Bazinga!

Mom: I wish you would stop asking me if I'm ok during our exercise class.

Me: Well, you look like you're dying. That warrants a check in.

Mom: I'm FINE. Stop treating me like I'm elderly.

Me: You almost fell off the treadmill TWICE today. TWICE. That's TWO DIFFERENT TIMES.

Mom: I'm just having issues with balance.

Me: You're having issues with being old.

Mom: Well stop asking me in front of people, it's embarrassing.

Me: You know what else is embarrassing? Carrying your mother home from Royal Oak after she falls off a treadmill.

Mom (internal thoughts): I never wanted to give birth to you.

Me (internal thoughts): I'm posting a picture of you post-workout on the internet.


In the words of Sheldon: "BaZINGA!"

My Sincerest Apologies

Over a year ago, when I still actually LIVED in Pittsburgh, I fell in love with a little unknown artist named Rosi Golan who's stuff was featured on television every now and then.

It should be known that during particularly rough times in my life (which according to this blog, is like, always? Geez, Ash, GET SOME HAPPY PILLS) Beth and Kelley and myself would send one another her lyrics through email while making fun of the rat faced punks we worked with and discussing how difficult it was to go to the bathroom while in our place of business (You know what I mean...if you're a lady AT ALL, you know what I mean).

I didn't intend for my post about Rosi Golan to involve poop, looking back on it. No...that's not where I wanted it to go.

I wanted it to go to this song and to tell dear Rosi how much she saved my life last year and that I'm sorry it's taken me this long to blog about her. And how much I wish she would sell her music in piano books so that I could learn it. But I also want to take up harmonica lessons as well...decisions, decisions.

For Humanity. And New Nikes.

My good friend Kelley, whom I talk about relentlessly on this blog to the point where I'm pretty sure you know her personally, sent me an email recently regarding a good friend of hers. Because his struggles were so much like my own in the past, let's start there, shall we?

A few years ago I was extremely moved by the Darfur problem in Sudan. I mean, I'm still moved by it. While I am a member of the coalition and have written some pieces including a longer work that is still in the modes of editing (read: sitting on my hard drive untouched due to lack of time and energy), there came a point where I wanted to do more.
I was a recent graduate. I had no job, no responsibility! People were dying around the world and I wanted to help! So I called everyone I could. "How do you get involved? How do you volunteer in Sudan? What kind of shots are necessary for that type of oversea travel?"

Dude, turns out they don't just let anybody go to Sudan without special permission. At the time, it made no sense. "Hello...you need volunteers. I'm a volunteer. I have all my working limbs and am avoiding the responsibilities of real life for as long as possible...TAKE ME." That didn't cut it. Turns out that all world organizations only take on volunteers who have relief experience, which took me a while to understand.

(To Achieve World Relief Experience: Volunteer at a local shelter. Then, be approved to volunteer in a U.S. city where a flood/natural disaster has occurred. Then, volunteer to go to Mexico on a mission trip for orphans. FINALLY be approved to go to Chile for earth quake relief efforts. HOW do they even keep volunteers at this rate? It's like the longest application process EVER.)

All my whining aside, I did not get to go to Sudan which is perhaps better off for everyone. Turns out there's a lot of sand there. It's not that I can't stand sand, I'm just a pain in the ass for everyone else when the sand becomes a pain in MY ass, literally.

Back to the present: My friend Kelley has a friend named Steph who has a brother named Jordan who wanted to help Haiti in much the same way I wanted to help in Darfur. However, he's not only smarter about it but he's more determined. When he called and asked the operator of such details how he could get to Haiti to help, the woman actually said "You could always walk".

Dude, he's doing it. He's walking from Minnesota to Florida starting Sunday, March 27th in an attempt to raise awareness and funds for Haiti relief efforts. You can visit the great details of such a feat at iwalkforlove.com and donate, but if nothing else, spread the word so others know there's a way they can help too, just in case they can't get their own 100 day walk together in time.

And seriously, someone get this kid a new pair of shoes and some coffee. Sunscreen. Books on tape. Oh, and a Purple Heart. Good luck, Jordan. We're rooting for you.

Feeling A Little Cruella De Ville

For the past twenty minutes I have been cleaning up dog vomit from my kitchen floor while swatting away the ruthless creatures that created it, because that's what disgusting vermin do. EAT THEIR OWN VOMIT.

And after said vomit fiasco, and a string of expletives so outrageous that I'm even ashamed they came out of my mouth, I had to sit back and just relax for a minute before I chopped off several doggy heads and left them on pitch forks on the front lawn as a warning to all the rest of the dogs in the neighborhood that this isn't a PUPPY FRIENDLY ZONE. PUPPIES COME HERE TO DIE. BE FEARFUL ALL YE TERRIBLE VOMITING PUPS.

