French chicks have it so easy.

So yesterday in my sicken stupor I was reading online about the French Riviera, specifically the pebble beaches of Nice, France.

About how the stones never get hot enough to burn your feet and are great for skipping and also how it's a topless beach. My immediate thought upon reading this was this:

Wow. Those French chicks must save a lot of money on bathingsuits.

Bathingsuits are expensive and by only having to buy the bottom half you save at least half off the price, probably more than that. The top half is the expensive part of the swimsuit. Think of the money you could save! I was just perusing swimsuits online and the one I want is $120. If I only had to buy the bottom it would save me $70 buckaroos. You could buy another whole half bathingsuit with those savings. Combined with the money they save by not buying razors to shave their pits it's no wonder they can afford all those swank designer clothes.

Although you do lose out on considerable fashion statements. For example, my new favorite thing is to mix bottoms and tops of bathingsuits, instead of wearing them together. I can get away with this because I don't wear prints (See Cue the sigh of disdain blog post. Though I must say that swimsuits are small enough that you could get away with mixing prints. But you would have to be uber careful and they would have to have matching colors. Florals and stripes and the like. And appropriately sized prints. You can't mix two big prints. There are just too many rules to print mixing to put in a parenthetical.) and you can mix solids. There is not a whole lot of statement you can make with just bottoms. Unless they're those bottoms that have those dumb keyhole cut-outs. That statement you're making is "Hi, I'm a dumb whore." Then again if you're only wearing half a swimsuit you're obviously not concerned about looking a little less than modest. Or those stupid little ruffle skirts that aren't long enough to serve any purpose. Those say "Hi. I obviously have daddy issues because I cannot purchase age appropriate swimwear and I make it even creepier by choosing to abstain from the top half of it." But these are clearly American mistakes. Europeans have an innate fashion sense that makes them turn their nose up at key-hole cutouts. I can't say the same for ruffle skirts. I feel they may covet them this season. Sigh. But I'm sure that French chicks have the whole topless bathingsuit thing under control and are the richer for it.

Although I just recently read or heard, on NPR I think, that the Frenchies are starting to wear their tops because the Americans are besmirching their topless beaches with tackiness. That now on the Riviera it's the French women covering up. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that the vintage suit is coming back and we know how the French like to be ahead. Just in fashion though.

I know, I know. I'm sorry. No Moxy today.

Today Moxy was supposed to go to the wine festival. But she didn't make it. Mostly because I'm sick (still) and she can't drive a manual transmission.

Somehow I didn't think a trip to the storage unit and CVS Pharmacy were exciting enough for a Moxy on the Move post.

But! I can feel the antibiotics coursing through my veins now, so maybe tomorrow or Monday we'll go somewhere for a Moxy on the Move segment. Let's shoot for Monday.

I am still le-sick. And a smidge more pissed off about it than yesterday.

Soooooo you know how I mentioned the only thing I hate worse than a sore throat is an ear ache...

Well all I'm saying is that everyone should be grateful I made it to my mom's in time to at least prevent that. It was kind of touch and go there for a minute though. They started to hurt and I began to panic and then my mom informed me she wasn't scared of me. Then she brought me antibiotic ear drops because secretly she knows it's easier to appease me than to deal with me. She never did tuck me in.

I will say that it is amazing how much better I felt when I was here, at her house, in my bed, or at least the bed I sleep in at her house. My bed is in storage.

That's right I moved today. Sick. Whilst I did not have a fever, (I think my thermometer lied to me for a while) it was still rather touch and go at times. I must give kudos to my dad and my two bff's, RR & JH, for hanging in there and helping. I'm a whiny somebody when I'm in pain. I decided today that if I never have a sore throat again it will be too damn soon. Someone should really come up with an effective pain management strategy for sore throats, and the associated inflammation.

Have you ever sneezed with a sore throat? I figured I was in the process of tearing my own uvula out with the forced exhale of air. Seriously, it's freaking hurts. Badly.
I would not have been surprised to have looked down into the tissue and seen my weak, puny, sorely inflammed uvula laying there in my hand sputtering:

"Did you have to kill me this way? Couldn't you have just swallowed me?"

(Of course this would be impossible to understand because I do not speak Uvulese, but you get the picture. Just for reference, your uvula is the dangly part at the back of your throat.)

Because let's face it. You 're only supposed to take 2500 mg of Tylenol a day (that is 5 of them and they last 4 hours plus/minus an hour, heavy on the minus part), 4 Goody Powders in a 24 hour period (I had that done by 2 PM) and 6 ibuprofen (at 4 at a time that's a dose and a half). So you do the math,

My liver is pissed.

And my throat still hurts.

But I am le-sick.

I loathe, detest, vehemently protest, being sick. It drives me bonkers.

I think it's because I'm constantly on the go. And when you're sick you have to just sit around and not do anything. It's kind of like when it snows and you can't go anywhere.

I have a sore throat. It's amazing how much you don't think about swallowing until it causes you great agonizing pain to do so. Then you do it every 3 minutes. Mostly to see if it still hurts, or if it hurts different from the last time it hurt. I guess that really proves I'm just stubborn or stupid.

The only thing that I hate worse than a sore throat is an ear ache. If you ever want to see me reduced to a child then let me get a earache. Seriously. I sit in the floor and sob. It is at that moment when I require my mother. She always makes me feel better.
Because that is what mom's are engineered to do.

In fact I'm sad that she's at the beach. At the beach! And I'm sick! Plus she took my dog. Who is going to make me feel better? And bring me ice cream.

Pretend I'm doing an affected sigh here.

Oh well. I just got all sad about being alone again. Damn! Must everything remind me of how miserable and pathetic I am!

Haha! I almost typed that without laughing. Look at that, even while my body is sick, my attitude still has a healthy amount of self aggrandizement.

A perplexing thing.

So I was in the grocery store looking at apple juice, because I really love apple juice and all, and I noticed something rather perplexing.

If it's 100% juice from concentrate, how exactly does that work?

