Friday, January 28, 2011

Criminal "Mines"

I was watching one of those reality shows, not the Jersey Shore kind but the other kind.  Jersey Shore style stuff gives us a glimpse of society's criminals.  I'm talking about the shows that give us a view of the more traditional form of criminal.  The kind that steal cars, assault people, sell drugs, etc. 

I differentiate the two in the following way, thanks to one year of high school anatomy:  picture a really obese, unwashed person of questionable origin.  On said person, the former would be the armpit and the latter would be the underbelly.  There are similarities.  Both would be unpleasant, to say the least.  The thought of either area would mostly likely induce a certain lip curl of disgust, possibly even some gagging. 

The difference is that when you see a grossly overweight filthy looking person coming your way, you can see the sweat stains under his arms and if he gets too close, you know you're going to get a whiff of those pitts whether the arms are raised or not.  And even if you're completely oblivious of the impending odor, what's the worst that will happen?  You'll have to endure the unpleasantness for a short time and then it'll be over. 
But the underbelly, it's hidden.  It's not something you really think about and you certainly don't expect to ever be confronted with smelling it.  So whether you see this walking soap repellent or not, his underbelly is not likely to cross your mind.  But if you happen to find yourself confronted with that particular area of this person's anatomy, you can pretty much assume you are in BIG trouble.

I'm not picking on the overweight, it's just that skinny people don't have underbellies (they have lower bellies-just not underbellies) and therefore would not have fit my analogy.

Now, I'll get on with what I was saying.  My hubby and I were watching this show in bed last night because this is apparently what we find relaxing right before bedtime and they're showing us a failed prison break.  A few inmates decided to pool their mental resources and stage an escape attempt.  It consisted of breaking through a wall, heading to the visiting room, breaking through the glass and fleeing though the door. 

Needless to say, there were some flaws in their plan.  First of all, rather than just breaking through an outer wall, they actually broke though their cell's inner wall, ending up in the hallway just outside the cell door.  The visiting room does in fact contain glass partitions so the prisoners and visitors can see each other.  Of course, the glass is reinforced being that they have to make sure the prisoners are unable to break the glass.  The door leading out is secured and monitored as is the entire facility, being that the goal is to keep the felons imprisoned within its walls.  In the time it took these demi-gods of the criminal world to work out the issues, the guards were there to secure them and tuck them safely back into a cell, where they await further sentencing.

In an effort to provide some assistance in an area of humanity where common sense is just a controversial hypotheses, I have the following PSA to share:

If for some reason, you have decided to commit an illegal act and need to put together a plan of action, DO NOT go to a convicted criminal for assistance.  They have already proven themselves unsuccessful in that line of business.  Nobody would ask Snookie to be their guide on the journey to a "Second Virginity".

If you need some advice regarding criminal behavior, head to Washington DC, where you will find a wide array of successful criminals, or career politicians as they like to refer to themselves.  They have a much higher success rate.  In fact, they've been blowing smoke up my butt for so long now, you could dip me in barbecue sauce and serve me up at the next tailgate party...

...mmmmm, barbecue.  I think I'll ask my husband to grill some ribs this weekend.  What was I talking about?  Never mind.  I'm going to lunch.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Casinos, Cowboys and CRAPS

I grew up listening to lots of different styles of music (both kinds: Country AND Western...sorry, a Blues Brothers reference for the Hubby).  I can find music to enjoy in just about every category but I have to say that I spent the major part of my teen years fantasizing about Heavy Metal and Punk Rock musicians.  There was just something about those bad boys.  They seemed so exciting and dangerous.  It was irresistible.

Okay, in hindsight, it seems pretty darn resistable!

But as often happens, the hurricane that is reality came blowing through my fantasies, flinging my hot dreams through the air, dropping them limply on the side of the Road of Truth and shredding my naive desires, leaving piles of rubbish in its Righteous wake.

How, do you ask, did this life changing event come to pass? 

I started dating these bastions of sex and anarchy.  I even spent a summer living with a surf-punk band and to my surprise, it was not the culmination of all my youthful imaginings manifesting before my eyes.  Rather, it was a huge pain in the ass.  At eighteen, I was the "grown-up" in the house.  I'm not talking about the bill paying, house cleaning type of "grown-up", just the voice of reason (Get a job, stop dealing drugs at the house, get off that under-aged girl...another little hello to the Hubby, loosely borrowed from a King of Queens episode).

