Dewey Decimal is An A-hole.

I've been working on budgeting better and was looking at expenses - and noticed that hoooo doggies, I spend a lot on books. Too much.

So I decided to get me a library card. I found our local library system online and signed up - and the card came in the mail yesterday. It said all I needed to do was show up with picture i.d. and my card and I'd be golden.

Here's what I forgot about public libraries. Since I actually haven't set foot inside one in um, ten or so years.

You can't find shit.

That is, unless you're good friends with Dewey Decimal. And believe me, I would have no problem getting reacquainted with him, but stupid me, I brought my toddler to the library with me. I thought he'd be awestruck by all the books. That he'd sit down in a little beanbag chair and pore over all the wonderful picture books.

[Not my kid]

I had a rude awakening when I was reminded that my child is not, and will never be, that child. A library child. He's more of a let 'em loose in WalMart child. A park child. A circus child. Not a 'quiet place' child.

Especially a quiet place with a ginormous fish tank.

FIIIIIISSHHHHHH!!! Fish! Mommeeeee, fish!!

Yeah, I see them.

I figured out pretty quickly that the little list of books I wanted to find, so neatly tucked inside my purse, would be staying put. No books for me today.

We went directly to the children's section. Where my son decided to lie down on the floor and roll around. I grabbed for a couple books that looked semi interesting, scooped him up under my arm and made for the checkout counter.

All the way there, he made a racket. Mommeeeee! Books!! BOOOOOOKKEEEEES! Even the men at computers hunched over the free internet (porn) stopped and looked up.

My saving grace was that there were a few 'recommended' books right by checkout. And one was, in fact, on my little list.

Thank you God. I hope you don't mind me picking up a book that has 'blue balls' in the title. It's been a rough day.

Spam Belongs in a Can, Not in My Comments.

I need some help, users of Blogger!

I get the WORST spam in my comments. I won't even tell you what it is because I swear when I talk about it, more of them come and spam me - I will just say that it has to do with young women of Asian descent scantily (or not) clad. It is driving me absolutely insane.

For a long time, I blogged here and didn't turn on the word verification in the comments because, let's face it, I don't get a ton of comments and word verification is a further deterrent.

But, after dealing with all the garbage I've been finding in my comments, I figured anyone who is truly interested in commenting would put up with the hassle.

And that the spammers would not. WRONG.

No, for some reason, the damn spammers are not only patient with word verification, they are verified blogger users.

So, if anyone out there who reads this has any advice for getting rid of the creepy commenters, please say so in the comments.

I'm begging you!

Let's Call A Spade a Spade

Generally speaking, I don't get too much into current events on this blog.

But really, I just have to say something after that train wreck press conference Tiger
douchebag Woods held this morning. I mean, awful. I had to turn the channel about half way through.

What I need to say is this: PLEASE STOP ATTRIBUTING YOUR BEHAVIOR TO SEXUAL ADDICTION! What ever happened to accountability? Do you mean to tell me your penis is magnetically attracted to the same type of woman, over and over and over again? If you were a little more, say, diverse with your 'indiscretions', I'd be a little more inclined to believe you. But continuously choosing women with implants, lucite heels and drawn on eyebrows leads me to believe you have a distinct type porn stars - I don't think sex addicts have a 'type'. I think they'll pretty much nail anybody with a pulse.

Come on, now.

You are a man whore. You were caught. Back when I was in college, we had a name for you: an asshole.

End of story.

Your poor wife is standing by while you pretty much place blame on something other than yourself.

Shame shame shame.

Faking It

It's been a while since I've done an angsty post. So brace.

I have a question. It's not rhetorical - you can definitely give me advice.

My question is: if someone tells you news that is so incredibly beyond belief screwed up - but to them it's 'happy' news - how do you react?

Do you say 'I'm so happy for you!' or 'Congratulations!'. Do you bite your tongue and bury all the things you really want to say? Do you simmer inside till you feel like you're going to burst with sheer incredulity?

When I get super duper angry, I have this reaction - maybe you get it too - I think it might be fight or flight...adrenaline. My legs tingle and almost go numb. My energy surges. My stomach aches.

That's how I feel right now. I have spent most of my life biting my tongue when something is not right. It's only been recently that I've spoken up. And mostly to deaf ears.

Ugh. If this 'news' were just affecting the person that is sharing it, well, I wouldn't mind so much. People can do WHATEVER they want - to themselves. But when it starts affecting innocent lives. No. No no NO.