I've always thought that you added water to concentrated juices to make your juice type beverage. But then it is no longer 100% juice. It's whatever percentage juice and water, like 60 - 40%. 100% juice implies that the total volume of your juice jug is directly from the fruit. IE they squeezed however many apples it took to fill up the jug and thus equalling 100% juice. So isn't it mis-leading to indicate it's 100% juice if it's from concentrate? It's really not possible. Right?

Just a thought.

An open letter to the staff at Anthropologie:

Ahem. I had occasion to visit your fine establishment this weekend and I have several items of interest that I would like to point out.

1. I not so secretly covet the octopus plates. But I've heard that your plates chip. Could you please make this not occur? (I should mention here that while I do not have an occasion for which I could register for these plates, Christmas will be here before you know it. And I would like them.)

2. You may want to consider making the closet in which you've stuffed the sale section a smidge bigger. I kind of got a little claustrophobic. And then I found my skirt. Happiness ensued.

3. Sometimes when there are multiple people in the same place some of them may share names. While I do appreciate the aspect of wandering around the store without the armload of items I've picked out, I do not appreciate having to beat some woman's ass in front of her child. It was not my fault that we shared the same name. It was also not my fault that I made it to the dressing room labeled: Anna 4 (which happened to magically be the number of things I was going to try on! Oh my!) first.

I am not a sales representative in your fine store and therefore are not contractually bound to be nice; I also understand that being nice is a condition of your employment. I should also hope that having a backbone is a requirement as well. Obviously it is not.

For future reference, women in their mid-forties who are dressing like they're 20 are not terribly sane people. They're a little, how do say...Bat-Shit Crazy. They often can be identified by their bad fake tans, over-use of gold accessories, and those god awful jelly shoes that have somehow made a comeback. Remember, constant vigilance is key.

I may be small but I do pack a mean punch and I do apologize for making the 10 year old cry. And for splattering the blood of a 42 year old on your mirror and several of your personnel. Who might I add may have avoided the blood splatter if they weren't running in the same direction as the crazy lady.

4. Does the "Never come here again" edict apply to your website as well?

Please do take these things into consideration as I think they may be extremely helpful in establishing a lucrative future for your fine store.

Thank you & Sincerely,

Anna Gray

Moxy on the Move - Bass Pro Shop

Moxy wanted a real adventure, so we ventured to the Bass Pro Shop at Concord Mills Mall.

Moxy trying on a hunting hat.

The bad thing about being an uglydoll is that your antennae get in the way sometimes. Especially when you're trying to rock a Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom hat. Moxy decided that her hat would have to have holes cut in it for her antennae.

Moxy posing with the fishes in the fish tank. Or a fish really.

So apparently Bass Pro Shops at Concord Mills Mall in Concord, NC has the most ginormous catfish known to man kind. Well it may not be that big but it is huge! Unfortunately he was too big to get in this picture so here Moxy is posing with a smaller but equally nice fish.

Please ignore the blurriness of this image. It was artistically done so as if you too were on the
"Party Barge 200" partying it up with Moxy.

Who knew there was a pontoon boat named the Party Barge 200? But there is. And Moxy has decided that this is the boat she would like to purchase, but she's going to need to get a job first.

Moxy being eaten by the fish mailbox!

Although she does not yet have a house, when she does get one she would like this mailbox. Moxy however does not like to be eaten. By a plastic fish or a real one. She also does not like to be mailed anywhere as she shares the same aversion to postal workers that I do.

Mooses are really quite large.

Really, really large. Moxy was a little bit afraid of the moose. But he was a friendly moose, a very friendly moose. In fact he was sad when Moxy had to go! I think he's a lonely moose. The bushbuck on the wall behind him did not look friendly at all.

You can't see Moxy when she's in her camouflage.

Seriously, you can't.

It was really hard to find her.

Our trip to Bass Pro Shops was fun and enlightening. But we did find that there are obviously not a lot of women that roll through the Bass Pro Shops because we got lots and lots of very strange looks. Especially at the gun counter. Maybe we will go to the gun show next weekend...

Screw Spontaneity. and/or Screw the act of Being Spontaneous.

(I hope I spelled spontaneity right. I'm too lazy to check.)

You know what? Being spontaneous is not fun. It's stressful. I like a regimented schedule and planning things. I like for planned things to go according to plan and if they don't go according to plan I like for them to at least follow a logical progression.

Because when they don't, stupid shit happens. You've met me. I don't do well when I have excess free time. I need the mental exercise. I can't turn this brain thing off. It's annoying really. This is the number one reason why I don't like surprises. Well that and I'm very skittish and obviously have control issues.

I need the regiment and the scheduling and the planning because my brain is like when you take the 96 box of crayons and dump them out on the floor. There's a whole lot of potential there, but it's a little overwhelming when they're all in a pile like that. Organizing them by color helps and makes it easier to find what you're looking for.

So don't go telling me to be spontaneous, It pisses me off. I don't do it well and thus will refuse to do it. So don't go getting all pissed off when I buck back and tell you to screw yourself.

You should have made an appointment.

The next time you're bored, wear a skirt to the auto parts store

So today I wore a skirt, as exemplified by the title of this post. And as also exemplified by the title of this post I had to go to the auto parts store. My rear-view mirror fell off the windshield. Leaving the futility of my life for a different blog post, we move on.

I mosey on into the auto parts in my skirt and I swear you would have thought I strolled into the Sahara with a water wagon. It was almost like those old westerns where the guy that has come to deliver the reckoning to the bad guys of the town wanders into the saloon and conversation stops. Yeah, definitely like that. But I want to be Val Kilmer from Tombstone. Doc was way more hard core than Wyatt Earp ever was. You're a daisy if you do and all.

People, when I say people I mean men because that's all that really populates an auto part store, acted like they had never seen a woman before. It's not like I'm insanely beautiful, well I am a big deal and kind of hot, but you get what I'm trying to say. At first, you'd think that you would feel embarrassed but you get over it pretty quick. There is something empowering about walking in somewhere an knowing everyone is thinking about you. About who you're there to shoot and whether or not they've done something to piss you off.

