What's a Casi, Anyway?

Recently, many people have been telling me how they read my blog (insert a million tiny clapping hands and a jump/squeal from me), but they've also been telling me that they can literally hear my voice saying these words. (Interestingly, so can Joel...as I sit in front of the computer...and type them...and say each one aloud...as he watches the news...and shushes me.) Seriously, too many people to count (if you can't count to like, three) have told me they hear my voice in these words. And I think, when they say this, "well, this is me. All me. Right here on the interweb. I am who I am." Which brings up the question: Who is Casi Clark, anyway?

So I made a list of things that are pretty uniquely Casi and, without further ado, here they are:

I look innocent enough. But what I'm drinking there? It's Awesome Juice.

1--First of all, my name is Casi. Pronounced CAH-see. Not Casey, not Cathy, not Cass-I. Plain and simple. And it's spelled with a mere four letters. Try and get that part right. (It took Joel four months to get it right, but he might get pissed for me telling that story, so I will later when he's not reading over my shoulder.)

2--I'm late. Always. Casi time runs anywhere from 5 - 15 minutes later than real time. When I'm scheduling work stuff, I always write it in my calendar fifteen minutes earlier than it is. I set my clocks 15 minutes ahead. My family tells me things start 15 minutes before their actual start time. None of this helps. I'll still stroll in late with some lie about what happened.

3--I have a man voice. I've come to terms with it in my old age, but it used to really bother me. It's probably deeper than your SO's voice (if your SO is a dude) and maybe even your dad's (I know he's a dude). When my friends get really sick, they say they sound like me. When I get really sick, I am mistaken for a man in drive-thru speakers and over the phone. When I was in the first grade, Ms. Rinaldi, my teacher, yelled across the room at me that I have a deep voice that carried, and, thus, I had to be quieter than the other kids. Had she said that to 29 year old Casi, I would have told her she just hears me better because what I am saying is funnier than what anyone else is saying anyway.

Me? Oh, I'm hilarious

4--I fancy myself to be quite the comedian. When I am in a group of people--especially my peeps--it is my number one goal, above all else--to make people laugh. I will exaggerate the truth, say inappropriate things, and flat out lie to make people laugh. And if I do, my mission is accomplished.

5--I cuss a lot when I'm doing it. I cuss mostly out of anger or comedic effect, but saying butt, shoot, crap, meanie, and freaking is not nearly as funny as their adult counterparts. I love throwing in a well-placed cuss word and watching the crowd fall apart in laughter. (Unless this is only in my mind, and I'm the modern day, chick equivalent of Andrew Dice Clay, and people just laugh awkwardly hoping I'll stop talking. But in my mind--which is what counts anyway--I am f*cking hilarious.)

Me ignoring your voicemail

6--I will not listen to your voicemails. Ever. If you call, I'll call you back, but don't say, "did you get my message?" The answer is always no. There are people in my family, who, when I call back will say, "well, listen to my voicemail, that's why I left it." At which point, I say okay, hang up, and glance down at the hundreds of voicemails I'll never listen to. And still don't. So don't leave them.

7--I'm kind of a bad driver. When I'm driving, I'm too busy doing important things like talking to whoever's with me, painting my nails, eating, changing clothes, putting on an imaginary concert, watching dumb people on the street, and finalizing my plans to conquer the world. I can't be bothered with frivolous things like watching, reacting, breaking, or not speeding.

8--I have the messiest car in the world. I live in my car now more than ever so it has only gotten worse. I told Destiny today that I am not allowing myself to have peanut butter or chocolate in my car anymore, because every visible (and invisible because I have some high-tech sh*t in my car) surface is covered in chocolate and melted peanut butter. There is never any telling what you will find in my junk yard of a car either. My boss got into my car one day and found a beer can and a pair of little boys' underwear in my floorboard. I'm sorry, you gotta enter at your own risk, man.

Maybe the best picture of me ever taken.
And by me, I mean my cans.

9--I shorten everyone's name and/or give them a nickname. Back when my peeps and I were all going to Ninki and eating hibachi all the time, one of the little (pretend) Japanese servers said, "I know you, you make every name little," or something to that effect. So people know me by the way I give nicknames. Important people. Clearly. Typically I will shorten your name first. Like calling Destiny Dee. Then I will make it long again. Now I call her Dee Dirty Dancer. It's how I roll.