I sat back at my computer, dug deep into the crevices of my memory and said, "Self, what song was it that friends were recommending I listen to weeks ago that I might listen to in an attempt to calm myself off of this puppy skinning rage that will leave my mother dogless and me on PETA's most wanted list?"

Thus, I bring you Rogue Wave's Lake Michigan. Er, rather, Mark and Ryan bring you Rogue Wave's Lake Michigan. Enjoy.

And, for good measure:

On Friendship

It has occurred to me recently that I have a lot to be thankful for.

Take this morning, for instance. I walk into my local 7-11 and the proprietor sees me coming, takes out a fresh pot from the burners and says "How about some blueberry coffee?"

Blueberry coffee? My favorite! Thank you, kind sir. And while, yes, I am in there everyday and it's just a well known fact that I like that flavored coffee and takes him merely thirty seconds to put together, it is kind all the same. And a little weird I spend that much time at 7-11.

It's important, I believe, to recognize the good when you feel the weight of the bad. Most recently I've been feeling the weight of life in general. The unknown job I might never get in the fall. The relationships lost due to lack of forgiveness on both parties. Financial burdens. The things that find their way into your mind when you just want to go to sleep on Sunday night so that Monday is at least bearable to make it through and yet you just can't.

No, I'm not drunk and depressed, nor am I tripping on E and full of love for others. I'm simply reflecting that when life is at it's absolute worst it seems...it really could always be worse.

I'm thankful for my friends, as weird as this may come out sounding during this post of deep depression and unhappiness. I'm thankful that I met this incredible group of kids in college and connected with them in all of their quirky ways.

I'm grateful for Kelley's expert advice on couch cushions and kama sutra. I'm grateful that Beth can picture any dreams I might have and make them her own, she wants them that badly for me.

Scott is the friend that I go to when I have questions about China's impending doom or why Native Americans have it so rough on those reservations. Matt will know about any book or movie I have questions regarding and be unafraid to tell me it sucks. Mark can help me build a fully functional computer or vehicle out of six toothpicks and some glue. Jason will pour me more wine and feed my HBO addictions. Rob will listen. Catherine knows everything there is to know about pop culture. The list is endless. The list is ever growing and ever changing. I am grateful for you, wherever you are...however long it's been since we last talked.

This is not my plug for more comments. This is not my way of making my blog more popular or more enticing or to make it seem like I'm a giant sap with no life and too much time on her hands (though thats the way it might appear to most).

I'm just here to say that I'm happy for each and every friend I've made thus far and I'm ready for more, should you choose to be mine. I see you out there, Louisville and Fenton. Rochester (of New York AND Michigan). I see you Virginia and Pennsylvania and Beverly Hills! I want to know you Ontario and Washington. And, yes, it might seem a little creepy and stalkerish that I can see when you come visit me but please know, it's not for any other reason than it simply makes me happy to know you're out there, somewhere, and that you read. That you're interested in what I have to say. That perhaps I am on your list of friends with a special purpose.
"Ashley is my friend that says stupid stuff on the internet"...."Ashley knows a lot about bad television"....whatever it may be!

Because I'm already grateful for the fact that you read me every day.
And now...I just want to know you.

Plus...how could you say no to that face?

For My Baptist Readers

Part of the fun of working at a Christian Daycare (besides the fact that every time I type it, I always write 'Christina' first. Always. I don't even KNOW any Christina's) is that every day has the potential to contain an adventure of the religious kind. When part of your curriculum is based on the bible and songs and dances lean towards Noah and His Ark rather than Rings and Rosies, it just becomes part of the norm. Sometimes, you don't even realize you've made a giant GIANT religious faux pas until it's too late.

This past week I helped the school with a staff shortage in the afternoon for after school kids. Essentially, once kids get out of elementary and no one is home to get them off the bus, that same bus conveniently brings them to us and we pack twenty seven of them into one room at a time with some puzzles and juice and expect them to get their homework done all before their parents pick them up.

These children include the owner, and obviously my bosses, three daughters, two of which attend a local private Christian school during the day since they're too old for our facilities. Then they begrudgingly join the rest of their kids in the after care while their mother works in the office. And I get to help them with their homework. Their religious, religious homework.

So the other day we're enjoying our grape juice and I'm busy peeling one fourth grader off of his brother over a book he wants to read during quiet time when my boss comes in and hands me a slip of paper and explains:

"My middle child needs to have this memorized by tomorrow. Can you help her?"

And sure. Why not. I'm not currently holding a combination of one hundred and twenty pounds of uncontrollable, adolescent boy in my arms. I'd LOVE to help your child with her homework.

