I Pity The Foo' Who Won't Twit With Me

How I know the computers are winning their bid for world domination:

Me: (standing groggily in the shower, which, truthfully, isn't much different than how I stand everywhere else)

My Brain: (in an unfamiliar, yet strangely compelling voice) Shave your eyebrows, you need.

Me: Oh,yeah. Knew I forgot something. (picking up my razor) Waaaiiit a minute....

And then I was forced to join Twitter.

Yes, I've called Twitter an insidious plot for world domination by super Buck Rogers computers (it is), but it was either that or lose an eyebrow people! And, I'm sorry, but I LIKE my eyebrows! Because, if I were eyebrowless I'd have to go around dressed like this:

All the time. Because, even with my limited fashion sense I know that a sweat headband would just look stupid by itself.

But now, instead of trashing my whole wardrobe and maxing out my credit cards on workout tights, leg warmers and awesome sweat bands, I'm busy trying to get Barack Obama to follow me on Twitter.

OK, fine. He wasn't my first choice. I actually wanted Jane Austen to follow me and so I followed her, but then she never tweeted at me and I felt all used and stuff. I mean, I've read all your books Jane! I recommended them to friends! The least you could do is twit at me or something! Is that so much to ask!?! Huh!! IS IT!?! But, noooOOOooo, apparently she's too busy being, I don't know, dead. And self-centered. (Yeah. You heard me Jane.)

So, there I was, depressedly wandering Twitter, drowning my sighs in yet another gulp of coffee, when I figured it out. You can't be a self-centered non-following twit if you've been made into a Chia Pet! Utterly impossible, right? Totally!

So, President Lincoln,

President Washington,

President Obama

and Mr. T,

will you twitterize with me?

Come on, guys! Sing with me! 1-2-3! Hit it Olivia!

"Let's get twittering, twittering,

I wanna tweet with you Chia heads

Let's get into tweeting talks

Let me hear your Twitter talk, your Twitter talk

Let me hear your Twitter talk!"

Um. Sorry. I'm not usually this uncool. (No one was talking to you, Jane!)

@MacCheeseAttack

This Is Where Being A Concerned Non-Self-Absorbed Spouse Will Get You*

So, the other night, there I was, tucked away in the furthest corner of the family room, hiding from my kids, and, well, Jon, because, if I don't hide, people, I'd actually have to help bathe, change, brush and read my children ready for bed and, anyway, I had way more interesting things to do. (Quit judging me.) What, you ask? Oh, tons of things. Very important things. Things like, trying to choose which picture to have printed on my personalized M&M'S**.

I could go with quirky and embarrassing:

Or, my candy could be an artistic triptych about that time I realized I needed a brain in my butt:

Or I could commendate that time I was a fashion trend setter:

Or I could go with just plain awesome!

Then, before I could really sit down and hash out a firm decision, Jon found me.

Jon: Um, Martha? I think I need to go to the ER.

Me: (flipping between pics on my computer) Ha. Ha. Funny. Funny. You threw out all my Lounge Lizard Esssspressssooo LooOOoove Gu weeks ago.

Jon: No. Really. I think I'm having an allergic reaction to something.

Me: (still flipping) It was probably the Sliders you had a work. I think the cows are implementing some sort of covert biological warfare tactics now.

Jon: (sighing) Fine. I'll drive myself.

Me: (finally turning around) Holy Bumpy Tomato! What did you eat?!?

And, six hours later, with Jon full of intravenous drugs, we're home. Something good did come of the night, however. I picked a photo for the M&M'S:

Printed on the red ones of course. Because grotesquely personalized M&M'S are for everyone. (Don't worry. You looked nothing like this, Jon. And, you can trust me on that, because, as you can see, I typed that with my concerned spouse facial expression intact.)

*It will also get an unconcerned self-absorbed spouse to the same place. But one of them comes with candy!

**For reals:

W-H-I-N-E-Y Doesn't Spell Whiny. Thank You Spell Check. That Could Have Been Embareaceing.

