Bonanza Jellybean

Just Sticking My Toe Into the Water...

You know, to see if it falls off. Which would be OK right now if it would take my ankle with it.

Old people (over 30) really shouldn't play organized team sports.

Especially when they're hyper-competitive and tend toward the aggressive.

Not that I'm mentioning anyone in particular.

But back to the toe-dipping...

I decided to write something today. Why? I really have no idea.

I had given up on the whole thing because who really (and I know I already said all of this at least 59 times before) needs to read about the husband's farts and the kid's soccer and the animals falling apart and the strange-ass people I work with and what I think of random celebrities and whatnot? Nobody, that's who.

And it's not like I have anything better to say now. My life is depressingly content-free.

But I kind of miss the writing.

Like Pulling the Petals Off a Daisy...

I'll start writing again, I won't start writing again...
I'll start writing again, I won't start writing again...

Which might have actually worked fine if I ever had the ability to actually GROW something vaguely resembling a flower... Plants see me coming at the store and, if they could run, they'd totally be doing the same thing as dogs at the pound when the buyers from the animal-product-testing division of some large pharmaceutical complany who swears they NEVER test on animals comes through the cage rows. You know, shirking in fear at the back of the cage trying to look dead already.

Unfortunately for them, plants can't do that. So they end up at my house where they're lovingly cared for until I forget about them, which usually takes about two weeks, and then they're dead and shriveled in the front yard from a combination of no water and the dog mistaking them for a fire hydrant.

I really didn't mean for this to be a plant entry. Considering my usual ways with plants, however, this is about the grand sum total of all I could ever write about them.

So there you have it- my entire horticultural career in three paragraphs.

So what have I been doing that was SOOOOO important I forgot to post?

Nothing.
I just didn't feel like it. I needed a break, I think.
And now, FINALLY, it just seemed like a fun thing to do.

Now, for the catch-up...

Well...

Never mind. Nothing's going on. Seriously.
I have reverted to the most boring life imaginable. Taking the kid where she needs to go (which now includes physical therapy because of her mutant foot growth- did I mention she weighs 53 lbs. and wears a women's 5.5?), taking care of the innumerable animals that now call our house home, moving into my new office (where I decided NOTHING would be putty-colored and went through all the trouble of painting everything and have now realized that the printer is indeed putty-colored and would most likely not respond well to navy blue spray paint)... Yep. Blah, blah. blah.

I'm sure I'll think of something better tomorrow. I am rusty, after all.

Maybe You Guys Can Help Me Out Here...

Things I Cannot Make Myself Understand:

1. How a 3-1/2 lb. puppy can shit out 2 lbs. of worms (after wormer medication, of course) and still weigh 3-1/2 lbs.
2. How my mother-in-law can still infuriate me even when I refused to go on the visit and only heard accounts of how she tried to get Soccer Chick to talk us into letting her stay up there for a week after we have repeatedly said no. And Soccer Chick told her to forget it.
3. How my mother-in-law can still manage to live in a million-dollar house on a golf course when neither her nor her spouse is employed.
4. How my husband can actually pout about how little time we have spent together when he is the one who went out of town for work and then went out of town again for his mother.
5. How I'm going to have to explain the nature of women's memory and our capability to hold a grudge about something all over again when he reads this.
6. How three people can make six loads of laundry in one week.
7. How my body is set to the rhythms of the soccer season rather than those of the moon- leaving me with cramps AGAIN on gameday.
8. Why I insist on having long hair and refuse to ever cut it again when I put it up at least 70% of the time.
9. How weather can be so fucking exciting that 7 woman need to gather at the front window of my workplace to watch it rain. With commentary.
10. Why Oprah won't run for president. At least everyone would have to read a book each month.
11. Why I should feel sorry for and take care of people who came here illegally when my husband came here legally poor as hell without speaking the language and managed to make it just fine without everyone crowing over him and spending everyone else's money. And yes, this is still about the soccer ball. And now my friend's credit card that bought $1000 worth of shoes in Mexico City after it happened to visit the same restaurant where the dirty thieving whores work.
12. Why the only place in the world that seems to sell bathing suits that fit my skinny-ass little daughter is K-Mart.
13. Why everyone seems to think that I would be THRILLED deep-down to have another child and therefore feels compelled to ask me CONSTANTLY when the blessed event will occur.
14. How my mother will leave my kitchen SPOTLESS after coming over for lunch yet returns home to her own house which should be condemned as a biohazard.
15. How I can get up Saturday morning with the intention of cleaning my house and end up sitting on the couch all day watching Spanish soccer. It's David Beckham's fault, of course.