And memorize we did. We said those three sentences over and over and over and over again until I thought that my head might explode. And trust me, it's not easy for a seven year old to remember squat. But I made it fun...we screamed it out for the class. We used exuberant arm gestures and stomped our feet and by the time her mother came back an hour later and said, "Hey let's hear it!" her daughter stood up proudly, held her arms out in front of her and said it just this way:

The Baptist from ashley earp on Vimeo.

That's right. Without even realizing it, I had been teaching her kid to say it just the way a Southern Baptist might at a Sunday congregation in Georgia. And she was so proud and all I could see was my boss' confused face as she quirked her head to me, trying not to deter her daughter but still curious and said, 'That's...great...honey but why are you saying it like that?'

"Because Miss. Ashley Taught me to say it like that!!"

And what did I do?! I stared like a deer in the head lights at my boss like I had no idea what she was talking about. Because it was true! I had taught her to say it like that!

I stereotyped and mocked the bible. At my Christina Day Care.

The Greatest

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm pretty sure I like movie trailers more than the actual films. It's like being able to see whole films at their greatest parts without actually having to waste two hours of my life watching it.

Plus anytime anyone else wants to talk about movies coming out, whether or not I actually want to see it, I can pretend to be interested about it because, duh, I've watched the trailer.

"Oh, yeah, that crazy Leonardo DiCaprio film! Yeah I watched that trailer...kind of reminds me of a psychoanalytical thriller...I'm interested to see how his mind plays a separate entity to juxtapose his actual character."

(See what I did just there? Sounded like a genius to a stranger. In actuality, played the trailer and let out a giant "PTTTTTTTTTTHHHHHHHHHHH" before going on to the trailer for the new Miley Cyrus film. Booyah, filmsies. Booyah.)

HOWEVER. Once upon a great while there comes a movie trailer that I can't help but live and breathe for and can't even explain why. It will get me to have the most bizarre thoughts too! Like after watching the trailer for the new Carey Mulligan film, The Greatest.

I literally finished watching the two and half minutes of footage and said out loud to no one "I wish that were me!"

I wish that were me?! Pregnant girl with a dead lover, living with people who hate her, even if it is set to a terrific soundtrack??!

I WISH THAT WERE ME?

That's how powerful this film feels. And you should watch it too. Cause I said so.

And then you will be all "That IS one hell of a song. Who plays it?"
And view that here:

And thus I have changed your life today, all with one blog post. And you didn't even have to watch the Miley Cyrus video trailer.

Yeah, But, Don't They Send Their Old Out To Sea To DIE ALONE?

I have something I'd like to refer to as Music Recruiter Specialists here at AshinPitt. Emails that come in daily requesting that I listen to and enjoy the fine tunage of up-n-coming bands we just can't live without and need the world to enjoy as well.

Really, they're just my close friends and family members who know I love a new good jam like I love oxygen. So we can thank my bestie Kelley for this one.

I don't know what it is about One Eskimo that is riding my brain with pure lust. They have such a harmonized way of twanging vocally that this man called her baby "all night long" that I wish I could sing about the experience myself. I can't remember the last time a significant other ever referred to me as "baby" for the duration of an evening. Probably because I'm a very IN-DE-PEN-DENT woman and would be all "I'm not your BABY. I'm a grown WOMAN" like the irrational, unromantic retard that I am. Also, because I say things like "duration of the evening" rather than "all night long". I am ubernerd. I will not be romanticized!

They have a website that you can check out here but if you're just in the mood to Youtube it like I so often am, you can check out the weird foreign video of it. It was all I could find. And if you have a hard time trusting my judgement, the monkey playing the trumpet in this video really seems to be enjoying the crap out of it.

So there's that.

Celebrity Sightings Of The Bizarre Kind

I have this weekend ritual now known as Le Exercise Torture with my good friend Beth. This entails that every Saturday or Sunday, I hightail my ass to Royal Oak and attend an exercise class that is slowly trying to kill me while posing under the facade of health.

Seriously. My left leg has suddenly started to go numb while I'm eating pizza in my bed late at night and I just know it's the exercise class gnawing its way into my brain to taunt me. "You will feel this in your lunges later, plus I'm creating mental stigma of torture with phantom pain so you can't even enjoy this moment. Don't you get it, dear girl? YOU CAN'T ESCAPE YOUR CONSCIOUS! PUT THE PIZZA DOOOOWWWNNNN!" and so on and so forth.

However, the best part about this weekend ritual is that one hour of grueling exercise hell is immediately following by the most heavenly hour on Earth at the local Big Boy eating as many eggs and hash browns as I possibly can to undo whatever healthy choices may have just occurred. I mean, we can't have those healthy choices sticking around for very long, can we? I just need a giant Undo Button for life.