I will go for a run. I will clear my head. I will decide how I should have this - handle myself - handle my feelings.

I wish I didn't care.

Satan Shoes

We've been back from Vegas for almost two days now. I still don't know what day it is or where I am.

And no, it's not because I got super wasted (seriously, I didn't), or partied my ass off. No. No, everyone, it is because, officially, I am now old and boring.

There, I said it.

We were in Vegas for thirty six hours and just BEING there has completely thrown me off kilter.

I do have to cut myself a little slack - we flew out of Seattle at 6 am, which meant we had to leave our house at 3:30 am. And I couldn't get to sleep the night before till about midnight. So, we arrived in Vegas on about three hours sleep. Bad idea. Note to self - do not sleep deprive yourself BEFORE hitting the party capital of the world. Just saying.

When we arrived at our hotel (the Stratosphere, LAME, but more on that later) it was 9 am. And we were informed we could not check in till 3 pm. Six hours to kill. We left our bags with the bell desk and set off on foot to the Consumer Electronic Show. (by the way, we had to clarify WHICH convention we were in town for - there was also a huge porn awards show/convention in town - more on that later too).

The Consumer Electronics Show? SO FREAKING COOL.

LOOK:



The best part of the show, for me at least, were the 3-D televisions. Except the glasses you have to wear. They're very Buddy Holly. Which is okay, if you're Buddy Holly.

We hung at the show for a while, then walked and walked and walked. And walked. It was at this point that we decided we'd be taking taxis because walking in Vegas sucks. Outside, we had to navigate crazy traffic and a zillion pedestrian bridges - and the weather was pretty cool. Inside, we ended up walking in circles and getting hopelessly lost in the casinos.

Around 3:00 we returned to our hotel, which was at the VERY VERY END of the strip. With no free shuttle. We took a nap, had some snacks, and got ready for a night on the town.

I had picked up a great LBD before we left town and grabbed a strappy pair of silver heels out of the closet - I'd worn them in a wedding when I was pregnant, and I didn't recall them being uncomfortable...

[The shoes in question]


WRONG. Oh. My. Actual. Lord. About an hour in to walking around casinos looking for a fun place to have drinks and dinner, I was actually considering taking them off and walking around barefoot IN VEGAS where godknowswhat is on the ground. My feet hurt THAT BAD. We went to Walgreens looking for moleskin/cushions/painkillers. We dropped $30 on foot comfort paraphernalia (B's feet hurt too).

Did it work?

Heck no. Not even close. I was pretty much convinced my little toes were going to be severed by one of the straps of the Satan shoes.

Not to mention that the dress I wore must have looked like something the porn stars were wearing because we were invited to a party hosted by Ron Jeremy.

Here's the dress...I don't know. Maybe if I were wearing Lucite heels? (sorry for the photo quality - my old camera croaked and I don't have a handle on the new one yet - or maybe it's from that yard long daiquiri in the right of the shot).

Thinking back, we totally should have gone to the Ron Jeremy party. THAT would have been a story, for sure.

Anyhow, the night went on, and I was getting desperate about the imminent toe severing and or rage I was about to enter over the excruciating pain. We were walking out of the Bellagio (where we'd JUST MISSED the fountain show) when I saw it...

AN OPEN STORE. Urban Outfitters. Once inside, it was a veritable shoe mecca. I wanted to make out with the cashier who gave me a knowing nod when I rushed up to the register with a pair of flip flops and volunteered to take the tags off for me.

[The shoes sent from Heaven]


I felt like a new woman! I could have partied all night!

But instead, we played a little video poker, had some drinks, went back to the hotel and watched Zombieland (cool film, by the way).

WE ARE SO OLD AND BORING.

The next day, more CES, more video poker, and we flew home at 8 pm. We both missed our kiddo so much. He, of course, was just fine with us gone. Typical.

I wish I had some fabulous, exciting Vegas story, but hey - I'm a pretty low key gal. I can live with that.

I cannot, however, live with the lady who spread out potty pads all over the public bathroom in the airport and was trying to coax her little dog into pooping. True story. In the human bathroom. I guess it's probably necessary before a flight - but really? REALLY?

I wish I'd snapped a picture of THAT.

Soooo Close. So Close.

I am so terrible at blogging lately. I need a more interesting life, seriously.