EDITED TO ADD: The Booger-Eaters have been defeated. I am now so in love with TypePad it might even take over the new Ellen-Barkin-girl-crush place in my heart. Because seriously? I want to be her when I grow up.

I'm Not Sure If the Problem Is That This Thing Exists or That I Intend to Buy One

I don't really go into this much, but I work in the marketing-to-and-selling-crap-to-people industry. Part of my job is to sit and think, "What new wonderful product can we come up with that our customers will immediately desire and purchase? What kind of product will fit their needs as well as their wants? What can we do that no one else has done?"

This can take a lot of time.
And can result in a lot of SHIT. Because honestly, my track record's pretty good. But there have been a few lemons in the bunch- I made the mistake of thinking that everyone we sold to was EDUCATED once.
I won't DO THAT AGAIN.
We still have a 5 year supply of that lemon.

Anyway, because of what I do, I am constantly looking for ideas that are new and fresh and could be tailored to the industry in which I work.
And you will note that I DO NOT MENTION THIS INDUSTRY WHATSOEVER IN ANY WAY SHAPE OR FORM, because while my boss can find it entertaining that I am a godless heathen who could make a sailor blush, our customers would not. This is also why we did not advertise that a lesbian couple did our website.

Remember the "butt plug" incident? I REST MY CASE.

Sometimes, though, you see a product that just BOGGLES the mind. (And special thanks to Dooce for actually getting a picture of it, because I think Work Husband thought I was making it up. Everyone go read Dooce now, especially since I stole this picture from her and am sitting here this very second wondering if she's going to send me a hostile email calling me a shitty thief who needs to take her own gas station pictures, dammit. OH PLEASE, as if I actually think Dooce would read this. The moment of delusion has now passed... Imagine my happiness when I saw that picture- I now have proof that such a thing exists. And that a FAMOUS blogger thought it worthy. And that she might be famous because she had the sense to take a picture of it while I just rolled my eyes and walked by.)

And before I show it to you, let me preface this with the fact that I really need to find another one of these. REALLY. I didn't buy the one I saw, and now it's gone. And I need it for a gift. And I am somewhat horrified that I am actually going to pay money for this.
But I am.
For Southern Gentleman.
Who, when I described this thing to him, decided he MUST have one FOR HIS DAUGHTER, because she LOVES dead deer AND "Sweet Home Alabama."
Dear God.
BUT... he called a buddy of his today for me who happens to be in the tire business and got my new tires for me for $600 instead of $900. I can swallow my urban snobbishness for a moment. Actually, I can be BOUGHT.

When you push the button, the deer picks its head up and sings "Low Rider" or "Sweet Home Alabama." It's called the "DEER RIDE."

And I am left wondering...
At the end of some company's creative-type brainstorming new-product session...
Who decided that the answer to "what a customer will desire" and "what fills the needs and wants of a customer" is a dead deer that sings "Sweet Home Alabama."

I think I'm going about my career all wrong.

WANTED

WANTED

Women over the age of 20 in the Columbia, SC area interested in playing easy, slow-paced, no-pressure, no-skills-required, just-for-fun recreational soccer one night per week. Equipment required is a white shirt, shorts, athletic footwear and shinguards. Any equipment needed by applicants will be given free as a bribe to come play- please specify sizes needed when applying.

The gender-based requirement stated is negotiable. Males who shave their legs and can fake a ponytail and breasts will be readily accepted.