A happily fed Cas

10--I can be the meanest, grumpiest, angriest person in the world if you do not feed me properly. My blood sugar drops and all hell breaks loose. When we were in Costa Rica, I threatened to break up with Joel if he didn't feed me soon. Then when he offered me a slice of bread, I turned and stormed away. I ignored him and berated him until he took me to a resort that served a seven course meal. I don't understand it either. Someone recently called it feeling hangry. And, boy, do I get hangry. We have about a three hour window between meals, and if that meal is not right in front of me when I'm ready, I turn over tables and knock down little kids. I can't help it. It's just who I am.

You Mess with My Brotha, You Mess with Me

So, recently I wrote all about growing up with two older brothers and hanging out with them and getting squirted in my crazy crack eye with chlorinated water. Well apparently it's National Brother's Week. I had never heard of this, but I'd also never heard of Boss's Day. So I guess I'll write about them again. But my excuse is this weird Facebook Holiday. I don't want y'all to start thinking I have some crazy obsession with my brothers and that I keep a shrine for them in my closet with old baby teeth and stuffed animals. (Confession: I am a little obsessed with my brothers, but Mom made me give their baby teeth back years ago.)

The other night, Chris sent me this ecard:

And it's exactly right and got me to thinking about how I have this huge double standard over who can talk sh*t about my brothers. I know that they are the older siblings, and they get all the fun of picking on me, but I am completely and utterly protective over them.

These are my peeps. Don't #*@$ with them.

So, I'm naturally pretty protective of the people I love. If I hear someone has said something mean to one of my close friends, in an effort to make that friend feel better, I will chronicle everything that is and ever has been wrong with that person (bad fashion and/or poor life choices will usually top the list). I once almost beat up some hick at Windy Hollow Raceway for getting snippy with my mom. If I hear about someone taking advantage of Joel in some way, I get ten times more pissed off about it than he would ever get. I love my peeps, and if you cross them, you cross me. Period.

But with my brothers, this gets taken to a whole new level. No one better ever talk sh*t about my brothers. Ever. The few times in my life when I have feared that I may actually punch someone have been when someone has crossed one of the boys. I know that they can take care of themselves, but I much rather "take care" of someone who messes with them.

How I feel when you cross my bros.

Here's the one exception: me. I get to say whatever I want whenever I want about my brothers. It is my job to tell them when they're being assfaces, and no one else's. AND, many an unsuspecting friend has run into what happens when you even agree with my sh*t-talking.

(Sitting at dinner with random friend.)


Me: So (brother) is being a real assface lately.

Friend: Right...

Me: (looks up slowly from huge plate of cheese fries) Did you just agree that my brother is an assface?? I. Will. CUT. You.



(On the phone with random friend.)


Me: I just don't understand how (brother) can do a douchebag thing like that.

Friend: Yeah, well, I remember that one time he did that other douchebag-y thing.

Me: Yeah. Well, no one asked you.

(hangs up phone in a rage)


You see, it's a complete double standard, but it's not something I'm ever going to change or lighten up on. I get to say what I think about my brothers, and no one is allowed to say a single negative word or even agree with me. If you find yourself getting caught in one of these situations, it's best to just avert your eyes and wait for me to finish, then quickly change the subject. I cannot be held accountable for my actions when protecting my bros.

They are mean to me. I will punch you if you're mean to them.

It's not like I sit around all the time talking trash about my bubbies anyway, but on the rare chance that I need to, I'm going to. And the thing is: I've earned the right to talk a little sh*t about them. I have been there when one was lying in a hospital bed letting the worst farts I've ever smelled in my life and told him it wasn't that bad. I have been there when one of them was in his twenties and on the verge of crying when he had to get blood drawn because he'd never had it done before. I used to loan my hard-earned babysitting cash to one of them to be used for what I can only assume were bake sale brownies. (One can never know for sure.) I have driven six hours to buy groceries for one of them. I have stood next to one of them when he committed his life to his soulmate. I have rushed one of them to the ER when I found him wandering pale-faced and zombie-like through the Healthpark parking lot. I have held one of their hands while he was looking at his brand new baby boy in an incubator. And I have held a knowing hand on one of their backs when he has felt his whole world fall apart. And I've been happy to do it.

So, these boys are my boys, and they always will be. If I have to throw a punch, defend their actions, or tell you how wrong you are when you agree that they're assfaces, I will. Forever. So don't cross them, mother effers, or you will have ME to deal with. Happy National Freaking Brothers' Week.

Also...

What about this guy??

I've been at my desk for less than an hour. He's commandeered my spot. And his lying in his fave position.