"You were going 52 in a 35, ma'am". UNDO.

"You just donated 25 bucks you didn't have to save the Seals in Kuwait, when you KNEW that didn't even sound remotely real". UNDO.

"You just drunkenly caressed an old crush from high school at a chance meeting at the bar". UNDO UNDO UNDO.

Exercise is the same way. F all of you stupid liars who are all "I feel refreshed and invigorated after a good work out" when I feel like the kind of cheese that oozes out of its wax wrapping when first opened. Smelly and disgusting. And gelatinous. After exercising, I feel gelatinous. And it's terrible.

BACK TO BREAKFAST. This past Saturday, Beth and myself went and were accompanied by her sister Kelly and Kelly's boyfriend Jack. And it was adorably quaint! The waitress even remembered that Beth is a giant pain in the ass when she orders (her wheat toast dry and tomatoes instead of hash browns) and we all laughed comically, then shared a tragic tear for poor Sandra Bullock's tumultuous love life and all of Jesse James' mistakes. Like the fact that he banged a tattoo model AND never seems to know where his dog, Cinnabun, is.

And just as Beth is going into elaborate detail about the content in the latest Tiger Wood text messages to hit the internet (gross, gross, GROSS, please do not Google they are naughty) Kelly get's all "SHUSHSHUSHSHUSH" while frantically slapping the air at no one and Beth is all "WHAT? It's not like I sent the damn text messages, I'm just telling her what they said!" and Kelly is all "STOP TALKING I need you to look at who's coming into the restaurant right now" and eight eyes pivot to see a really tall dude with a large nose and a half pony tail come striding in, obviously post-workout (or hangover) himself.

That's right. He was sporting the half pony tail.

It was Dax Shepard. I mean, there was quite a lot of fussing about at our table and craned necks and even though none of us could see any better than anyone else we were sitting with, we got very "It's him! I mean...it looks like him, right? It's totally him. What was he in again? Oh that's right, nothing fantastic...Jackass...it's HIM though, right?" until finally Kelly asks a bus boy who is just totally besides himself with the celebrity sighting and gets all 'YES YES ITS HIM' before scampering off.

So we're trying to eat our breakfast and act nonchalant about the fact that we're in the same restaurant as Dax Shepard, like we live in The Hills and are at the Ivy and are all "Wow, that's Spielberg over there, isn't it? Why would he order the Rosemary Chicken! Obviously Salmon is the better choice. See, there's Cameron Diaz. Now there's a girl who knows how to order" when really, we're all busting on the inside. Who knows why. I mean, if I had a chance to list 50...no, let's roll with 100 celebrities on the face of this planet that I would like to run into at a restaurant, I can't honestly say he would make the list.

What I'm trying to say is that I would pick the guy who played Sloth from the movie The Goonies before I picked Dax because a)he died and dead people are always cool to pick in fantasy meetings and b)I heard rumor he ACTUALLY looked like that and need to know for sure.

The breakfast ended kind of lack-lusterly now that I think about it. I practically had to wrestle Kelly not to take a picture of him during a fake "silverware drop and grab" manuever her and Beth were planning, which Beth tried to justify with "If I were a celebrity, trying to have breakfast with my family in Royal Oak and someone came up to take my picture, of course I would be fine with it. And I'd pose with my omelet!" which I wouldn't accept as a viable excuse. So we settled for texting everyone we knew during our 'wheat toast dry' and calling it a day.

And if, on the weird and odd chance Dax Shepard goes blog cruising and comes across this post, it's nothing against you really dude. I think it's just the half ponytail I had a problem with! I loved Baby Mama! Get a haircut!

Being 25 Means Squat At My House

Mom: What's going on with...your...toe nails?

Me: SIGH. What. What is wrong with my toe nails?

Mom: They're looking a little long.

Me: They're fine.

Mom: Are those my pants you're wearing?

Me: What? No. Why?

Mom: They look like mine.

Me: They're not yours.

Mom: I'll bet they're mine.

Me: Woman, they're not. Get off me.

Mom:....Is this a bad time to ask you to pack me a lunch for tomorrow?

Me: After you've insulted my hygiene and accused me of theft? Certainly not.

Mom: I'd like a bagel please.

Me: We need to talk about your people skills.

Mom: How do you get those toe nails into SOCKS? Don't they just tear right through?

Me: NO, MOM. THEY DON'T. I make sure to wrap them up in the pants I've stolen from you first and then just wear shoes big enough to fit them.

Mom: Those ARE my pants.

Me: I'm going to spit in your bagel.