God I love Westerns.

The second greatest thing about being a woman and wandering into an auto parts store is that they always assume that you're an idiot. You've met me. This goes over with me like a box of rocks. Also contrary to popular belief I'm not an idiot when it comes to cars and car parts. Seriously I think I know more about cars than the people at the Auto Zone, well it's not like I could take the transmission out of your car with my eyes closed or anything but I could probably figure it out. I'm actually a very quick study and very mechanically minded. What I'm trying to say it that it's sad when I am explaining things to the auto parts representative. Just ask Rusty about the brake fiasco of last month in which I had to make a scene. (Maybe it's just because I drive a Volkswagen...)

And although this is a general response to any situation in which a woman wears a skirt, a girl cannot even ride down I-40 without being blasted by a truck horn, it's annoying, it still makes for an eventful evening.

The same can be said for wandering through the Bass Pro Shops. Especially the gun section. You'd think that they'd seen the fairer sex before.

Obviously not.

An open letter to the annoying girl in my spin class. Again.

Hello there. Again.

I realize that this time I goofed up. I spoke to you first. But that was to tell you to not ride the bike that was out of order, since you clearly cannot read. It was not an invitation for you to sit next to me, thus putting all four of the people in the class in a row. Thank God I have enough good sense to sit on the end. Speaking of good sense,

I do admire the change in your attire and that your hair is looking much better these days, but you're still a chatty Kathy and that just has to stop. I cannot talk and spin. Mostly because as stated before I am working HARD.

Stop trying to be cute. She clearly said "Abs" because when the instructor refers to our "Ass" she calls it "Glutes." If I didn't know any better I would think you were hitting on me. But you're clearly hetero because you've got progeny.

And must you continue to mention your children? Are you trying to give my uterus a complex? Seriously? I DO NOT CARE THAT YOU HAVE CHILDREN.

NO NO NO! I do not care! Just shut up and go away! YOU SMELL FUNNY ANYWAYS! ALTHOUGH THAT'S PROBABLY THE SCENT OF YOUR UTERUS BEING USED! SINCE YOU CLEARLY HAVE CHILDREN! AND I OBVIOUSLY DO NOT! YOU'VE PROBABLY GOT ANOTHER CHILD GROWING IN THAT WOMB-O-PLENTY. IF YOU WERE A CHICKEN YOU WOULD BE ONE OF THOSE CHICKENS THAT LAYS DOUBLE EGGS BECAUSE YOU'RE SUPER FERTILE OR SOMETHING. QUIT TALKING TO ME! I CANNOT TALK and SPIN at the same time!

REMEMBER THE STROKE! Oh look! I'M HAVING ANOTHER ONE.

EGHGHHHH HUUUNNNNH EEEWWWWWUUUUUU
Translation: I hate you. I hate you for reminding me that my love life is non-functional and for reminding me that I am no closer to having children than the last time you were here. I hate you for being here. I hate you for being ugly and having a horrible fashion sense. Couldn't you just go away and pick a different class? Why didn't you come to the earlier class? Why do you continue to talk to me when I clearly do not talk back to you?

WWWHHHHHHIIIIUUUUNNNNNHHHHHH
Translation: Oh god.


NNNNNNNNNUUUUUUUUUUIIIIIIIIII GGGGGGNNNNNN
Translation: Maury Povich called. He thinks he's found your third child's baby daddy. He's narrowed the search down to the last 14 people you've slept with. His production crew never could find that circus carney with the three teeth and vestigial leg. No offense to circus carneys.

No, there's no need to call the ambulance. I'm okay. Really. Although, if you aren't going to use that workout towel can I use it to wipe the blood out of my ears?

Sincerely,
Anna

A Cultural No-No: Stupid Names for your Baby

This is your PSA for the day.

Do not make up the name for your child. No one thinks you're creative, they think you're stupid. And your children will suffer. I promise. Especially a name that resembles farm buildings.

Since everyone I know is either hitched or shacked up and squirting out babies, the Great Baby Naming Escapade of my generation has begun. The sad part about this is that the tacky people I went to high school with, Guess what? They're still tacky. Except now they're just exemplifying their tackyness by naming their kids stupid things. It's one thing if every male in your family for the last 14 generations has been named Hoyt. That's excusable. Cael is not. Especially when neither you or your husband are the least bit Scottish/Welsh/Old English.

It's okay to be creative. I know people that have super creative names and it's cool. Regan, for example. What an amazing name. Actually that whole family has super awesome names and I'm not just saying that because I heart them all mucho. Actually one of them has the coolest middle name in all of modern history. Gray. Yeah it's pretty awesome.

Speaking of my name, I used to hate it. Mostly because every time my mother ever needed to reach me at school she told them my full name. So I always heard: Anna Gray, please report to the front office. Or they would page me in class: Mrs. King, do you have Anna Gray in class? It was a point of contention for many years. Now I've come to terms with it. I actually like it. Mostly because my grandmother divulged that I'm named after her, her name being Annie. My middle name comes from my dad who was named after the doctor that saved his father's life in WWII. Hence I became Anna Gray. I think it's pretty awesome. But by now you've realized that I often have a healthy sense of self-aggrandizement.

So remember kids: Don't make up creative names for your children. You look stupid and your kids will be douchebags out of necessity.

Unless it's something super awesome like, Annika Boomquisha. That we can live with.

My life would be so much easier if I wasn't a superficial bitch.

Today I was standing in Lowe's looking at paint swatches because I had nothing better to do. I find real enjoyment in looking at the paint swatches, I like the groupings of all the colors and how they're all there together and the organization. I feel the same way about crayons. I always peeled the wrappers off of my crayons and looked at the colors. The colors, the pretty colors. I swear I'm an adult. I promise. Anyway, I was looking at paint swatches and I saw the little books they have of color palettes and rooms that use those color palettes, etc and I was immediately hyper-critical of the rooms in the little books (to my credit some of them were hideous.)

