Pleasantly Demented

I've never really understood what the beginning of a new year has to do with resolving to make changes or analyzing past wins and fails.  But for some reason, it seems that many people do feel the need to chop the past 12 months into macerated goo and then proceed to set themselves up for failure for the following 12 months just so they can do it all over again next January.  All for the sake of some delusional sense of self-awareness or progressive personal insight. 

To be completely honest, I'm a right boring human being.  Not boring in the sense that I'm bored, but boring in the sense that there is no drama, controversy, or even really any adversity in my life at all.  I don't think I could qualify or quantify my past or my future year even if I wanted to. 

Here's what I know:

I'm married to the first and only guy I've ever loved, and I'm still crazy in love with him every single day.  Whoever said it's normal for passion and fire to wane in a marriage is clearly misinformed. 

I love my family. I love Sarge's family.

I have an uncanny ability to completely walk away from anyone who's ever brought any negativity into my world.  Some people might say I'm a bit brutal or austere.  And maybe I am.  But life is just too damn short to give second chances to people who think it's okay to fuck with me.  Or my family.  I really don't care who you are-- friends, family, neighbors, strangers-- You fuck with me, you're gone.  And trust me, I won't look back.  I really am that merciless. 

For the most part, I have a healthy diet, and I've worked out on a regular basis for years.  Granted, I have consumed an inordinate amount of crap over the last week or so, but I'm good with that.  I know I'm never going to look in the mirror and see perfection.  But I also know that every minute spent glaring disapprovingly at my body is a minute of my life I'll never get back. 

My life is a fairy tale.  A fairy tale we've worked damn hard to create.  None of it is easy.  Two teenage high-school dropouts don't stay married for 17 years because it's easy.  They don't wind up with two absolutely amazing, intelligent, capable, independent teenage boys because of luck.

To bring this little diatribe of mine back around full circle, I can tell you that we certainly haven't accomplished all that we have because of New Year's resolutions.  If something needs to be done, we do it.  If something needs to be changed, we change it.

If you want to lose weight, lose it.  Now.

If you want to stop smoking, stop.  Now.

If you want to improve your financial situation, then make the changes.  Now.

If you want to change your marriage, make it better, end it, have more sex, resolve issues, communicate, then go do it.  Go do it NOW. (Like, stop reading this, get off the couch, and go do it. Seriously.)

I can also tell you that we certainly haven't built the fairy tale we've built because we've focused on the strikes against us.  Because, when it comes right down to it, the fairly tale exists simply because we say it does. 

I could have just as easily sat down and written this from the opposite end of the kaleidoscope.  I could have bemoaned the fact that we are, indeed, high school dropouts.  I could have droned on about the months and years the Army has kept our family separated.  I could have complained about the sacrifices we've made to stay free of debt while meeting intermediate and long-term savings and retirement goals on an enlisted soldier's salary.  I could have whined like a bitch about the relative impossibility of homeschooling two kids, working a full-time job, and keeping the damn floor vacuumed on a semi-regular basis.

I could have made some arbitrary list of little annoyances that are tailing me like a stalker on a country road at midnight- Andrew needs braces.  The cars need inspections and tune-ups.  The windshield on the truck needs replacing.  I need to mail my niece's Christmas and birthday presents.  Andrew's birthday is the day after tomorrow and I haven't bought him a gift yet.  I'm going to be 34 in a week and I still have acne.  Our poor little 4-legged baby girl is at the higher end of her life expectancy and she's starting to show it.

We could give in to anger and spite, throw our hands up, and lie down on the railroad tracks because of Sarge's MS- At 35 years old, 3 years before retirement, possibly endangering his pension, his retirement benefits, his body, his mind, his lifestyle, and taking all the sweet, rose-colored visions we had of our future and flushin---

Obviously, you see where I'm going with this.  That's just down right pathetic, altogether backward, and just not the kind of person I am.

It's the mountains you climb that make the valleys that much more beautiful.

And it's the climb that makes me even more proud to be who I am and where I am right this very minute.  (Well, except for the MS thing.  I'm sure Sarge would be just as proud of himself without that little inconvenience.)

