BEST! MEMORIAL DAY! EVERRRRR!!!

So you guys wanna know what I did for Memorial Day?

I BLEW MY FIRST WEIGHT LOSS GOAL OUT OF THE WATER! THAT'S WHAT I DID!

So here's what's been going on: I've been hanging out at around a 22 pound loss for like EVER. I guess you could call it a plateau, but I prefer to call it the most frustrating thing that's ever happened to me ever. There's a little chart on the WeightWatchers website that tracks your progress with a little red line at my 10% mark so I'd know how close I was...and boy, was I close. I've been dancing on top of that line for weeks. But NOT TODAY! Today I could swing on that line like a kid on the monkey bars!

Not ONLY did I lose 10% of my body weight, I also passed the 25 pound mark in the process! THIRTY POUNDS, HERE I COME!!!

I'M SO HAPPY. I can't type anymore because I have some very important cartwheels to do.

Tim the Tool-Man Howrey

My dad's birthday is tomorrow! Don't ask me how old he is, 'cause I can't count that high. Nevertheless I think you all know what that means...time for a list of ten awesome things about my awesome dad. Awesome.

1. The man can cook. He's best known for his chicken wings, toast and armadillo eggs, but the fun doesn't end there. One time when my mom was out of town, he made dinner for a bunch of my friends while we all watched the Mavs game and as Daniel Davis is my witness, there wasn't a single non-meat item on the menu.

2. He instilled a love of sports in me from a tender age. It was mostly reserved for a little team I like to call the Texas Rangers, but the Wylie Pirates also deserve some honorable mention (although they really didn't make a lasting impression until somewhere around the time I started dating a certain offensive lineman who shall remain handsome and nameless.)

3. He knows how to build/fix stuff, which is a quality I'm finding is less and less common in men these days. He built a set of bunk beds for me and Sarah when we were little, and those were the beds we slept in until we moved out of our parents' house. (To answer your question, he cut them down at some point, meaning no, I did not sleep in a bunk bed until I was 22 years old. But if I had you can rest assured I would have called top bunk times infinity.)

4. He pretty much stays tan year-round, which gives me a tiny, recessive ray of hope that my children might not be doomed to the life of paledom that I've so gracefully endured.

5. Although I'm sure he'll continue to deny it until the day he dies, one time he walked around the house singing "In the Ghetto" by Elvis Presley for like an hour and I WILL NEVER FORGET IT.

6. He's got jokes. Most of them come from the Brian Regan catalog, but if you're ever fortunate enough to catch a Tim Howrey original, I can tell you with confidence it's not a moment you'll soon forget.

7. He's a fisher of fish. I'm pretty sure the average weight of the fish he catches is somewhere around 53 lbs. Just a guess.

8. He has nice fingernails. This might be a weird thing to mention in his birthday ten, but I have at least one vivid childhood memory of sitting in his lap and just admiring his nailbeds and how straight the little lines were. (There ya go dad, something you didn't even you know you should be proud of!)

9. He has a spectacular southern accent. Not the trashy, annoying kind; the kind that makes you feel like you're talking to someone you can trust and who you'd maybe like to take fishing.

10. I think this picture pretty much sums up the way I feel about him; he's like a sunny afternoon in a bright orange t-shirt. Just kidding. But you know what I mean. He's a good dad and I think I'll keep him.

I love you dad!!! Hope you have a good birthday and enjoy all those Walmart gift cards we both know are coming your way!

Time-Waster Thursday!

That's right little kiddies! Time-Waster Thursday is back and it is better than ever just about the same as it always was!!!

Alright, I'm not a huge Oprah Winfrey fan, but I AM a huge Boyz II Men fan who finds Jimmy Kimmel generally hilarious, so here you go.



Loitning stroike.



I could listen to this accent all day long.


Manukura - the little white kiwi. from Mike Heydon on Vimeo.


Oh COME ON.



Andy Samberg being funny part one:



Andy Samberg being funny part deux:



Speaking of Muppets...

