hello? Lamb, mutton, venison, rabbit~ those are my choices. I like none of these.

I might just die.



yeah.



so.not.awesome.



Wheat and rye bread are bad for me, too. As are freakin' pinto beans. Um... I'm part Mexican. It's in my blood to eat pinto beans. I gotta be represent'n, yo, and eat the pintos. No almond extract... seeing that I don't just sit around drinking almond extract, I'm doubting it will be horrible that I do add a little to some choice recipes. No cream of wheat, corn, tofu, COUSCOUS... OH MY FREAKIN' GAWD... no couscous. OH MY FREAKIN' GAWD.. no pomegranates.



Dying. inside. right now.



.





.







dying.



Good news: no rhubarb (this is so okay because I think rhubarb is quite possibly the anti-christ), fenugreek (um, okay), artichokes (m'eh), turtle (yay!), beef = it's what for dinner, mozzarella, yogurt = good, lots o' dairy (except for ice cream.. which is horrible.. and I don't really want to talk about that right now~ I'm just not really ready).


Now that my tears have subsided after having read all the bad news.......

Wine appears to fine. I mean, it's not on the list. Anywhere. This is good. I can have my wine. And my delicious murdered cow. Maybe there is a light at the end of the tunnel afterall. And it's raining goat's cheese there at the end of said tunnel.

by request... the website is: http://www.drlam.com/blood_type_diet

Obviously some of you want to be tortured.... i'm tellin' ya, had I never looked at this site, I wouldn't know that I was killing myself and my metabolism and ignorance can truly be bliss sometimes (bliss by way of ice cream, avacados and pinto beans) But whatever.... have at it. Misery loves company after all!

I Wish you Could See the Look on my Face Right Now

I'm embarassed to even be posting about this for a couple of different reasons... first and foremost being that I'm horrified at the fact that I'm even paying the slightest bit of attention to this show that is quietly playing in the background and second, this show just solidifies the fact that we have a major eating problem in this country. As if I had any doubt.

But why does a mother need to go on the Maury Povich show seeking help for getting their overweight child on a diet?? It just adds to the grossness.

Yet, here I sit.
Watching them all.
Adding to the grossness.

One mom said that when her now 85-lb four year old was 2 months old, he was eating solid baby cereal because formula just wasn't cutting it and he was crying out of hunger and wouldn't stop.

Hello.

Hello?

At four months, when baby cereal now wasn't enough, I'm assuming she switched to pizza.

If a 2-month old is crying from [what they believe to be] hunger pains, you don't cram solid food down their throats. You find other means to calm them. Drive around the block with them. Put their bouncy seat on the washing machine to let the vibrations calm them. Let them cry a little bit in safe surroundings. My daughter cried the entire first year of her life and I didn't cram food down her throat to quiet her. I left her with g'ma and went to the Bahamas. Hehe. True story.

Anyways.....

The parents 'conditioning' their kids to eat crap they shouldn't be eating from the beginning.... this is exactly what paves the way to obesity in children which starts them down the path to being obese as an adult thus having to deal with a life full of ridicule and torment and health issues without even standing a chance from the get go. Thanks mom and dad!!

The kids have no say or control in it... they're completely helpless. The parents are the ones in control... and they don't know what to do with their control. These parents are admitting that they are over feeding their children. They're "feeding the beast", so to speak and are really at a loss as to what to do about it. Step one, naturally... go on Maury.

Some of these parents seem to genuinely want help. Others have no idea the harm they are causing and are in complete denial. If bitch slapping the TV would help... I'd bitch slap it until my hand turned into a bloody pulp. But, since that would be just as stupid as going on national TV to talk about how my 80-pound toddler eats fast food each morning, afternoon, and night and how baffling it is that people stare at him... I'm just sitting here being utterly repulsed, yet oddly sucked in with each passing moment of the show.

A 102-pound four year old is on now. Gah. I can't watch anymore. I have my limits and my "people are so stupid" meter is at full capacity right now.

A Bright [and energy efficient] Idea!

Now that so many of us are finally recgonizng the destruction that is currently going down in regards to the earth and her future, I thought it would make sense to bring a little piece of information to your attention just as it was brought to mine last night.

