The car is no place to spend a weekend

If you love your husband as much as I love mine, here is a bit of marital advice for you to chew on.

DO NOT drive from North Carolina to Boston with him with nothing but a mini snickers bar, a travel-sized bag of cashews, four jolly ranchers and an ipod shuffle.

We set out with high hopes and big plans. Friday, 4.5 hours of driving to make our way to DC and stay with friends. Mission accomplished. We talked about everything there was for two gorgeously attractive married people to discuss and wrapped it up just about the time we pulled up at our friend’s house for a late-night snack and a good night's rest.

ENTER DAY 2

THIRTEEN STRAIGHT HOURS IN THE CAR TOGETHER!! THREE HOURS OF STOPPED TRAFFIC ON THE NJ TURNPIKE (NJ TURNPIKE – I OFFICIALLY HATE YOU FOREVER)!! THIRTY-TWO DOLLARS IN TOLLS!!! (who the shit carries that much cash on them?) DIRTY REST STOPS!! THIRSTY!! DIRTY REST STOPS!!

Oh and did I mention we ran out of things to talk about on DAY ONE!!?

Did I mention his car is a stick shift which I refuse to learn to drive, therefore I could not help him drive and as a result he got SHIN SPLINTS ON THE NJ TURNPIKE!!

Did I mention rest stops are DIRTY?

Did I mention we have a marital rule that the passenger cannot fall asleep (they are supposed to keep the driver awake and alert at all times) and is responsible for TOPICS OF CONVERSATION?

Did I mention no amount of Sirius Radio or ipod playlists can span 17.5 HOURS!? (also did you know there is a song called, My Weiner? – well there is. And it’s almost dirtier than REST STOPS!!)

Also, did you know PEOPLE ARE RUDE ASSHOLES? Well, they are. THEY REALLY ARE! I was standing in line (A long long line) for the loo (did I mention the NJ Turnpike was backed up for TWENTY MILES?? Yeah that makes lots of ladies and LOTS OF PEEING) and BTW there was NO LINE for the penis bathroom and out comes a scruffy old man who looks at the line of uncomfortable women clenching their pee-holes and says, “Well ladies, goes to show ya’ – it’s a man’s world.” DIIIIICK!

Anyway this frizzy hot mess of a lady walks up and down the line saying, “I’m sorry but I have to go, I’m just not waiting in this line. I’m not waiting.” She ends up four people behind me and once we are actually in the bathroom she pushes me to the side and says – “I’m going ahead of you, I really have to go.” I should have peed right on her. The people behind me were appalled. There was a very pregnant lady in front of me who waited her turn in line, despite many people offering to let her pass in front of them. As the piss lady pushes past me, I hear from behind me, “Oh my god, the nerve of that woman! If she would have pushed that pregnant girl aside – IT WOULD HAVE BEEN ON!” So it’s totally okay if she pushes the cute red-headed chick out of the way? I stood in line wishing the piss princess had pushed preggers and I could have had a front row seat to the gun show. Instead I said nothing, but used my powers of telekinesis to work voodoo magic on her (the piss lady, not the pregnant lady).

If my powers are correct, she is itching the bjeezus out of her lady parts AS WE SPEAK!

For more on how to get divorced, stay tuned TOMORROW.

Bouncing here, and there, and everywhere, WE ARE THE GUMMIE BEARS!

None of the etiquette books have quite ventured into the realm of social networking standards. I’m already particular about who I choose to friend on FB, and chances are if I didn’t like you then – I don’t like you now. Are you a band? IGNORE. Did we meet once at camp when I was eleven? IGNORE. Were you shagging my brother in high school? IGNORE. Did you pull a chair out from under me in the sixth grade? IGNORE.

Then there are people who I was kind of friends with, but not really, but curiosity uses BLUNT FORCE to DIRECT MY TYPING FINGER in the direction of: ACCEPT. Or the obligatory friend ACCEPT because I actually see you and you will ask my why we’re not FB friends yet. Ouch. Then once I friend some blast from the past and I’ve read that you married the kid that sat two rows behind me in history, found JESUS and your fecundity and now you’re posing for candids in the grass with matching jean shirts – I’m pretty much done looking at your page. HOWEVER, now I must see your CONSTANT evangelical updates splattered on my feeds.

So what do I do? I simply press : DELETE FRIEND.