We had a truly lovely Christmas. Mellow and cozy, just wonderful. We stayed home, G-Rex opened his presents and played ALL DAY. He was the most enthralled with a fire engine - we picked it out last week on our shopping date. What we failed to realize is that it makes a siren noise. In fact, it sounds very real. So real, that when B was stoking our illegal Christmas fire (burn bans - boo!) and G-Rex set off the siren for the first time, we freaked out.

You know I won't be replacing that battery when it dies.

On Boxing Day (for those of you not familiar, the day after Christmas), we traveled north to my parents house.

I was looking forward to seeing my parents, of course, but kind of dreading seeing one particular family member who has a knack for always saying something completely rude and offensive, usually about my weight.

I dread seeing her so much that I have actually seen her in the grocery store and hidden. I know. I'm awful.

So, we made it through dinner and presents and were saying goodbye. I couldn't believe I'd made it through an entire family gathering without some kind of comment.

But, I wouldn't be telling this story if there was no comment. That would be no fun.

'Have you lost weight?'

'Yes, actually. I've been running.'

'Oh, how much have you lost?'

'About 20 pounds.'

'I'm so happy. Keep it up.'

We're fine to this point. Then it goes very wrong:

'Good, good! You used to be so beautiful when you were thin.'

Sucker punch. How do you respond to that?

'Um, thanks?'

But in my head I was doing a roundhouse kick to the head.

The Post Office Made Me Cry

Did you know that you can't ship a teensy little bottle of cologne via USPS Priority?

Well, I didn't.

So, after waiting in line for half an hour at the Post Office, with G-Rex in full destructo mode (by this I mean I picked up a million return receipt and customs slips, which were SO CONVENIENTLY placed right in toddler reach) , I made it to the front of the line. I was completely prepared - package taped up tight and addressed, everything in order. The postal worker lady asked me if I had anything fragile.

'Yes, just a bottle of cologne, but it should be okay, it's in bubble wrap.'

'Oh, you're going to have to take that out.'

'What?'

Come to find out perfume/cologne can't go on airplanes. I called UPS and they wouldn't do it either. I wonder how Sephora and Macy's ship fragrance? They must have a special license or something.

So, here I was, a sweaty mess, but SO VERY CLOSE to having most of my Christmas tasks done - I just needed to ship gifts up to my brother and his girlfriend in Alaska.

Now I need a Plan B. And a tranquilizer. I totally cried when I got into the car. So frustrating.

So, two lessons learned today:

1) Do not take a toddler to the post office unless you want a full upper body workout and a nervous breakdown.

2) Honesty is not always the best policy. If I hadn't said anything, my package would be on it's merry little way to Alaska. Take note, kids.

Now I'm Somebody

Today, I reached a milestone - albeit creepy.

I got my first porn spammer comment. I deleted it. Though a badge of honor, I thought I probably didn't want my site linking through hers.

I'm guessing it was either from the title of my blog, or from the expletives in comments from my friends. Or just dumb luck. I mean, how did they know I was into underage Asian girls? I KID, I KID.

Now I'm waiting for hater comments. That will be a grand day. When people care enough about what you're writing to actually get pissed off, well, that's saying something.

On another note, my blood pressure is at normal levels today. As suggested by many, I communicated with that certain person who did me oh so wrong, and SHE TOTALLY DIDN'T GET IT. I wasn't subtle. I said I forgive her, but I also explained why I was upset and that what she did was wrong.

But I guess since I said the word forgive, she thinks everything is fine.

Which, I guess, will have to do. Because sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you can't get through to some people.

Restraint.

The bagger/boxer guy at Costco today asked me if I was pregnant.

I smiled and said 'No way! This one keeps me busy enough.'

He was embarrassed and apologized. He was probably in his early twenties. Rookie mistake, I guess.

I did not cry. I didn't get mad. When I got outside, I looked down at my poochy belly and decided never to wear my cardigan with only the top button done.

I thought I'd been doing so well working out and eating right...but I guess I really need to work on sucking it in!

Okay, Nevermind. Still Mad.

I am pretty outspoken on my blog, but in real life, well, I guess I kind of let people walk all over me. I'm virtually trampled before I'll stand up for myself, and by that time, you can probably imagine, I EXPLODE.

People, the sleeping giant is rumbling to life.

It might not be pretty.

There will be much rubble in my wake (verbal rubble, that is).

This is the second night in a row that I've been sitting here typing, literally shaking. My insides are quivering with anger. Just when I get to the point where I can breathe, I hear more ridiculous stories being woven by, again, the person for whom I just GAVE UP TWO MONTHS OF MY LIFE.