I called my Aunt Dukey Donna [yeah, Dukey isn't really like on her birth certificate or anything, it's just her nickname, in case you were wondering what the hell that is all about]... anyhoo, I called my Aunt Dukey Donna last night to wish her a happy mother's day and after some pleasant bit o' reminiscing of her mother, who is my Meema, who passed away one year ago this coming June 9th, naturally the next step in conversation is to discuss incandescent light bulbs vs [CFL] Compact Fluorescent Light Bulbs. Afterall, yesterday was Mother's Day and what greater mother is there outside of our own mother earth. This is not a question... but rather a blatant actuality.

We've all seen them... and many of us buy them as using them makes us feel a wee bit better about doing our part in helping save the planet that has been, afterall, so good to us all these years. So learning what I learned last night was interesting to me because I really had no idea about the details of using this funky, swirly lightbulb that reminds me of a delicious vanilla Dairy Queen ice cream cone.

I'm too lazy to actually type out the following, so rather than do that, I am just C&P'ing it from the Internet.

The first blurb will educate those of us who are NOT yet using these bulbs, perhaps due to not even knowing much about them or just not caring enough. The last sentence is my favorite part.

Why should people use CFLs? Switching from traditional light bulbs to CFLs is an effective, accessible change every person can make right now to reduce energy use at home and prevent greenhouse gas emissions that contribute to global climate change. Lighting accounts for close to 20 percent of the average home’s electric bill. Changing to CFLs costs little upfront and provides a quick return on investment. If every home replaced just one incandescent light bulb with an ENERGY STAR qualified CFL, it would save enough energy to light more than 3 million homes and prevent greenhouse gas emissions equivalent to those of more than 800,000 cars annually.

Okay. That's the gist of WHAT it will do to help save energy. Now, this next part is what I didn't know because nobody is really making it very noticably clear.

CFLs should not be disposed of in an incinerator. In other words, do not throw these in the regular ol' trash can once the bulb burns out. And if it should break, do not suck up the pieces with a vacuum cleaner. As you may or may not know, CFL's contain a very small amount of Mercury within them; an average of 5 milligrams, which is roughly equivalent to an amount that would cover the tip of a ball-point pen.

Not really a huge deal, right? Picture this.... if everybody tosses the bulbs in the garbage, which then gets put out on the curb with all the other neighborhood garbage cans, and that garbage gets dumped into a big truck, which collects garbage every day of the week, and then magnify that by every residential and commercial dumpster in every city in all the lands, and then ALL that garbage gets taken to a big ol' stinkilicious landfill after being crushed as flat as a skinny white girl's ass, that toxic mercury gets released into our air, thus polluting it, which kinda sorta defeats everything we are trying NOT to do because we want our children's children to have a pretty place to live when we're long gone and not have to be cleaning up the horrible mess that past generations have left behind.

I, for one, am not a fool by any means, however, sometimes I forget to read or miss the 'fine print' so if we are simply made better aware of things, I'm certain those of us who care enough will abide by the rules, whether it's convenient or not. Afterall, we're using energy efficient bulbs to begin with which demonstrates a concern in and of itself and I'm certain that those same people will properly dispose of these bulbs when the time comes. But, some of us need to be aware of the rules and sometimes our hands need to be held a little bit. That's all. I throw my regular bulbs away all the time in the garbage and now that I'm starting to switch over to the CFL's, I honestly quite possibly would have been tossing them in the garbage can simply from not knowing any better. Indeed, a case where ignorance is not bliss.

So.... after talking to my Aunt Dukey Donna, I promised her that I would start spreading the word here in the Southeastern part of our country, she would handle the Toronto area. Just mention it to people... some may already know.... others may not have a clue.... it will only do good to bring it up and besides.... it'll make you seem hella-aware and hella-cool. Almost as hella-cool as using the prefix "hella" when in conversation.

For additional information and understanding exactly what to do, please read this [PDF]:

http://www.energystar.gov/ia/partners/promotions/change_light/downloads/Fact_Sheet_Mercury.pdf

Love your Mother. Peace Out Blog Readers.

Randomness on Hump Day

Here are some random observations and thoughts from my day today:

I like to buy baby carrots. But the small bag isn't one of those resealable bags. Only the ginormo bag o' carrots is resealable. And even though it takes us a while to go through the 8374920387942 of baby carrots that are in the big bag, I can't stand the fact that the other, more reasonably sized bag, doesn't close without my having to loop a rubber band or twisty tie around it 19 times. Yes I could open the small bag, empty the carrots into a quart sized ziplock bag, I suppose. But I don't want to . So there.