Anyway, you would think I had learned my lesson but you would be wrong.  I just switched my fantasies to a different music genre: Country.  Why, you ask?  Deep voices with a little twang, southern hospitality, rough hands, broad shoulders, well-filled jeans...WHY?  Why the hell not.

I, like most Las Vegans, have spent some time working in a casino or two.  At the time of this particular tale, I was working in a casino cage, which is the main cashier area (referred to as a cage due to the security bars which hang above the counter...that's Vegas for you...classy).  I had been there almost two years and was the current supervisor at the seasoned age of twenty-two (not that impressive in the casino industry, I mean, I DID say I had been working there almost two years).  I was very excited on this particular day because the National Finals Rodeo had come to town and I was in cowboy heaven.  My little fantasies practically short-circuiting my brain.

To my delight, the casino cage had the best view of the craps table (for those of you non-gamblers out there, please get that disgusted look off your faces, craps is a dice game), which meant we got to see a lot of really nice saddle fillers being lovingly hugged by their faded blue jeans.  It. Was. Awesome.

Suddenly, one of those huggable butts cowboys stepped away from the table and ambled on over to the cage.  As some of the cashiers were shoving each other in order to get to the window where he was standing, I pulled the supervisor card (it's good to be the queen) and made my way to the window.

"Howdy, ma'am." (I don't know if he actually said that but it's what I heard)

"Hello, how can I help you?"

"I need to get a $2500 marker." (a marker is a loan issued by the casino to the guest in order to allow him/her to prolong their gambling experience even after they have exhausted their current funds-this is a legal transaction, maybe not moral...but legal)

This is where the reality hurricane started stirring yet again.  I felt it as it whispered through my hair and brushed lightly across my arms.

"Have you established a credit line with this casino before?"

The cowboy smiles at me and says, "No ma'am, I haven't but I've blown quite a pretty penny here today and I sure would appreciate it if you could help me out."

I explained to him that I couldn't give him a marker larger than $500 since he had no prior credit line with us or any other casino in town for that matter.  I did this as politely as I could and with the ring of a sincere apology in my voice since I didn't want to be the one to tell him no. (It sucks to be the queen.)

To my surprise, the cowboy wasn't upset at all.  He just gave me a lop-sided smile and said, "Well sugar, I really want the $2500 so why don't you wiggle that little tush of yours over to your supervisor and have him get me that marker." (note: my tushy really was little and quite spectacular back then being that I was 22 and everyone knows that great rear-ends primarily reside in the twenty-something block of the town of Female, except of course for the simulated versions, which reside in Silicone Valley)

SLAM.  That damn hurricane knocked me right off my feet.

I looked over at that smiling cowboy, my customer service face morphing into what my family refers to as my PMS face and said, "Listen, Jethro, I realize that the bright lights of the big city may have overwhelmed your good judgement but being as I happen to be the supervisor you previously mentioned, I suggest you call on some of that southern charm you folks are known for, happily accept the $500 marker and mosey YOUR tight little ass back on over to the craps table."

In the end, Gomer took the $500, staring at me through his whiskey soaked eyes and made his way back to the craps table.  I wanted to suggest he try some of that "Fancy Book Learnin" and buy himself a Gambling for Dummies guide so he could manage his cash flow a little better but alas, Cletus and Opie were calling him over, so I left well enough alone.

I still listen to a diverse array of music and can even be caught in an old fantasy or two but nowadays, I am fully aware of Reality's hovering presence and am ever watchful for hurricanes.

Friday, January 21, 2011

I've come up with some driving tips, with a little help from the Internet

My children are learning how to drive.  They've had their driving permits for a while and I have been playing the role of driving instructor/ white-knuckled passenger during this time.  I am also an insurance agent and at one time processed insurance claims, including car accidents.

Though you may think, based on my career, that I would be a pretty good choice to give out driving lessons, you would be very, very wrong.  I am a nervous, bossy, pushy passenger.  Add to that the responsibility of having a young inexperienced student driver in my care and well, just multiply my previously revealed passenger personality by 10.