I'm a snob about paint colors. This surprised me, not a whole lot but a little. I know I'm a snob about hair products and clothes and condiments (Generic condiments are sins against nature.) but paint colors? I stood there in the Lowe's an was offended by paint colors! Really? I need a reality check.

I then started thinking about other things I'm superficially hyper-critical about. These include: men, fashion choices, nationality, art, names, music/radio stations, and general life decisions. Heaven forbid you listen to Linkin Park, Evanescense (or however that stupid bitch spells it), the Goo Goo Dolls or Nickelback because I just might assault you. The same applies if you're from Canadia. Seriously, can't we just annex Canadia and force them to make us commodities and luxury goods? Like maple syrup and, well I cannot think of anything else Canadia is known for so they could also make us fun jello molds. You always could use more fun jelloed things in your life. For serious.

I spend a lot of my time being cranky that someone else is making a bad fashion choice or has a stupid face or that people actually buy those bad, really bad, attempts at modern art. It may be just a canvas of paint splatters or stripes but it still has form and balance and movement, those things make it good art, not cheap Chinese crap. I would be much happier if I would just let people be. Honestly what damage does it do to me that your hair is jacked up? And you're wearing colored argyle? Nothing really, except the assault on my visual senses but hopefully I can erase the image of disarray that you've burned into my retinas.

It goes back to the control issues. I think I'm going to write a blog entry about how tacky people are and about how great I am and it comes back around to the same issue that pervades my life and is the main hindrance in the relationships I have with people. Imagine that.

Well thats just depressing. I think I'll go curl up with the J-Crew catalog and think about chinos.

Moxy on the Move - Pet Supplies Plus

Today Moxy traveled to Pet Supplies Plus. She was interested in pet supplies. Obviously. Not that she has any pets. She tries to convince Duck that he's her pet but Duck isn't having any of it. So she was in the market for a pet. But Rusty wants me to inform everyone that Pet Supplies Plus does not actually have any pets in the store. (That was the only way I was going to drag him into the store with me.)

Moxy on the Food Scale

Moxy is a girl that has to watch her figure, hence her interest in the scale. But then she decided she was a girl of confidence and decided to ignore the results.

Moxy trying out the Wabbitat

Since Moxy is the approximate size of a Rabbit she thought that she would try out the rabbit cages. She's decided that she doesn't like the feeling of being confined.

Where's Moxy?

Moxy has always sought out a carpeted refuge. And alas she has found a cat tree. She did not get said cat tree because it was $100 but it was a nice thought for a little while. You can never really go wrong with a padded jungle gym...Maybe they could consider putting them into padded rooms in asylums? They'll definitely provide hours of entertainment there.

See you next Saturday!

I'm having a Peacock kind of day.

If by reading Peacock, you infer that I had a day in which I strutted around flaunting my beauty and the underlings of the forest/savanna reveled in my beauty whilst being insanely jealous, then you would be correct in your inference.

I had an on day. It was a hot as not quite the sun, but an equally large and hot planet that isn't the center of some puny little galaxy, a tertiary planet. I don't want to seem helio- or egocentric. Like I said: On day.

I wore my favorite black dress with my amazing shoes, which were amazingly comfortable. Thanks be to the Lord. (I know what you're thinking. Really, the Lord made your shoes comfortable? My opinion on that is this: If the the Lord can heal people of terminal illnesses and deadly diseases then why couldn't he do this too? I could die if my feet fell off. And if I didn't die I would most certainly look funny. Besides, if the Lord chooses to bless me with a comfortable-amazing-shoe day then who am I to question his divine judgment? I'm just thankful that he has chosen me to bestow these little graces upon.) Not to mention, I'm quickly on my way to becoming quite svelte so it was joyous running around in a little dress a size too big, it makes a person feel skinny.

But I digress.

I took a internet test one time that supposedly told you which animal you were and it said that I was a peacock (Thank you very much!). But the beginning line of the description of said peacock was this:

"Peacocks are not overburdened by brains."

Did you catch that? Of course you did. You're probably an elk or an eagle or hell, even a beaver or a freaking mountain billy-goat that eats cigarettes and the under-pinning off of trailers is smarter than a peacock. It essentially said, "Yeah you're cute, but dumb as a box of hammers or hair or whatever stupid items you could fit into a box."

I had somewhat of a flighty day today. I thought I had left my pocketbook in the hall at commencement but I had no distinct recollections of bringing it over from my office. And the coup-de-grace: I lost my cell phone for 6 hours. And it was in my pocketbook. My little-ish brown Coach one. Not the giant seagull one that I lug around in the summer so I can be on the perpetual hunt for my next sun and cocktail spot. My smallish bag. Seriously? How do you lose (You'll notice that I didn't say loose. That grates my nerves! Just another friendly reminder that I'm at least pseudo-intelligent.) your cell phone in your pocketbook? I was convinced that I had lost it. I was convinced that I left it on the back of the car and drove off without it. But alas, in the pocketbook it was.

Needless to say I'm trying to bust the bum rap of the peacock for being stupid. Do you know how smart and crafty you have to be to maneuver that tail around? It's not easy. And then you have to be rather intelligent to juggle the schedule of a peacock; all those guest appearances. It's not easy. It get's tiring. Not to mention how wily you have to be to avoid all of the adoring fans and crazy witches trying to yank feathers out of your tail. I think you can agree that the peacock has an undeserved reputation of being unintelligent and stupid.

So the next time you see a vapid beauty standing around basking in the glow of their own awesomeness...

Hit them in the face and scold them. I'm the only smart peacock. They're just vapid and stupid.

I fucking hate cancer, and not because it kills people.

That part about it killing people sucks really bad. But right now I mostly hate it because it's complicated. Biology is complicated and hard. I wanted to be a biologist why, exactly?

I should be studying/cramming but I just ingested a chapter and lecture about senescence and crisis and telomeres that resembles my love life a little too well.