And wafer cookies. Same thing. We LOVE the sugar free ones. Yeah. Odd, I know. The fact that I like ANYTHING sugar free, but these are awesome to my picky tastebud palet. They come in a plastic-y wrap of sorts that tears when you open it... and there is absolutely no room at the top to fold over and secure with anything thus causing me to eat AT LEAST the first row of wafers in order to make some room to seal them back up. And quite often, I tear the top pretty good so in actuality, TWO rows must be eaten. And much like the carrots, I COULD put the wafers into a ziplock plastic bag, but I'd rather complain. And eat rows of wafers. But SUGAR FREE wafers.


That is all.

Oh... and....

Dear Nabisco,

Please continue to package your Oreo cookies in a NON-sealable package. This prevents me from buying Oreos because if they were resealable, they would be in my food pantry. That is a very bad thing. For me. And my thighs. And my ass. But not my ankles because I NEVER get fat in my ankles. Since your Oreo cookie packaging is NOT resealable, should I bring a package home with me, I would be forced to tear open the ends and pretty much eat all the cookies in one (maybe, possibly stretching it out to two but not likely) sittings to prevent any of the precious, precious Oreos from going stale.

I appreciate your time and you can continue to change the Oreo all you want (nothing beats the original, fyi) but NEVER EVER EVER put the cookies into a convienient, resealable bag.

Thank you,

Asherbelle

B to the A to the B to the Y

*drum roll please*




I am going to be an auntie!!!

Yup. My youngest sister, and only sibling, is due in November. The way she informed me and our mother was most cute. Our mom was here visiting me and she had told us that our mother's day cards were coming in the mail and since the both of us were together, she wanted us to open our cards together. I didn't think anything of it, even though mother's day was still a month away at the time.

When I opened my card, it had a picture of a champagne bottle being uncorked... and inside the card read "Congratulations!".

Congratulations?

For what?

...for still being a mom after 10 1/2 years because I have not yet strangled my children?

I read on and saw that the congratulations was for my getting to be an auntie!!! I still didn't get it right away.

Did she get a new puppy or something?

After reading what she wrote in the card, I looked up at our mother to see what she was doing and she looked up from her card and we both just sorta stared at each for a brief moment with curious squints wondering if the other had just been "told" the same thing or maybe Ashton Kutcher would be bouncing around the corner with cameras at any second now.....

Fast forward...

My sister and I were speaking on the phone last night about possible names. Of course, it's still a little too soon to know the sex of the baby so she's toying with boy and girl names and has come to realize that liked girl names are easier to come by. She told me of some names that she likes and understands that these names aren't for everyone, but her child is going to be need a name that is not typical. As if she needs to explain this to someone who named her child something that she cannot find in ANY baby book other than the ONE that she originally discovered it in, which has magically ceased to exist.

As I was tucking in my own children last night, I asked them their thoughts about the chosen names thus far. Here is my email to my sister with the results of my question to them:


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
okay. i have discussed your name choices with the children. here are the responses:

i gave them the names of:
girl choices: daisy, ruby, violet, lily, lena

boy choices: wesley, holden, levi, brutis

my daughter's thoughts::

likes lily best. and likes the middle name of "anna" so it would be lily anna (which kinda sounds like a full first name, but it's not).

had nothing to say about the boy names because [and i quote:] "it had better be a girl"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

my son's thoughts::

kinda likes ruby, lena, and lily

for boys, likes brutis, of course, and has suggested the name "fertilizer" or "sprinkler"

not crazy about violet because "it's a color- not a name" -- i let him know it was a flower, too. he didn't seem to care much about that and was not swayed in the least.


my husband's thoughts:

daisy - ew.
ruby - m'eh.
violet or lily- i like lily, violet is maybe okay
lena - that's pretty
holden - "too catcher-in-the-rye'ish" ['cuz that's horrible, right?]
wesley - ::made squinty eye face with a sound much like "yuck"::
levi - he hates this name... because [my husband] is dumb. Levi is the most awesomenest boy name.
brutis - ::stared at me wondering if i was being serious::

then he says,
"why doesn't she pick out names for when she has a kid."
:: i stare at him for a moment wondering what in the hell he thinks i'm talking about ::