I could sit here and make all the lists in the world.  I could make goals and plans, deride my faults, and promise to turn over some ambiguous "new leaf" in regard to some little part of myself or my life that I'm unhappy with.  But truth be told, there is none.  Because everything that was, is, or will be is an irreplaceable chapter of our story.  And when some nasty, indiscriminate curve ball comes crashing through our window, we'll either find a place for it or toss it right back.  Because this is our fairy tale, our castle, and our happy ending.  Everyone has a fairy tale.  And you shouldn't have to wait for January 1st to write it.

Me- "Ummm....What's this?"


Sarge- "grbl shnirp frgl bltr......"















Me- "Excuse me? What was that?"


Sarge (whispering)- "....ahem....cotton candy sugar...."














Me- "And WHAT, pray tell, are you planning on doing with it?"


Sarge (eyes downcast)- "flrpl shdrk nrml vtrb....."











Me- "Sorry, I didn't catch that."


Sarge (deep breath)- "I was thinking I might buy a cotton candy machine on the internet.....?"

I could be working right now.

Or, I could post some of those obligatory snow pics that, as everyone is aware, are REQUIRED in order to secure your place in the Facebook cool club.  (Other required pics would include new baby pics, presents under the Christmas tree pics, and various pics of friends and/or family members drunk or otherwise with altered mental capacity). 

So, without further nonsensical digression from the original purpose of this blog post ado, I give you.....




........Sarge removing snow from our truck with my good broom.  You know, the one you use for the kitchen, which is separate from the one you use on the back porch.  Because the back porch has dirt on it.  Now my good kitchen broom has dirt on it.  Thanks Sarge.





Apparently, whenever you are a first sergeant, you have the privelege of being sent home with all the leftover crap after company FRG parties.  And because Sarge is an obsessive hoarder, I am not allowed to throw perfectly good snow cone syrup away.  So, it sits on top of the refrigerator....just waiting for opportunities like today. 










Only minimal amounts of dirt and bird shit involved.  This is why you never use all that pesky Purell crap.

Sarge- "Boys, you know a woman loves you when she gets up on Christmas Eve morning and the first thing she does is make your three favorite treats- Rice Krispy treats, haystacks, and peanut butter cookies."

[Sarge proceeds to smash 6 Rice Krispy treats into a ball the size of a softball and shove the whole thing in his mouth.]

________________________________________________
Me- "Boys! You guys better come in here and eat all this crap.  I spent all morning making this shit!"
[Jake proceeds to dunk his face into the bowl of cookie dough]
Me- "What?! I have a counter full of shit I've already cooked and you have to pick the one thing that isn't done yet?"
Jake- "Oh....you didn't mean the cookie dough? Nevermind then.....I'm not really hungry...."

________________________________________________
Jake- "C'mon Dad! Play Black Ops with us!  You know you want to....we're your sons!  Don't you wanna have father/son bonding time?"
Me- "Hey, dirtbag.  Why don't you get yer ass in here and fold this laundry with me.  We need some mother/son bonding time!"
Jake- [stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp......SLAM.]

________________________________________________
Me- "I thought you didn't like my sausage cheese balls."
Sarge- "I don't, but they're hot and they're available."
Me- "So you'll eat anything that's hot and ready?" .....oooooooooohhh.......CRAP.


________________________________________________
Oh, I'd also like to leave you with one more very important Christmas message.



At 0:42, Childfund would like to remind us, on this, the most *twinkly* holiday of the year, to say YES to BOOTY!

And now I'm officially going to hell for using a commercial about poverty-stricken children for my own amusement.

On Christmas Eve, no less. 

On that raunchy and tasteless note, I'll sign off now to go chill with my peeps.

But seriously, always say yes to booty.

Ok.

The End.

We decided to do something a bit different for Christmas this year.

This has really been the most difficult Christmas I've ever had as far as gift-buying is concerned.  The kids are at an age where they don't care anything about toys anymore.  They have all the game systems.  If they want something, they do chores, save up their money, and go buy it.  They couldn't even think of anything they wanted.  They mentioned they needed new jeans.  Sweet.  That's helps. 

It was getting to the point where I was just angry.  I felt like it was my job as a mother to make Christmas special, the way I've always done since they were old enough to know what Christmas is.

I just couldn't swallow waking up on Christmas morning without having all the fabulously wrapped gifts and awe and wonder and surprises under the tree.  You have to understand.  My mother used to wrap all our gifts complete with professionally curled ribbons and flawless wrapping.  I suppose that was part "single mom guilt" and part perfectionist.  She is, without a doubt, a perfectionist in every fiber of her being. 