No knowledge of game required- applicant's sole purpose on team will be to provide a substitution for a 34 year old smoker who cannot possibly be expected to continue running for 40 minutes without a break given by a substitute and who actually told the referee/coach (while doubled over gasping for breath) last week to "get the damn ball yourself- you're closer than I am" when unsolicited on-field instruction on offensive tactics were given.

All warm bodies accepted.

If You Ever Doubted for a Second My Claims of Being Utterly Ridiculous, THINK AGAIN

This morning in a fit of "I'm SO not ready to go to work yet," I stopped to buy us coffee for the office.
And yes, the office does have coffee like other offices, but it's FOUL and cheap and I don't like sharing with the other people and having to talk to them while I pile in the French Vanilla creamer, so in a fit of snobbiness, I bought my own coffee machine to have in my office that only I (and Work Husband) am allowed to touch.

Did I mention that I actually conned Work Husband into buying me butter the other day while he was out so I didn't have to go to the grocery store? He also didn't hold it against me the other day when I said "Shut the fuck up before I rip your goddamn head off. And? I think I hate you," (because he knows deep down in my loving heart I would never mean such a thing) in response to his request that I actually do some work for him.

He gets coffee. Whenever he wants it.
I've even been known to make it for him once in a while.
Though I MUCH prefer it when I come into work and he has it made and waiting on me.

So I walk into the store this morning, and "BEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPP."
Just like about 60% of all the other times I walk into a store (100% at Dick's Sporting Goods, where I spend at least 34% of my spare time because of my legion of soccer players living with me- they know me and wave when I set it off now).
The security monitor thingys LOVE me. And it's not my phone, which they always THINK it is- it's the security tag inside my Coach backpack that I've never been able to get out because they stuck it WAY down in a pocket and I wasn't about to rip the lining to go after it. I am also too in love with Coach and all things associated with Coach (including salespeople) to go back and complain. Actually, I just forget about it unless I'm beeping, but whatever.

Immediately, I was swarmed by two salespeople.
They apparently have a big problem with retroactive shoplifting.

After my whole explanation about the purse and the tag and how I can't get it out and how it's been like this for two years and I always set things off and how I promise I'm not smuggling in hot goods from Wal-Mart, which I can now give without even thinking about it after having done it so many times, one of the ladies says to me, "Let me see that."

I was INSTANTLY concerned.
First of all, I don't like people going into my purse. Never have. I never even played the purse game in middle school.
Second of all, I had the instant paranoia that there was something in there that wasn't supposed to be and I was going to get in big retail trouble or something equally ridiculous. My paranoia knows no reason.

But then, the nice ladies used their 3" acrylics to ever-so-gently pry the tag out of my purse, leaving the liner intact and me now security-buzzer free.

Which TOTALLY made my day.

Which sounds totally normal until you count the fact in that I then drove to Dick's Sporting Goods just to walk in and out of the door (twice) to MAKE DAMN SURE the humiliation was indeed over. And when I didn't beep, the same girl I always see said, "Wow! You got it fixed!" And we celebrated a little.

Which also sounds totally normal until you add in the fact that I had to call Dutch Oven to relate my triumph to him in excruciating detail. And that he was kind enough to laugh and act happy for me and not point out any points that would imply that I am a neurotic mess 87% of the day. Every day.

I am big on percentages today, aren't I?

Anyway, I spent thirty minutes this morning wrapped up in the utter triumph of having my Coach cross to bear removed and then another hour testing it to make sure it was indeed gone. And then another 30 minutes typing this all out to record my triumph against security buzzers and my love of 3" acrylic nails which I am seriously considering now for myself even though it goes compeletly against any sense of personal style I might have because HELL, WHO DOESN'T NEED A CROWBAR ATTACHED TO EVERY DIGIT?

Which leads me back to the title of this post. God help me.

Better To Be a Fat-Ass Eating Hay Than a Dead Hero

A totally serious, soapbox-mounted entry awaits. Woo hoo.