Being like this SUCKS. I do not enjoy drama. Drama is for high school. I'm 31. I'm done with the drama!

So, the question now is how I deal with how I am feeling. Sitting here and stewing is not the answer. But I am afraid to confront anyone until I am in complete control of my emotions. Okay, emotion. Singular. And that would be anger bordering on rage.

What do I do? I honestly can't decide. Do I forgive and forget? Generally, I'd let all these awful things being said about me slide. But she was saying things about my child too. He is 22 months old.

What would you do?

Next Time, I Promise.

Yeah, I know I said I was going to be all positive and bubbly and a ray of light after Friday. I know, I know.

And for the most part, I have been. I had an amazing weekend. On Saturday we enjoyed being a family again, just B, G and I, for the first time in a few months. I made a special dinner (lobster and lots of cocktails). We watched a movie. We enjoyed the comfort of our silence and not having to talk all the time.

Sunday was also wonderful. We had a fun-filled day with B's older sister and her family, who we haven't seen for a while. A trip to visit Santa and some real reindeer (and a camel), then my sister-in-law and I helped our younger sister-in-law register for her baby girl that's due in March, and then back home, where we had a nice, relaxed dinner and movie night.

Blissful.

Today, well, was fine too. Normal. I had a run, did some chores, hung with G and B.

Then we got a call. And we were informed that the person that we opened our home to, who I cared for for two months, who I listened to non-stop, who I watched smoke during her entire LUNG CANCER TREATMENT, has gone back to the other part of the family and has commenced talking smack about us.

Example 1: B and I are not good parents. G is a spoiled brat. This one is almost - no IS - laughable, considering who she is comparing us to.

Example 2: Apparently I did nothing but slam the rest of the family to her the entire time she was here. Which is funny, because I never brought them up. Once. She did. Every 30 seconds.

OH. MY. PHYSICAL. LORD. Who does that? WHO DOES THAT? I feel dirty and used and disgusting. UGH.

Call Dr. Phil. For reals. I feel like my life has morphed into a bad episode of Dr. Phil.

So, out with the bad, in with the good. We've pretty much been beaten about by these people emotionally and mentally for the last few months. We decided tonight the holidays will be drama free - basically meaning we won't be seeing that part of the family.

And instead of gifts for them, I'm making a donation to the American Cancer Society. So I can funnel some of this soul rotting ugliness into something good for someone else.

They say no good deed goes unpunished. In this case, truer words were never written.

Eff It Friday

I'm thinking of starting a new weekly post.

I want to call it Eff it Friday. Yup, Eff it Friday. Do you think it'll catch on?

Here's what I say saying eff you to this fine, blustery day.

- Eff you H1N1 or 'Swine Flu'. I'm tired of hearing you non-stop, on the news and from the hypochondriacs in my life. I especially say eff you to the one who insists I actually had THAT FLU a few weeks back. Really? You think you can diagnose me? Hmmmm. Maybe if you'd finished eighth grade, let alone med school, I'd listen. EFFYOU.

- Eff you to my child's pediatrician being the only freaking doctor in my area that doesn't have the vaccine for children under two.

- Eff that my child's appetite has taken a turn for the picky and he will only eat yogurt and I'm out of yogurt and he's screaming for YOOOOOGUTTTTTT!

- Eff the vet that charged us $260 for a yearly checkup and shots for our two dogs. Highway robbery! Plus, eff you to my golden retriever's ears which are apparently damp, rotten caverns that have a continual infection and I have to clean out twice a day. Oh yeah, we had to pay an extra $60 for ear medication. That poor dog. I swear, inbreeding. Eff that I spent more on my dogs' health care than my own this year. I'm NOT kidding.

- Eff that my husband showed my child how to put CRAYONS in his pockets and I'm just waiting to miss one in the laundry. You know it's going to happen and you know heads will roll.

Hmmph.

So, now that I've vented, I'm really just kidding about Eff You Friday. Because as of tomorrow morning, I'm going to try VERY diligently to be as positive as possible. My psyche needs a cleanse.

Or I need a lobotomy.

What are you saying eff you to this week? Am I the only angsty person around here (don't answer that...)?

Line Curse

I think there should be an award for ALWAYS choosing the wrong line at the store. And if such an award already exists, I would like to officially nominate myself.