They're all double-entendres (I hope I spelled that right. I'm too lazy to look it up.)

Senescence being the non-replicative state entered into by cells that have had their replicative potential fulfilled. Replicative potential. Just another dirty word/phrase for: My uterus is drying up and my ovaries are giving out.

Crisis. The state in which cells who have karyotypic instability enter into apoptosis and DIE. Like my love life. It is officially in Crisis. It is dead, has died and has undergone apoptosis. I guess my emotions would represent the chromosomes and there is definitely some genomic/karyotypic instability there. I would mention something about the breakage-fusion-bridge cycle but you can infer your own clever metaphors from that one. It's simply too easy.

Cancer cells escape crisis by expressing telomerase, an enzyme that lengthens telomeres and fools the generational clock of the cell. That's what I need right now. Something to fool my generational clock and coax my uterus into thinking that it has many many more years and thus cancelling the incessant ticking.

My mom came right out and mentioned it yesterday; it was Mother's Day so I couldn't become tyrannical about it. I made up some excuse about how I was working on it, but then I started to sound like a floozy so I had to back-pedal about that because goodness knows I'm anything but right now. And then the conversation ends with my clever but inane diatribe about the necessity of another partner in this process of fulfillment of one's replicative potential. I think that may have been the only chat my mother and I have ever had about activity-level of my love life. And it was creepy.

Just when I thought it could not get anymore awkward I find that my mother has recruited my aunt and uncle, her siblings, to her cause. Brilliant. I spared them the replicative potential chat. I just shrugged.

Now all I have to concentrate on is making sure my cancer biology exam does not end up as a treatise about why I'm unhappy about my own personal crisis and senescence. Hopefully I'll be successful. If not maybe the professor will take pity on the tear-stained sheets.

But I'll probably just drop back and do what I've always done when I don't know the answer. I'll just draw pictures.

Remember: Cancer, not our friend.

Low self-esteem. Childhood trauma. Blah blah snore.

Happy Mother's Day! I thought that today I would share a couple of stories about why my mom is indeed a true rock star. And an awesome mother.

1. The Christmas Tree Incident

As you may imagine I was one of those only children that got everything she ever wanted. I was also one of those divorced children that had two sets of everything, because my father was damn determined to prove that he loved me more because he could buy me better crap.

So it's Christmas time. I'm about 10 or 11 years old. Mother informs me we're off to get a Christmas tree. Back story: Having spent too much on her only child for Christmas, she no longer has the financial means to purchase an exorbitantly expensive Christmas tree. She has called her hippie friend who suggested that she just go cut one down. Realizing the brilliance of this plan, onward we proceed.

I cannot pretend to know the thought processes of my mother's brilliant mind. She really is quite intelligent. She starts driving down US 52 towards Lexington. I maintain a certain amount of apprehension.

The next I know she pulls over and jumps out of the car, hacksaw in hand, and runs up the hill. On the side of 52. She is going to cut down a tree on the side of 52. Holy crap, I proceed to freaking lose it.

By the time she has the damn tree halfway sawed down, I'm almost to tears. I'm swamped by emotions: scared, embarassed, anxious; I'm freaking out. If I would have known how to swear at 10 years old I would have been swearing up a storm; I'm convinced she's going to jail and my grandmother is not going to be happy to come and fish us out of jail. Needless to say she finishes cutting down this tree without incident and we haul into the car.

In retrospect I realize that she was just as freaked as I was. She sawed down quite possibly the most unnattractive tree known to man. She knew what she had to do. She had no time to dawdle by being choosy. The sheer determination that her child wasn't going to go without is actually quite admiral.

On a side note: I was there when she informed her hippie friend where she got said tree, and he was floored. His exact words, "Holy shit Pam, you could've gotten arrested. I meant get one off somebody's land somewhere."

That hadn't really crossed her mind.

2. Don't go across the back yard!

Fast forward a couple of years. My grandfather has passed and we have moved into the house directly behind my grandmother to help her out and so she could aggravate the shit out of my mom. Seriously.

During the summers I used to just run across our back yard to Mamow's back yard in the morning and hang out with her during the day.

This particular morning I am awakened by my mother's frantic phone call.

"Anna Gray. Do not run across the back yard. A prisoner has escaped."

"What? Are you sure?"

"Yes. Do not run across the back yard. I'll call your grandmother and have her come and get you."

Nevermind the prisoner was some white collar joker that escaped from Raleigh, my mother was convinced that I, little ole me, was so special that this escaped prisoner was headed straight for our house to abduct me. I'm trying to find admirable qualities that my mother has in these stories, hence the reason for me telling them. I guess this one elucidates her sometimes paranoid tendencies. Along with her extremely strong altruistic nature. Heaven forbid you threaten or harm me in any way, you'll most definitely be sorry.

3. I'm not riding 6 hours back to North Carolina with 40 lbs of shit in the car.

This really is just a funny story. No real meaning to it.

Mother arranges for a family vacation with my grandmother, she and I. We're going to the Chincoteague peninsula to watch the wild ponies swim. To Virginia we go.

If you've never vacationed with your family then you've no idea how fun it is. I'm being completely sarcastic. The problem with our family vacations is that we're all the exact same person.

My grandmother is one of those people that has to stop at every Roses she sees, because the ones in Virginia may be different than the ones in North Carolina. So we stop at the Roses in some one horse town in Virginia. God only knows where we are.

This particular Roses happens to have 20 lb bags of manure on sale for dirt cheap (no pun intended). My grandmother also is the type of person that cannot pass a good deal. She decides right there on the spot that she needs manure. And 20 lbs is not sufficient. She needs at least 40 lbs.

An argument begins. At first it was a very tame and grown-up argument. My mother pointed out that Mamow no longer had a garden. Mamow pointed out that she has a flower bed. Mother points out that there are stores in North Carolina that have manure. Mamow points out what a good deal the Roses has. By this point they've managed to draw a small crowd.