The extent of my horses' careers right now.

About Barbaro...
Everyone seems compelled to ask me about it, since I am mostly the only "horse person" they know, so here goes.

Personally, I might have put him down when the second foot developed laminitis, which honestly, can be more of a death sentence than the broken bones (I attached a link if anyone wants to know exactly what it is, because the news isn't explaining it too much, and I don't think alot of people get exactly how bad it can be). HOWEVER, when the vets say that he was awake and cheerful and eating the whole time, up until this weekend, I probably wouldn't have. When he changed his attitude this past weekend and seemed to give up, the outcome would have probably been the same.

A few years back, we had a horse have an accident. When she first did it, we thought it was just some pretty intense nerve and muscle damage. The morning after, she ate her breakfast with gusto and drank her water and seemed better, so we kept her by herself and kept an eye on her. A few weeks later, she developed an abscess, so we took her to the vet and found out that she had broken her neck in one place and her jaw in about five places. The vet recommended we put her down immediately. All I could say is, "She's not ready to die yet," and I refused. I put it all on the horse's attitude, hoping I was making the right decision.

She's out in the pasture right now, fat as a tick, knocked up, and the boss of the herd. She moves a little funny, and we have to do things a little differently sometimes for her, but she decided to get better, and I'm glad now we gave her that chance.

Wow- she was downright SKINNY here. She'd probably look at this now and think the same things I do when I look through my high school pictures.

When you know an animal, YOU KNOW. I think Barbaro's people went on this attitude, too, so I'm going to say they did the right things.

On the other hand, should 3 year olds be racing? I don't think so. Their bones aren't mature yet, and a lot of damage can be done by intense work. The reason they're used so early is because then they can have longer to stand stud when the career is over and because owners don't necessarily want to put in years of training and have to wait and spend that cash on pure speculation. When they're retired now, though, many are often lame or have other problems, and many end up at the slaughterhouse when they don't win the Derby. Hell, Derby winners have ended up there.
So, my answer on THAT? Wait until they're 7, and then race them all you want.
Won't happen.

The horse industry is just that. AN INDUSTRY. To make MONEY.
And sadly, it's not just race horses. Many horses are started too early in a MULTITUDE of disciplines, ruined by it, and suffer for it.
So I don't feel too bad when I look out and see my colts munching on hay when a lot of other people would already have them working. I'll work them when their bodies are READY.

My baby. Who does nothing.

And the money part?
I've never yet met a horse person who was making money at it who really loved their horses. I'm sure some exist SOMEWHERE, but I haven't met them. I have a feeling they're about as plentiful as Jessica Simpson's brain cells.
The people who love them have to have other jobs to support them, and they generally find out every year at tax time that this love affair has caused them to LOSE THEIR ASS once again. But they love it, so they keep doing it.
It's too bad that this isn't reversed, but as human nature goes, when you make money, you want to make MORE money, so I have a feeling that a lot of people who started out with the love of horses had it change on them before they knew it.

And truthfully, after years of horses, we aren't as idealistic as we used to be. I would never pursue some of the medical stuff for them that we have in the past after seeing the recoveries. After a while, you realize how delicate they can be and how pitiful your odds are sometimes. Now, we have the "go with how the horse acts" rule.
Your only decision after that is whether to stay in it knowing that or to get out entirely.

But back to "The Sport of Kings"...
Would Barbaro have won the Triple Crown? I think he would have. Almost positive.
The same heart that kept him alive for 8 months would have made him refuse to lose.

And I for one would have much rather he made the news for that...

His owners said on CNN last night that Barbaro's full brother will be born soon.
I'm crossing my fingers.

You Know You Live in the Country When...

you spend most of your lazy Sunday at home completely entertained by, well, here's how it started...

Me: Honey? Can you come out here onto the porch for a second?

Dutch Oven: (laboring to remove himself from his recliner) What is it?

Me: Is that house over there, ummmm, crooked?