I Wish I Liked Sand

This Andrew Belle character is making a splash on TV recently. The CW is definitely pimping his ass like you wouldn't believe, but I haven't heard this song on any of their shows yet, which is a godsend.

Sometimes, when you have to watch the cast of 90210 get drunk and sloppy, yet somehow still remain one of the rich and beautiful, the music becomes tainted for you. You know, like watching a homeless person drinking from a paper bag only to find out that they've got your favorite brand hidden in there.

That's an awful feeling.

Anyway, I've decided that I totally dig this song. I turn it on and picture myself with a surf board, which is odd, considering I've never surfed in my life. I can't even go under water without plugging my nose. And I'm scared of sharks. Essentially, I'm the last person on this planet up for surfing.

But I'm still loving this jam. Dude. Gnarly.

It's A Two-fer

My brother Andrew has this best friend that he's been bringing round these parts for years. His name is Chad. If you haven't met him yet, it's probably only a matter of time before I post a picture of him unwillingly on the internet, passed out on my brother's bedroom floor clutching a stuffed monkey while wearing a ballerina tutu after a heavy night of fun. It just seems that whenever Andrew and him go out, those are the kinds of things they get into.

And are all "What? I don't even remember that" the next day when you're wondering why you have sixteen shells of hard boiled eggs on the kitchen counter and every last scrap of ham in the house has been eaten. I'll bet you don't remember that, you thievin' ham nappers of the night.

What's worse (and what my brother has revealed to me in many ways as his DIRE UNAPPRECIATION FOR THIS COMMENT I'M ABOUT TO MAKE) is that I've started watching Modern Family on ABC recently and every time I come across the gay couple with the Asian baby, I giggle to myself and have visions of Andrew and Chad's future life together with their own children. Like this:

because that's how it will happen. Except it won't be just one Asian adopted baby, but eight children of many ages between the two of them from failed relationships and they'll be all "we didn't buy enough hot dogs for this bunch, what will we do?!" and my mother will have to move in with them. That's a REAL modern family, folks.

and now I just wish my sister was a little more Columbian and Spanish speaking.
(I just commanded her to speak Spanish to me from the bathroom. She ended on Aye Carumba. I'll take it!)

Like A Glowing, Glow Worm That Glows With Pride. GLOW GLOW GLOW.

Rarely do I come home from work with good news. A lot of the time, it's not that I even have just regular "I'm home from work, this was my day news". No, typically it's tragically awful kid stuff. "So and so ate a raisin through their nose today" or "I was almost fired due to a wet-wipe incident that you don't want to know the details of".

That kind of stuff. Stuff you can't believe you actually have to go work meetings for. You know work meetings. The kind where someone gets a pizza and fourteen hostile employees sit around a table and stare at one another over the AWFUL and INTIMIDATING agenda from your boss that sits in front of them on the table top with stuff labeled like "Windex Problem" and "Why Overtime Doesn't Exist".

Grumble, grumble, blah blah.

And I would just like to say that this is the first time in history I left a work meeting with a smile on my face. For all intents and purposes, it was totally set up to be one of those awful "We really have to discuss the type of toilet paper in the adult bathroom" types of meetings that I was dreading. And to top it all off, I'm back to being the new girl in an old position and I knew someone was just WAITING to get all "Someone needs to tell Ashley WHAT.IS.UP. because she's new here and rehrehrehrehrehrehrherhe" so that I could be all "CHILD, PUH-LEASE, I've been working here since you were a glimmer in the unemployment eye, you just didn't know it during my hiatus!" that would eventually lead to mud wrestling and, hopefully, Team Work Meeting of Shots to wrap up the evening.

Alas, it did not go as such. For some reason, everyone took their Cat Medication today and were feeling agreeable and not in the mood for Jaeger and some mud flinging. People were cordial over their tuna salad. No one called me newb. I didn't have to punch anyone, which I will call a success for today.

And to top it all off, I had a shining moment where my boss stood up and declared to everyone...and I mean EVERYONE in the room, "Ashley is phenomenal...and therefore, is allowed to boss you around when I'm not around, because I said so."

I don't know if you've ever been given a promotion like this at your job. I don't think I've ever even heard of such a promotion. The "She Can Boss You Card Because She's Awesome" and I don't know if it comes with a dental plan or just the feeling of complete satisfaction of your place in life but once my face changed from purple to red to a fine glowing shade of pink to the tips of my ears, and OTHERS stopped congratulating me on how efficient and effective they've found me to be in the work place, I took a brownie and went home. Perhaps I am bragging just a little bit but this really is my attempt to finally acknowledge that being employed isn't all terrible toilet paper and wet wipes you can get fired over. Oh, and raisins that have the potential to kill children.

It can be pretty cool too.