Tempted/Lovin' Touchin' Squeezin': A Mashup

(Alternate Title: A Tale of Two Masseuses? Masseusen? Masseui? More Than One Masseuse)

Dear Nicole,

I don't know how to tell you this, so I'll just come right out and say it: There's someone else.

It started out innocently enough; I arrived on time for my appointment fully expecting for you to be there. (Oh gosh - not that I'm blaming you - I just want you to know that my intentions were pure.) I was taken aback at the sight of the tiny woman standing outside the massage room where you and I have spent so many wonderful hours together talking and laughing. I swear, I was even annoyed at her overly southern accent when she introduced herself...but once we got into the room, something changed.

At first, I scoffed internally at her obvious lack of experience. Don't you know you're supposed to use more lotion than that? Nicole always uses way more lotion than that...but in time, it occurred to me that maybe using less lotion might make it possible for me to leave here without feeling like a giant, itchy puffball of slime. Her attempts at small talk were mediocre at best. Nicole's never this awkward. She knows the conversational way to my heart: puppies and babies. The conversation died out within the first few minutes, giving way to something totally unexpected. Without all that puppy and baby talk, I was able to just lie there and enjoy my massage in a state of complete relaxation. As for the massage itself...I'm not gonna lie to you, Nicole. It was good. It was really good. To top it all off, the session lasted a full 55 minutes...and I think we both know you tend to skip out after 45 at best. Again, I'm not blaming you, but let's not make what we have (or, had, since we're breaking up) into something it's not. 

I'm so sorry Nicole. I felt at the time that what I was doing was wrong, but I just couldn't help myself. Please don't ask me to tell you her name; it'll only make things worse for you. Especially since I actually know her name after only one appointment and it took me months to get yours down.

I hope we can still be friends...although since the only time we ever saw each other was during my bi-weekly massage, I guess the chances of that happening are highly unlikely.

Emily

Friends Don't Let Friends Play Tetris After Half a Beer

Gary and I have been playing a lot of Tetris lately on the N64. And when I say we've been playing a lot, I mean that's pretty much all we do now. (In case you were wondering, I win 9 times out of 10. And that 10th time is only because my contacts eventually dry up from a lack of blinking, making it impossible to see the TV screen.)

So last night I was beating him soundly as usual when we decided to break for dinner. We had beer in the fridge, which is rare, and I'd had a tough day, which isn't really all that true considering I have the least stressful job on earth...but nevertheless, we decided to indulge in a beer* a piece. We ate quickly without speaking (presumably because we were too busy working on our strategies for the next deathmatch friendly game of Tetris) and then it was back to business.

We didn't get far into our game before I noticed something was off. I was still winning, but not to the degree to which I've become accustomed over the past few days. We'd been playing for a full three minutes and Gary hadn't even broken a sweat, much less been reduced to tears. Yes, something was definitely wrong. Suddenly, I became aware of the cold bottle resting between my leg and the arm of the couch and everything made sense. DAMN YOU, WOODCHUCK! YOU'RE RUINING MY STATISTICS!

Just when I thought I might be able to catch up to my dad's high score (don't let the name AAAAAAA? trick you into thinking he wouldn't destroy you just because he was too lazy to scroll through and find the letters T, I and M when he was setting up his username) alcohol strolls in and nonchalantly throws a wrench in my plans.

Long story short, I'm thinking the cops might be onto something. Don't drink and drive; hugs not drugs; click it or ticket; etc. I love it when my blog posts have a moral.

*I don't drink beer because beer is for men and/or girls who are cooler than me. I drink Woodchuck, which might easily be mistaken for beer but is actually just hard cider because I'm a sissy.

Soapbox Time

Before you read this article, I recommend having a rolled up towel nearby for when you inevitably feel the need to strangle something.

I usually try to keep my opinions to myself so as not to offend anyone...but what's the point of having a blog if I can't occasionally use it to rant about things that piss me off?
Call me a bigot if you will -- but on second thought, don't. I'm just gonna throw this out there: Not everything is okay.

Pause to see if I get struck by politically correct lightning.

Please don't misunderstand me here. I'm all for supporting your children's life decisions, but I'm also for preparing them for the real world (a.k.a. doing my best to avoid getting the crap beat out of them on a daily basis.)

