If you know me, I’m quite sure that you are deathly ill of hearing me talk about the old girl.  Slowly, but surely, she is falling apart—one small piece at a time.  Since 2001, I have been driving a 1998 Buick Century, which we gratefully inherited from GR’s aunt.  I was 31 years old at the time I started driving it—way too young to be driving such a grandmotherly car.

At the time we took possession of the car, I was driving a newly purchased 2000 Honda Accord that I cherished, adored, and swooned over.  Because we didn’t really have a need to keep both cars, our options were to either sell the Buick (which only had 19K miles at the time…practically new!), go on a fabulous vacation, and continue making payments on the Honda, or sell the Honda, take a minor hit on the balance, and be car payment free.  Obviously, we chose to sell the cherished, adored, and swooned over one.  And then I cried and started sprouting grey hairs.  My carefree days of cruising down the road with the sunroof open and stereo blasting were over.  At the age of 31, Lulu turned very old, very quickly.  I even started listening to AM radio, which I have found that I am quite fond of.

Fast forward almost 10 years, and the Buick is still running strong.  Granted, there have been minor issues along the way (not including the increase of Lulu’s grey hairs)…

• There are no longer cup holders in the car.  They were flimsy, flip-over holders to begin with, and they have all been broken off.  Therefore, I have cola and coffee stains all over the floor carpet.
• Windshield wipers fly off randomly.  Usually when it rains.
• Hubcaps fly off randomly.  I have replaced all four hubcaps at one time or another.  Hence, the car has been dubbed the Ghetto Granny Mobile.  Yesterday, I had the brake pads and rotors replaced, and the technician was unsure if he could put the hubcaps back on due to the disintegrating plastic screws that hold them on to the wheel.  I lost one today, as you might have noticed in the picture above.
• My heater no longer works.  Thank goodness for warmer weather.
• The back driver-side window motor no longer works, causing the window to continuously slip down slightly.  At one point, GR duct-taped the window so it would stay up, but he duct-taped it on the outside of the window—adding to the appeal of the ghetto-ness of it all.  I made him remove the tape.  I’ve actually replaced the front window motor myself with instructions found on the internet, but Lulu has been too lazy to fix the back one…plus do I really want to spend $100 for the part?  I think not.  I have my eye on a bottle of Chanel Chance.
• One of the buttons on the thermostat control has broken off due to my continued adjusting of the temperature.  One minute Lulu is hot, one minute she is cold.  A sunroof could quite possibly remedy that situation.
• At one point, there was a leak causing water to flood my passenger-side floorboard when it rained.  I’m surprised that there’s not a hole rusted into the bottom of the car—similar to a sunroof but without the benefits.

See?  Minor issues, right?  I am currently 2K miles away from hitting the 200K mark.  That, y’all, is an accomplishment.  And now, I am contemplating the idea of putting the old girl out to pasture.  I turn 40 this year, and I have sworn that I will not go into my middle-ish-age years driving an old woman car.  Isn’t it about time for my mid-life crises to hit?  Shouldn’t I be driving this…

Sigh.  Actually, it will most likely be this…

At least it has hubcaps.

You see, I have been working at home for the past six months.  Count them, six torturous months.  The office building where I make a 72-mile round-trip trek to every weekday was heavily damaged during the Great Georgia Flood of 2009.  And to be honest, the damage wasn’t actually caused by the September flooding, but it sounds way more exciting than what actually happened.  We had a water pipe burst causing two inches of water to run amok and flow freely throughout the building.  Lives were not lost, people, but my soul has been deeply wounded.  I have turned into a depressed, hermitized, gluttonous, unhygienic, socially unacceptable, empty shell of a person.  Sad examples:

• On several occasions, I have spent two straight days in a row never changing out of my pajamas—much to GR’s chagrin.
• Some weeks, I never left the house.  God forbid, that would be cause for me to take a shower and apply makeup.  And to change out of pajamas.
• When I do actually get out, it’s generally to the bank drive-through or Wal-Mart.  Two places where it really doesn’t matter if you wear pajamas.  In fact, it’s fairly acceptable.
• The pantry has become my safe-haven of love and support.  Hence, the extra 6 or 7 pounds I have put on.
• I have fallen in love with Drew Carey.  And possibly Judge Judy.
• I spend time at my mailbox of hate waiting on the mail lady to stop by just so I can have someone to talk to.  Some days, I think that she skips my house on purpose.  I can’t understand why.
• I have actual conversations with GR.