The great thing about my Grandmother is that she tends to pick fights with my mother for, well just really because she can. Mom can never recognize these fights, I can. Mamow is totally setting Mom up. It is at this point that Mom screams at Mamow: "I'm not riding 6 hours back to North Carolina with 40lbs of shit in the car." Mamow starts to giggle and Mom realizes she's been set up. And then she begins to cackle. And I was right behind them.

My relationship with my mother is strained at best some days. I'm sure on some level she's to blame for my issues, but for today I'll let that slide.

Moxy on the Move - Ski & Tennis Station

Today Moxy ventured to Ski & Tennis Station, which has lots of interesting yet over-priced things. It was an eventful trip. She was almost caught by the staff whilst climbing on the gear! Oh no!

Moxy likes Lacrosse heads. They're like a hammock for an uglydoll.

Moxy, being a hip and happening uglydoll, is into full contact sports. Hence her interest in lacrosse. She would waste you on the lacrosse field. Be wary. However, she has no interest in being the lacrosse ball. She was very adamant about that.

Moxy practices safety.

It's always important to protect yourself against unwanted diseases and accidental drownings. Moxy saw the boogie boards and literally had a conniption fit. She likes purple so she picked this life jacket. You can never be too careful.

Moxy yearns to ski.

Moxy wants to ski. Alas, she is a warm weather uglydoll. She would love to ski as long as there wasn't snow on the ground and she could have a martini. She's a martini kind of girl. Needless to say there won't be any skiing in Moxy's future. This is as close as she'll ever get to skis.

Needless to say our trip to Ski & Tennis Station was eventful. Thank goodness we'll never need to return because I'm not 100% sure they would let us.

Ta ta for now. See you on Saturday for the next installment of Moxy on the Move!

I do so enjoy these conversations we have.

I just saw on Time.com that the instance of the shaken baby syndrome is on the rise with the economic downturn.

I wonder if this also applies to the shaken parent syndrome?

I love these chats I have with my father. He is the reason why whenever someone says: "We need to talk." I clam up and shut down emotionally. We're talking hard reset. Seriously. I'm not kidding. It's to the point now I can predict the words that are coming out of his mouth. I may not be able to nail what is going on exactly, but I can get it within a 10% confidence interval. I'm that good. At least when it comes to picking out what is currently screwed up in my father's life. I think the thing that really gets me steamed about that man is his inability to recognize that he is in control of his life. He has an external locus of control, and it is mind-numbingly aggravating to me.

It is no wonder no one wants to date me. I've got the baggage from raising children. Except my children are grown and happen to be the people that gave me life. People who don't already have children have no possible way of comprehending my baggage much less dealing with it.

Brilliant, the only men I'm qualified to date already have one or several bad marriages with crappy divorces and angsty children with grudges. This is obviously my problem. Maybe I should just start standing outside the 2nd floor staircase at the Forsyth County Hall of Justice. I can pluck them when they're ripe for picking.

Or therapy. Maybe I could try therapy.

Or Thorazine. I could always try Thorazine. I keep threatening a Thorazine holiday.

Bah. Whatever. I guess a large part of it is that I let myself get wrapped up in it. So I suppose I'm just as guilty. Although I'm not as bad with my father as with my mother. With her I feel like I have an obligation to deal with her crap. She's my mom, she shat me out of her womb and dealt with me when I was an adolescent. (Believe me, that could not have been fun on any level. I had days when I was seriously on my own damn nerves. That's pretty bad.) While my dad is my dad and does fatherly like things for me, there are days where I really do not like the person he is. I love my dad. I do not love the man my dad is. He's getting better though. I'll give him that. If only he would just listen to me.

I guess we're back to the "I need to run your life because you can't" modus operandi I function under. So I suppose I'll work on letting him run his own life too.

But then what I am going to do when I get bored? A person can only do so much spin class and blog so much. I need things to do when I'm bored and it just so happens that my parents conveniently call me when I happen to be bored (mostly because they call me constantly.)

OMG I just realized that I am Jack Shepard from Lost. Great. I'm the asshole that has to fix things and never actually does. I just fuck it up worse than it already was. Great. I'm off to find a thermonuclear device and plant myself under it. Then I have to find an Iraqi torturer with a canvas backpack to tote said thermonuclear device across the island of my discontent. Then I need to find a rock so I can bang on the bomb with it, so it will explode.

Look at that. A Lost synopsis of the past 5 seasons and a half page psycho-analysis all in one post.

Somedays it is truly difficult to be who I am.

A story for Jessica - and for the rest of you: The time there was a worm in my head.

My bff Jessica was telling me the other day that I needed to put the story of when I thought I had a worm in my head on my blog. So here goes.

Imagine your humble narrator waking up one morning (or afternoon, whatever the case may be) and noticing a tender spot on the tip-top of her head. At first I'm pretty sure I thought it was my hair hurting, it does that sometimes, like if I haven't washed it in a couple of days and it's been going one direction and is suddenly shifted to the other direction. Upon inspection of said spot I notice that there is a knot there.

I'm sure at the time I vaguely remembered hitting my head. I do it often. I'm a klutz. (I just keep painting a positive image.) But I ignored it and went about my business.

Fast forward a couple of days.

This "knot" has now progressed to the size of a lump. It has gotten progressively bigger over the past 2 or 3 days. And it is no longer hard. It's got a squishy lumpy kind of feel to it. And it hurts. Badly. Especially when you smush it. Then it really hurts. My solution was to wash my hair. Vigorously.

The next morning.

The lump is now visible to the naked eye. Or at least I think so. Or more accurately felt so. I by no means can see the top of my head. And contrary to popular belief there is no way that you can turn in a full length mirror to reflect the top of your head and be able to look in said mirror at the same time. (Please no "Try to like your ear. Haha, you're a retard" jokes. I realize in hindsight that I could have used a hand-mirror and probably finagled a way to see it. The point is, it was a big freaking lump.)