"um, she IS having a kid."
"yeah, i know."
"these are her name choices"
"oh. i thought they were for our kid."
"why would chloe be suggesting names for OUR kid when 1) we're not pregnant and 2) she IS pregnant, which would clearly make more sense as to why she is thinking of names."
*rolls eyes*
:: thinks to self, "boys are dumb" ::

and the moral of the story is that: you better have a girl otherwise it will be twice or even triple the work to raise a boy who will grow up to NOT be dumb. i don't think any mother [even the BEST mothers] have conquered that feat.

~~~~~~~~~

now this little blog entry of mine takes me to three places.

One - please see this post. I now will have an excuse to buy something from this site!


Two and Three - a couple of recent stories about my own children that I told my sister about last night because I really wanted to express that in order to be a successful parent, in my opinion, one must have humour. A lot of freakin' humour.


story one:
this happened yesterday as I was preparing to pot some flowers & herbs outside. I asked my son to join me. He was uninterested. I tried to sweet talk him and asked him to PUH'LEASE come out and spend some time with his mother in the sun and that he didn't even have to help, but rather just keep me company. Still uninterested but took a moment to at least reply with "maybe in a few minutes."

A couple of minutes go by.... and I am walking past him to go back outside and I say "Hey, it's been a couple of minutes... come on!"

He says without blinking or turning away from the video game he was playing , "First of all, I said a FEW minutes. Second of all, I said MAYBE."

I could do nothing more than laugh. A parent who has little humour in their bones might want to backhand their kid for gettin' "sassy", but how could I do that when, really, he was just calling me out on NOT listening to what he had actually said in the first place.


story two:
My daughter comes home from school the other day to tell me about a meanie girl who was playing out on the playground. Apparantly, she called my daughter a "fool" and my daughter's response was, "The only person who is allowed to call me a fool is my mother!"

I confirmed that her response was directed to a child rather than an adult because most grown ups might not find the fact that I call my children "fools" and "foolios" to their faces very endearing.

Heaven forbid they find out that I also call them "ratbags".

Yeah.

It's a good thing my little sister has me to look up to and to admire and to be in constant awe with all the wonderfulness that makes up my fabulous parenting skills.

There's a sweet pea blooming in a distant land

[play me: Strange & Beautiful by Aqualung]
I've been watching your world from afar,
I've been trying to be where you are,
And I've been secretly falling apart,
UNSEEN.
To me, you're strange and you're beautiful,
You'd be so perfect with me but you just can't see,
You turn every head but you don't see me.

I'll put a spell on you,
You'll fall asleep and I'll put a spell on you.
And when I wake you,
I'll be the first thing you see,
And you'll realise that you love me.

Yeah...
Yeah...

Sometimes, the last thing you want comes in first,
Sometimes, the first thing you want never comes,
And I know, the waiting is all you can do,
Sometimes...

I'll put a spell on you,
You'll fall asleep,
I'll put a spell on you,
And when I wake you,
I'll be the first thing you see,
And you'll realise that you love me.

I'll put a spell on you,
You'll fall asleep 'cos I'll put a spell on you,
And when I wake you,
I'll be the first thing you see,
And you'll realise that you love me, yeah...

War in Wonderland

What is on my iTunes right now?

Imogen Heap “Headlock”

please refer to my very first blog post ever in the january archives for an explanation on the fact that i sometimes don’t use my shift key to capitalize letters when i type. this will be one of those times.

this is probably most likely also going to be one of those blog entries that isn’t lighthearted, necessarily, nor is it profound or exceptionally wonderful. it most likely, as a matter of fact, will probably turn into a rant of sorts. or will it turn into nothing.

something in the air is festering…. what a great word…. “festering” – similar words are rotting and decaying, yup. sounds about right. i also doubt that i will go back and edit this particular entry. i’m kinda lazy like that right now. if you are feeling happy and go lucky today, you might just want to look the other way and come back later if you want light asherbelle. it's not that she is dark today…per se….. she’s just in a funny place. and not funny, ha ha. rather, funny weird.

and for sure now that she is writing in third person all of a sudden.

one would think that writing everyday would be therapeutic. assuming, that is, that he or she enjoys writing and releasing their thoughts and is capable of doing so. not to mention, that would be the healthy thing to do. alas…. Time goes by….. life happens…. and before one knows it, it’s the next month already and they have spent all this time sitting and staring at the terracotta colored wall that is in front of them and googling random tid-bits of information that are pretty much irrelevant to their life. for example, what is the difference between sunshine yellow and bright yellow?

or maybe this same person spends a ridiculous amount of time trying to compare the difference between two pairs of black shoes that are basically the same only one has a tiny embellishment on the toe whereas the other does not and will that embellishment make that shoe less practical with her existing wardrobe or does that little embellishment add a little pizzazz to the shoe since she already owns 178392172932 pairs of black shoes, most likely of which 0 have a tiny embellishment. maybe she really does not like little ‘things’ on her shoes… or maybe she doesn’t know .... and maybe she’ll just end up buying both pairs of shoes.

or none.

you know what? i have suddenly lost my desire to write anything. not because i don’t want to…. i just don’t think i know where to start. or what to say.

i'm sorry readers. i guess i'm just not in the mood to try right now. and as someone who is generally pretty good about expressing herself and articulating into words the mushed up emotions that swirl about the insides of all of our heads and much like a bunch of oozing clutter that drips into the already messy streets of obnoxious traffic... i'm pretty much sucking today. plus, i'm sneezing like a mother fucker [i guess mother fuckers sneeze a lot] and can't concentrate.

What's playing on my iTunes now?

Elysian Fields "Stop the Sun"

how about i just post random pictures?

One is the loneliest number

So I pick my son up from school yesterday and ask him how his day was. When I ask my children this question, sometimes I get the usual "good" and sometimes they elaborate a little.

My son excitedly says to me, "Mom, I was the ONLY kid who didn't talk while in line today." I responded with an equally excited "Wow! That's great!" He goes on to say that everyone who was talking didn't get recess and had to sit on the bench and not talk.

A moment passes and I asked, "So... you got to have recess while all the other kids sat on the bench? Cool!"

"Yeah. It wasn't very much fun. I had to play by myself because everyone else was in trouble. So they just sat on the bench and stared at me."

"What did you do?"

"I just stood there and stared back at them."

*pause*

"Sometimes being good doesn't mean much."

"No, I guess sometimes it doesn't", I said as I laughed at the thought of my son having a silent stare down in the playground as his reward for behaving. Good times.


Then I got a wild hair up my butt to let him drive with me once we pulled into our community. He squeezed into the front seat and sat in between my legs and situated himself. There was literally not a soul around, which was perfect.

I kid you not, as soon as he was comfortable and had his hands on the steering wheel and as I shifted from park into drive, it was as if the alien mothership dropped down from the sky right in front of us, because within 2 seconds, there was a little boy walking out of his house and down the driveway, two little girls rode by on their scooters, a woman came around the corner jogging, another young boy was walking his dog and a teenage girl was chatting on her cell phone walking along the side of the road. It really was the weirdest thing!

"Jeez.. what the?" we both said simultaneously as we laughed out loud.

Maybe you had to be there. But it was just one of those quirky moments that I love sharing with my son and since I have not blogged in a bit, I thought I'd share.