Quite obviously, I am not a work-at-home kind of person.  Left to my own vices, I could easily turn into the 1-ton, recluse woman who has to be crane-lifted from her home.  It’s entirely possible, y’all.

I am also severely depressed about the state of my home office.  I have no “before” picture, but let me assure you, it does not look like this:

I cringe at the mere sight of it.  A home office that actually looks like it’s used as a home office.  I am appalled.

Alas, there is good news on the horizon.  On Monday, March 22, Lulu will be freed from this prison.  I will be returning here:

And I will be burning my pajamas.  Unfortunately, they don’t exactly pass the dress code.

I’m trying to keep the door closed and wish them away, but it doesn’t seem to be working. They continue to taunt me from the other side of the door. Especially the Do-si-dos. They are evil.

I swear that I do not have holes in my attic.  I simply think that a gaggle of birds have gotten together to stake out my front door, and when it opens, the suicide mission begins.  They’ve gotten lucky twice, but no more, I say.  We have an official police officer by day/bird catcher by night as our neighbor, and he comes heavily armed with a fishing net and Miller Draft.

Here’s Buford T. Justice searching for the perpetrator in the kitchen…

GR and Buford T. search the dining room…

Buford T. tries to trap the perp in the bedroom…

The perp starts swarming the room…

Finally, he’s cuffed!  Thank you, Buford T.  You are my hero, but please feel free to use your gun next time.

Let me just say one more time…birds suck.  As I was leaving Phoo and Big H’s house this morning after a night of cocktails and smores (more on that later…I can barely bring myself to make mention of the word cocktail right now), I was nearly attacked by a bird on her front porch.  I swear.  It’s like the gaggle conspiracy.

Big H says that she’s buying me the The Birds Barbie for Christmas…

Like I need a freaking reminder.

Do you know how I have this mild obsession with collecting salt and pepper shakers?  And angels?  And fourth-grade valentines?  And refrigerator magnets? 

No?  Well, um, I believe that my 19-year old son, Gus, has inherited the same evil, obsessive collector-type gene.  Of course, it could also be the impulsive-shopper gene, or the pack-rat gene, or the gene that is completely immune to Cipramil.  Nonetheless, he is inherently cursed.

Case in point—this is Gus’s closet.  And Gus.  Holding Bindi-Boodles.

He has 63 t-shirts.  I counted.  Twice.  He could clothe a small nation.  He has so many shirts, in fact, that his closet is on the serious brink of failure and misfortune…much like the U.S. economy.  One more Hurley, and the closet is going to hell in a hand basket…much like the U.S. economy.

After flipping through the mass quantity of shirts, I’m not even sure that I’ve seen him wearing some of them…although most of them have that lived-in look and feel.  But most likely it’s because he could feasibly wear a different shirt every day for two FREAKING months. 

It’s obscene, and I’m not sure why I, as a mother, let it come to this.  But I have.  And now I am airing my laundry.  Um, I mean Gus’s laundry—for all to see.  It’s funny how much you can learn about your son by going through his t-shirt collection.

1.  I like this one.  It’s our hometown team and its old skool.

2.  Gus worked at this store for two years while in high school.  You have no idea how much I miss his discount.

3.  Gus currently attends this college…

4.  …but he really wants to attend this college.  (Hello.  Get your grades up, buddy!)