Let's not forget that my poor unsuspecting children are TEENAGERS.  That's right, I used the T-word, blogs aren't monitored by any kind of FCC-like department, are they?  I hope I didn't offend anyone with my language but the strong wording was needed in order to properly portray my blog's state of mind at the time of this post.

Oh yeah, one more thing, I have been self-diagnosed with an extreme case of road rage.  I really shouldn't be allowed to drive around others.  I scream and cuss at every vehicle I encounter and when a driver has the nerve to perform some sort of stupid vehicular maneuver within 10 feet of my vehicle's personal privacy bubble, my brain fills with such gruesome thoughts of bodily harm that it would make Freddy Krueger queasy.

But I love my girls and I have promised to do my best to teach them how to be safe and courteous drivers in my world, which is basically a combination of Nascar maneuvers and military defensive driving skills.  It's a wonder they're willing to get in a car at all.  I guess they don't notice my idiosyncrasies as much, what with all of the eye rolls and sighs of exasperation that are an innate part of the nature of teens worldwide.  It's true!  I saw it on an episode of National Geographic.

I've come up with some driving tips, with a little help from the Internet, that I have printed out for their reference and thought I would share with all of you:

  • It takes over 8,000 bolts to assemble a car but only one nut to take it apart.
  • The best safety device on a vehicle is a rear-view mirror...with a cop in it.
  • A tree only hits a car in self defense.
  • You have to learn to drive in order to really learn how to swear.
  • Anyone driving slower than you are is an idiot and anyone driving faster is a maniac.
  • Life is just too damn short for traffic.
  • Any streetlight that is timed for 35 miles per hour would also be timed for 70 mph.
If any of you happen to see me or one of my girls on the road...sorry about that!

Side note:  If you happen to be the idiot wearing the trucker's cap and driving a red Mustang that cut me off this afternoon when you jumped across two lanes of traffic in order to get into the left turn lane and then appeared genuinely confused when I honked at you and gave you my single-fingered wave of salutation, I saved this little spot on my post just to send a little message your way:

"You couldn't get a clue during the clue mating season in a field full of horny clues if you smeared your body with clue musk and did the clue mating dance!"

Enjoy your weekend and please drive safely.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

There's a story here...

How can a regular person, such as myself, take the spark of an idea and build it into the burning flame of a great story?

I've seen that spark cross my path on several occasions.  I've found them in dreams, in conversations, in my daily life and even in the view from my car window.  Sometimes, they just flit though my mind, a flicker behind my eyes, impossible to grasp.  Other times, I am able to reach in and grab it in my hand.  I pull it out and watch it dance across my fingertips and that's when I gasp and smile because...I know, in my heart of hearts, there's a story here...

I need to nurture it so I provide a setting, a theme.

I need to sustain it so I feed it a plot and a catalyst.

I need to shape it so I fill it with people and places.

I need to mature it so I offer it the details: descriptions, histories, emotions, relationships, etc.

I need to protect it so I surround it with a beginning, a middle, an end.

Then, when it's finally ready, I share it with strangers, laying it bare along with my heart.

Will it be a lasting flame?  A story that invites you into its depths, tugging at you to come along.  A story you find you are now a part of, invested in the outcome.  As you savor the journey, and speed through the climax, a sigh escapes you as the story concludes and you know things have changed.  Not in any life altering way.  Just a feeling that you are different somehow for having experienced this tale.  A great story can give you that connection, a link the storyteller gets to share as well.

Will it just crash and burn?  No lasting effects at all?  Just a moment in time.  Possibly entertaining some of you, but only briefly.  My greatest fear would be to find I have turned the spark into this.

These are the thoughts that go through my mind as I cradle this spark within my hands, hoping I act fast enough to keep it from fading away because...I know, in my heart of hearts, there's a story here...

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

My comments have gained notoriety...finally!

You're not going to believe this but I received an award for my COMMENTS.  Strangely enough, this award came from one of my favorite commenter's - no idea if that's the proper way to type that.

Nikki at mycyberhouserules
 Her comments bring me laughter, snickers (wicked, blushing ones), and moral support - much like her actual blog, which sometimes is the only thing that gets me through the day.  Read can thank me later Nikki of mycyberhouserules.  Thanks Nikki!  I appreciate the acknowledgement almost as much as I appreciate your blog. 