Take a closer look. Tongue hanging out. Sheer bliss.

Much Too Old to Rock'n'Roll

Joel and I had quite the eventful weekend.

Friday night, we were invited to dinner with our very good friends from Lexington, Carrie and Byron, and Carrie's parents. It started out innocent enough. Dinner, a few drinks, and an invitation to visit with other friends at Gambrinuuuuuuuuuus (okay, this is a very upscale bar in Owensboro, which is actually called Gambrinus (gam-BREE-naus), but I once knew someone who pronounced it gam-bree-NEEEEWWWWWWZZZZZ. Most people who've lived in Lexington call it gam-bree-nOOOs. It is, however, Gambrinus). Joel and I decided to go to G's and have ONE drink.

Us with Carrie and Byron at Christmas

Let me rewind. Joel and I agreed to have dinner with our friends, and he arrived home about ten minutes before I did. I walk in. Shopping bags in hand. Admit I have a problem. He picks out his favorite items that I've purchased him (a pair of dressy jeans and a white Paper, Denim, and Cloth shirt). I change into my brand new NY&Co black cigarette pants and black and camel sheer striped top.  Before we walk out the door, Joel jokingly puts a pair of flip flops onto his stocking feet. I laugh. We leave. In the car, I realize it wasn't a joke. He has worn his flip flops and socks to Nikos, a nice restaurant, with our friends. Awesome. I love him, and I accept him for who he is, so I giggle and go on. (Spoiler alert: he wears them for the REST OF THE NIGHT.)

Mismatched, dirty socks, no less

So, back to the subject at hand. A mere 20 minutes into dinner, Joel is pointing out his dinner preference on my menu and spills his (very dark) beer all down his brand new white t-shirt. Good thing it was only $7. We proceed to have dinner, and at one point, giggle over the japanese look Joel is rocking. (To make certain that Joel is not the only silly one in our household, I get all the way to dinner and realize I have left the tags on my new pants and, once in the bathroom, realize everyone in the restaurant is getting the privilege to see not only what size I wear, but also that I paid a mere $12 for the $50 pants. I consider it showing off my bargaining skills.)

So, after dinner, we agree to go to G's and have A drink with our friends Jason, Megan, and a new friend, Matt. One drink turns into two turns into "we should go to the Yellow Rose."

Leaving with a newfound energy, I run into a preg friend of mine and sexually assault her preg belly. (Won't be able to look her in the eye for a while.) Then we head on to Hick Heaven. Now, let me explain the Yellow Rose. This is a bar in Owensboro that is the exact opposite of the very upscale, beautifully decorated, very classy Gambrinus. This bar is downright country. Dark, smokey, serving nothing but hard liquor and cheap beer, this bar is very "friends in low places" style.

When we get there, we discover a sa-weet moped outside and proceed to take turns taking pictures on it. The owner (a tubby fellow in wire-rim glasses, a tie, Duckheads, and a few two many PBRs) comes out to protect his prized possession and instantly falls in love with me. He pays no mind to the fact that I am clearly spoken for. (At one point, Joel and I went to our respective restrooms. I came out before Joel. Mr. Moto spots me, makes a B-line toward me, gets thisclose to me, sees Joel, turns and runs.) (To be fair, despite the Mr. Miyagi look, Joel got hit on WAY more than I did.) We proceeded to line dance, drink a few too many beers, and breathe more smoke than a 15 year old Joe Camel. At one point, I had to ask a man in a cowboy hat to buy a beer for my SO because the sweet little bartenders would not serve anyone with breasts.

Slow dancing at the Yella Rose

Joel tried to stand up on the moped. I screamed.

Maybe I need one just like it. Blue duct tape and all.

After the YR, we went to the farm to show our friends around. While Megan and I had some catch-up time (I worked at KWC with Meg and LOVE her), the boys began to play guitar and sing. I took that as my cue to sing with them and quickly joined. At 1:34am, Joel and I got dropped off at our house, discussed how we can't remember the last time we were up that late, and passed out fell into a deep slumber.

ONLY TO WAKE UP AT 5AM THE NEXT DAY. Feeling ruff. I drove to McDonald's to get us a hangover cure--two Egg McMuffin Meals with Diet Coke, and we go back to sleep. For almost the rest of the day. Saturday night, we had a wedding to go to, so we literally laid in bed trying to feel normal again all day.

Trying to look super fun en route to the wedding

Saturday night, we attended my friends', Reed and Lindsey's, beautiful wedding and attempted to have some fun at their reception through our yawns and inability to drink alcohol without gagging.