What I've come to accept is that as your children grow and mature, so must your traditions.  And that I am the opposite of a perfectionist. 

So, this year, Christmas has matured a little.  We decided that each of the four of us were going to buy everyone one gift, so that on Christmas morning, everyone will have three gifts under the tree.  And we didn't go Christmas shopping until today.  TODAY.

We did give the boys the amount of money we normally spend on them at Christmas and they received money from other family members.

So when we went to the store to do our shopping today, I fully expected them to want to try to get away with spending as little money as possible on everyone else and buy themselves ridiculous amounts of candy and flashy electronical crap with their giant wad of cash.

Because that's what I would have done.

Because I did that once.

Once upon a time, when I was in 7th grade, I made a wooden soap dish in shop class.  That same year for Christmas, my stepdad took us Christmas shopping at the mall.  He gave us some money and we were supposed to go buy our mom a Christmas gift.  So what do I do?  I go to the cheap store and find a wooden bar of soap that has the word "SOAP" carved into it.  BRILLIANT! So, my mom got a wooden soap dish and a wooden bar of soap for Christmas and I pocketed $18.75.  It was probably the most ingenious idea I had ever devised up until that point in my life.  And to this day, my mother still keeps her soap dish and bar of soap right there next to her kitchen sink.  Needless to say, I got a serious, well-deserved tongue-lashing from my stepdad that year. 

Obviously, I expected as much from my beautiful offspring.

Little did I know, my gorgeous spawn would have royally kicked my 7th grade ASS.

Separately, without conferring with one another, and without a thought as to what big/little brother was buying him, they willingly and excitedly forked over almost $100 on their gifts for each other.  I didn't know what to buy them.  They didn't know what to tell me to buy them.  But they knew EXACTLY what to buy each other.  And they did it with more gusto and tingly gift-buying revelry than I've been able to muster all damn year. 

Now I just hope that as they're patting each other on the back and giving high fives on Christmas morning, they don't hang me from the ceiling fan with their new jeans.

The original plan was to make our very own "my first injection" video like the trillion or so we've been watching on Youtube over the past couple weeks.  The information and insight provided by these awesome people has really been infinitely helpful.

However, in so doing, we discovered a couple of things.

First, when it comes down to actually sticking the needle in, having a camera in your face just pisses you the fuck off.  Especially when your wife and kids won't shut the hell up. 

Second, sometimes the lessons learned in the preparation are just as invaluable.  Or inappropriate.  Or creepy.  Or just plain wrong. 

So, this is our family's contribution to the MS community.  Or not.

December 16, 2010

Obviously, things are going to be a little different around here.

I had a dream last night that not only did Sarge's medication have to be injected, but all his food had to be injected, also.  So, I tried stuffing my chicken and rice into a syringe.  When I woke up, he was sitting in his recliner playing World of Warcraft.  The World of Warcraft thing is new....the kids sucked him in......into the World......of Warcraft.






I'll admit, Sarge is a little....freaked out.  Hahaha...I'll admit....get it? Because it's easy for me to admit that.  Because I don't have to take the shot.  And I'm not a battle-hardened, muscle-bound, scruffy-looking nerfherder.

Shit, did I just make a Star Wars reference in the middle of talking about my husband's life-altering illness?  I think I did. 





Regardless, there are some things that will never change.  We will continue to make people around us uncomfortable with our inappropriate jokes that no one is ever certain if they should laugh at.  We'll continue to only take seriously those things that absolutely must be taken seriously, because anything else would just be a waste of an opportunity to laugh.

We'll continue to raise our boys to have a mind of their own, to question everything, to stand up for their passions, to understand the inexplicable, and to never accept the unacceptable. 

And like anyone whose best friend is a superhero, I will continue to hold him steady when he falters, pull him down when he gets too high, be his sounding board when he needs to rant.......and, evidently.....he thinks....I should just generally make him feel better.














The End.

I don't suppose many women are aware of this.  Because I'm assuming many women fall for it.  Clearly, if he didn't go to Jared, he hates you, thinks your fat, wishes your mother would drop dead, and never wanted those damn kids to begin with.  Clearly.  However, Jared isn't the only jewelry store guilty of subliminally raping your womanhood.

According to Kay Jewelers......



