Get out of my bookstore and give me back my beer.

It was an eventful weekend and, as usual, it was far too short.

Friday night Drew went to a Parent's Night Out at his tae-kwan-do school and Eric and I went to have some grown-up time. We went to Chili's and had chips and salsa and beer. Then we went to Barnes and Noble where I proceeded to spend my last night of study time for the PHR exam by reading out of one of their study guides. I wanted to get access to different questions and didn't want to buy the book. So...we sat in the cafe and I took the practice test and then read the explanations of all the questions I missed. I failed that test. By a lot. There were lots of explanations I had to read. It shoud have made me nervous, but basically I just said, "Aww, screw it." Then I went and shopped for books that I could read for fun.

I do have to say...you can definitely tell the economy is bad. It was a Friday night and that book store was packed. As a book fiend I was both pleased and irritated about the mass migration to the Barnes and Noble. I was pleased that so many adults were embracing books and were in the book store instead of watching reality tv. However, I was quickly irritated that so many adults were in the book store instead of watching reality tv. I was all, "Dude! You're missing the new season of The Bachelor! It has this guy who is looking for a girl and there are all these girls who want to be on tv. Hurry so you don't miss it! Run! Go! This is not a drill! GO! GO! GO!"

It dawned on me pretty quickly that the store was filled with lurkers...those irritating people who buy a small cup of coffee and then camp out with about 57 books and magazines on the table. They don't want to BUY the new issue of Vanity Fair, but they certainly want to read it. They don't want to BUY the new Janet Evanovich, but with a few hours and a few cups of coffee they will sit at the bookstore and read the book. Then they put it back. I figure it won't be long until all books and magazines are wrapped in plastic like Playboy so you have to buy it to read it.

Oh...and before you get all, "What's so different about all the other people not buying the books when you did the very same thing by studying with that book and not buying it? Huh?" Well, I'll tell you. Because I have single-handedly funded an entire section of that store (much to Eric's irritation) and that obviously has earned me the right to complain. Loudly. And often. The employees may not realize I am their Queen, but that's ok. I know. And that is all that matters.

I love that store. It is like my mothership. I told Eric that the best proof of my dorkiness is the fact that my idea of heaven on earth is a bookstore with a coffee shop in the middle.

Anyway, I did take my exam on Saturday morning. I actually passed it. PASSED!!!! It took lots of self-control not to fall out of my chair when the results popped up on the screen. It was this totally quiet room and when it came up and said "Pass" I did that really loud intake of air thing and then giggled. Yes. I giggled. Like the Pilsbury Doughboy. It. Was. Awesome. To me anyway. I'm not sure the rest of the room appreciated my crazed cackling as I scooted out the door doing a little dance. It was a glorious moment.

That night Drew had a sleepover with some friends so Eric and I got to go out again by ourselves. This time we decided to go eat and then potentially go bowling. We went to this sports bar type place with hot wings and stuff to watch the XGames and eat wings and drink beer. By the time the night was over I had learned a truly horrifying fact about myself.

Are you ready?

I can drink a lot of beer. I don't know if it is really sad that my tolerance is so high or if it is really cool that my liver is so efficient. Either way, I can put away some beer. We calculated it at about 100 ounces. Yes. That's right. 100 OUNCES. In one sitting. And remain coherent. And able to walk.

I'm not exactly sure what this means about me.

Oh, and Jeff...if you are reading this...at no point during the night did I drink the beer from the pitcher with an elaborate network of straws designed to keep me from having to lean forward to pick up the pitcher. I actually hefted that glass for each and every drink. I just thought you should know. I'll save the straws for the next outing to the Sunshine.

One Snort Closer to the Edge

Quick post before I go back to my studying...

Today at work my boss emailed out a really funny video of cheerleaders and band people falling down, running into each other, tripping, slipping and, in general, hurting themselves. It was right at the end of the day and everyone was gone except for my boss, me and one other person. I was watching it and laughing my ass off. I laughed until I cried. I laughed until I actually snorted.

SNOR. TED.

Loudly.

And that? Made me laugh harder.

And now my co-worker very possibly thinks I am insane.

I will point out that I may have been relatively sane a week ago, but I am most definitely walking a fine line now. I have spent the last few weeks preparing for a certification exam that I should have started preparing for a few months ago.

Procrastination run amok.

I'll let you know if I pass, but for now I better get back to the books. I take the test Saturday morning. Wish me luck!

PS...
10 points and a vote of coolness to anyone who gets the musical reference!

When energy goes bad.

I think I am going to seriously go completely insane. My child NEVER stops moving or talking. NEVER. He talks in his sleep. The boy moves all. the. time. ALLTHETIME.

