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.

If an Entry Falls in the Forest with No One to Hear It...

Wow.
Haven't seen this page in a while.

I'm not even sure I remember how to do this.
Or when I'll feel like doing it again.

Well, I remember how to TYPE and stuff- it's the other part of it.
You know, CONTENT. Witty juxtapositions and banter and all.
That sort of shit.
Huh.

The time away from blogging has been less than eventful, honestly.
Kind of like me these days.
I'm the more REAL version of Bonanza these days- no dressing up, no heels, no celebrity tirades- just chugging on day by day doing the same shit without giving it much thought. And really wishing someone would let me take a nap. Or that I COULD take a nap with reminding myself to get my lazy ass up because there are 50 gajillion things that need doing and HOW DARE I SLEEP WHEN MY FAMILY NEEDS ME.

No bitterness or anything. Really. Just frustration. At myself.

Well... SOME things have happened. Here's the short list:
Soccer Chick had scarlet fever. (That might be worth posting about... Well, really about how I made an ass of myself at the doctor's mention of "scarlet fever." Not that I ever overreact or anything. Or base my entire knowledge of a topic on what I saw on TV as a child.)
My old horse cut her head open.
Soccer Chick's the leading scorer on her team.
I spent all weekend washing sheets (because of scarlet fever) before I remembered that my lovely bamboo sheets are naturally antimicrobial.
I am joining another soccer league because I seem to have others fooled into the notion that I can play. When I'm not limping because of my persistently present shin splints.
Fleas just SUCK ASS.
I got a new computer. And a new office.
I am selling my shoes because my legs hurt too much from exercise to ever wear them again.
I hate my whole house and want to remodel it. OK, well, not ALL of it. Just the parts I spent the weekend scrubbing.

I think this is what leads to people climbing into bell towers with assault rifles.
Either that or driving in South Carolina. It's a toss-up.

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.

Where In the World Is Bonanza Jellybean?

Wow.
A week.

Filled with workplace drama, another oozing dog, and whatnot.

But that's not why I've been absent.

Anyone use Macs?
If so, you'll know what this is.

How about this?

I know what this is.
Now.

It was like, TOTALLY, a whole episode of Sex and the City, so I am of the belief that everyone on the planet should have it committed to memory.
Unlike my computer, which is having, ummmm...., ISSUES with memory. And processor. And everything fucking else.

Basically, it's dying.
It's five and a half years old, and I've worked the hell out of it, and I'm in the middle of a catalog, and it decided "Enough of this shit."

I coaxed it back from the grave yesterday, enough to cross my fingers and start working again until the new one can get here.

Just like I'm crossing my fingers that I can get an entry up before I have to restart for the fifty gazillionth time today. You know, in case anyone might think I'm dead or something and think it's now OK to be booger-eaters again and start stealing my shit again because HEY! SHE'S DEAD. WHAT'S SHE GOING TO DO? HAUNT US? HA HA HA HA!
Or something equally ridiculous.

Maybe I should have titled this one "What a Post with No Pre-Planning Can Turn Out to Be."

ANYWAY...
I'll be back.
You know, like the Terminator.
Except without that whole mono-syllabic eastern European accent thing going on.
And did anyone ever wonder why a Terminator from the future would have that particular accent and why none of the other models of Terminator seemed accent-particular? Or how the whole cyclical time thing could actually work so that someone could be sent to impregnate someone by the very product of already impregnating that person? Or that in T2 when the bad Terminator's flying the helicopter, he has three hands for a second?

Nah, me neither. I never think about shit like that.

Dear Booger-Eaters...

Dear Booger-Eaters Out There Who Are Stealing Shit from My Blog,

You need to cut out the hotlinking shit NOW, because you're eating my bandwidth and making me hate you. I've already had to delete a post I liked, and now I'm having to go through 34 more hoops to shut you down. Making me not like you, see?

Also? A picture of a guy scratching a horse's butt is only useful when my commentary accompanies it, not when you steal it and put it on some porn site linked through Google in an attempt to hide from me. The fact that you are sitting in your mother's musty basement munching on your own boogers and jacking off to a picture that was supposed to be a joke does not make me feel pity for you- it just reinforces my opinion that retroactive abortion should be legalized.

Hoping you have an autoerotic accident involving a rope while in your mother's basement,
Bonanza Jellybean

•••••

Dear Google,

You're not helping. Whereas I used to think you as a benovolent bringer of information, now I see you as an accomplice to booger-eaters everywhere.

See, I did what you said. And filled out the little form. And turned in copyright violators. And yet... the booger-eaters prosper.

Please redeem yourself immeditely. By removing my picture like I asked you.

Sincerely,
Bonanza Jellybean

•••••

Dear TypePad Tech Support,

Help me, TypePad Kenobi, you're my only hope. Help me, TypePad Kenobi, you're my only hope...