~~~~~~~~~

Coming soon.... the shock rocker known as Marilyn Manson towers over the crowd of excited fans, except for this one awkward, tall girl wearing a gold dress who later curses like a trucker and leaves her husband outside while she allows Manson to touch her backside; may I introduce to you Lady Luna Honeybee; exactly how do 13 women with get along for 48 hours while sharing the same space and what happens when they venture out in public; gross things like buttworms, the poop stick, and dipping raw chicken in the flour pot.

Stay tuned :-)

13 Girls in Compromising Positions

There will be more to come... I promise. But since I have been back from Chicago/Michigan for almost a week now, I felt compelled to toss out a little teaser in hopes that you'll be coming back for more later when I post my thoughts on this adventure.

I aptly titled my entry: "13 girls in compromising positions" because that's pretty much what went down the weekend of March 9th. The "compromising" part, however, was at our own free will and the humor that was shared among the 13 of us (plus a special guest named Jorge) was an exclusive club in itself and unless you were lucky enough to be privy to the wonderful awesomeness that transpired over that weekend, you might just not get the beautimous ridiculousness of everything. And I wouldn't expect everyone to understand how in the hell 13 women, each oozing buckets of estrogen and who shared 1 1/2 bathrooms, could possibly get along. No unwarranted hair pulling, no cat fights [not amongst ourselves anyway], and no jealousy, unless you posessed the sweetest of dance skills.