I have to forward this to Vinny C of asvinnycsit because his comments always seem to remind me of Goldilocks and the Three Bears.  Not too funny, not too sentimental...but just right!  In case you don't read his blog, I would suggest you do.  There aren't that many blogs that manage to combine humor and honesty in perfect harmony the way he is able to do it, which is, again...just right.

The one requirement other than forwarding the award to your favorite commenter's is to answer the following question:

Do your witty answers pop instantly in your head when you read the post with an immediate urge to hit the comment button or do you have to sit and ponder?

For me, my comments pop immediately into my head as I read a post and the frequency of my comments are directly related to the quality of the posts.  (The post is the fuel for the comment fire)  I don't  feel obligated to post a comment just for the sake of posting it.  I do it because the post deserves to be commented on.

I'm guessing that's why I enjoy getting comments on my own posts, because naturally I assume everyone has the exact same thought processes I do.  They do, don't they?

I have to admit that I do get a certain sense of satisfaction when a blogger responds to one of my comments.  It's kind of like giving somebody some pot and they smoke a joint with you.  Or, if you bring a friend a chocolate bar and they break off a piece to share with you.  I use drugs and chocolate as examples to better illustrate my desire for bloggers to respond to comments whenever possible...I mean, come on...KICK already!

I love every comment I get and I respond to every one of them.  It's easier for me than most since I don't really get that many. 

And since I have been inspired by Nikki's generous award, I will start acknowledging them more regularly.

Friday, January 14, 2011

I think I'm having an identity crisis, astologically speaking

 I don't read my horoscope.  I figure it would do more harm than good.  Can you imagine if I read my horoscope today and it told me a new romantic interest would be coming my way this weekend?  I'm married!  What am I supposed to tell my husband? 

I don't think he would be very understanding when I say, "Honey, I showed you my horoscope.  It's right there in black and white.  It said to "Go for it!" so when that guy wanted to buff my nails for me at the kiosk in the mall, I just knew he was the one, the New Romance Guy."

"You didn't have to grab him by his slicked down hair and try to shove your tongue down his throat."

"Um, what exactly does "Go for it!" mean to you?  And besides, that slicked down hair of his had so much product in it that I slid right off of him and left a bright red skid mark on his cheek.  So I don't see what you're so upset about."

See?  Horoscopes are bad news for me.  I would rather live in blissful ignorance than to allow my actions to be affected by the power of someone else's suggestion. 

I don't ask people their signs, nor do I try to figure it out when I find out someone's birthday.  It's not a major focus in my life...but still...who the hell is Ophiuchus

I've heard the news.  Our signs have shifted because apparently, the moon's gravitational pull has changed where the sun sits at different times of the year.  Hmmm.  When did this happen?  Was it a gradual shifting?  Was I half of a sign at one point?  A combination of two signs?  Had anyone in my family noticed the change in my personality?  Or will this change affect us suddenly at a later date?  Maybe while we're sleeping?  What if it happens suddenly but to different people at different times?  Will there be people running around in the streets screaming that their loved one's have been possessed?

This is why I don't focus too much on these things.  When a little logic is applied, nothing fits right anymore and what used to be fun and entertaining, just...isn't.  Still, I like the character traits associated with my original sign, so I think I'll keep them.

But what's with the thirteenth sign?  Did the moon's gravitational pull manage to yank in another constellation?  Should someone have warned us of exactly how powerful our moon is?  I mean, who's orbiting who here?

This thirteenth sign looks odd to me.  It's a guy wearing a long toga, no shoes and trying to make out with a snake.  It may be a really drunk frat guy but he looks suspiciously like the hobo that hangs out near the convenience store about a block from my house.

Ophiuchus:  Nov 29 to Dec 17

I know the experts have advised us that there used to be thirteen signs until some ancient meeting when they decided they only wanted twelve signs.  (the number is 12...not 13...which is one too many...but 12...not 11 which is one too few...but 12...12 is the number)  Whatever their reasons back then, why would we need to change it now?

Think about all of the books out there regarding the zodiac and star charts and astronomy.  If you're into that kind of thing, you must be pissed.  Can you imagine how much it will cost to replace all of those books?  And what about all the people who have their signs tattooed on them somewhere?  That's gotta be quite the kick in the baby-batter balls, if you ask me.

Nope, my guess is that this is some sort of way to screw with us.  Look at the name of the newly added sign: take out the I (as in Individual, good one huh?) and read it again...Ophuchus.  I rest my case.