Okay and unschooling? Do I even need to elaborate on how ridiculous that term is?

Basically I just think this lady is the worst. (Actually if I'm honest, it's a toss up between the parents of these poor kids and the person writing the article. Turning the concerned/understandably angry friends and family into the bad guys? Way to try to make the rest of us feel bad for being normal.) The world is the way it is, and raising your kids this way isn't going to change it; all it's going to do is confuse them and make it extremely difficult for them to form relationships, get jobs, and generally function in society. Oh and they're probably going to grow up to hate you for using them as a social experiment.

Rant over. Tune in tomorrow for something decidedly more sunshiny and happy.

It's a Line That's Always Running

So I have these two cousins. Actually I have about forty. But these two in particular will be the topic for the day. Their names are Michelle and Eric, and we sorta grew up together. I say sorta because we lived about a thousand miles apart, but we spent a good month together every summer from the ages of twelve to eighteen. Sarah and I would go to Chicago for two weeks and then they'd come to Dallas for the same length of time.*

The time the four of us spent together was always awesome. When we were in Chicago, we'd swim every day and run around the neighborhood screaming like the little hoodlums that we were. When they came to Dallas, we'd spend our days sitting in front of the air conditioning vents because it was too hot to set foot outdoors. So what is there to do during the summer in Texas besides melt into the couch? Play Nintendo 64 like it's hot. (Pun very much intended.) I'm pretty sure I've spent more of my life playing MarioKart with Sarah, Eric and Michelle than I've spent reading or learning.

Since we've become "adults" (and I use that term as loosely as possible), we don't see each other as much. Sarah and I ran off to Colorado so we could stop showering, Eric went off to film school and Michelle's a big-time nurse, so you can imagine my delight when we all found ourselves together again over the weekend. We decided to dust off the old N64 for old times' sake. It was just like we were kids again...if we'd had really, really dirty mouths when we were kids. I'm pretty sure I saw Yoshi covering his little green dino-ears at one point in an effort to shut out all the bad words that were flying every which way.

In an interesting-only-if-you're-me development, my parents bequeathed me the N64! So if you enjoy the juxtaposition of adorable cartoon characters and exceptionally salty language, come on over and we'll throw down on some MarioKart.

P.S. Eric's birthday is tomorrow. Everyone should throw eggs at him. Wait, eggs are for Easter. I think Eric's birthday means cake. Everyone should throw cake at him.

*They didn't really live in Chicago and we didn't really live in Dallas. I'm not changing the city names for privacy reasons...I'm just changing them because I'm pretty sure most of you have no idea where Plainfield, IL and Wylie, TX are. I'M DOING THIS FOR YOU.

Disappointed? I Can't Say I Blame You.

I know what you're thinking: It's Thursday! WHERE ARE ALL THE VIDEOS?!?!

Look, I want to waste a large chunk of your day. Really, I do. But there's just nothing good on the internet today! I searched for HOURS 15 minutes, because that's how long my break is, and I found absolutely nothing that was worthy of wasting your precious time.

I know I've let you down and the only reason you read this blog is so that you can turn your brain off once a week. I can assure you that I am experiencing the appropriate amount of shame and humiliation. I just hope one day you can forgive me.

In the meantime, here's a real thing I saw in the freezer section at Walmart yesterday.

You know what else dogs like that's pretty much the same? Ice. It's cold, it's wet, it doesn't cost $4 a box, and there's little to no chance of it causing any of your family members to inadvertently ingest dog food because they failed to read the fine print. 

L'Chaim!

Every time I say l'chaim, it comes out just like Fergie sings it in "I Gotta Feeling," just in case you were wondering.

Anyway, I'm back! And I have a brand new piece of advice for all of you: If you really want to party, round up a bunch of Jewish kids and some alcohol and you should be set.

Upon further reflection, I'm thinking maybe I should rephrase that. What I meant to say was BAR MITZVAHS ARE AWESOME. Seriously, like more fun than most weddings I've been to.*

Doing the stanky legg with a room full of Jewish pre-teens was something I didn't even realize was on my bucket list, but I'm happy to say it has now been crossed off. Twice. Now there's just the small matter of bringing Mase out of retirement long enough to collaborate on a track for my multi-platinum rap album and my life will officially be complete.