Scenario 1: At Babies r' Us and feeling pretty chipper because my child has not yet thrown a tantrum or hit/pinched/bit me. I spy a line that is only one person deep, which is pretty amazing for a Saturday afternoon. I hop in line. And wait. And wait. Turns out the women in front of me are trying to use expired coupons. And they do not speak English very well. And they are being very rude to the cashier. Ten minutes and two manager calls later, they're finally done and it's my turn. About halfway through MY checkout, they PUSH IN FRONT OF ME and accuse the checker of charging them twice for a pack of diapers. The poor checker is almost in tears and my kid is starting to shriek.
After the they were finally convinced to go to customer service, I rolled my eyes at them for the checker's benefit. I hope it helped.

Scenario 2: At the grocery store. Holding my child with one arm underneath his armpits as he has turned into a human noodle and is trying to escape. Again, the line is only one person deep - but don't you know I get behind the woman who is pissed because the butcher did not open up her jumbo package of chicken breast cutlets, AND REWRAP EACH CUTLET INDIVIDUALLY.
What what what WHAAAAT? Okay, I completely understand not wanting to touch raw chicken, it can be kind of gross. But come on. Sometimes I wish I could get my kid to pinch/hit/bite adults who are behaving badly. Wouldn't THAT be the party trick?

I want to also point out that this was my only time out of the house with just the kid this week. Note to self: Babies r' US and the grocery mid-day on a Saturday do not equal relaxation. Good to know.

Compensating

I need to preface the following photo with these facts:

1) This was taken down the street from my house. We do not live in the mountains. We do not even live in the country. We live in the 'burbs.

2) There is no chance we're going to get caught in any kind of flash flood - we're on a hill.

3) The one time I saw this vehicle actually driving, it was struggling to make it up said hill. And it was blasting some sweet gangsta rap (and I had it all pegged for some good ol' Toby Keith).

Behold.



Textbook definition of compensating for lack in 'other' areas. Ya dig?

The end.

So Much To Say

One of the craziest things about blogging (for me, at least) is that I find that I have to censor myself. A lot. You probably don't believe me...

No, I really do. Because YOU NEVER KNOW WHO READS.

So, I'm in a situation right now that I'm just dying to spout off about. Like, seriously. I am so pissed off I could just punch someone in the neck. Not randomly, I do have someone in particular in mind.

But I can't. And it sucks. Not just because venting would make me feel so much better, but it would probably be the best damn post I've ever written because I'M SO AMPED UP right now. Like I've had 20 cups of coffee in 20 minutes.

Realistically, I'm probably having a panic attack. Fluttery heart, sweaty palms...uh yeah.

I'll leave it at this...just when I think that people can't possibly be any more selfish and horrid, well, they just have to go and do something that blows the lid off.

(Just so's not to be ominous, if you're really dying to know, email me and I'll fill you in.)

That is all for now. I wish I had a heavy bag right about now, to punch the hell out of. But I will try to be very zen about this and go make myself some tea.

Grammatical Sabbatical

Maybe it's from being out of work for a while. Or maybe being out of school for a LONG WHILE. But something horrifying is happening to me.

I am not proofreading. And I'm finding typos all over my muthatrucking blog - and not intentional, like muthatrucking - accidental, stupid mistakes.

I'm serious. This is like almost the end of the world for me. I am the proofreading master. The typo terrorist. The comma nazi.The bad mamma gramma(r). The super speller.

And now, well, I just don't even know myself anymore.

How could I let this happen? How could I let myself go like this?

WHEN DID I START RELYING ON SPELL CHECK? I used to laugh at those people. Especially my old boss (an attorney) who liked to type pubic instead of public on court docs. Ho ho. Good times, good times.

I have a B.A. in English. For. Fred's. Sake.

I am mortified. My blog deserves better than this! Next thing you know I'll be writing and anyways or for all intensive purposes and substituting pacific for specific.

Or, the very worst case scenario. IRREGARDLESS. I'm not joking. If I ever write that again, hunt me down and beat the shit out of me. I'm not kidding.

No really, I'm not kidding.

Oh Really?

By now, I'm QUITE aware I have a very high spirited child. Active. Busy. Whatever you want to call it.

I'm cool with that. My little brother was 'busy' as well. He has since slowed down. In fact, he may be the mellowest human being I know.

But let me just tell you how much I am OVER people informing me that my child is a little tazmanian devil. OVER. IT. End of story.

Yesterday was my little G's well child visit, you know, the weight/height/poke/prod/shots/cry visit.