Until, a month later I get ANOTHER FRIEND REQUEST that says this:

Hey Tam! I thought we were friends on here, but I looked and apparently we’re not anymore. I hope I didn’t say anything to offend you. If so please let me know, I’d like to talk about it. God bless!

GASP! SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHIT!

I contemplated typing: Actually, I’m Jewish and barren and your proselytizing/bible verses and parenting shenanigans are on my last nerve. Take Care, Tam.

Instead, I FRIENDED HER AGAIN and wrote this: Hey, no, my FB account had some technical difficulties. Sorry!

I HAVE NO BALLS!!!!!!!! I am a HUGE LOSER. This is SO NOT LIKE ME. I HATE MYSELF FOR EVEN ADMITTING TO THIS ON MY BLOG.

I then spent the next half hour trying to figure out how to delete said person's feeds from my homepage.

I also want to unfriend my Rabbi’s husband (oh the constant quizzes and sports related rants! I don’t care what your top five favorite cereals are OR that you’re watching a Reds game from behind third base!!)

This ON TOP of the "friends" whose requests I've IGNORED SEVEN TIMES!! Seriously, if I haven't friended you by now, STOP ASKING.

I might have to quit Facebook because people annoy me. Because of Facebook, I’m going to hell.

THEN I found 100,000 reasons to click on THIS AD in my Facebook sidebar. I’m totally opposed to these ads which seem to be SPECIFICALLY TAILORED TO ME (seriously, after I changed my status to “married” I started getting adds for how to increase my chances of conceiving a child, WTF?) but this picture explains it all.


Candy lovers rejoice! The Giant Gummy Bear on a Stick represents the most delicious candy confection that man has ever produced. Hand made (with gloves on) in the US, the Giant Gummy Bear is 88 times larger than a standard gummy bear. Each Giant Gummy Bear weighs half a pound and comes on a stick for easy, mess-free snacking.

My blueberries taste like Lysol again

Remember as part of my new year’s resolutions I started using organic cleaners? So not kill my own brain cells? Right, well I did. Then yesterday some scruby guy started CLEANING our office. I say CLEANING IN CAPS because I never IN MY WHOLE LIFES have seen an office space scrubbed in this manner. Normally, I am a fervent advocate of such cleanliness and sanitation, however NOT in a confined space with six offices, ten cubicles AND NO VENTILATION! Yesterday he was here for FIVE HOURS! SPRAYING, SPRAYING, SPRAYING. He was wiping down the filing cabinets for shit sakes!! THEN I almost lost it on him, psycho style, when he started spraying some hideous smelling chemical cleaner INTO THE AIR! He said this would “cover up” the smell of the other god awful things he was spraying.

The whole thing made me want to VOM all afternoon. Thankfully he took his cleaning kart and left.

UNTIL TODAY WHEN HE WAS BACK!! SPRAYING, SPRAYING, SPRAYING!! I don’t know what he’s trying to procrastinate from doing, but wildly spraying cleaner in our work space is not a good use of his time, IMO. I actually hate him now. I HAVE CHOSEN not to subject myself to cleaners at home and now I am being forced to breath cleaning products for TWO DAYS STRAIGHT.

Yes. This is a rant. Yes, I’m losing my mind. Did I mention that we have to put in a special request for our office to be vacuumed? There is a crusty piece of lunch that has been sitting on the carpet under my desk for six months and then this guy shows up WITHOUT A VACUUM but armed with seventy spray bottles?? It’s like he used to work at the mall spraying perfume on people, but now has this job instead.

My friend S (who has her own office and is mostly away from the fumes) says I should do one of three things:

1) Ask him if he has some organic cleaners or at least something less offensive
2) Ask him to be done because there is no ventilation in our offices
3) Call his boss and ask her if he can be done

All of these options SOUP-ER SUCK if you ask me. How can I ask him to stop subjecting ME to toxins when it’s HIS JOB to subject HIMSELF to toxins? It’s not like I’m better, I’m just bitchier and winy-ier and cleaner dislike-ier. Those are all words, so shut up.

I just want to SCREAM and run around like that whacked out chick with the frizzy hair who just took a shower and spiders came out of the spout and started laying eggs IN HER FACE. I’m that girl right now! Where’s my mind? Because I’m pretty sure I just lost it.

Give my body to science. But don’t let those skeezy medical students grab my dead boobs.