Today, I laid in bed willing myself to get up and complete any of my responsibilities. Finally, we got up and cleaned and made some veggie juice to perk ourselves back up. We went to the farm at one point to take a brisk walk but almost died of heat exhaustion. So we came home, and I continued to clean and get ready for a busy week of work. At one point, I looked at Joel and said, "remember when we didn't need two whole days to recover from one night of fun???"

And this was the funniest thing that happened today

And I got hit in the face with dog toenail. I was clipping CD's nails when one hit me in the eye so hard I thought maybe it had blinded me. I'm, however, not writing this blog with one eye so I guess I'm okay, but in my mind, I have a huge swollen black eye. Joel swears he can see nothing wrong with it. We watched Phonebooth, and my blood pressure skyrocketed. Joel made an amazing egg scramble for breakfast, burritos for lunch, and then helped me make fried chickpeas for dinner. Now he's watching a special on Black Sabbath, and I'm entertaining myself with The Farting Preacher and work (yes, that's entertaining). This is the life we were meant to live. Not one that includes mopeds, too many drinks, or bar-hopping. All-in-all, the lesson learned this weekend is that we are MUCH too old to rock'n'roll.

A Love Letter to My Daddy

In honor of my dad's 55th birthday today: a thank you letter.

Dear Daddy--

Thank you for being wrapped around my finger from the very beginning.

Thank you for learning to braid, just so you could braid my hair when I got out of the bath each night.

Thank you for being the first man I ever loved.

Thank you for telling me to listen to my mother.

Thank you for spanking the boys when they were mean to me.

Thank you for letting me lay in your lap when we were watching that horribly scary episode of the Hogan Family with the zombies.

Thank you for letting me sit in your lap long after I was too big to.

Thank you for giving me your pillow when I'd crawl in bed with you and Mom as little girl.

Thank you for giving me that pillow years later. (I still have it, and nothing feels better than sleeping on that pillow.)

Thank you for going swimming with us in the summers.

Thank you for taking us to Vastwood, even though you hated going.

Thank you for teaching me that can't is not in my vocabulary. That has rung through my head many times during successful moments in my life.

Thank you for always having gums when we asked.

Thank you for being the cool dad who 'got it,' when no one else's daddies did.

Thank you for coming home to us each night. I can remember the excitement I felt when I'd see your truck start backing into the driveway.

Thank you for giving me a love of haunted houses, bologna, and cake soup.

Thanks for all those hot ham and cheeses and cinnamon rolls.

Thank you for almost always giving me money to go to dinner with my friends. Sorry for never bringing you the change.

Thank you for that time we were walking through Kroger and your shoes were purposefully untied. I was mortified, and you told me to quit worrying about what other people thought.

Thank you for teaching me to drive.

Thank you for giving me drinks of your coke and bites of your food, even though it made you so mad that I just wouldn't get my own.

Thank you for making me learn every artist to every 70's and 80's song 93.9 played.

Thank you for letting me hide my face in your shoulder during that wax museum tour that was terrifying.

Thank you for buying me that $350 prom dress. It really was beautiful.

Thank you for all the speeding tickets you paid for. Even when you didn't know that's what the money was for.

Thank you for not yelling when you talk. (And yes, I cracked myself up with that one.)

Thank you for not only telling me but always making me feel beautiful.

Thank you for moving me in and out of almost every place I've ever lived.

Thank you for that time you yelled at me to go back to Lexington before dark.

Thank you for that time you drove two and half hours to stand with me while they pulled my car out of a ditch...after dark.

Thank you for telling me to get my ass back to school that night.

Thank you for that summer where it felt like just you and me against the world. No matter how bad things were, we could look forward to our dinners together and late night movies we'd watch on my laptop since we didn't yet have a DVD player.

Thank you for being silly and making me laugh.

Thank you for reading me "Twas the night before Christmas" every Christmas eve for 29 years.

Thank you for not smacking me when I correct your grammar or your mispronounciation of words likes chimney (chimley), Pittsburg (Picksburg), hogwash (hock wash), bathing suit (babin'  suit), and wash rag (warsh rag).

Thank you for forgiving me.

Thank you for accepting my forgiveness.

Thank you for the daddy you are to Robert, Ryan, and river. They have no idea how blessed they are to have your guidance.

Thank you for calling us at 3am on Christmas morning the way your dad did to you.

Thank you for making it hard for every man I've ever dated to live up to the example you've set.