Perhaps more fascinating than 13 girls being in compromising positions, is the fact that that we had all just met for the first time "in real life" that weekend.

Or maybe that's not more fascinating. Speaking of fascinating things... here are my thoughts for today:

~There is SO such a thing as a one woman dance off
~The Men in Michigan really know how to spoil a girl
~Wearing a sweatshirt in a bar will only cause problems
~One must boil water prior to cramming brittle spaghetti noodles in the pot if one expects the end result to be anything that is close to being edible.
~Drinking + Cooking = so not cool

~Drinking + Cooking in Rachel's Kitchen = a particularly precarious, yet comical, situation
~If you are gross, please do not follow a van of 13 girls and expect that we will actually WANT you to come with us on our outting
~If you are gross and choose to do this anyway, DO expect that you will be serenaded with "don't want no short dick man" as you pop your head through the van doors
~It takes a special someone to take a nap while a full on, bonafide 13-girl-on-girl boudoir photo session is going down
~Spelling out "Nobel Prize" while sitting on the toilet will help one to poop
~I will be returing in my next life as a bacon pig

No Wonder Floridians Have Such Dirty Feet

For your viewing pleasure, please enjoy this gallery of pictures from my recent City of Angels trip. For four days, my friend and I enjoyed the glitz and glam that is Los Angeles. Our gracious hostess was my friend, Nikki, who opened up her home and let me and Tanya sleep in her bed while she took the couch. She let us drink her coffee and eat her MM's and Almond Rocha chocolates. In exchange, we bought her a bouquet of pink tulips and made sure her bedroom was in a constant state of disarray.

Here's what I learned:

When packing a suitcase for a trip, there is really no need to bring 3874372893874 pairs of shoes - unless you are staying for 3874372893874 days.

It's best to plan your outfits in advance. Which I did. However, I still tossed in several extra shirts and a couple of extra dresses and belts just in case I changed my mind. Which, of course I did. Because I could. And it's not just that I brought extra clothes ... I had to bring extra shoes to match those extra clothes... and I had to bring extra jewelry and accessories to match the shoes that matched the extra clothes. And my make up colors changed.

Know what I ended up wearing after multiple wardrobe changes in the bedroom? A black dress. Yup. A plain, boring black dress. No frills. No belt. The new shoes that I had just bought that day [see previous entry] while doing some LA shopping so all the other pairs of shoes that ALREADY existed in my suitcase just sat there... all lonely like.

As many of you readers know, the purpose of this trip was to attend the MADtv taping and wrap party. My friend, our hostess who tolerated the both of us, is Nicole Randall Johnson [her mother and I are the only ones who call her Nikki... to everyone else, she is Nicole.. make note of that] and I knew her waaaay back when... before she was a big TV star... back 14 years ago when we met while handing out Alpo Dog Food samples at the Price Club. I think we also handed out fruit cocktail cups. Good times.

Anyhoo, my Florida friend, who has become fast friends with Nikki, and I really enjoyed meeting the cast and crew of the show. Everyone was so very lovely and friendly and knowing how they are "in real life" just makes the characters they play on the show more hilarious because they are often polar opposites of how they really are. Makes me appreciate the show THAT much more.

I am not one to get star struck, really. If I see a celebrity, I just stalk them from a distance. However, my favorite moment of this trip had to be when I met Michael McDonald, who many know as the rosy-cheeked, overgrown child with gland problems, Stuart, on MADtv. He has had me laughing out loud for many years now and I was very excited to hug him and squeeze him and gaze into his big, blue eyes just as a child, with her cheeks pressed to the glass as she longingly and lovingly looks into the window
of a candy store, would do.

::evil giggle inserted here but I'm not saying why::

Now that we have been home for over a week [OVER A WEEK? AND YOU'RE JUST NOW POSTING A BLOG ENTRY?!] I have made many observations about my hometown. Only one of which I would like to bring up right now. I went out the other night for happy hour and beyond with my traveling companion friend and, just as we typically do, we got dressed up. As we looked around us, we noticed that most everyone had on flip flops and capri pants. Except for the grody woman who had on a black, sparkly cocktail dress.... with flip flops... do I even need to elaborate on THAT woman's outfit, really?

