Facebook is the Devil’s Playground. Or Beavis and Butthead’s. Something like that.

On average, The Boy and I talk about 3-4 hours a night. Sometimes he’ll be on Facebook on his end of the country, and I’ll be on Facebook on my end of the country. Which is apropos, considering it’s how we reconnected with each other. It’s also dangerous, seeing how we’re both 11-year-old boys at heart who enjoy nothing more than hijacking mutual friends’ pages. We also enjoy Ding Dong Ditch, crank calls and flaming dog poo on doorsteps, but I digress.

So now, for your amusement, because it’s late, and I got nothin’, here’s a little something from last night. Read THIS and tell me we’re not perfect for each other. I dare ya.

My apologies for the sloppy Witness Protection Treatment. Meh.

Can’t we all just get along?

Things in my office have been a little tense lately. I work with five women and one man, Conservaboss. (I think it’s about time for more BO bumper stickers …) I’ve worked with TONS of women before and NEVER experienced the catty, nosy, jealous, backstabbing BS that goes on in my office nearly every day. Seriously. Women are absolutely ridiculous. I don’t know how lesbians do it.

In all honesty, it really comes down to just a few bad apples who get off on trading negativity almost as much as two hormonal teenagers swapping spit. And I’ve learned the best way to avoid being peppered with the BS is to stay buried in my office.

Until Monday.

Remember my Social Media Presentation last week? On Monday, one of the Apples (who takes great joy in finding fault with me, my ideas, my work, etc.) rolled into my office, sat down, and gave a backhanded compliment before tearing it apart.

And I lost my shit.

Just thinking about it exhausts me. Needless to say, when the smoke cleared and all was said and done, I felt like a weight had been lifted. I was completely honest. And it was completely harsh. But 100% deserved.

What it comes down to is this. I would love nothing more than to spend each day with MP. Being the sole bread-earner, that’s not a possibility right now. But if I can’t be with her, I damn well better like the people I DO spend time with. Because thinking that I spend more hours each day with a few downright nasty beyotches than I do with my daughter makes me angry.

So tomorrow, the entire staff will be going on our annual day-long “retreat.” Which really just means we go somewhere, recap the past year and talk about plans for the next. AWESOME timing. Should be a BLAST.

I’ve decided to take the high road however, and attempt to be a uniter.

I’ll be passing out Pop Rocks and Diet Pepsi. If THAT doesn’t get a laugh, I’ll be throwing in the proverbial towel and heading to an ashram somewhere in India.

The cut that’ll sweep the doggie fashion world.

So, the dog.

I have to admit, she’s making it hard not to fall in love with her.

I’ll ALSO admit, however, I’m definitely struggling with some OCD madness. I can’t stop fixating on the food that gets stuck in the long fur around her mouth. Or the white fur that’s gradually becoming stained below her chin. When she poos, all I think about is that long fur. Don’t even try to convince me the poo don’t stick. There’s got to be some transference goin’ on. And that her fur is turning more and more yellow each time she pees? Seriously. I got issues.

I think I’ll take her to the groomer. And ask for the Orifice Cut. High and tight around the mouth, peehole and butthole. That way there’s no opportunity for fur to harbor any kind of … crap. Which is then tracked into the house. All over the carpet. And up on MP’s bed.

You have to understand. I don’t even allow shoes to be worn in the house. It’s just way too gross for me. And now all I can think of are the millions of minute turd particles that are tracked in every time the dog does her bidness.

You don’t have to tell me I’m a freak. I’m WELL aware of my ridiculousness. I’m just hoping eventually I’ll get over it. I’m really trying. Because Rosie IS sweet. And MP loves her with the passion of an only child.

And there are some killer dog toys out there.

Seriously. I’m trying.

Egg is to Dooce as sperm is to … the rest of us.

As a follow up to Wednesday’s confidence shattering stats post, I pose this question.

Dooce. The One. Yeah, I know you read her. But have any of you actually ever posted a comment? And if so, why? No judgment, just curious what drives her commenters. ‘Cause I dunna get it.