Now when I press on it I can feel something inside of my scalp move. Yes, move. Indicative of movement. Movement upon external stimuli. Whatever is in my head is fucking alive. ALIVE. I guarantee that one of the indications of whether or not something has life is if it responds to external stimuli. Look it up. I'm a biologist. I know these things. (This is really not a positive light I am portraying myself in here. Seriously, I approached this problem with logic and reasoning. Because I'm smart. Not crazy, smart. Maybe crazy smart. The point being is that I'm smart, not crazy.) In college I took a parasitology (Parasites, not wackos that believe in aliens and out of body experiences. Yup, I've heard that joke too.) course, in which we learned about all sorts of worms that live in peoples orifices, and skin.

Do you know how long an afternoon can be when you've spent it trying to think of reasons why there could not be a worm in your head? Just a heads up, you don't really concentrate on why it's impossible that there is a worm in your head and mostly on WHY IN THE HELL THERE IS A WORM IN MY FREAKING HEAD!

Panic sets in. You spend lots of time evaluating the response time of the worm in your head to the external stimuli, ie when you mash the lump. I pushed and mashed and prodded and poked the lump on my head until it was throbbing. Now I'm freaked because there is A WORM IN MY FREAKING HEAD and it hurts really bad. I even found my parasitology textbook. I was trying to elucidate which species of worm was currently inhabiting my head. (Although I was convinced there was a worm in my head it is important to note that I knew the worm was not in my brain. I was relatively certain that said worm was embedded subcutaneously and had not burrowed through the bone into my brain, that would be impossible. Somehow I feel that this takes away from the obviously paranoid, psychotic-ness of this story but I feel it's important that you, blog reader, recognize that I'm not crazy. It was completely within the realm of reason and possibility that a worm had buried itself into my scalp.)

I'm not sure at which point Jessica and Mandy came home. I'm not sure if they came together or separately and I'm almost positive that Mandy did not inform me that she was bringing her new boyfriend (Read: Future-husband) to the house for the first time to meet me and see our house. If she had told me that I'm reasonably positive I would have postponed the events that happened next.

(This is also the reason why I now keep a scalpel at my house.)

Here is what I remember. I remember talking to my mother on the phone and informing her I had a worm in my head. (You've read my blog. You'll understand why I was upset that she didn't believe me. This is just as likely a story that would come from her as it is me.) She scoffs at my diagnosis and pretty much tells me to wash it out peroxide.

Out comes the peroxide. By this point I somehow have opened the skin above said lump. I pour on the peroxide and the worm inside of my head proceeds to go apeshit. APESHIT. This fucker is pissed. And I am subsequently even more convinced that there is a WORM IN MY HEAD. The response to external stimuli has increased exponentially. I'm pretty sure that when I was rooting through the silverware drawer for the sharpest knife I could find, Jessica may have tried to talk me out of it. I wasn't paying attention. There was a worm in my head.

I finally find a suitable knife, curse myself for not having a scalpel handy, and turn to Jessica. Who is unaware that she will be performing the extraction of said worm.

(One of my greatest fears in life is that I will develop an wound with which they'll have to treat with maggots. Or that I'll be in some sub-tropical country and a fly will lay eggs in an open wound and there will be worms in body. This seriously gives me nightmares. And if this ever were to occur you should just remove the limb or do not leave me alone because I will remove the limb. I'm not kidding. I would cut off my own arm if I knew that it had a worm in it at some point. That being said, I recognize the difficulty involved in cutting off one's own head, hence I was going to have it surgically extracted. Right then and there.)

I wish that I could remember the argument I gave to Jessica for why she must be the one to remove the worm. Or really that there was even a worm in my head. Because for a fleeting moment I think she was actually considering taking a knife to my head to open up the lump and extract the worm. Of course this is the exact instant that Mandy's new boyfriend, Vinny, walked in the door. I'm not sure how much of the "There is a worm in my head and you have to cut it out" exchange he caught, but it was enough for him to give me an odd look. Of course by this point Jessica has backed out and is now refusing to cut open my head. In fact now she's adamantly denying the presence of the worm at all. I'm pretty sure I may have been crying by this point. I was sure, positive, certain and all of the other superlative adjectives that describe the "THERE IS A 100% FUCKING CHANCE OF A WORM BEING IN MY HEAD."

So I drop back and punt. I call my mother once again. Who, to her credit, comes over to inspect/extract the worm out of my head.

The great thing about my mom, and probably all mom's in general but especially mine, is that she can diffuse me when I'm in pain or injured or upset. She knows exactly what to say to to subject me to her inspections, even if she may be getting ready to impart great physical pain upon me. (Yet I still return. I swear she's got an evil mom curse on me. Heaven forbid I get a splinter around her. I'd almost just rather lose the finger.)

She swears to this day that there wasn't really a worm in my head, that it was just infected. That I must have hit my head and there was an open wound that got infected at some point. That at no point when she was squeezing the infection out through that little hole in my head (which she could have used the knife to make said drainage hole bigger. I'm just saying, me bringing the knife wasn't totally useless, it could have been used. I was thinking ahead.) did she see a worm or worms or anything representing macroscopic life. While this is somewhat likely, I do not believe it. You could never possibly understand the certainty that I believed there was a worm in my head. These things happen. Cows and squirrels get those things called wolves all the time, which I'm told are the worm/larval stages of flies. Random hunting fact: That's why you have to wait until after the first frost to go squirrel hunting, because they HAVE WORMS BURIED IN THEIR SKIN.

Needless to say. I am worm-free now. And Vinny married Mandy anyways. And Jessica still loves me and everyone is happy.

And I do not think about worms inhabiting my scalp. Because that's just disturbing.

Grown men should not wear culottes.

Under no circumstances is this acceptable. In any way.

If your shorts are so baggy that from half a block away they resemble culottes then you need to purchase shorts that aren't so ill-fitting.

The other fashion faux-pas that gets on my nerves is anything Ed Hardy or Christian Aud-I-Can't-Design whoever he is. It's seriously helpful though because it's an automatic douchebag label. It says:

"Hi. Although I may have decent taste in clothes and an age-appropriate fashion sense, I choose to surrender to peer pressure and bad marketing and buy these horribly tacky clothes that are over-priced and cheaply made to boot! And thankfully they make these hideous clothing items for the whole family!"