Yeah. No.

Anyway.... I realize that Florida is renowned for its laid back lifestyle. I'm still in my pajamas and have not brushed my teeth and it's past 10:00 in the morning right now. Yes. I own probably 15 various different types of flip flops and I'm all about wearing them. To the grocery store.... to the beach.... to Home Depot.... but when I go out to someplace OTHER than perhaps the bars down at the beach or the above mentioned locales, I like to get dressed for night time [not red light district night time attire... I'm not in my 20's anymore]. You know-- Heels. Pants that come down past my ankles. Make up. Hair brushed. Jewelry. Coordinating cluth. We were at a nice, classy place... and all we saw around us was sloppiness.

Welcome to Florida.
Where people
1) come to die,
2) get drunk in the sun,
3) don't worry about investing in a full length mirror.

I know, I know. I shouldn't complain. We also have lovely landscape.... theme parks.... and we have no idea what it feels like to be in negative degree weather.

However.... my girlfriend and I have decided that we will be going to someplace fancy and glamorous at least once a year so that we can get our fix of "the other side".

On that note.... I leave for Chicago tomorrow.

I am not kidding.

"You are the sexiest woman in this room", he says.

"Why don't you buy the sexiest woman and her friends a round of drinks", she says.

Well, I'm back from the world of Los Angeles, feeling slightly deflated and bored with my familiar surroundings. It usually takes me a few days to re-adjust upon returning from a place such as the fantasy world that is LA. As I was grocery shopping yesterday, I was even 'acting' LA...whatever that means.... but for anyone who is familiar with the energy and 'tude that comes along with it, you know what I speak of.

I will have some pictures soon... just as soon as my girls [hussies] email them to me. I left my camera at home because it's a big, 35mm beast and I didn't want to have to lug it around with me and look like I was a stalkarazzi the whole time. Or a European tourist. Whichever.

For my fellow shoe whores, I did purchase these during my visit. On sale BIG TIME, otherwise I would not have been able to swallow the idea of spending over $200... I wore them on Saturday night with fishnets and I was about 6'3 in them. They're pretty shiny & sweet. I'm going to sleep with them on, I think.

The weather was lovely, of course, and there were some celebrity sightings. But none better than the people we have the priviledge of hanging out with Friday and Saturday night. Those being the cast and crew of MadTV. My friend of like FOREVER AGO, is part of the cast and the entire purpose of the visit was to be a part of the show's final taping for the season and attend the wrap party. Good times, good times. I rarely stay up past 10:30 at home so crawling into bed at 5:00 am and then giggling with my friend, who came out with me from home, for 30 minutes until we finally drifted off, was quite invigorating! Well, that is, until I had to wake up 2 hours later to catch my cab to the airport. My friend stayed behind for a few extra days, so I was the unfortunate soul who had MAYBE 47 minutes of actual sleep during that time and who had to stumble out of bed and make herself at least presentable for a cross country flight. I was so tired by mid-day that I wasn't even tired anymore.

Thank goodness for first class seats and complimentary alcohol. AND, thank goodness for having Time magazine in my carry on. As soon as I sat down, a nice looking young man, who I later found out was Australian [even better] sat next to me and the last thing I wanted to be doing was reading the smut mags that were lurking in my purse with Britney Spears' shaved head drama on the cover. So, I read about abortion and politics instead, in an effort to try to fit in with the caliber of people who surrounded me in the front cabin.

What was really cool and classy was when I finally drifted off to sleep for a bit and was woken up by my heavy head flopping forward. Upon wiping off the little bit of drool that had snuck out, I rested my head back against the seat, though could not really bring myself to fully fall asleep, in fear of startling myself again. Another cool moment was when I couldn't pull out my table during my meal because of my weakness from being so exhausted [let the record show that the tables come out of the arms in the first class cabin, they don't just flop down from the back of the seat in front of you like in the "common folk" cabin]. I had no place to put my chewed gum, so I stuck it on the side of my water glass like a 6 year old would do. Yeah, that's right. I wasn't done chewing it and wanted it for when I was done eating because it was my last piece. I dropped crumbs on my lap while eating.. a couple of times. And I dropped my fork approximatly three times. The final time being on the floor where I couldn't lean forward to get it because of my table. And it's probably a good thing, because without even thinking about it, I might have picked it up off the dirty floor and used it without flinching because that's just how I roll.

