Someone get me some meds, I’m having a complete Blogxiety attack. 

First of all, let’s start with my new addiction:  Blogoshere…or at least that’s what I think it’s called. I wrote this little story about a girl who peed in the driveway…true story, by the way, because well, I was bored, and I’m slightly narcissistic, and I thought…sure people will want to read this, and by people, I meant my one blogger friend, and she read it, and then she shared it, and then she opened the doors to “a whole new world”. 

Birds flew from my computer (you think I’m kidding, but I’m not.  I saw macaws people, real ones.  They’re on a photographer’s blog, and they’re mother freaking beautiful, oh and I found her blog through another blog who was “guest hosting”, which I don’t quite understand, but totally support, and if someone wants to be my guest on my blog, please do so.  How does that work anyway?). 

I found myself in a winter wonderland fighting stuffed elves, falling in love with  crazy aunts, reading about chuck’s terriblemind…, reading thousands, I mean, thousands of book reviews (and books are my crack, so I practically licked my lap top as I ferociously added books to my “to read” category), and then there’s this girl who’s a hacker ninja, and she’s hilarious, and I read about 20 of her posts because…she’s just that good.  And then my husband said, “Hey, what are you doing?” and I said, “Shhh.” (but under my breath I used explicits) because he interrupted my blog hit, and you just can’t interrupt an addict when she’s getting her fix, right?

I guess what I’m trying to say is….

I’m not worthy.  I bow to your Blogness. 

You all are fabulous, and talented, and hilarious, and beautiful, and please keep posting because I really don’t want to pay any attention to my husband or my kids, or clean my house, or pay my bills, or do anything but read your blogs. 


Thanks for the welcoming me into this world where I’m completely overwhelmed but totally humbled to be in your presence. 

Please, introduce me to the blogs you follow, so I can continue to get my fix.  Although, I don’t see myself building up a tolerance to any of these I already follow.  What do you like?  Did you have Blogxiety when you started, too?  What inspires your posts?



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The Girl Who Peed in the Driveway

Oh the holidays and their stories, right? Well, every Thanksgiving Eve, I’m reminded that somewhere between Dallas and a little town in Oklahoma, a family is sitting around their dining room table and one of them says to another, “Hey, Jim. You remember that Thanksgiving when the girl peed in our driveway?” And Jim says, “Yeah, Bob. That was hilarious.” And then everyone laughs because the story of the girl who peed in the driveway never gets old.

Well, here’s my version…

I was a bartender/college student living in Dallas and had to drive to my brother’s house in Oklahoma for the holiday. Because I spent so much money on booze, I mean books, I had to work my regularly scheduled lunch shift on Wednesday but planned to leave directly from the bar and make the three hour drive.

So the lunch shift flies by, I jump in my T-bird, and start on my three hour drive. I should add that this period of my life revolved a lot around my fairly serious coke addiction. Not the powder stuff. The brown, liquid, bubbly stuff. A few minutes into the drive, I hit up a drive-thru for my fix and slurp down the largest coke I can get my hands on as I sing at the top of my lungs with Janis Joplin about me and Bobby McGee.

Then we stop. Not singing. Driving. Stop. No movement. Brake lights. And all of a sudden, just like that, I have to pee. Thanks, Coca cola.

I pound on my steering wheel then calmly breath in and out thinking that it’s probably just a wreck and that we’ll be heading North again in no time, but no, no such luck. We sit forever. FOREVER until finally we start moving, only we’re not going North on the highway, we’re exiting and heading into the middle of nowhere, and it starts to rain. By this time, I’m sitting on my foot, freaking out that I am going to have a serious bladder explosion all over myself, telling myself over and over that there will definitely be a Dairy Queen at the next corner, or a gas station, or ANYTHING, but I’m on a road in the middle of flipping nowhere, and the only thing I see is millions of brake lights in front of me and head lights behind me. So I decide that I am going to turn on the next dirt road, pull over, and just squat behind my car because I have no other choice.

I see an unmarked unpaved road and turn. I drive for about 2 seconds before my bladder decides it’s time, put my car in park, jump out, and pee. And. It. Is. Heavenly. At this point, as I heave a giant sigh of relief, I look up to see that I’m not on an empty dirt road but rather in a driveway, and there’s a house with a big picture window in front and a family sitting at a dining room table, and they’re all staring at me. Oh, I should mention that I didn’t even bother to close my door, so my interior light is doing a fine job of illuminating my peeing in the driveway. Horrified and unable to interrupt the flow, I assess my situation while cursing the giant coke. I grab a pen and bang it into the hinge of my door in hopes that it will at least turn off my interior light. And by the grace of God, it works. I finish my peeing and jump back into my car. I slam my door shut ready to race off, but it flies back open. “What the hell?” I scream to myself. Then I realize that in trying to remove my spot light, I have managed to break my door, and there are people sitting at the dining room table having a nice family meal that was just interrupted by some blonde girl peeing in the rain in their driveway, and OH MY GOD! WHAT DO I DO?

I grab the same pen, say a quick prayer, and jam my pen back into the hinge at least a half a dozen times, and then…sigh…my door closes. I reverse out of the driveway, and leave the nice family a great Thanksgiving story to tell for years to come about the girl who peed in their driveway.

Happy Thanksgiving. May you experience something worth telling again next year.