Long story short: Jewish kids like to rock the party.

*Yeah, you read that right. My cousin's 13th birthday party was more fun than your wedding.

On the Road Again

One hour from now I'll be Texas bound. I'm going to my first Bar Mitzvah!

Maybe I'll be back next week...maybe I won't.

Just kidding I'll totally be back 'cause Gary ties my shoes for me, making it impossible for me to be away from him for more than a week.

The Call of the Wife

Last night after work, Sarah dropped me off at my house as usual, and as usual, I went straight to the kitchen because that's where we keep the food. Once I reached the back of the house, however, the thought of enjoying a tasty snack was abruptly driven from my mind.

The back door was open. As was the back window. The dogs? Nowhere to be found.

I felt the all-too-familiar sense of panic creeping up my arms and legs, but did I succumb to it? Did I allow the fear to take me over? Not this time.

"Time to Rambo up," I thought to myself. I used the fear as fuel to move my body at thrice my normal speed. Using kitchen towels, I strapped the contents of my knife block to my chest, including the scissors, 'cause let's be honest - when I'm backed into a corner, I like the satisfaction of knowing my weapon has both stabbing and severing capabilities.

I moved through the house like a prowler, crouching low and dropping into the occasional barrel roll whenever I heard something that startled me. Time lost all meaning; the only thing that mattered now was protecting my dwelling place.

Suddenly, I heard the metallic thud of a car door slamming; heavy footsteps coming toward the house; the screech of the screen door being wrenched open. It was time. A bloodthirsty scream tore up my throat as I ran toward the door, arms raised high over my head, paring knife clenched between my teeth, ready to silence this intruder forever - but something about the face stopped me in my tracks. Beyond the look of shock and horror, there was something I seemed to recognize; something almost...familiar. The brown of those squinty eyes...the unkempt neard...could this be a phantom from some past existence? From a time when there was more to life than mere survival?

And then all at once, everything came back to me in a rush of color and sound. The first time we kissed. Our wedding day. All those nights spent sitting on the cold, hard kitchen tile trying to force feed our dog hydrogen peroxide so he'd throw up whatever non-food items he'd eaten. Not only did I know this man; I loved him.

It hasn't been easy, but things are slowly starting to feel normal again. Sure, at times I'll relapse and start tearing into a steak before Gary's had a chance to cook it, but he just smiles, gently pats me on the head and removes the bloody hunk of meat from my hands, being careful not to get too close to my teeth so as not to lose another finger.





P.S. Little to none of this story is true. What actually happened was that I sat crying on the floor for about ten minutes before Gary got home with the dogs, whom he'd taken with him while he ran a short errand. He hugged me and apologized for having forgotten to close the back door while I sobbed and dripped snot all over the front of his t-shirt...but that just doesn't make for a very interesting read.

31 Years of Awesome

Today is my parents' 31st anniversary!

Traditionally, I believe the thirty-first anniversary is the bean anniversary - meaning the couple would celebrate by eating beans straight from a can while sitting on their new hardwood floors. But that's just what I've heard.

But seriously, folks...thirty-one years is a long time. I mean LONG. Long enough to pay off a house or grow a really big tree*.

CONGRATULATIONS, MOM AND DAD! At least one of you doesn't look old enough to have been married this long. I'll let you decide which one.

 *Or four adults.

Wonder What's in a Wonder Woman

The weirdest things make me feel like a superhero. I'm not very fast and goodness knows I'm nowhere near aerodynamic enough to attempt human flight, but there are a few things that kinda make me feel like Wonder Woman. I'd like to present those things to you now in the form of a numbered list.

1. This gold crown/headband thing I always wear.

2. $4 t-shirts from Walmart. Such as the ones I bought yesterday. I know I had nothing to do with the manufacturing of said shirts, but for some reason I feel a rush of pride every time I think about them. I feel like Walmart clothes always fit weird, so it's slightly miraculous that I managed to find these little gems clinging to a shelf for dear life amidst a sea of hideous tie-dyed* dresses and stretch pants; and what's even more than slightly miraculous is the fact that I'm confident not a single onlooker will have the slightest suspicion as to the origin of my new found apparel...that is, unless the onlooker happens to be one of you guys, in which case maybe I should learn to keep my mouth shut.