In case you haven't seen it, here is the new astrological chart (it's strange but for some reason the website lists it in reverse):

Sagittarius:  Dec 17 to Jan 20
Ophiuchus:  Nov 29 to Dec 17
Scorpio:  Nov 23 to November 20
Libra:  Oct 30 to Nov 23
Virgo:  Sept 16 to Oct 30
Leo:  Aug 10 to Sept 16
Cancer:  July 20 to Aug 10
Gemini June 21 to July 20
Taurus:   May 13 to June 21
Aries:  April 18 to May 13
Pisces:  March 11 to April 18
Aquarius:  Feb 16 to March 11
Capricorn:  Jan 20 to Feb 16

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Confessions of a Glutton

(Warning:  This post could be offensive and definitely contains naked animal pictures)

I was sitting at my desk with nothing to do and I decided to post something on my blog.  The only problem...what to write?  My mind was blank, which is not really that unusual for me.  And then it came to me.  I would use this time to cleanse my tainted soul.  So I started typing, right after I watched that YouTube video with the Baby Monkey riding backwards on a Pig.  I just can't get enough of that one.

The Holidays were followed by the Playoffs and will culminate with the Superbowl and thus, in my world this means a lot of binge eating both due to stress and just plain old gluttony.

Not just a mild case of gluttony either.  I am talking about GLUTTONY as in one of the Seven Sins.  Once I gave in to those irresistible Sirens of Cholesterol and Cellulite, I began eating every sweet, fatty, thigh-thickening, ass-spreading, heart-squashing morsel I could get my now swollen (due to water retention from the massive salt intake) fingers on.  I finally reached the point where I was scoring random goodies from very questionable sources.

Once I realized how far gone I was, I did the only thing my greasy, chocolate coated brain could come up with.  I began drinking heavily.

It seemed like such a good idea at first.  I was the life of the party.  I mean, who doesn't like animal impressions?  Especially ducks, right?  That's what I thought.  Ducks are damn funny.

I suspected I was losing control of myself.  And it was NOT a pretty picture.

I started going to Karaoke bars and I wasn't singing, I was rapping!    In case you were wondering, this homegirl can NOT pull that kind of thing off.  There was absolutely no mojo working in me and I'm about as street as the Back Street Boys.  The worst part...I wasn't just screwing around, I was acting as if this was the launching of a new career for me.

Then, to make matters worse.  I was approached by a police officer.  I wasn't driving so I wasn't sure what the problem was.  I mean, I live in Vegas, the term Public Drunkenness is a marketing slogan around here.  Still, you can't be too careful so I threw a couple of breath mints in my mouth and asked the girl next to me to check my breath.

It didn't work.  The problem, the officer informed me, was that I was not at a karaoke bar, I was in a church.  It was 10 in the morning and I had walked in and disrupted the services by grabbing the microphone from the minister and asking the organ player to play some Fifty Cents for me.  Yeah, that's how I pronounced it.  I then began to rap to my hearts content.  That's when I spotted the officer and snagged some communion wafers and shoved them in my mouth.  I followed this up by grabbing the minister and saying to him, "Girl, check my breath", and proceeded to shove his nose into my mouth.

Shockingly, I was arrested.

I spent the night in the drunk tank wrapped in the arms of a very large and very affectionate young lady by the name of Bertha.

When I was released, I got a glimpse of my mug shot, which I had expected to look like this.   (Eat your heart out you drunken celebrity bitches!)

The actual mugshot was not quite as flattering.

This was actually the photo my Hubby took of me in the car when he came to pick me up.  I'm not sure if he's upset with me or not but this was posted on my wall on Facebook.

Obviously, I was not very proud of myself.

I realized that I couldn't go on in this manner.  I was hurting myself and those close to me.  I needed to make a change.  I called one of my dearest friends and enablers and we talked over coffee.  We did a lot of soul searching and decided it was time to clean up our acts and take back control of our lives.

By the time she left, I felt a lot more like myself again.  I learned a very valuable lesson.  One I would not soon forget.  Lucky for you, I have decided to share this wisdom with you today.

Have as much fun as you can, until someone makes you stop!

I'm hoping I have received absolution, what with all the soul baring and all, but it's pretty doubtful.  So instead I bid you farewell...until next time!