Women are scared of thunderstorms.  And metrosexual men who spend way too much time on their greasy curls can save you with their superpower-infused necklaces that will never let you go......NEVER let you go....NEVER LET YOU GO.....(I'm having visions of Annie Wilkes and horse-hobbling here.....)


Also, according to Kay Jewelers......



Asking whether or not your 6-7-month-old child will remember her first Christmas is a valid question.  Because every mother wants to believe her child has a chance of being an idiot savant.  And if you buy their shit-colored diamonds, that possibility is well within your reach.

So, yeah.  I need to go ahead and make a serious admission.  I hate gift-giving holidays.  I hate birthdays.  I absolutely despise Valentine's Day.  Mother's Day and Father's Day are completely useless.  And.....I hate Christmas........*GASP*

So what gives?

Really, it's one simple concept.  The expectation of giving and receiving gifts.  For some twisted reason, it makes me angry.  It makes me angry to think someone is stressing themselves out over what to get me, especially when there is nothing I want, which is most of the time.  It makes me angry to feel stressed over what to buy someone else.  If the idea of giving and receiving gifts was completely taken out of the equation, I'd have no problem with holidays.  I don't mind having a Christmas tree or decorating or celebrating birthdays, aside from the gift part.

Make no mistake- I do like giving gifts.....if it's something the other person REALLY wants or REALLY needs, and preferably NOT on a day when people EXPECT to get gifts.  And make no mistake- I do like receiving gifts, not because the day calls for it, but because there is something I really would like to have and the gift giver really wants to give it. 

Needless to say, I am beyond annoyed right now.  I am beyond uncomfortable, beyond stressed, and beyond ready for this fucked up year to be over.

And I just realized I'm going to be 34 years old in 3 weeks.  Naturally, I don't want any presents.....unless you can cure MS. 

Oh, and here's another admission-  I haven't bought a single Christmas gift yet.

And my Christmas tree is only 3 feet tall because I refuse to move my furniture around to make room for an ugly-ass tree with electric lights on it......although it is kinda cute.  


I hate egg nog.

I hate pumpkin pie.

I hate turkey.

I hate stuffing.

And yeah, Thanksgiving is pretty lame, too, but at least folks aren't standing around with their damn hand out waiting for presents.

Needless to say, I'm very glad my kids are old enough that I no longer have to pretend that Christmas is the fucking jolliest day of the year.  That shit got old quick.  I am trying very hard to be.....spirited.  I'm afraid it's going to require large doses of spirits, however.  Perhaps I will drink myself into a jolly stupor until it's TAX TIME, BITCHES!  Which is my favorite time of year.  Not because we ever get a fat refund or anything, but because I love doing taxes.  Because I think it's fun.  To fill in little blanks with numbers.  And read directions.  And find all the little things that are different in the tax laws from last year.  It so exciting.  You think I'm kidding?

December 6, 2010

Jake- "Hey, mom.  What would you do if your son walked into the living room dressed in women's clothes?"

Me- "Well, I guess it depends on the age.  How old are we talking?"

Jake- "Teenager."

Me- "Well, I certainly wouldn't put it past you or your brother."

Jake- "Yeah, you're right.  We'd probably do that.  Okay, toddler."

Me- "You've already done that.  Shall I remind you of the time you and Andrew came strutting out of my bedroom wearing my underwear and bras and saying 'Look mom! We're womens!"

Jake- "Oh, right.  Okay, well, what if you were a normal mom and you had normal teenage boys and they walked into the living room with women's clothes on?"

Me- "I'm NOT normal.  And you and your brother aren't normal.  We're better than normal.  So, if you're asking me what I would do if I were boring or ignorant, then I don't know.  Because I'm not.  And neither are you.  If you're trying to ask me what I would do if I found out that my teenage son was a crossdresser, gay, or just thought Victoria's Secret fit him better than Hanes, I'd probably just offer to buy him his own clothes so he wouldn't have to wear mine.  Anything else you want to know?"

Jake- "So, basically, there's nothing I could do that would shock you."

Me- "Sweetheart, I taught you how to put on eyeliner.  If you just want to shock me, you're going to have to try a lot harder than sexual ambiguity.  Actually, you and your brother have both already shocked your dad and me more than anything you could do purposely."

Jake- "And how's that?"