ALL.

THE.

TIME.

I am thinking of investing in duct tape. That would kill two birds with one stone. I could both tape his mouth shut AND tape him to the wall. It's genius I tell you! That is actually how duct tape was invented. It was orginally called "Child Tape." That was back in the days when you had 57 kids so they could work the fields to sell the crops to pay for the land and the seed. Though...I have to wonder...if you have 57 kids because you are poor and can't afford to hire field hands doesn't having 57 kids and the resulting expenses just defeat the purpose? Anyway...I digress...

Anyway, eventually some do-gooder got angry at people taping their rowdy kids to the wall so the tapers started calling it Duck Tape in hopes that if they used a code word then no one would be able to figure out it was really your kid *wink wink* that was being taped to the wall and not really a duck. Eventually duck got changed to Duct because the do-gooders suddenly went, "But, The Old Lady in the Shoe doesn't have a duck...Hmmmm."

I wouldn't really tape Drew to the wall. I am, however, considering hiring an electrician who can wire him up to power the house.

And, without further ado, and because I have run out of things to say, here are some pictures of Mazie. Some friends were asking for updated shots. She is a very, very, very, very, VERY patient dog.

I was thinking...

Some random things I have been pondering lately:

1. If no one actually understands David Lynch movies and most people hate them then why does he keeping making them?

2. Are my achy knees more accurate than the local weatherman? I'm thinking yes.

3. How exactly did Kyle McLachlan go from brutally hot to absolutely not in less than a decade?

4. Same question: Mickey Rourke.

5. If Eric was going to follow in the footsteps of Dog the Bounty Hunter what would his bounty hunter name be and would Ozzy sing his theme song?

6. Could I get acquited for murdering a tailgating Hummer driver when there is 2 inches of fresh snow over ice and the driver is from California?

7. Where does that lost sock go?

8. How do I go about becoming a movie star's personal assistant? Preferably John Cusack's. I totally want that job.

9. Isn't a period torture enough? What's up with the freakin' cramps? Dammit.

10. Seriously? David Lynch? I. DON'T. GET. IT. I mean, he wrote it and thought, "this is awesome I should show it to someone" and then that person went, "this is awesome we should really make this into a movie" and then someone else went, "you are totally right, here is a big check" and another person piped up with, "this is a great script I should really star in it." Then, as if that wasn't bizarre enough, people made the movie and someone else distributed the movie and then people paid money to watch it. I dare any one of you to go watch "Lost Highway" and tell me what the heck that movie is supposed to be about. Actually? I just challenge you to watch the whole damn thing.

Last but certainly not least:

11. How in the name of underwire does Dog the Bounty Hunter's wife manage to function with those freakin' enormous boobs. It's like two torpedo shells strapped to a walrus. A walrus armed with hooker nails and a tazer. Three words for you: Breast Reduction Surgery.

Oh - one more thing before I go...here's a little story for you. It's a true story entitled "How Jayna Committed to Diet and Exercise." Enjoy.

Sunday night Drew and I are watching Eric play hockey. I know. SHOCKER! The game is pretty much Eric's team scoring goals while the other team looks just a bit confused and maybe even a little surprised to find themselves holding hockey sticks and wearing skates. Think: Operation Shock and Awe on Ice.

So the game quickly deteriorates to cheap shots and lots of shouting. One particular player on the other team got incredibly beligerent and got kicked off the ice. Drew, me, another wife and another little boy are sitting right by the ice entrance and as the player exits he is yelling profanities at the ref. Lots of "F*#$ your mother" and "F*@% you" -- you know -- the poster child for good sportsmanship.

So, I yell at him that there are small children in earshot and he needs to shut up. He yells "F^&! you." I yell at him again that he needs to shut it since this is a family rink and there are small children that can hear him. He then turns to me and screams, "F@#$ you!"

Yeah - I love a robust vocabulary as much as the next girl, but this is where I got just the teeniest bit irritated. Don't worry though...even though I was sitting at the perfect level to kick him square in the face and had on the perfect shoes for face kicking I managed to restrain myself. Whee!!! All hail my self control! Small children around, remember?

Instead of introducing hockey player to boot tread, I stand up, point the Mom-finger in his face and say, "Listen Porky" --- quick interjection --- this guy and Porky the pig? Twins. Seperated at birth and I am not even exaggerating. --- ahem...back to the story... "Listen Porky, you need to shut your mouth because there are small children here and if you can't shut up then get out of here. RIGHT. NOW."

He looks up at me and says, "Porky? Look who's talking...Tubby."

Jaw -- dropped.
Ego -- crushed.
Motivation -- FIRED UP.

And that is how I learned to love carrot sticks.

THE END.