Note:  Just in case Gullible is your middle name, this was a work of fiction...mostly. 

Wednesday, January 12, 2011


Every morning, after the night nurse leaves and before the day nurse arrives, I watch as the old man opens the front door and steps out.  He leaves the door open so she can sit there in her wheelchair and watch him as his stooped form shuffles to the ancient blue car parked in the driveway.  He pulls a soft cloth out of his coat pocket and rubs it across the surface of the car in circles.  His movements are stiff and ragged as the cold air attacks, ruthlessly seizing muscles and cruelly pinching inflamed joints. 

He never stays long.  He just stares at the car and wipes away the dust as he dreams of the past.  She watches him as he reflects on the freedom he felt behind the wheel of that car for so many years.  All of the family trips and the quiet drives they used to take.  He remembers when he first saw the powder blue car and how perfectly they matched her eyes.  And just as he knew he couldn't live without her, he knew he had to get that car.  He has never regretted either decision.

When his body can no longer take the strain, he shuffles back into the house, more slowly than he left.  She waits at the door for him, watching him as she does every day.  He wheels her chair into the family room next to his recliner and heads to the kitchen to start her tea and pour himself a cup of coffee.  As he putters around getting things ready, she turns her head to watch him.  The tea kettle whistles, he prepares her tea, freshens his coffee and makes his way shakily back to the family room and to her side.  He sets the cups down on the little round table between them and lowers himself to his chair, with a small groan and a sigh.

He wraps her trembling hand in his gnarled one and looks at her.  She is already watching him, as he knew she would be.  Since the stroke last year, she can no longer speak but her eyes have always revealed her thoughts.  It was what drew him to her when they had first met - those beautiful, expressive eyes. 

"I love you with everything that I am.  Promise me.  Please promise me that you won't leave unless I can go with you."

I watch as a single identical tear drops from each of them onto their entwined hands.  The two drops blending together before they travel the road map of lines embedded onto their tissue paper skin.  I watch this every morning before the day nurse arrives.

She watches him as he leans in and leaves a lingering kiss against her pale cheek.  This is when she finally looks away, eyes downcast, as a slight blush blooms under her skin.  Now, he watches her.  It is a brief moment and then her eyes return to watch him again and she's smiling.

I don't know what the rest of their day or night consists of but this ritual has remained unchanged for almost a year now.  I have been coming here every morning since the very first day, about six weeks after the stroke.  Every day I watch them together.  Every day since that very first one when I was supposed to take her and...couldn't.  I sigh knowing I have failed again and prepare to leave them.  Maybe tomorrow will be different, maybe not.

Until then, I will keep watching and waiting.

Friday, January 7, 2011

The Passion and Pain that is Football

It starts with those NFL commercials.  Tempting me with visions of seasoned veterans with sure hands that know exactly what to do to score.  Sprinkle in some young bucks, full of enthusiasm and the desire to prove themselves and I'm primed to go. 

This is followed by the PreSeason, where most of those aforementioned young men have the opportunity to strut their stuff.  It's just a Tease job and never leads to satisfaction but it's a fun path to take to the Goal line.

By the time Regular Seasons begins, I'm primed and ready to go.  My heart races and I'm vibrating with anticipation as I watch that very first kick-off.  Each game stirs me into a greater frenzy until I completely lose control. 

This weekend marks the start of the Playoffs and although I enjoy this stage of the game, I am filled with melancholy.  The fervor that I felt in the beginning has transformed into something better.  Something more manageable and far sweeter.  I love this part.  I do.  I also know that things will be coming to an end soon and the echoes of past seasons send a dull ache through my chest.  But I won't let that ruin the remaining time we have together.  I will treasure each game, each minute.

When it's time for the final game (can I write $uperbowl?), I will not let you down.  I will be there and we will reach the pinnacle together as we do each season.  We will ride the wave to culmination and if there is a tear in my eye at the end, let's just blame it on the passion rather than the pain.

I'm going to miss you when you're gone.  Your season is so short and it will be so long until we meet again.

You used to come back for a final farewell but some genius in the NFL made the a$$hole decision to hold the damn Probowl BEFORE the $uperbowl...but that's a different bitch session altogether.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

I have one more person to thank *bows head sheepishly*

I was so excited with my award that I hadn't realized I had received this award twice! 