I Think I Need A Prescription

When do you reach the age where you're fully aware that the level of annoyance you have with everything in the world is equal to how annoyed the entire team of Super Troopers is with Officer Farva?

(if you haven't seen Super Troopers? Sad.)

Anyway, how do you start self-medicating? At what point do you say to yourself, 'Holy CRAP am I hostile with people?'.

This reminds me of my cat, as do most things since I've moved home. I get a little annoyed with her because we get into bed at night and I lay down first and then she finds a spot to lay down that is EXTREMELY inconvenient around one of my legs, you know, so that if I were to move it even the tiniest bit it would only end in my kicking her right in the noggin, and HEAVENFORBID the television should get a tiny bit too loud or I laugh aloud at something on my computer because she lifts her head up slightly with this LOOK on her face, like, I dunno, I just murdered a thousand puppies with my evil ways, and I'm all 'WHAT?' and her face is so clearly telling me "YOU". Like this:


And just when I think there couldn't be a bigger bitch on the face of this Earth than my stupid cat and her old lady ways, Scott will come over to eat dinner and watch a movie and I'll be staring at him and he's like 'What?" and I'm like, "That NOISE" and he's like, "my chewing or my breathing?" and I'm all "Stop. Both of those things" and suddenly, I'm just like my cat.

There's a pill for craziness like that, right? You can just go to your regular physician, sit down on that crinkly butt paper and simply explain, 'I'm turning into my cat' and he'll be all "Ah ha! You need Xanax. And more booze of course," and I'll be like, "Dude, I knew that was the problem. Of COURSE the answer is always more booze."

Crap. Now I'm wondering if it's too late to go back and get my M.D.

Yeah, I Can't Believe It Either

Last night Scott and I went to see Alice in Wonderland with his mom. Frankly, I was a little worried for various reasons.

One of which was that it ended up being in 3-D which, because I'm so much like my mother, makes me nauseous. It's like when we went into Hot Topic that one year for my sister's Christmas gifts and it was so stifling and hot and dark and full of teenage angst and angry t-shirts that we had to tag one another in and out to find the items on her list while the other stood outside in recovery for thirty seconds feverishly sipping from a Diet Coke, dreading her next turn. Yes. 3D movies are like a marathon of terrible shopping for me.

Secondly, people kept saying "Oh it was great, but it will scare the pants off kids if they went to see it" and that only worries me because I'm slightly like a child myself. Ok, fine, I'm a lot like a child. As in, I still can't watch David the Gnome without getting upset.

Thirdly, I tried listening to the soundtrack a few weeks ago in my eager anticipation and couldn't really find crap to write about. It was all psychedelic and spacey which only confused me and I was all 'How can I possibly watch a film where the music is awful?!" and my cat, who doesn't appreciate it when I talk in bed after she has clearly settled down for the night gave me the angry eyes which only cemented my feelings further. There just would be no Alice in Wonderland for me.

And then we all know what happened. I came across White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane, covered by Grace Potter and now the soundtrack won't leave my desktop. I even left the film last night humming the Avril Lavigne tune she made for the film.

That's right. Humming Avril Lavigne. And no, I wasn't thirteen again, wearing punk rock pigtails (because that was as punk as I got back then) and jamming to Skater Boi. This was legit, 'I think I might be enjoying some Avril, here, kids' humming.

So I'm sorry for the repeat Alice posting, but the latest to hit my deck is Strange, by Kerli Koiv and Tokyo Hotel and I can already picture myself regretting this choice. It's very Evanescence and we all know how THEY turned out. But it really has helped me clean my bedroom this morning and we all know how if a song can get me to actually move my ass, it must be magical. I also found a bag of potato chips in my purse I forgot I took home from Panera yesterday, so it could be the pure, uninhibited joy taking over my body as I ingest one kettle crunchy peace of Heaven after another.

What I guess I'm trying to say is that I hope you don't waste five minutes of your life today listening to this song because I'm high on chips.

And You Thought I Was Abducted

Fear not! I'm alive. I'm just recently employed, which is the same thing as dying a little bit on the inside, dragging your rotten soul to bed every night and muttering the words "Having a job is dumb". Needless to say, blogging about the new job was a little off the "To Do" list.

ALSO- every time I open my computer my McAfee something or other keeps flashing little red signs like "You are not fully protected" or "Please restart and download these nine items that will take approximately thirty six hours" or my favorite, "PLEASE STOP CLICKING ON THINGS YOU'RE BUSTING ME." It makes even internet browsing about my favorite celebrities almost not worth it.
I said almost though. No way was I going to miss that whole "Lindsay Lohan is broke, crazy and suing e-trade" thing. NO. WAY.