I dig her. I do. But do you suppose she actually scrolls through and reads ALL 1,036 plus a GAZILLION comments generated every time she hits the publish button? How would it be humanly possible? (Damn. I KNEW it. Human? You be the judge.) Are there even enough hours in the day to form a gazillion reactionary thoughts in response to a gazillion comments?

Uh huh. Blah buh blah blah. Yeah. Totally. Bitch. Yeah not. Uh huh. Mkay. Whatever. Yeah, yeah … you love me. Stalker. WTF? Hi there. OMG. Yeah, I’m awesome. Totally awesome.

(Dooce, if you’re out there, dish sister. Inquiring minds want to know.)

I read her every day, but have never left a single comment. I enjoy her posts with my morning Pepsi, but leave it at that. Who wants to be one of the masses echoing the same sentiments as hundreds of commenters before? What satisfaction is there in that? Seriously. There’s only so much wit to go around.

Hmmm … thinking of …

Soooo, yeah. I think in pictures. Which, unless you’re new, you knew. New knew. Sununu.

Just to be clear, I’m NOT suggesting in any way, shape or form that you stop commenting. (Because I am so influential and all powerful.) Spunk makes the world go round. And her awesomeness goes without saying. Just like all the other larger than life blog stars out there.

I’m just interested in … your comments.

When ’80s dance music and 2008 technology collide.

Every waking moment since posting ‘The Politics of Twitter’ yesterday, THIS has been in my head.

Between that and a continuous mind loop of Obama doing the Running Man, I may need to be committed.

The politics of Twi-tter
The politics of oooo, feelin’ good
The politics of moo-vin’
Uh-huh
Is this message understood?

You say heartburn, I say heart attack.

I’m being totally serious when I say, this morning, thought I might be a goner. And just now, typing “morning” I typed “moroning,” which is apropos, because that’s just how I felt walking into work at 10:30 after calling in sick with a heart attack.

Admittedly, I’m a bit of a hypo. But nowhere NEAR hypo enough to drive myself to the ER, or even the doctor, until symptoms have had at least a few days to take hold. Until this morning.

I was getting MP ready for school when a sudden and totally unexpected bout of heartburn came on and progressed rapidly. I couldn’t make sense of it, especially considering I hadn’t eaten a thing since dinner the night before. Within 15 minutes my entire chest was tight and I felt nauseous. In the car on the way to MP’s school, I broke out in a cold sweat, and by the time I’d dropped her off, the pain was radiating to my back.

I had already called work to let them know I’d be a little late. Because I was pretty sure I was having a heart attack and was driving myself to the hospital.

I think I can say full-blown panic never really did set in. I arrived at the hospital, got out of the car and walked to the ER doors. I sat down on a bench outside, debating whether to go in. I REALLY didn’t want to spend 500 bucks for a monster case of heartburn. And, I figured, if I DID collapse, I’d be right outside. Eventually SOMEONE would find me, right? (Which, in itself, is sad commentary about our health care system, but I won’t get into that.) Two times I got up and walked to the doors, feigned a cell phone call, and walked back to the bench. I imagined the conversation on the other side of the glass.

“I got 10 bucks says she comes in.”

“$20 says she goes home.”

“Five bucks says she passes out on the bench.”

I waited it out. I sat on that bench for an hour, mentally measuring the pain every five minutes or so. Slowly, but surely, it seemed to be decreasing. As I got up to leave, I wondered which RN or receptionist or orderly won the pool.

Ten minutes later, a slightly scruffy but absolutely adorable guy in an old Volvo pulled up next to me at the light. His antenna was topped with plastic flowers, and I swear he had a bottle of Corona in his fist … but that can’t be. His window down, he looked over at me, smiled and waved. The light changed, and we turned our separate ways. And in my overactive, overly dramatic mind, I imagined him as the Ferryman, come to usher me across the River Styx. I imagined him having a change of heart, and moving on.

Another day, Mr. Ferryman.