Bonanza
(without sticky buns taped to her head)

See, I'm a Gemini, and We Change Our Minds a Lot...

I said I wouldn't post here anymore, didn't I?

But this site still gets twice the traffic as the new one, and most people use it to go to the new one, and I have just been lacking any motivation at all about the new one. I don't think I could ever get into it the right way.

I think I could just never get it to feel like home.

Also, I'm a whore who is missing the traffic. I feel UNLOVED and UNWANTED. Never mind that I've been posting about as often as Laura Bush is giving head, judging from the grumpy disposition of our current administration.

So... I'm going to do SOMETHING with DinkinMess, but I'm coming back to Bonanza. Bonanza I am, I guess. Besides, I miss having "BJ" as my initials.

So all you lazy-asses out there who never updated the link could be labeled as having extreme foresight. Those of you who did... sorry. I suck. I won't do it again.

Big Things to Come

I have a big announcement to make.

Imagine fireworks exploding, full marching bands playing their hearts out, reporters clamoring for attention, flashbulbs popping, etc. I know- you're seriously going to have to use your imagination here.
Try it. It won't kill you. Use your head- you know, it's that lump three feet above your ass.
You don't know how long I've waited to type that line.

Except, well, I can't make it yet.
You know, in this world, timing is everything, right? I'm waiting for a planet or two to line up or something.

And before everyone gets all worked up, I can tell you what it is MOST CERTAINLY NOT, if only in a sorry effort to keep people from commenting/emailing to ask if I am pregnant, since that seems to be the first thing everyone's mind immediately leaps to.

1. I am not, nor will I ever be again, pregnant. So there. I'm leaving all gestational duties to my bitches.
2. I am not entering rehab. Even though my Breyer's Butter Pecan habit is getting a bit out of hand- I hocked my mother's jewelry yesterday to get a half gallon, but that's not a problem, is it?
3. I am not the astronaut lady in secret who has lost her damn mind all over TV. I have lost my damn mind on several occasions, but CNN doesn't give a rat's ass about me. And the only time I ever wore Depends on purpose was to get free beer at a Bladder Bust.
4. Soccer Chick has not yet been selected for the US National Team. We're letting her grow a bit first, even though those damn Olympic officials calling daily is getting a bit tiresome. Thank God for Caller ID.
5. Dutch Oven and I are, surprisingly enough, still married. At least we were last time I checked.
6. All of the animals are healthy. Because of this, my bank account is not.
7. I have not acquired any new animals. Though with our track record, one's due to show up and declare our property home any second now.
8. Soccer Chick has now been declared PERFECTLY FUCKING HEALTHY by a TRAINED MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL, all due to my excellent care and unrelenting knowledge of nutrition and child-rearing, so anyone-not-to-mention-any-names who has issues here, fuck you. So no, the announcement doesn't have anything to do with Child Protective Services.
9. I am not posing for Playboy. Or Penthouse. Or Hustler. or Juggs.
10. I am not running away with David Beckham. And believe me, I am much more depressed about this than you could ever be. Except that I don't think I can meet the "waxiness" factor he finds attractive.
11. We are not moving or buying or selling any homes. I don't know many cities or subdivisions who let George Orwell come to life into their boundaries.
12. I have not been selected as a UN Goodwill Ambassador.
13. It has nothing to do with new shoes. But I did get some a few weeks ago that I COMPLETELY FORGOT to show the world in my delusional haze of thinking anyone cares- pewter Jil Sander boots! And Jimmy Choo loafers! I know, I'm a whore.
14. No new employment opportunities are involved. Have you READ how I behave at work? An interviewer's head would probably explode 12 seconds into the "Where do you see yourself in 5 years" question. (Which I always wanted to answer with "At home. On my couch. With a cocktail and a tanned pool boy giving me a foot massage while you give me stock options.")
15. I am not writing a novel, a screenplay, or deciding that what I really want to is direct.

So there. Ruled a few things out for you.
Don't let the anticipation kill you.

When I Said I Would Post Every Day, I Also Should Have Had the Foresight to Build in Sick Leave.

I'm sick.

Soccer Chick's sick.

Hopefully Dutch Oven will come home full of the overwhelming desire to love and care for his virus-laden spouse and offspring.

And with some Sprite.
Sprite would be good.

Back to the couch. Now.

Will return.

Chastised.

OK, so I got a little overwhelmed. And when I read some of the comments, I was all "DAMN, I AM A BIG WHINY BABY" and "HOLY SHIT- WHERE CAN I SEND A CHECK?"

Because mere hours after I posted all my frustrations,
DO's bonus came through.
The mortgage company agreed to take care of their mistake.
DO found out his company covers a portion of the deductible.
My boss told me that I can have until tomorrow to finish my project.