Yep, that's right.  TWO wonderful bloggers gave me this award.  I hope they don't take it back.  The second wonderful blogger who gave me the award below is IWBY of

I will forward this award to Sam at whose posts make me laugh and cry with their wit and honesty, they also make me feel vested in her success and happiness.  Thanks for truly sharing.

I have no more guilty pleasures to share at the moment but I will try to acquire some more in the near future, for now, please see the post before this one.

My Very First Award!! I'd like to thank...

I only have one person to thank and that's Vinny of for the award and the kind words.  Yours is one of my most favorite blogs to read.  It always gives me a smile, a chuckle or a prolonged, high-volumed bout of laughter.  Your blog has saved a sh!tty day for me on more than one occasion.

So, here it is-The Irresistibly Sweet Blog Award:

It comes with some stipulations.  I will need to forward it to someone and I think that will be to Spence of since I look forward to every single post and read them with an eagerness that surprises me.

Per Minx of, the creator of this award, I must also share 5 guilty pleasures with all of you.  So...hear goes nothing:

  1. I am willing to do absolutely ANYTHING in order to stay in my pajamas all weekend, watching the Food Network and reading my Kindle.  (ANYTHING includes: drinking heavily the night before so that I am still buzzed the next day and so incoherent that my family is unwilling to take me out in public,  faking sleep so as to avoid any obligations, duties or promises I may have agreed to earlier in the week, or announcing that I am unwilling to drive in the severe weather conditions "keep in mind that I live in Las Vegas so severe for me usually constitutes a breezy day, a faint sprinkle, or temperatures below 50'F".  You get the picture.)
  2. The reading material I choose to download on my Kindle is kind of...well...less than inspiring.  I tend not to download anything particularly intelligent, relevant, meaningful, introspective or critically acclaimed.  I DO read things that qualify in those categories but rarely will you find that on my Kindle.  I think the anonymity of downloading the material directly to my device gives me a sense of freedom.  I tend to veer towards the following categories: sci-fi, supernatural, romance, romantic suspense and a category I like to refer to as romantic smut.  That's right, I admit it, and this last category is my favorite.  It's like my own dirty little secret.  I am not talking about Erotica here.  It's romance that involves unbelievably gorgeous people with unending amounts of money, ridiculously simple obstacles to overcome and a LOT of cheesy dirty love/lust scenes because on my Kindle I can be whomever I choose and I choose to be shallow and slightly perverted.
  3. While driving, I turn into a rabid creature who eagerly consumes power from the dark side (thank you Kindle) and will out-cuss a career sailor on shore leave to the point that he sprouts ringlet curls and starts singing "On The Good Ship Lollipop".  This requires no further explanation except that I happen to be an Insurance Agent and I of course sell auto insurance and encourage safe driving practices while I secretly grow and nurture my road rage to epic proportions.
  4. I am addicted to sugar-free Rock Stars.  I publicly shun trendy energy drinks and shake my head sadly at young America as reports roll in about the dangers of these fad energy drinks.  But privately, I look forward to my Rock Star each morning and can barely function without it.  This is after my morning coffee, mind you.  I don't feel like a hypocrite, mostly because I choose not to feel like one (Denial happens to be one of my closest friends) but also because I have recently reached an age where there is NO energy left in my body.  The only way for me to function is to obtain as much artificial energy as possible...this may be related to the fact that my body is usually in atrophy come Monday due to guilty pleasure number one...hmmm...NAH.  (Denial, you're my favorite)
  5. I dream about my Blog.  Each night, as my head hits my pillow, I enter a dream-state where my Blog is the center of all things.  Your Blogs are all there too with powers in and of their own.  But since this is MY dream, my Blog is the Bad-a$$ Blog on the Block.  I dream about what to write and how it will be received.  Since it's a dream, it is always well received and has the ability to become everything to everyone.  In my personal Blogoverse, my Blog is relevant and a true and honest guideline to the betterment of society as a whole.  In reality, when I open my eyes in the morning, all I really want is for my Blog to be entertaining and of course...popular.
I hope these Confessions of an Irresistibly Sweet Blogger don't turn too many of you off of my Blog since my Followers are few and I am not worthy.

Thanks again for the award Vinny...if it weren't for Denial, you would be my favorite