First stop, waiting room. They have this massive television in the waiting room. The buttons on it are toddler level. Yet it has a sign that says: 'Please don't touch the t.v. or change the channel.'

Really?

Considering the fact that my 16 month old child can already say 'button', you can bet that he'll be all over that television, stat.

So we sat. Well, I sat, and he became the human noodle. I tried reading a book. I tried a cracker. Juice. My wallet.

All no good. After what seemed like an eternity, we were called back by a nurse I'd never seen before.

Instantly I could tell she was odd. Most of the nurses we've seen are fairly upbeat, bubbly, pediatric care nurses. Nice. Nurturing.

Not this woman. No. As we settled in to the exam room, she looked at G disdainfully as he ran around, opening and shutting cupboards (no child locks?!) and drawers, jabbering up a storm.

We ran through all the nurse stuff and she was filling in the sheet for the doctor.

'Is this your first?' she asked, eyebrows raised.

'Yes.'

'Hmmm. It's going to be hard for you to have another.'

I looked at her, thinking, whatthehell?

Yeah, he's a bit 'busy'. But he's mine. He's a loving, happy little boy.

So, mean nurse, shut your trap. I hope we never get YOU again. You took just a little too much pleasure in giving my poor little bubba shots. If you don't like kids, go work in geriatrics. STAT.

As the Stroller Rolls

So guess what?

I got a new stroller. Well, technically, it's being shipped right now.

This is it.

I was a little disappointed I didn't get the BOB I asked for on my birthday, but good things come to those who wait. I got a SMOKIN' HOT DEAL on this bad boy at Costco.com. I couldn't' believe they were carrying Phil & Teds. And I think I will like it better than the BOB. It comes with the double attachment too. Anyhow, it's totally AWESOME, I'm totally excited, and every time UPS rolls by by heart leaps a little.

Funny how I used to feel this way about shoes and handbags, now it's all about the baby gear.

So now my mission is to sell two of our other strollers. I already had a jogger, which was aiiight, but not great; an umbrella, which I never use and is a little too girly for my taste; and the one that came with our infant seat - which I'm keeping to have the complete set.

I posted the first two strollers on Craigslist yesterday. And the jogger has sold. Yay!

But for some reason, this nut keeps emailing me about the umbrella, asking me to come down in price. I agreed to come down $10. But this person (I can't tell if they are male or female) is relentless.

Plus, THEY ALWAYS TYPE IN ALL CAPS.

They are yelling at me. I don't like it.

I am just about to email them back and tell them if I wanted to give the stroller away, it would be in the free section. I'm done haggling. DONE.

This is my first experience selling on Craigslist. Honestly? It's kind of freaking me out. What about no, I will not come down on price, is difficult to understand? And the anger? Why get mad at me when I say no? It is not a personal affront. It's my stroller, my decision!

Hmmmph.

Die, Ford, DIE!

I'm about ready to go postal.

Last week I called the local Ford Dealership to take my car in for what I was LED TO BELIEVE would be warranty work. Because, according to the mechanic - I mean - service advisor, Ford has had lots of trouble with the transmission cooler that was factory installed in 2008 Escapes. IT'S A FAULTY PART.

I just got a call from the service advisor.

"Um, yeah, you're just past the warranty period, so, yeah, it's not covered.'

Me. Staying calm. "How much are we talking about?"

"Well, the part is, uh, $384 and then labor is around $500, so, um, $871."

"So you're telling me that I'm just a skotch past the warranty, it's a FAULTY PART, and I still have to pay. By the way, I WAS LAID OFF. I am unemployed."

"Yes. It's not the transmission, which is covered to 50 thousand. But if you don't fix it your transmission will be ruined."

"I. WILL. CALL. YOU. BACK."

Breathe.

Thoughts:

1) Should I keep driving it as is to ruin the transmission so the #$#&@ Powertrain warranty will cover it?

2) Am I totally getting screwed because I have a vagina?

3) This bullpoo would have NEVER happened with my Hyundai. I miss my Hyundai. Tear...

And they wonder why American car companies are failing? Really? REALLY?

So Ford people, if you're reading this, step it up.

But who am I kidding?

Groceries are nice, but I'll be fixing my 2008, just past the warranty, car.

Dirty, Dirty Sandwiches.

I don't know if I'm the only one who has noticed this CREEPY commercial for Quiznos. Funny creepy, but still...really? REALLY?

The horny oven is kind of freaking me out. Plus, Toasty Torpedo?

Thanks, but I prefer my food non-phallic. Just sayin'.