I have miles to go before I sleep, and a little one who needs me. Who right this very minute is yelling from the potty — where she’s been sitting, reading books for 20 minutes — for me to try and find her. And when I step into the bathroom, there she’ll be, hands over her eyes, honestly believing I can’t see her.

Psychic Morning at The Pie House

MP was standing by my bedside. She was up early making wallets.

Well, not REAL wallets. Little folded pieces of paper. There she was, going on and on, excitedly telling me all about them, how many she’d made, asking me to help her with the scotch tape, and telling me I could color them with her when I woke up.

And there I was, murmuring into my pillow, “yeah,” “uh-huh,” “great,” “okay,” while simultaneously fading in and out of a dream state. Purely random hazy thoughts about coloring, drawing people, and how to draw different shades of skin tone floated around my head.

I wasn’t speaking.

“You can draw skin if you want, Mommy.”

My eyes flew open. There, at eye level, stood MP, smiling sweetly.

And READING MY MIND.

Which I swear, she does all the time.

But I suppose there’s really nothing odd about it at all. I know couples who do it on a regular basis, literally taking the words right out of the other’s mouth. It happened between MP’s dad and me ALL the time. When you’re that close to another person, it makes sense that the lines can blur. You become me and I become you.

The phenomenon that really fascinates me is the way couples who’ve been together for ages begin to look alike. Personally, I wouldn’t be too keen on the whole masculine morphing thing, but I have to admit, it is sweet.

People even take on the characteristics of their PETS, for Pete’s sake.

Oh Lord, I just flashed on my future.

Now, dressing alike …

… yeah, that’s a different story.

Balls.

I forgot to include my check when I sent off my taxes April 15. Now what? Does this mean I won’t be getting my economic stimulus check this week?

Day five of the pasties, and I just found out they’re made with a HYUGE amount of LARD. I KNEW it. Anything that tasty can’t be good for you.

That’s all.

Florida’s Calling My Name

I have Sciatica.

I’m sure of it. A freakish, nagging, nearly unbearable pain running down the back of my thigh.

SCIATICA \si-‘a-ti-ka\, noun
Pain along the course of a sciatic nerve especially in the back of the thigh

At some point in my 39 years, I acquired this knowledge and stored it in the Hypochondriac Vault to join vast amounts of other useful medical nuggets. I opened the vault this morning in the shower. And then, naturally, made sure to do a little hedge trimming in the event I had to be rushed to the ER today with a sciatical emergency. As soon as I got to work, I looked it up.

According to my boyfriend WebMD:

Sciatica is a common type of pain affecting the sciatic nerve, a large nerve extending from the lower back down the back of each leg.

Tolja.

Symptoms

• Pain in the rear or leg that is worse when sitting. Maybe?
• Burning or tingling down the leg. Check.
• Weakness, numbness or difficulty moving the leg or foot. No …
• A constant pain on one side of the rear. Yeah. My power bill.
• A shooting pain that makes it difficult to stand up. No …

So, DEFINITELY one symptom.

What Causes Sciatica?

• Pregnancy. Not applicable, unless God has a second immaculate conception in the works and forgot to tell me.
• Irritation of the root(s) of the lower lumbar and lumbosacral spine
• Lumbar spinal stenosis (narrowing of the spinal canal in the lower back)
• Degenerative disc disease
• Spondylolisthesis (a condition in which one vertebra slips forward over another one)

So, we know I have a bad back. And posture rivaling Quasimodo’s. I totally have Sciatica.

Textbook case. Either that or the pain is actually a blood clot that will eventually travel to my lung, resulting in a pulmonary embolism (PE in doctorese) and sudden death.

And my boyfriend’s best advice? Seek immediate medical attention with any symptoms of progressive lower extremity weakness and/or loss of bladder or bowel control. I may just have to dump him. Because everyone knows AG’s my main man anyway.

Damn. All this time, I’m working my ass off here in the snow entrenched mountains, I had no idea I should be retired and living it up in Florida, reaping the benefits of my AARP membership. And wearing socks with sandals.

Original images borrowed from these guys. And these guys.