5.  Please someone, tell me what kind of statement this is making.  Is Ben Franklin robbing a bank?  I am so out of touch with the younger generation.

6.  Ben Franklin disguised in a bandana.  The Statue of Liberty with a skull face.  Hmm…are these political undertones?  I got nothin’.

7.  This t-shirt if from Hilton Head.  If memory serves me right, Gus has never been to Hilton Head.  That I know of.

8.  Definitely not sure that I even want to know…

9.  Massive rivalries of which I care know nothing about…

10.  A troll sitting on a tree trunk.  Lord help me.  I have no idea.

11.  Gus was a boat driver counselor at a Boy Scout camp this summer, and I’m pretty sure this t-shirt came from there.

12.  Gus played tennis in high school…

13.  And unless he lead a secret life while in high school, I have no idea why this is in his closet…

I could post more, but this is supposed to be a list of thirteen.  Your eyes would totally start to bleed if I continued…

Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!
The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants

In fact, I have so many tons of it, that I got really disturbed this weekend and went on a tirade of mammoth proportions, which left GR and Gus crying in the corner of the laundry room sucking their thumbs and sniffing dryer sheets in hopes of going to a happy place far, far away in the land of White Lilac or Lemon Verbena.  Fat chance, guys.  Ain’t happenin’.

Wait a minute—I said corner of the laundry room like it’s an actual room with a corner.  It’s more like a broom closet.  Or a hovel.  It’s difficult to get the full dimensional feeling of this room in a picture, but I will try.  This, people, is Lulu’s Laundry Room:

Sigh.  This picture was taken from just outside the door opening into the laundy room.  Notice that there is no space to the left of the dryer.  And there is no space to the right of the washing machine, nor do I have built-in cabinets.  Also notice that Lulu does not own any fancy-pants, ultra-capacity, front-loading machines in Metallic Silver.  Or Glacier Blue.  Lulu believes in the very basics of washing and drying, and therefore, could not afford refused to pay more than $600 for the set.

That’s not to say that Lulu would not wet her pants over a well-organized laundry room like this…

Or one like this where I could snack on Cheetos at the island/bar and do laundry at the same time…

Or relax in a quaint, little room like this…

Or revel in a completely adorable one with a window and a light fixture and wicker baskets like this…

Or one that is so overwhelming wonderful that I would spend my entire life in the room and possibly open a business in which people that are cursed with laundry hovels could bring their laundry to me, and I would do it for free an incredibly small fee…

I can dream, right?  Oh well, I can only hope that the beating that I gave GR and Gus affected them enough to try and keep the laundry room organized and clean.  And if they don’t, then I’m locking the laundry room door, and instead of washing their clothes, they’ll be forced to douse them in the sweet smell of Febreze and hope for the best.

And speaking of Febreze (ah-hum), I am giving away a full-size bottle of Febreze® Fabric Refresher in Lavender Vanilla & Comfort scent and a very adorable tote bag…

This is the new and improved Febreze® Fabric Refresher, which

• eliminates odors on fabrics and in the air.
• offers a new, fine mist spray for even applications.
• offers a new pump design that reduces leaking, nozzle sticking, and that “quacking” sound.
• provides longer-lasting freshness – up two days of freshening power!

To learn more about the new Febreze Fabric Refresher products, visit the Febreze Web site.

To win the sweet smelling give-away, simply leave me a comment before midnight, September 26!  I’ll announce a winner on Monday.

In the meantime, happy laundering!

A box o’ Cosmo.  Cosmos in a box.  Cardboard cocktails.  Any way you put it, the Sex in the City gals would die of utter shame.