And everything was OK.

Except for the fact that DO's mother wants to come help "take care" of him after his surgery, which really means not helping one bit with the shit that needs doing (feeding horses, etc.) but instead following me around asking what she can do and getting on every single nerve I have.

So, what I want to say is, for you guys who are having a MUCH harder time right now that I am, I hope the same kind of Christmas luck happens for you guys.

Except for DO's mother. I wouldn't wish that on anyone.

The Most Boring Post Ever in the Whole History of Posts

Let's start off by saying that I now have entered a realm of suckage in blogdom. I don't think I have EVER been so slack about spewing forth little electronic bits of pissiness into the world, and there seems to be no end in sight.

See, real life is kind of kicking my ass right now.

In lieu of any fancy excuses like being on a secret Caribbean cruise pretending to be the roast beef slice in the middle of a Hugh Jackman/David Beckham sandwich (and I would be roast beef, because I could NEVER qualify as low-fat turkey, can't stand chicken and don't have enough preservatives in me yet to be ham), I feel the need to list out what all's going on.

Which is kind of a lot.

I have a big job due at work. BIG. Like "all of next year's outlook depends on the wonderfulness of this job and its timely completion" big. And the deadline was last week. And yet, I sit here typing...

Soccer Chick started back to practice and has indoor league games, which add up to me standing out in sub-freezing temperatures three nights a week and transporting her ass at least an hour each way on weekends. And this doesn't even include the hour I spent shopping for cold-weather gear for her, the hour I spent listening to her have a preteen meltdown about it being too big and how she hates being small and how mortified she was about having to wear it until the coach said he liked it and all was right with the world, and the two hours I spent in a VAIN attempt to sew the thing so that it fits her better. Which it kind of does now. Even though the elastics in the wrists of the jacket are ponytail holders. Project Runway here I come.

Christmas shopping? AS IF. I haven't even started, and I don't have a clue what to get anyone, and I don't want to spend money on anyone, and that all makes it kind of tough. And the reason I don't want to spend money on anyone? Besides the fact that I don't like them very much sometimes? Keep reading.

Our new mortgage company apparently miscalculated our escrow, and now the property taxes are due and we don't have enough in the escrow account to pay them. This is after the homeowners insurance threatened to cancel because the insurance hadn't been paid out of the same account and many phone calls had to be made. All of this means... we have to pay our property taxes. Which wouldn't have been so bad if we had KNOWN we have to pay our property taxes. Which means that for Christmas, Dutch Oven and I get to keep our house. Wrap THAT in a fucking bow. And smoke it.

And the BEST OF ALL...
About 8 weeks ago, Dutch Oven was playing soccer (which he is QUITE good at and VERY sexy while doing, so it is ENCOURAGED- the only problem being that he's too tired to make use of my soccer lust when he gets home from the games- DEFINITELY something he needs to work on in the future) and prepared to score another goal and be all wonderful again, and the goalkeeper came out and somehow fell into the front of DO's locked knee. Which is bad. So DO tried to let it heal, and it got better, and he got a fancy brace, and blah blah blah, and he went back to playing. But it still hurt some, so I talked him into going to my Voodoo-High-Priestess-of-Pain-Relief (Chiropractor), who worked on him and then said, "I think we might need to get a better look at this." So he had a MRI. And a consultation that told him, "Well, if you're doing OK, we'll just keep going like we are, even though you have some torn cartilage in here."
That consultation was at 2pm on a Thursday. At 7pm on that same Thursday in the middle of his game, the knee went POP.
Surgery is next week.
He will be off of his feet for a month minimum. (And everyone who has had arthroscopic knee surgery and wants to say "But it only took me a week or so", he has the chance of having it REPAIRED, not REMOVED, so keep your yaps shut.)
And because he is normally so ridiculously healthy? Full deductible due before surgery.

And at the same time DO is lying in his recliner asking where his lunch is and if I can help him get to the Little Soccer Players Room, I will be having to take Soccer Chick to get braces on those protrusions in her mouth commonly referred to as teeth. Five days before Christmas.

This doesn't include the trouble I'm going to have to go through hiring someone to come take care of them both so I can go out hooking so we have hope of having something under the tree. Or the trouble I'm going to have to go through to find a reputable kidney broker and a disreputable surgeon so I can sell one of mine off in case the hooking thing doesn't go so well. I don't know if I can wear lucite heels. But for the love of my family, I guess I'll give it a shot.

So Christmas this year for me will consist of sore teeth, a sore knee, a sore bank account, sore and badly-attired feet, and a sore disposition, which would make GREAT blog fodder if I had 10 minutes to sit down and type it all out.

So if you're one of the 7 people who actually like and read this, please bear with me. I'll type when I can.

Which will probably be somewhere in the middle of dispensing pain meds and daydreaming of roast beef.