I was reading in the Harper's Bazaar the other day about trends you should abandon, and these included baby doll shirts and neon. Someone honestly thought for five minutes that neon was back? God rue the day. And baby doll shirts are just poor design choices. They're cute on the appropriate people. Those of the female persuasion aged 3 and below.

You know what's never going out of style?

Classic designs that fit and are age-appropriate. There is something to be said for self-realization. Proper fashion choices can be made by everyone by accepting an accurate perception of gender, body size and age.

You too can make proper fashion choices!

This message brought to you by your local hyper-critical fashion critic extraordinaire.

Welcome to Hell - or better known as: Please enter your Password

Today is the day of which I pay bills. It should be a joyous occasion. I can pay them all and put money into my money market account. I feel like an adult.

Except for the fact that I thought it would be a brilliant idea to stop getting paper copies. I have e-bill now (except for Piedmont Natural Gas, who can just suck it anyways.) Now I am required to remember my password, which wouldn't be so bad except each website has requirements for what your password is and what it needs to have in it and blah blah blah.

So, I once again have forgotten the password that I have for Time-Warner Cable and to get my NEW password I must know my account number.

IF I DON'T KNOW MY PASSWORD I'M REASONABLY POSITIVE THAT THE POSSIBILITY OF ME KNOWING MY ACCOUNT NUMBER IS NEGATIVE 900.

I just don't see the logic in that. And of course Duke Energy cannot get it together to actually let me use their website. They're having technical difficulties. I have half a mind to call them and tell them that I would pay my power bill but because they're stuck in the middle ages with a slow website whose javascript cannot rightly function they should credit my account because I tried. An "A" for effort so to speak. I think it's completely reasonable.

I knew I should have kept the same password for everything, which is completely dangerous. I know. Everybody I know, knows my password to my facebook, which is also the same password to pretty much everything else in my life EXCEPT FOR TIME WARNER CABLE.

What that password is, I haven't the foggiest.

Maybe I'll go back to guessing the amount of my power bill. I feel the same way about snail mail that I feel about voice mail. I hate checking it and I never do because I'm just lazy and all I ever get is shit anyways. For a while there I was just sending Duke Energy a random amount of money every month and in doing that I built up a $150 credit. I didn't have to pay my power bill for months. That was nice.

Seriously, this is ruining my day. The one thing I am OCD about is checking things off and completing a list! I have everything checked off my bills to pay list, everything, except for Duke Energy.

(Apparently, Piedmont Natural Gas has moved into the 21st century and you can now pay your bill online. And it doesn't cost you $7.95, which it does by phone, or something astronomical. You know if I would just address my fear of the post office I could purchase stamps and all this effort would not be necessary. But alas. Stamps are stupid.)

Someone also please explain to me why whenever I log-in to the Citibank website to pay my gobs and gobs of student loans, it asks me security questions. After I have logged in correctly, meaning I remembered not only my password buy my log-in moniker. Seriously? I personally believe that if someone wants to impersonate me and log into my Citibank student loan account, let them. What are they going to learn?

"Holy Hell this girl is really in debt! I hope she's doing something meaningful with her degree. It would be a shame if she was sitting in some dead-end job being a lackey for undergraduates that are a lot less intelligent than she is. That would really suck."

They might even feel sorry for me and pay some of my debt. But no one is going to do that, hence the damn post-log-in security questions are moot and a waste of my time. Because I have to think what the damn answers are. They aren't the same every time; I had to answer 8 or so different questions and they recycle these questions. And they're stupid questions too.

What's your favorite color? - Well that depends on the day of the week it is when I'm asked and how I'm feeling. I'm just as likely to say magenta as I am to respond: black, because it is symbolic of the bottomless pit of debt that I currently reside in and will never make it out of. Honestly, that's a lot to remember for an answer to security questions.

What was your favorite subject in school? - I cannot say naptime. Even though it may be true, and yes I had scheduled naptimes on into college. One day I may not remember my favorite subject in school and I'll have to call them and ask them and the operator will look it up and see that my favorite subject was naptime and then I have to do a whole charade of back-pedaling because I don't want to seem lazy and unmotivated. She'll probably have some internal dialogue similar to: "No wonder she's so in debt. She must have been in college for 13 years. Maybe if her favorite subject had been biology or business instead of naptime, she wouldn't be so in debt."

(For the record I was only at Wake for the obligatory 4 years. I finished on time. Heaven forbid it did take me longer, instead of blogging I would begging. At the corner. For potted meat or something else disgusting, but insanely cheap.)

Needless to say they need to hurry up with that whole iris-recognition software. That way all I have to do is lick my computer screen or at the very least look at it or something and they can verify who I am and all of this password remembering business will become pointless. Until then, I suppose I could just call Duke Energy.

Moxy on the Move - Lowe's Home Improvement

So the other day I got the. greatest. present. ever. An Uglydoll named Moxy.

Seriously. It cannot get any better than this.

Henceforth, because the awesomeness of my uglydoll should not be contained to just my abode I am going to begin a series of "Moxy on the Move" posts (Thanks RR for the title!).

This is the beginning of them.

A trip to Lowe's Home Improvement:

Moxy in the plants.

We began our trip in the lovely garden center. Moxy loves plants! Perhaps it reminds Moxy of his/her home, (I have not yet sorted out Moxy's gender identity.) wherever that may be.

Moxy on the ladder.

Moxy just loves to defy authority. Moxy is clearly not a Lowe's Home Improvement employee but just couldn't stay away. Moxy does however secretly yearn for a Lowe's multifunctional tool belt/apron.

Moxy in a window box.

Moxy behind pleated shades. Moxy much preferred these pleated shades to the Roman variety. Moxy is a somewhat obstinate uglydoll.

Be sure and be on the lookout for more Moxy sightings!