But on Saturday evening, we cared not.  We created our own version of Sex in the City at Big H’s house.  We meaning the lovely Cici, DiDi, Big H, LaLa, and Lulu (from L to R):

No, we didn’t exactly dress the part, nor did our evening take place in a big city, and as for the sex part…well, not so much.  That is, unless you count gawking over the sexy Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy bathing in a tub (don’t forget to scrub the sideburns, oh sexy one!)…

…or Mr. Darcy staring brusquely at Elizabeth Bennett…

…or Mr. Darcy staring dubiously at Bridget Jones…

…or Mr. Darcy staring…oh, wait a minute…

Anyhow, in addition to our Colin Firth Fest, we also painted our nails…

Drank Corona from a wine glass (oh, yes I did)…

And read celebrity gossip magazines…

And as the evening progressed toward the midnight hour (eh-hum, 9:30pm), we were all sacked out from Colin Firth, Cosmos, guacamole dip, and petit-fours overload.  If that’s even a remote possibility.  Fun times, ladies, fun times!  Thanks, Big H, for having us over! 

I can’t wait to do it again!  Only next time?  I’m thinking that Will Ferrell and a box of Boone’s Farm is in order…

Y’all, if I didn’t know better, I would say that I was becoming a complete hypochondriac—but with good reason.  And scientific evidence.  Remember {{post id=”eat-right-exercise-regularly-die-anyway” text=”the list”}} that I posted a week or two ago about the things that are currently ailing me?  Well, howz about we just add mitral valve regurgitation to that list, shall we people?  Obviously, my heart is throwing up on itself.  Or something like that.

Sounds ominous, right?  Yeah, I thought so, too, when the doctor called me yesterday morning to reveal my echocardiogram results and to inform me of my impending death.  Okay, it’s sooooo not that serious, y’all.  But just don’t ask my mother who, once she reads this, will frantically search the internets for hours on end for every possible cause, cure, and symptom related to this condition, and who will then call to inform me that I may in fact drop dead tomorrow.

Don’t worry, Mother, it’s fine.  I have an extremely mild case.  And according to the Mayo Clinic (and my dreamboat doctor), one in five people have some degree of this condition, and I could live out the rest of my days without any problems.  Or I might have to have my sternum ripped open and have a valve replaced in my heart when I’m like 70-years old.  It’s a crapshoot.  And Lulu is living on the edge.

And continuing further into my hypochondria, I returned to my ENT today to have another XXL-sized Q-tip shoved deep into my nasal orifice to determine if my staph infection is gone.  Despite almost ripping the doctor’s hand away from my face a half-second into the 3-second probing procedure, the visit went well. 

In fact, I told my ENT about my heart condition just for the fun of it.  You know what he said?  In his exact words, “Honey, that’s so passé. Probably half the people in the world have some form of mitral valve regurgitation.  Doctors these days—they’re always diagnosing somebody with somethin’.” 

I think I love him.

Y’all, Lulu’s body is failing her.  I can feel it in my 37-year old bones.  So, during my loooong blogging break, I decided to spend an ungodly number of hours in doctor’s offices taking care of many annual visits related to various parts of my anatomy—from my eyes all the way down to my toes.  And let me just say, being poked, prodded, and evaluated while wearing various medical accoutrements (i.e. paper gown, lead apron, protective goggles, etc.) is not my idea of a good time.  In fact, it pretty much sucks.

But, what sucks even worse is finding out that you have various issues or illnesses that may or may not be life threatening, or that may or may not be hereditary.  No, I’m not dying.  Well, not today anyway (unless, of course, I get hit by a Mack truck on my way home from the office).  But, I do have a couple of health issues that I need to take care of lest they turn life threatening.

I have a cavity—which I must have filled, or else my tooth will rot and fall out, in which case you can just call me The Toothless Wonder.  Unfortunately, filling a tooth involves a needle (Big H, do not read any further, lest you pass out) and many, many doses of Novocain, which generally doesn’t work for me, so I end up throwing up in my car on the way home due to the high level of toxic chemicals in my body.  It’s funny how my gums go numb after a couple of beers, but they refuse to cooperate with Novocain.