Dutch Oven: (looking across our largest pasture) That's a mobile home, not a house.

Me: Whatever it is, it's sideways, isn't it? This isn't my eyes playing tricks on me or anything?

Dutch Oven: It's definitely sideways. And it looks like it's-

Me: In the road. I know.

Dutch Oven: Is it BLOCKING the road?

Me: Oooh! Here comes a car! Let's see if it can get by!

The car slows, then has to swerve dramatically to avoid the house in the road. Which was apparently being moved when something went VERY wrong...

Dutch Oven: Well, in the road, but not blocking it. I wonder if I should go try to pull them out...

Me: I thought you said your truck could PULL something that big but not actually STOP it. Stopping is IMPORTANT. This isn't quite the same as when you towed that minivan out of the mud at soccer practice in your fit of manly glory and smirked at all the minivan-driving dads standing around.

Dutch Oven: That WAS cool, wasn't it?

So back to the title...
You know you live in the country when you spend most of your lazy Sunday completely entertained by the futile attempts of MANY to remove a house from the road, including many discussions of the angles of ditches, the mobility of mobile homes, whether Dutch Oven's truck should leap in to make a blazing rescue, a consistent freezing downpour, and the nosiness of your own dogs who appeared to be newly shocked every time they saw the workers again and had to run to the fence and bark, thus reminding us of the drama and making us look and discuss it all over again.

All those times I thought my grandmother was a little off for just sitting on her porch and watching the world go by... I apologize.

Pimpin' for LeAnn Rimes

OK, ladies, no more complaining about how you can't find a good man.
I'm kind of referring to the single girls here, but if you married ones want to give it a go, fine. Just make sure you don't have some crazed ex-husband with a shotgun following you around.

Remember Rock Star? My long-time, wonderful ex-roommate and partner in crime buddy?

OH GOD, why didn't I crop myself? The puffiness, the forced smile, the stray hair sticking out from the side of my head that apparently escaped the taming force of the curling brush- I learn to use Photoshop so well and then don't even bestow its many wonders on my own damn self...

His woman, a few months ago, turned out to be a cheating sack of shit. And a liar. And completely nuts. PERFECT W3B material.
Which has left him in the proverbial, "They SAY they want a nice guy who treats them well, and then they act all stupid on you when they get it" frame of mind.

To which I answered, "They aren't ALL like that. There are plenty of good ones out there- you just haven't met them yet. I mean, I've met a TON of people on the Internet, and they all seem cool, and you know I hate most everyone."

"Then find me one of them!" he replied.

So here you go. Let the finding begin.
I'm throwing up for the consumption of hungry Internet ladies everywhere a perfectly wonderful, funny, cute, sensitive man who USED TO BE A SINGER IN A ROCK BAND FOR GOD'S SAKES, YOU LADIES WITH A THING FOR THE BAD BOYS but who has totally reformed and can even WEAR A SUIT now. IN PUBLIC.

Well, a suit WITH ASSISTANCE, but isn't that CUTER?
And if neither of us (yes, that's me, dammit) look overwhelmingly jubilant in these pictures, please keep in mind we were getting ready for the funeral of a good friend when they were taken. Few things have been more heartbreaking to me than the day I had to watch Rock Star carry the coffin of our friend, whom he had known since childhood.

So back to the pimpin'...

Rock Star sent me a description of his idea of the perfect woman for me to post here, so here's what he's thinking.

1. Happy, funny, (good sense of humor, no drama, go with the flow, cool, easy to talk to, approachable, calm, yet energetic, girl next door type/additude and personality.

2. The kinda girl you can take home to mom & dad, stylish, but not glamourish, unless there is a cause or a need to be, senseable, practical. A girl who can dress nice, but can also pull off wearing jeans, tank, or t-shirt, flip flops and a basball cap with no make-up.