3. Not having cable. I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea about the Gray family; we are not among those hyperintellectuals who choose not to have a TV in their home because they're afraid it will rot their brains/ruin their reputations as supergeniuses/clash with their extensive collection of leather-bound books. We're just poor, and cable costs money. (Although I do sometimes like to imagine that the real reason we don't have TV is because we're better than you.)

4. I can do this now! Okay, when I do that it doesn't look quite that coordinated and I don't move quite that fast. But that's not the point! The point is I've finally reached a point where I can complete the move without collapsing into a pitiful, convulsing heap of inadequacy.

5. Four things didn't seem like enough. Ahh, it appears that numbered lists with fewer than five items are my Kryptonite...or whatever it is that renders Wonder Woman's powers completely useless.

*Is it redundant to use both hideous and tie-dyed as descriptors for the same article of clothing?

Mom Mom-Ma Mom Ma-Mom Ma-Mom MOM!

This Sunday is Mother's Day! (Hey, watch your mouth! That's right, I heard that expletive you just let slip loud and clear. It's not my fault you forgot.)

Sadly, since my mom lives 800 miles away I won't be able to hug her on Mother's Day, but I CAN write her a blog, which is pretty much the same as a hug.

Mom,

Thanks for having, feeding, clothing and loving all of us kids. I don't have a specific example in mind, but I'm sure with four children, at some point you had to touch poop, and I want to thank you for that.

Thanks for touching poop.

Love,

Your Favorite Child, 25 Years Running

P.S. You're still as beautiful as you were when these pictures were taken. (Which I'm guessing is somewhere between 15 and 30 years ago, judging by your haircut.)

¡Blog-o de Mayo!

There will be no videos today, because I sincerely hope you don't need YouTube to help you waste time on Cinco de Mayo.

You may, however, require a little mood music, so here ya go!

AY! AY! AY! AY! AY!

Now get on out there, crack open a can of Tecate ('cause that's the classy way to do it) and shake! those! maracas! You may not be a real Mexican, but you've studied up on the history (and if not, you're about to*); you've earned it!

*For those of you who did not grow up in Texas, it's not your fault. Read up, and then to make up for lost time, I recommend wrapping a tiny square of colored tissue paper around the eraser end of a pencil, gluing the newly shaped paper to a shoebox, and repeating about six hundred times for no apparent reason. (Was there to be a tiny parade? Yes, I think that may have been the reason.) There. It's as if you were sitting in Mrs. Butler's first grade class with me back on May 5, 1993. That was a good day.

The Angry LOL

I see a lot of things on Facebook that confuse and/or concern me, e.g., parent overshare; requests to join a mafia/create an e-fishbowl/eat someone's brains; and recently, those weird banners people are using in place of their top five pictures*; but the thing I find most disturbing is The Angry LOL.

I'm sure you've seen it. Whether it's coming from some girl you haven't spoken to since high school or an ex-coworker who can't understand why he got fired for his "attitude problem", it's sure to be equal parts terrifying and ridiculous. (Terridiculous, if you will.) It's as if people think that adding an "LOL" immediately puts a lighthearted spin on whatever they just said. But much like sprinkling butter-flavored powder over burnt popcorn, not even the mighty LOL is enough cover up the overpowering stench of your insanity.

I'll give you a couple of examples.

Amy Johnson
omg you guys, i freakin hate safeway so much, they wouldn't take my coupon for eggs just because it was an albertson's coupon, so i blacked out and just started chucking eggs at all the customers waiting in line hahahahahahaha guess those people won't be shopping there anymore

And I suppose neither will you, in light of your recent arrest. Can you Facebook from jail? At least the lack of end punctuation would be justified if you were updating your status in the process of being tackled to the ground. Lucky for all of us you managed to hit send before your phone was wrested from your talon-like clutches or else we never would have known what happened to you.