In case you missed my bicycle butt reference in the last post, this month is the beginning of another season of triathlon training. Now, not to be all whiny, but if there is one section of the triathlon I dislike the most, it would be the bike. There's just so much stuff you need: bike, helmet, um, water bottle holder thingy.... OkaaaAAAaaayyyyy, fiiiIIIiiinnne. (That was not whiny. Believe me. This is whiiiIIIiiinnnNNNyyyyy. Oh. Wait. My bad. That was totally whiny.) Anyway, you're right. It's my butt that dislikes the bike. Because, man, those seats are tiny! And hard! And I don't think those fashionable padded shorts help as much as they should. But don't get alarmed, I'm not going to be constantly talking about my butt this summer. Mostly because I can just hear you guys now, "Awwwwww.... reeeaaallly? Bob, Martha's still talking about her butt! Wanna watch that documentary on the National Debt again? At least that has Humphrey* Bogart in it." And, unless you're Jon, sitting through that movie once is plenty. Or, unless you're me, then, sitting through Jon explaining the movie once is enough.

And, in case you're not me, this was Jon's synopsis: "Yadda, yadda, yadda. National Debt is huge. 16 billion dollars. Yadda,yadda, yadda. Bush II made some really bad fiscal decisions. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Already balanced budget. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Unless we start saving money and socking it away in offshore accounts and buy our own private island, and name it Isle Esime, then we'll end up living in a place like District 12 and sending Katie to fight to the death just for a handful of quinoa and a cake of paraffin wax.**" My mind may have wandered during that last point, but, it was early and I don't see how can I be expected to pay attention before my morning coffee has hit my brain. Then again, I couldn't really hear him over all the smack talk my butt was throwing out.***

Oh, and by the way, sorry for all the 'butts' in this post, but last week Jon said that using the word 'butt' sounded crude and I told him I wasn't being crude, I was being edgy. And, as a woman who currently has 12 Sesame Street books memorized, I figured I needed to cultivate all the edginess I could find. Besides, if you think this is edgy, you should totally read my butt's blog.****

*Who names their kid Humphrey anyway?

**Note to self: Work on Katie's woodswomen skills and start teaching her hand to hand combat.

***Because, Dude, my butt is loud!

****Sorry to disappoint you but my butt doesn't have a blog. Waaaaiiiitttt! Maybe I mean yet. Hmmmm......

This Post Was Either Going To Be About Coffee Or Insults My Butt Yelled On Yesterday's Bike Ride. Believe Me, You All Got The Better End Of That Deal.

Thank you all for coming. It's been a sad and confusing week here in our little coffee powered household without our coffee pot. The coffee he brewed will be missed, as will the bitter dose of sanity he served up each and every morning. He was such a nice pot. Please join me in a moment of silence for the loss of my sanity this week (and probably everyone else's) which shattered upon the counter top along with our beloved coffee pot.

(Did your moment sound like The Hustle mashed up with the theme from Rocky too? No? Hmmmm.... Maybe it's time to change my Pandora station.)

The day started out so normal, you know? Coffee grounds steeping in my French press while I unloaded the dishwasher, Ellie noshing on Cheerios under the kitchen table, Katie making a stack of books as tall as her head in preparation for her morning toilet quiet time. Then BAM! my hand slipped, the glass coffee pot crashed onto the tile counter exploding glass, grounds and coffee everywhere! And because I'm a dork, and because I have an overwhelming need to be uselessly and cryptically descriptive of my caffeine loss, and because it was a freaky cloudless northwest morning, I have to tell you that it made my counter look almost exactly like Edward Cullen standing that sunny mountain meadow covered in coffee: sparkly and dangerous, but with a scent that was simply mouthwatering.

Now, a normal human would have gone straight out and bought another French press from Fred Meyer. I, however, do not live with normal people. Considerate people? Yes. People with the desire to never ever, not ever, go shopping? Yepitty. People with astoundingly fast Amazon ordering skills? Yeppidy doo da to the max! So, here I sit, waiting for my new rubber reinforced French press (for better bounceage) to show up on my doorstep, forced to sip coffee out of a cup smaller than the chicken from Katie and Ellie's Fischer Price farm because the only thing I have to brew it in is Jon's teeny tiny backpacking French press. (Which, let's face it, I really bought for me.)

I'm not kidding about that chicken either.

See, this is my normal morning coffee cup:

Isn't it pretty? (Note the chicken.)

And this is the mug I've been drinking out of for the past three days, and brewing a new pot between each cup:

(Note the chicken.)

What?!?

No.....

You people are crazy! That's totally the same chicken.

They have the same hair and everything.