3. Smart, sexy, comfident, yet modest and humble, doesn't cheat, wants to be in a relationship... WITH ME.

4. Porn Star in the bed room!!!!!

Basically, ME.
I feel horrible- my friend has obviously been pining over me all these years and is forced to see me married to someone else! How Thorn Birds!
OK, kidding. REALLY. Me? LAID BACK?
And don't freak about the "porn star" business- all men THINK that, but their idea of "porn star" actually just means "blow job." Don't take it seriously.

And he also gave me his "list," to give an idea of type.
1. Leann Rimes
2. Amy Smart
3. Michelle Williams
4. Jamie King
5. The chick from Joe Dirt & My Name is Earl... I can't remember her name

And he sent about 250 pictures of LeAnn Rimes, which kind of freaked me out, because it's always VERY STRANGE when you find out something like that about someone you've known for so long. I asked him about it, even. And about the fact that these were mostly (or all) blonds and I've seen him with plenty of brunettes.
He just laughed at me.

And honestly? I wouldn't do this is I didn't believe in my heart that he will make someone a wonderful partner. And I'm tired of watching women dump on him lately. OH YEAH. basics- he's in his late 30s, lives near Atlanta, has his own house, is starting his own business, and like I said, can wear a suit with help.

So if you are a) FEMALE, b) available, c) DRAMA-FREE and d) interested in meeting a great guy, send me an email with some info about you to bonanzainfo@yahoo.com. I will pass them on to him, unedited, and he can contact whoever from there. And my part will be over- I will not meddle, interfere, or give advice, unless you DOG HIM, and then I'll plaster your sorry ass all over the Internet with a viciousness that will leave your intestines bleeding internally in shame.

But don't let that stop you or anything.

AND PLEASE, PLEASE DO THIS IF YOU'RE EVEN JUST A BIT INTRIGUED. You never know what might come of it.

And besides, I forgot his birthday a few weeks back.
Am shitty friend.
Must make up for it.
Please help.

Well, My Head IS Exploding Now. Thanks BUNCHES.

If you haven't already read the highly controversial and extremely long question up at We Three Bitches right now, first, I bet you have less of a headache than I do, and second, you're missing some fine family fun.

Ok, not so family.

But you are missing Bonanza in a fit of defensiveness. That's fun. To others, at least, I'm sure.

So what's the problem?
READ IT. I have never seen so many problems in one damn place.

However, apparently, PChef and I didn't hop on the "she's being abused" or the "being a hooker's not so bad and that's just a predjudice" bandwagons like we seemingly should have. We should just be POURING out the sympathy here. He's MEAN to her, he SNOOPS on her, blah blah blah.

Read the comments if you're interested. I can't go through it all again.

Synopsis:
She had sex for money.
She doesn't understand why he's angry and mistrustful.
She wants to know if it can get better.

Wow, the whole letter could have been three lines.

And so now I'm all defensive and pissed and replying to comments and shit. Which is really shit, because even though I mentioned I wanted to slap her myself, I kind of felt bad for her because I've been there. I've been the bad girl who caused all kinds of problems and mistrust and huge fights and broken household items and puked-on sinks and stalkers and rock stars and... well, you get the point.

And thankfully, I got the slap I needed.
Metaphorically, of course, because had Dutch Oven actually SLAPPED me, he probably would have had to be rushed to the ER after someone mysteriously threw pure lye on him in his sleep after having heard about that idea from a father who used to be a paramedic. I'm a mean girl. I hit back. And do sneaky shit when people are asleep. Or COULD, anyway.

So today, in lieu of a real post, I'm just complaining.
Feel free to argue with me here, too, about how I missed the mark and how insensitive I am and I how I have a backwards view of prostitution or about how I should not have given this whole ridiculous issue any more internet space. Even though I am annoyed enough to vent a bit. Even though we made it a whole year before we had a post where it all went ape-shit on us.

And besides, the Jelly Bean pictures aren't ready yet because I forgot to take them and that will just have to be tomorrow's post. And not pictures of ME, Bonanza Jellybean, but of real jellybeans.

Please refrain from self-injurious behaviors brought on by anticipation.

And remember, don't plan to fall asleep if you say something really nasty.