I don't know that I'm really first class material.

On a completely different note, I would like to make a correction concerning my previous post about the bag o' vomit. When my mother's husband was en route to return to the side of the road to pick up the mystery bag, my mother did not, in fact, say "what if it's a bag with a body part in it." What she actually said was, "what if it's a bag of dead kittens".

She's a sick woman, my mom. That is quite possibly even more wrong than the act of actually opening up a bag that one has found on the side of a quiet road in the first place.

Anywhoo, Asherbelle regrets this error and apologizes for the misquote.

Carry on.

I'm back... and armed with something gross.

Have no fear, the elusive blogger is here! And alive! Though... a bit blurry.

I appreciate the emails I received from some of my loyal readers inquiring as to whether I had drifted away into oblivion, or perhaps I had won the lottery and ran away to live in a hut made of stucco and beer somewhere along the shores of Mexico, or maybe I was bundled up in the corner rocking back and forth while grasping at my ankles.

Well, none of the above. Pretty boring, really. I know. Time just seems to be..... slipping away faster than I can grab it and hang on to it.

And who [or what] is the elusive one here? Perhaps I am, but time is the bigger perpetrator, I say.

And now that I am actually posting something.... I have to leave again! I'm heading out for a few days to the other side of the country. I leave tomorrow. But... rest assured... upon my return, I will have fabulous things to report to you all. And if I do not, I will SURELY fabricate wicked awesome stories and create pictures of these 'supposed' events in my photo program by super imposing myself onto a picture of me arm and arm with a celebrity or something. I might not even have to do that. Because... I might just already have said photo saved on my desktop.... me and a certain Mr. Depp at a movie premier from a couple of years back.

However, I will leave you with a little story to get you through. Of course, you have survived the last month without a blog entry from me... I imagine you'll get by these next few days. But, just in case you need something from me.... here you go:


Picture This:

My mother and her husband are driving along one day. It's daylight. Things are clear. Lovely. Vivid.

There is a smooshed brown bag on the side of the road. They see it as they zip past it.

husband "Hey! Did you see that bag?"
my mom, "Yes."
husband, "We should go see what's in it!"
my mom, "That's okay."
husband, "but it could be money! A bag of money!"
my mom, "That someone just tossed out of the window?"
husband, "Well, you never know."
my mom, "it might be a body part."
husband, "Cool!"


My mom's husband turns the car around somewhere in the midst of this conversation and goes back to the bag and slowly the car comes to a halt, with the bag just a few feet away. Visions of being able to roll around on a bed of money start to fly around within his imagination.

There was excitment in the air! Well, in the air that surrounded my mother's husband. My mother was very hesitant, understandably so, to play along.

He grabs the bag, which is crumpled, but nicely folded at the top.... obviously to seal in the goods.

Nobody is around. Thankfully, my mother is probably thinking to herself.

He puts the brown paper bag in the back seat and drives on. A couple of miles or so up the road, it is time to check out its contents. He has already begun to think of all the ways he can spend the money he is about to uncover! My mother continues to knit in the front seat. She really doesn't care much about this mysterious bag o' who-knows-what that lies on the backseat.

He pulls the car off to the side of the road, as my mother has refused to grab the bag and open it up herself, so she has passed the exciting treat of opening up the bag over to her husband.


My mother side glances his way.... for she has become just slighly curious. Though, probably more for what he will do when he realizes that there is not money in that bag. She surely believes that there is not freedom within the folds of that paper bag.... nor is there a pile of diamonds, rubies, or sapphires.

As he carefully unfolds the tops of the bag... his facial expression shifts from curiosity and excitment to something a little more horrific.

There is vomit in the bag.

Vomit.

Someone else's vomit that is now in the front seat of my mother's car... thankfully, still contained in the bag, at least. He threw the bag out of the window.... just as it had been thrown, most likely, sometime earlier that day.

No diamonds...no rubies... no money... no gold inside that bag... but rather just a story to tell. A story with a moral attached to it. That moral, of course, being... don't be picking up bags along the side of the road and expect to find much more than vomit. And that would be lucky, really. At least there really wasn't a body part in it.

I mean, can you imagine? GROSS!