Yes, yes, I'm employed. You know what's funny? I was so amped up to tell the world. You know, be all "CHECK ME OUT, WORKING WORLD. I GOT MY INVITATION. I HAVE A SEAT AT THE COOL PEOPLE TABLE. I'M NOT LONGER A HOBO." Except, I began my job again at a private daycare full time. So while I can't give away it's name or the children I work with , or the co-workers...I can't tell you what city it's in or even give any indication that I work with children at all because that kind of thing only ends in arrest warrants and unemployment, I can tell you that I'm tired.

Yep. Welcome to my Employment Blog. Today is tired. Yesterday is tired. Tomorrow is Jeans Friday to be followed by more tired.

That doesn't mean it's not entertaining. Everyday is an adventure. Actually, every day is six thousand mini adventures of sweating my ass off followed by about thirty seconds of "hey...no one's crying" relief until it begins again.

Take going for a walk for example. With six munchkins and one helper. That's half a dozen tiny bodies running at top speed around the classroom while you wrangle them while restraining to just reach out and grab one as it passes you by because things fall off that way. Heads due to whiplash and arms when they become desocketed. So you have to chase after them too just so once you catch up with them in this fantastic game of "you can't catch me hahahahaha" they immediately realize the game has not ended in their favor and so the next best option is to scream like the world is ending. Like I really did just remove an arm from their socket AND inform them "you're not as cute as you thought you were."

So you do this until you have all of them and you jam them into hats and gloves and coats. This means that I said the sentence 'Where did you put your hat NOW?' 8,349 times. I buckled the ones that resisted buckling with all their might (usually all six) and now everyone is screaming and crying and choking on their own snot while I dance in front of the buggy LIKE A MORON saying stupid shit like "Who's ready for a walk? Whooo's ready for a walk?" to the tune of Yankee Doodle and they're all like "Fuck your walk, I'm hot in this buggy and you're satan. Are YOU ready for this walk?"

So you push them out the door (unsuccessfully for at least twelve minutes because the buggy is too wide), get down the sidewalk (narrowly balancing on only two side wheels because six kids in a buggy is F'ing heavy) and make it a whole quarter of a mile away.

And then, if you're me, your wheel falls off. That's right. Six toddlers in a six kid buggy like this one can apparently lose a wheel at any moment.

If you're curious what that moment is like it's kind of like one deranged woman singing The Wheels On The Bus at the top of her lungs while pushing a freakshow buggy down a sidewalk (four kids are still crying, two have lost their hats on the way and one is somehow asleep suddenly which is really going to screw up lunch) and you hear this weird clanging noise and suddenly you've tripped over the rubber part of the tire you didn't know had separated itself from the rest of the vehicle until you've face planted into the handle and you scream out in shock and horror and pain and "Oh MAN, Jesus really doesn't care for me" and in response everyone you're with starts SCREAMING as an accompaniment because it's just like helping, right? And you stand on this sidewalk and hold the buggy up off of it's one wheel while everyone is in tears and you look to the school a whole quarter of a mile away and you say to yourself

"I wish I was a hobo."

Happy Birthday, Old Lady

March 2nd marked the 47th birthday of my mother. A day to remember. A day to commemorate and go down in history. A day that we spend the entire month of February dreading as she prances around the kitchen in her pajamas, pointing her toe like a small child ballerina and declaring, "For my birthday month I would like concert tickets and my favorite gum and a labotomy. OOOHH and jewelry, please," after which, she skips off and leaves us all standing in the kitchen staring at one another in confusion asking ourselves how we're going to split up responsibility so that I can take care of the gum and Andrew can somehow find the mystery jewelry.

It never works out that way. I always have to find EVERYTHING and on the eve of March 2nd they come running into my room in the dark of the night, all harsh whispers and dread going "What are we going to get mom for her BIRTHDAY?" like she hasn't been threatening all of our lives with in the past six weeks. Like she didn't just do a Zumba dance she invented all on her own in the living room the other night to express how much she wants new tennis shoes. The woman could be in the middle of the pet food store and find a collar that looks "just like that bracelet she can't wait to get for her birthday". I've seen her take a conversation about pot roast and turn it into the, 'you know what also tastes great? Happiness. Like the happiness I'll feel on my birthday when you buy me Kenny Chesney and leave him under the Birthday Tree with a giant bow and no underpants on" conversation.

You get the picture. My mother is birthday specific.

Here is my mother on her 47th Birthday. Isn't she darling?

We got her the Pandora's bracelet that we thought she might have a hernia if she didn't get. We also got her a puppy calendar and this ridiculously chocolate cake that I'm still eating for breakfast on a regular basis. And if you're going to try and tell me that chocolate cake isn't good for breakfast, then you would be wrong my friend.