Me-  "You guys are fucking awesome.  We honestly didn't know if it was possible for the two of us to produce anything that awesome, so we were pretty shocked to find out that you were already born that way.  All we had to do was keep your fingers out of the electrical sockets and feed you every once in a whilee.  And BAM!  Pure fucking awesomeness."

Jake- "What's new? I'm already very much aware of the level of my awesomeness.  I'm just trying to figure out yours."

Me- "Smartass.  That was supposed to be a mother/son bonding moment there, Einstein."

[After a couple hours of stewing on his last comment, which I excluded from my original post because I'd forgotten he said it and didn't see the significance anyway.]

Me- "Okay, you've officially succeeded in getting into my head. NOBODY gets into my head!"

Jake- "I know.  Are you shocked?"

Me- "FRICK! Shut up....."

Written while sitting in stopped traffic at a green light.

I HATE YOU!

I hate you more than the Taliban.
I hate you more than McDonalds.
I hate you more than vomit.
I hate you more than fake homeless veterans holding a cardboard sign begging for money from the people who are sitting in stopped traffic at a green light.
I hate you more than Raeford Road and Murchison Road put together.
I hate you more than Wal-Mart.
I hate you more than when people say R.I.P when someone dies.
I hate you more than Oprah.
I hate you more than wasabi.
I hate you more than car salesmen.
I hate you more than algebra.
I hate you more than when people find out you homeschool and ask about socialization.
I hate you more than the color pink.
I hate you more than people who bitch about "X-Mas" yet they have no idea where the phrase actually came from and that it has nothing whatsoever to do with religion or "taking christ out of Christmas." [eye roll]
I hate you more than mani pedis and massages and having strangers' creepy bacteria-laden hands on me.
I hate you more than taxes.
I hate you more than Miracle Whip.
I hate you more than The Disney Channel.
.............white plastic blinds!
.............people selling puppies out of their truck on the side of the road!
.............anyone named Penelope!
.............80s bangs!
.............AAAAAAAAAAAAND............whiney bitches who always hate stuff!

If an earthquake ever happens in Fayetteville, I hope it kills you DEAD!

The End.

I'll admit it.  I'm a terrible "Army wife."  Just terrible.  Even after 17 years at this game, I still know next to nothing about the Army.  The even terrible-er part is that I don't care.  That's the reason I know nothing.  I just don't care.  It's Sarge's job, not mine.  I don't even remember the name of his battalion or brigade or unit or company or whatever.  He told me a long time ago.  He even told me not to forget.  I should have written it down.


Somehow, we've seriously fallen through the cracks.  In the entire time Sarge has been in the Army, we have never PCS'd (moved) on the Army's dime.  There are only 2 non-consecutive years that we have not lived in Fayetteville.  Both of those moves were paid out of pocket for me (the first time) and the whole family (the second time) to move there and to move back.  The rest of those 15 years, we have been stationed in Fayetteville.  No where else.  Ever.  At all.  My 13-year-old child was born here.  I know dick about PCS-ing.

We've never lived on base.  Ever.  I know dick about on-post housing.

I hate the commissary and PX and avoid them like the plague.  The only reason you'll ever find me in a commissary is to buy Korean galbi ribs because buying them at a local Korean grocery store is ridiculously expensive.

As long as we have lived in this damn town, I still barely know my way around Ft. Bragg.  I know how to get to the doctor's office, the hospital, and the commissary.  That's it.  If Sarge tries to give me directions to his office or tell me names of roads, he might as well be speaking Tagolog.....and at any given moment, there is a 60% chance he really is speaking Tagolog.  Our dog even responds to his stupid commands in Tagolog.  Stupid Tagolog.  I hate that language.

Even after 3 combat deployments, 9 months in the Philippines, two MOS changes, and countless schools and TDYs, I can count on 2 hands the number of times I've been to an FRG meeting (family readiness group now, used to be family support group, both are stupid).  I even used to ask him to take his wedding ring off when he went to work so no one would know he was married.  I like my privacy.

So, what's my point here?  I really don't have one.  Power Point Ranger posted a comment on Facebook earlier about a group he started for people with military blogs.  And I realized at that moment that I don't even know enough about the Army to write a paragraph much less an entire blog.  Believe it or not, I don't even have enough opinions about the Army to write a paragraph.  I just really don't care all that much.  The Army's been very good to us.  Sarge loves his job.  I don't have any grievances.  He goes to work, he comes home.  Sometimes he has to go places.  Then he comes back.  He makes plenty of money, has good benefits, and wears a cool uniform.  What else is there to know?