I have high cholesterol—which I must find a way to control, unless I choose to die of heart disease much like most of my dad’s family.  It’s obviously hereditary.  I mean, I’m not exactly obese, although I could stand to lose a good 10-15 pounds, and I do try to eat healthy.  I’m hoping that exercise and oatmeal and bottles of red, red wine is the key, but I’ll find out in 6 months when I go back for a recheck to determine whether or not I need to go on medication.  In the meantime, I’m scheduled for an echocardiogram so that the doctor can evaluate my freaking heart murmur.

I have a staph infection…in my nose.  Yes, I said in my NOSE, people.  And I’m not exactly sure how I contracted it, considering I don’t spend my leisure time in hospital corridors, on airplanes, or touching old people.  It’s kind of baffling to the doctor, but it’s there.  And you want to know how the doc found out it was there?  Take a look at this excruciating, painful, harrowing procedure:

Gently through the nostril, my ass!  Even the illustrated man looks like he’s in pain.

I went to the ENT to ask about my allergies, and walked away having an XXL Q-tip shoved into my sinus cavity, a CT scan, a deviated septum, and finding out that at some point in my life, I broke my nose.  Now, I’m taking Clindamycin HCL, which is a serious antibiotic that might cause me to develop an inflamed colon at some point in my life.  Nice.

So, there you have it, people.  Lulu is a poor, sickly soul.  If my weak, trembling fingers allow me to type tomorrow, I will tell you about my upcoming trip to Philadelphia.  And cholesterol be damned…I’m eating a Philly Cheese Steak!

In 1927, the Florida senate adopted the most annoying bird in the history of birdness as it’s official state bird.  Florida Senate Concurrent Resolution No. 3 states that:

WHEREAS, The melody of its music has delighted the heart of residents and visitors to Florida from the days of the rugged pioneer to the present comer, and WHEREAS, This bird of matchless charm is found throughout our State…yadda, yadda, yadda…

I’m willing to lay odds that not a single member of the Florida senate who voted for this bird was ever awoken to the wide array of ear-piercing, irritating, and suicide-inducing melodies that the mockingbird emits at 2:30 in the morning—over and over AND over again until finally winding down at the first crack of sunlight.  There was no delight in my heart, people.  Only a deep, burning sensation To Kill A Mockingbird.  Which I desperately tried to do (to no avail) using the tiny white pebbles from my mother’s backyard.  Audubon Society be damned.

And let me continue by saying that I am a hater of the Florida sea gull.

Sea gulls are the scavengers of the beach.  And they are mean and like to steal baked pita chips directly from your hand while you’re not looking.  Assholes.

Another thing that I’m a hater of?  Jose Cuervo—he is not a friend of mine.  One minute you’re all drunk happy and drunk carefree like this:

And the next minute you’re all passed out comfy and cozy in your mother’s backyard clinging desperately to a Coke Zero.  I blame it all on Big H.  And the pink flamingo party straws.

Side note: Y’all, Lulu is seriously not a drunk.  I can count on five one hand the number of times Lulu actually drinks in a year—and it normally comes to a tragic end in someone’s backyard.  And I do realize that I am much too old for these types of shenanigans, but margaritas and pink flamingo party straws are just too much fun to pass up on occasion.

And as if my shenanigans were not enough, the next day, Big H trumped my backyard nap by slightly stabbing herself in the hand with a ferociously sharp knife while making guacamole, and then passing out at the sight of her own blood (not the first time this has happened).  Unfortunately, I was a bit too busy freaking out to take a picture of the whole scene, plus I’m thinking that it would not be apropos to post a picture of my dear sister-in-law passed out on the floor in a droplet pool of blood. (But, she obviously thinks that it’s appropos to take a picture of me passed out resting in my mother’s backyard.  Hmph.)

So that, my friends, is why we call our annual trip to Tampa, The Beer Drinkers and Hell Raisers Tour.  Birds, beer, and blood.  And a little bit of Jose Cuervo.  We’re totally having t-shirts made next year.  Cuz we’re classy folk and all.