Ashley Jones
OOOOO PEOPLE NEED TO LEARN HOW TO FREAKIN DRIVE! SOME %^$#& CUT ME OFF AND IT TOOK EVERYTHING IN ME NOT TO START RAMMING HER UNTIL SHE RAN HER CAR OFF A CLIFF LOL

Whoa Ashley. Just - whoa. First of all, I'm not sure it was the wisest choice to admit in front of God and Facebook that you make a habit of contemplating murder...and secondly, what's funny? WHAT, ASHLEY? I'm sure in your head this sounded like, "Whoops, I think I may have a bit of a problem with road rage. I should probably seek help. Tee hee." But it actually came out sounding more like, "LOOK EVERYBODY I'M CRAAAAZZYYYYYYYYY!!!! I LAUGH AT INAPPROPRIATE TIMES AND I HAVE THE CAPACITY FOR MURDER!!!!! ALSO MY CAPS LOCK KEY IS STUCK, PRESUMABLY BECAUSE I SPILLED SOME CRAZY JUICE ON IT."

In short, I love Facebook because no matter how bad things get, there's always some crazy bee posting crazy ess for me to laugh at.

*If I've said it once, you've probably already read it: This ain't Myspace, people.

This Post IS About Bin Laden

JUST KIDDING! Oh man, you should see your face right now. You were all like, "Wow, maybe the old girl's finally decided to forget all the nonsense she usually writes about and tackle some issues that really matter - waiiiiit a minute! THIS ISN'T ABOUT BIN LADEN AT ALL! WTF, etc." (Although in truth I do have one thing to say on the matter: DIBS ON THE COUNTRY SONG. What song, you ask? Why, the one that's going to make me a millionaire simply by mentioning a current event of course! I think I'll call it "If You're Not America, Suck It." The second line of the chorus is a real doozy.)

Seeing as I can't seem to get my act together today, it appears that plagiarism is the only avenue left to me. So without (much) further ado, here's another excerpt from the letter my super awesome cousin Eric wrote to my equally awesome sister Sarah I WROTE MYSELF.

I think a lot about jobs I’d like to have. I’d like to paint the yellow lines in the middle of the road. I am an artist and the city is my canvas; my current project involves equidistant yellow lines of precise lengths bifurcating the unbroken pavement. It’s a conceptual piece about conformity and our society’s emphasis on rigid yet superficial balance. It’s tre modern and I am a genius.

(In the world of the avant garde you must declaim your own self a genius; only then will others follow suit.)

There are other odd jobs I’ve wanted but I can’t think of them right now. I would not, however, like to be a supervillain’s henchman. Faceless, nameless, anonymous in their glossy uniforms they are little more than walking targets for the film’s hero to effortlessly dispatch. No glory in that. Being the supervillain himself is more glamorous but you still probably die at the end. Unless the director tacks on a long tracking-shot epilogue in which your seemingly lifeless form lies inert at the base of a volcano or an elevator shaft or whatever underworldly analogue the hero unceremoniously dumped your overconfident wickedness into at the climax of the picture and then, startlingly and without warning, your eyes open as if to say, “Sequel?” Ominous musical sting, roll credits.

The evil overlord’s triumph is slim in this instance, as his recovery would no doubt necessitate many painful hours of physical therapy to fully regain use of his megalomaniacal facilities. Also he has to be able to casually stroke the slumbering cat in his lap without wincing. Nonchalantly petting a cat while the hero advances on you with a weapon and, one would guess, the advantage is sort of the ultimate insult to his capability as a hero. It says, “I am so unafraid of you that I am just going to sit here and pet this cat and sip my latte, whattaya think of that Mr. Hero?” And his confidence is shaken. Unless you wince, of course, as I was originally saying.

If you like this, you should probably Facebook stalk/harass/threaten Eric Houge until he agrees to write a book.

This Post Is Not About Bin Laden

I can't move most of my body, so I'll make this short and sweet: There's nothing quite like getting down to Usher's "Yeah" with half of your HR department.

To all the 30 and 40 somethings I saw out there poppin' and lockin' at B & H's wedding: I salute you.