I'm sure that with that many years (and presumably that much experience) under our belts, I should probably want to help younger families, be some sort of a mentor or something, right?  Hmph.  Yeah.  Me?!  Umm...not so much.  I've discovered most people don't really want your advice anyway.  They just want you to either hold their hand and do it for them, or be told they're doing it right even if they aren't, or be told that if they're not doing it right, it's the Army's fault.  And I just can't get on the "Army sucks" train.

[Edited a bunch of mean shit that made me laugh but would probably offend a bunch of people]

I'm starting to think my aversion to becoming saturated in the Army culture is because of my inability to assimilate.  I'm clearly socially awkward and flatly inappropriate with a propensity to offend without even realizing it.  Even my kids' short stint in the Cub Scouts almost killed me.  The banality of uniformism is beyond my ability to comprehend.  I was very glad to discover that my kids hated it for the same reasons I did, although I did discourage them from coming home after every meeting and dissin' on the rosy-cheeked little boys who prefer making pinewood derby cars to telling yo momma jokes.  Okay, BRAKES.  Unlike the Army, I could definitely start a blog on all the reasons I hate the Boy Scouts of America and everything they stand for.  The banality of uniformism.  I like that.  I totally made that up.

Obviously, I do know as much as I need to know about the Army in so far as my role as the family's financial manager, doctor appointment-maker, and.....okay, so yeah, those things.  I do the taxes and keep tabs on our investments, so I know how to navigate those websites.  I always have an updated power-of-attorney, a power-of-attorney I have NEVER needed. 

[Edited some more mean shit that was pretty cathartic to type but was a textbook example of cruel stereotyping for the sole purpose of simply being mean to a huge percentage of Army spouses who might find this blog and send me death threats]

Good gravy, I don't even remember why I wrote any of this.  I guess maybe to explain why this isn't an "Army" blog when clearly most people would think that subject alone would provide for years of writing prompts and a captive audience who would hang on my every sliver of old-timer advice.  Well, now you know.

The same holds true for homeschooling.  It just stands to reason that someone like myself, who has homeschooled for 8 or 9 years now, would be chomping at the bit to rattle off some wicked homeschooling blog filled with witty quotes, curriculum reviews, time management advice, reams of tangential and trite lectures on the benefits of homeschooling and the evils of institutionalized schooling.  Oh my.  Yes.  I've seen it all.  I have no advice to give in that arena, either. 

Hmm....I could have a parenting blog.  I've been doing that for while, right?

Or I could have a marriage blog.  Shit, I've been married half my life.  Surely I have some marital advice to push?

I could have a blog about money.  I like money.  I like doing awesome magical things with money that make it multiply and spawn and reproduce and grow like those ugly ass weeds in my front garden.  I like money.  I sure as shit ain't tellin' any of my secrets!  Plus, money is fun to play with but boring to talk about, and even boring-er to read about.


Ooooh!  I could have an MS blog now, right?  I know you've seen that Scrubs episode where Turk and Carla use his diabetes as an excuse to get out of shit.  Awesome.  MS is a great excuse for a blog.  But, no.

So, I guess the point I'm trying to make is that I don't understand how someone can write an entire blog about one subject, whether it be the military, being a military spouse, homeschooling, parenting, illness, or anything else they choose to define themselves by.  Clearly, there is an audience for it and I can appreciate that, but it isn't my life.  The Army doesn't dominate my life.  Hell, it doesn't even come up in conversation that often.  Sarge even changes into his civilian clothes before he comes home from work in the evening because he can't stand bringing work home with him.  Do other military families talk about it all the time?  Does it dominate their lives?  Are Sarge and I just really that different? 

In the same vein, homeschooling doesn't dominate our lives.  *GASP* Parenting doesn't even dominate our lives!  And I can tell you one fucking thing right now, MS sure as shit isn't going to dominate our lives.

So, you freaks are just going to have to deal with my random ramblings about whatever is tickling my fancy at any given moment.   Or you can go read some flickted military spouse blog.

Don't tell me you don't remember FLICKTED.  You know you said it while wearing a Swatch watch and neon leg warmers.