I'm getting a little off topic, though. What I really had intended for this post was to tell you all about my mother and I joining this new exercise class with my best friend, Beth. It's intense and insane and the last time we left my mother refused to form words and ate her cheerios in the passenger seat of her car like a pathetic soul who had just been tortured in Russia.

But I've reconsidered. This is my mother's birthday post. You don't post a picture of your mother falling out of a spandex bra after one hour of grueling exercise after her birthday.

I'll save that til this weekend. And you can best BELIEVE there will be pictures.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

I'm In Bed With My Cat

I'm having a rough morning. I think it has some to do with the horrendous eyebrow waxing I had done, the exercise that immediately followed or the amount of mentally handicapped people walking around the world under the facade that they're actually fully functioning individuals that have the power to impact your life, they're just that good at faking it.

"You might think I'm intelligent, but you'd be wrong. I'm actually stupid is as stupid does. With really great hair, so I appear normal. Don't be fooled though...I'm quite stupid. QUITE. STUPID. Get ready for me to ruin your day."

It's like when you see someone in front of you in like at Kroger with six items and you get behind them because how long could it possibly take to get six items rung up EXCEPT that as soon as you get behind them they have a huge argument with the sixteen year old ringing them up because the fish was labeled on sale in the aisle, why is not ringing up on sale here in line and then the poor sixteen year old has to page someone ELSE to go find out the true price of said fish and this six-itemed woman has suddenly made you late for coffee and a scone with a friend and you're never coming back to this Kroger ever because this has just been that awful!

Like that. You never would have suspected that this woman could impact your life so negatively. And yet her and her unpriced fish has.

And then you have to get into the car and breathe in and out several times in an effort to get centered so you don't explode when you meet up with your friend over said scone, so you turn the radio on and you put in your Mat Kearney Cd "City of Black and White" because he's JUST THAT MAGICAL.

and everything is once again, alright.

Overhearing The Absurd

Child 1: A meat eater??

Child 2: No, a METEOR!

Child 1: I love ham!

Child 2: I'm TALKING about SPACE.

Child 1: (scooting over as he speaks) You need some space?

And you would hope that my day's worth of ridiculous conversations ended at work, but unfortunately it did not.

Afton: (from her bedroom): Turn on channel 42!

Me: What are they making on the food network?

Afton: You'll see!

Me: This....this looks awful!

Afton: Keeping watching!

Me: But I don't even LIKE egg salad!

Afton: Then turn on 41!

Me: What is THIS?

Afton: I think it's West Side Story!

Me: I don't like this either....can't I just pick my own chann-

Afton: OOOH OOOH TURN ON CHANNEL 30!

Me: Oh, holy mother, what is this?

Afton: RuPaul's Drag Race!

Me: WIN!

Happy Birthday Mom.

The Simple Things

It doesn't take a lot to entertain the Earp Clan round these parts. The other day my sister and I had a lengthy conversation about her goldfish and how much they freak out when you pour a cup of new, cold water into their bowl. We then spent an equal amount of time watching them swim around in said 'freak out' fashion.

In all honesty, I don't know what we would watch if we didn't have pets. Probably each other which wouldn't be nearly as entertaining.

Then again, you'll probably watch this and be all "Really? A Dog and a balloon? I just wasted a minute and a half of my life on this?"

YES. YES, YOU DID.

The White Rabbit

I'm getting really excited for all of this Alice in Wonderland nonsense. I mean, I've never really been a fan of the movies. The Disney version used to scare me because The Caterpillar was so comically indifferent and yet opinionated. Did you ever notice that? As children, we essentially watched a hookah puffing caterpillar yell at Alice for not reciting poetry correctly upon first meeting one another all while becoming disgruntled with his own ass. His temper is extreme! He speaks in question marks and letters of the alphabet. Clearly, the person who was in charge of writing this character was high. Which is fine. It's just a little disorienting.

What's also in it's own world is the soundtrack for the new version of the film called Almost Alice. I don't actually know what that means. I mean, it's her still, isn't it? Sure, she's older and she probably has a better rack and is taller, but it's still essentially the same girl. (Also weird side note - I saw the latest version of Vanity Fair where the girl who plays Alice is on the cover. She has short hair! And not just like, hey your hair is shorter than this ridiculous character you play, but like , hey, where the f did all your hair go? You look like Peter Pan!)

I tried listening to the soundtrack. I just don't get it. The only song that really piqued my interest is the cover of White Rabbit - originally it's done by Jefferson Airplane (yeah...I dunno)but now done by the wonderful and always enlightening Grace Potter and The Nocturnals. You know, if you're in a kind of eclectic, throw back to classic rock and pot kind of mood.