Thank you for always being you, even when it pisses everybody off.

Thank you for responding "Otay" to my texts. That makes me smile every time.

Thank you for yelling at me to call you instead of text. Sometimes it is better just to hear each other's voice.

Thank you for having reasons that are valid to you.

Thank you for being a really great gift-giver.

Thank you for not being too proud.

Thank you for someday walking me down the aisle.

Thank you for the amazing Pappaw you'll be to my kids someday.

Thank you for someday telling my grown children to listen to their mother.

Thank you for always being there when I have needed you.

Thank you for giving me not two, but five brothers. Some day when I need someone, and you can't be there, one of them will be.

Thank you for being endlessly supportive of me.

Thank you for showing me what unconditional love is.

Thank you for being the absolute best daddy a little girl could ever ask for.

I love you,

Your Forever Daddy's Girl

Oh no, Ozone.

This is how I feel all the time, Earth.

Lately I've been feeling a bit out of sorts at random times, and I haven't been the only one. I feel like every single one of my friends have mentioned just feeling a bit "off." Yesterday, in a meeting full of business professionals, we asked ourselves aloud several times if there was an impending full moon, because we simply felt a bit out of it.

My salon expert and very good friend, Leslie, has offered up the best solution I've heard for all of us feeling a bit like we're losing it: The Ozone.

That is not me, hard at work.

Now, we all know that our selfish earthly habits are causing the globe to go a little bonkers. Without getting too much into my politics here, I'm going to make a sweeping statement that we're all well aware that global warming is inevitably happening. (Except for Joel's OSO--that's other significant other, because I'm starting to hate the term bff--AJ, who says--and I quote--"I mean, what do you want me to do about it anyway?") (To get off topic again, Joel has one OSO, AJ, but I have a whole entourage of OSOs! You'll hear about them here often, and one day, I'll write a blog dedicated to each one.) Wait, where were we? Oh yeah, the ozone. So, it's Leslie's theory that the ozone melting away and soaking us with harmful sun rays is causing us to all have little glitches in our internal wiring. I thought this was a genius discovery and have set out to prove this theory.

Warning: what you are about to read is not at all highly scientific and has not at all been tested and proven by me, who is, in no way, shape, or form, a professional scientist. 


So here is what I have determined to be the side effects of said ozone deterioration:

--Jumbling and mumbling of words. Over the past few months, I have tried to eek out very intelligent phrases that have ended up sounding like the Swedish Chef from the Muppets. Today, I tried to say contribution four times without success.

--General clumsiness. I have always had a bit of clumsiness, but lately I'm noticing it in everyone around me. My very pulled together friend, Jo, almost bumped into a huge rack of clothes today for no good reason. Wednesday, I dropped the bat phone no less than three times, and the last time, dropped everything else in my hands trying to pick it up.

--Impaired motor skills. Not only has it been taking me far too long to type texts because I simply can't make my fingers work properly, but I also fight--on a daily basis--with getting the pictures I attach to my blog to go where I want them to. (Hear that, Blogger? It's too hard to move those bastards around!)

--Lack of focus. Lately, I've watched my beautifully planned out, productive days crumble into impromptu shopping sprees (which may or may not have happened again today).

--Fatigue. Despite how much I've been sleeping lately, I still refuse to get out of bed in the morning, stay up past 9:30, and wake in the night to pee. I am groggy and grumpy, and have bags under my eyes that like look like I'm packing for a month-long European vacation.

Yup, that's about how my texts look.

--Fogginess. My friend, Sharla, whilst on the phone with me, was dumbfounded as to the whereabouts of her phone. I find it hard to process simple directions lately and spent about 15 minutes driving around in circles today looking for my destination. My coworkers had a meeting time and place for a tour we took recently. The time and date: July 11 @ 10am. Two of the ladies thought the tour was on July 10 @ 11 and one (I won't name names) thought it was July 11 @ 11.

--Forgetfulness. I have also become really good at showing up to present to 60 students with not a single publication in my hand, or my car, or anywhere to be found. I have to look at my calendar five or six times to remember what I'm doing tomorrow. And despite the fact that Joel reminded me about 100 times, I STILL forgot to get the tire in the Camry patched. (Luckily, he took it to get fixed bright and early this morning.)

--Disappearances. A few weeks ago, I washed a swim suit at Kevin's house. I left it there and picked it up later. I know--for a fact--I put it into my purse that day. It is now nowhere to be found. I had $80 of Express cash recently that I purposefully ripped of the receipt and stuffed into my purse for a later shopping trip. When I attempted to retrieve it, it had vanished into thin air.

--Strange stuff. Although the swim suit in my purse is no where to be found, there is--and has been for about four weeks--a pair of underwear randomly in there. Don't worry, they're clean.

There they are. Undies, in my purse.

Clearly, this ozone thing is nothing to laugh about. Freaky sh*t's happening, and the only thing that can explain it is the melting of the ozone. The only good thing is that when I mumble, stumble, slip and fall, get distracted, fall asleep, forget things, lose things, and/or find myself writing a blog while eating quinoa with not one but two forks in it, I can say with certainty, "It's not me, it's the ozone."

Random Rumblings...

So rather than giving you the play by play of my day (unless you're feeling as if you need a nap and can't fall asleep), I thought I'd just tell you about some things that I find funny, sweet, or that just piss me off.

--On the houseboat trip, the absolute peak of everyone's laughter came from a lone self-inflating whoopie cushion. Apparently, Scott had gotten this for Rachel as a gift--which I find, in and of itself, hilarious--and they'd brought it with them for entertainment. I have never seen grown men and women laugh so hard at fake farts in my life. If you're feeling blue, get yourself a whoopie cushion, shove it in your pocket, and push it on every time you sit down next to someone.

--The first night on the houseboat trip, I fell into a much-needed deep, amazing sleep. Entering into the best part of the night--REM sleep--I began to dream that I was walking through the woods. (In the dream, I was walking through the woods at the farm, but that's not at all what our woods look like.) Suddenly, I heard the distinct sound of someone peeing. When I rounded the corner to see who, in fact, was peeing in our woods, it was none other than Chester Cheetah. You know, the big orange, cartoon cat from the Cheetos commercial. I'm not sure I've ever had a more badass dream. I told everyone as soon as we all got up, and for the rest of the trip, we said, "It ain't easy peein' cheesy," as many times as possible.

It ain't easy peein' cheesy, baby!

--I am reading the book by Jenny Lawson--The Bloggess--Let's Pretend This Never Happened. It is just as hilarious as her blog. And it makes me think that one day, there may be some girl out there who wants to read the silly sh*t I have to say. In book form, every night, right before she dreams about Chester Cheetah.





--I got some pretty badass bruises on the trip. I can't account for any of them.

It's not loose, it's trapped inside my eyeball.

--My freaking eye hurts again. If you haven't yet heard, my doctors thought I had an eye amoeba about a month ago, and I had to undergo this extremely painful biopsy of the fungus on my cornea to ensure that a tiny bastard wasn't feasting on my vision three times a day. It wasn't an amoeba but it was a severe infection caused by the combination of contacts and rosacea. Going sans contacts for what felt like 17 years and putting antibiotic and anti-rosacea drops in hourly every day for 106 years, I thought I'd kicked it. Today, I have leaked all over my face, had to come home and take my contacts out, and wondered if maybe a shard of glass blew into my eye during the rain storm. I have one thing to say about all of this: DAMMIT.

--Did that last paragraph sound like it was written by Kevin Clark?

--I haven't been on Pinterest for a while lately, because I'm cheating on it with blogger. But I got on there for a little bit last night. Why is it that some of the crap on their makes me think I'm a big, fat, lazy slob? If I wanted to look at pictures of girls' huge boobs and tiny bellies, while feeling demeaned and degraded, I'd watch porn. I don't need it on Pinterest. People want to put pictures of impossibly attainable body types with captions that say things like, "Your brain shrinks with every pound of belly fat you gain," right next to the pictures of the amazing seven layer chocolate ice cream mocha lard cake with sprinkles on top. I'm all about being fit and healthy, but we simply don't need ANOTHER thing to make us feel bad about ourselves. So, stop the insanity, Pinterest.

This is the ONLY way I burn calories. And I'd still probably eat it. In your face, photoshopped pinterest models.

On a better note, these boys are my favorite two boys in the whole world.

 This guy is pretty dang high up there too.

I think that I'm as obsessed with my sweet doggie as most people are with their kids. He makes me smile, makes me shake my head, and makes want to tell the world how sweet and cuddly he is.

MY spot that he sometimes confuses as his own.

See the sheer joy on his face at the theft of my pillow??

And now he's giving me the cold shoulder because I made him move to the bottom of the bed.

And, now, I'm going to go eat Mexican food with the ladies and probably think up 100 more things that I should have written about. Good day, sir.