Disclaimer: Mushy, Girly Stuff Ahead

Well, this will be as mushy and girly as I can manage without actually throwing up on my laptop.  I'd like to avoid that since a couple of the keys on my keyboard already stopped working due to one of my cats thinking it was dragging ass and needed some coffee on it.

Today, three years ago, I tricked a poor, unsuspecting boy into being my boyfriend.  I don't know how I did it, and I'm sure if you asked him how, he'll tell you he blacked out and doesn't remember any of the conversation that led him down this path.  Sucker.

Look how cute we were when we first met.  Before he knew that girl was going to one day start collecting pets and I knew that boy would never look at me the way he looks at his motorcycle.  Sigh.  Fools in love. 

I definitely won't pretend to be a relationship expert, but we are both alive and have all of our limbs, so I
might just know a thing or two about how to make one work.  If you'd like to know what makes our weird little union work oh so well, please, keep reading. 

Now, we all know one of the most important parts of a relationship is compromise.  Here are a few ways we do so:

1.  He likes Bud Light, I like Miller Lite, meaning we can't share a pitcher of beer at a bar.  Compromise?  He gets to order the Bud Light, I drink wine instead, he pays for it.

2.   I love taking pictures, he hates taking pictures.  Compromise?  Somebody takes pictures of me chasing him around trying to get him to pose.

Money always seems to be a pretty big arguing point in a lot of relationships, I'm assuming this definitely has gotten worse over time due to a recession I heard somebody talking about the other day.  Since him and I don't share a last name, although they are both obnoxiously long and a pain in the ass to sign, my money is my money and his money is his money.  He never gets a bank statement showing him just how many lives I bought in Candy Crush this month with my money and he buys me wine with his money.  Plus, I really don't feel like explaining why the cat's need a $200 cat condo and I need four different magazines with the same cover story on it.  Seriously?  I don't want to miss the royal baby's birth and why do you need a boat?   See, I've already started our first real fight just thinking about sharing money.

And I wasn't joking about our first 'real' fight either.  I'm actually proud of that one.  I mean, there's the occasional arm crossing, eye roll, and 'Are you kidding me right now?' mostly (entirely) from his end, but as long as he isn't telling me I can't have another cat and I'm not getting another cat anyways, we're good.  Plus, if anybody even looks like they might be thinking about yelling at me I immediately start bawling.  This is a new little defense tactic I developed about six months before I met him.  My crying makes him really uncomfortable, and voila, fight over .  Hey, it works for us.  I just really hope it's not because I do Kim Kardashian Ugly Cry and it scares him.

Jesus.

Finally, we both knew what we were getting into when we started living in sin.  I was going from living with a very neat girl who made me dinner (what up, Sheila Shine!), to living with a smelly boy who made me dinner.  And he was getting a weird little vegan girl to kind of do his laundry.

Seriously, one of those two always makes/buys me food.  It's pretty fantastic.  So, I'm still well fed and he's stuck with a girl who would rather chew off her own arm than fold socks.  Guess the joke's still on him.

And now for the girly part:  Happy Anniversary you sweet, sweet boy.  I love you to the moon and back, and thank you for the favorite three years of my life so far.

I was woman enough to stay with you post-beard, so please, please don't make me start folding socks.  It seriously makes me want to die.  You're my favorite.

Let's Hang Out, Girl

Let me start this by making it very, very clear, this will not be a post about whether or not I think George Zimmerman is guilty.  I don't plan on talking about things that serious on here for the most part, and plus it's none of your beeswax.  I want to talk about my new best friend, Rachel Jeantel.  This. Girl.  After being introduced to this gem yesterday, I couldn't wait until all the little kiddies on the internet started popping out the memes and gifs, and then, this happened:

I love her, because I would totally reference 'The First 48' or 'Law & Order' or whatever recent crime show I just binge watched on the couch the previous weekend prepping for court.  Shit, I would even take it a step further and throw out a few of those statutes or some legal jargon I have memorized from 'Law & Order: SVU'.  Sure, this trial might not have anything to do with a potential prostitution ring but I just want them to know I know my stuff.

This girl is gold, because she has the love/hate thing down pat.  I found myself yesterday wondering what it would be like to go get some 'court nails' done with her, and then immediately wondering where her manners are.  I mean, every time the word 'sir' comes out of her mouth, all I hear is 'mother fucker'.  But at least she's minding her manners? 

And have you seen her argue?  I mean, this defense attorney literally plays back a recording of her speaking and she will swear she didn't say it and you cannot convince her otherwise.  If I ever decide to stay out past eight o'clock at night and get into some hot water, I want this girl on my side.  She stands her ground, even when she's wrong.  Hell, especially when she's wrong. 

In all seriousness, no matter which side I'm on, I will definitely give her kudos for being up there.  She's 19 years old and has already known the pain of losing a good friend, and now is being forced to relive it hour after hour with a lot of weighing on whether or not people believe or like her.  I hope I am never put in that situation and none of us can pretend to understand how she's feeling up there. 

But let's end this on what we're all thinking:  Where the f were the weight gaining ferries when Casey Anthony when was in jail?  I mean if she's not going to rot prison she should at least have to walk around with half of that 200 pounds ole George Zimmerman put on.  Nothing says justice like an extra chin and some love handles.

Go Shawty, It's Your Birthday

Not mine.  I wish.  Twenty more days though! Email me for a list if you would like to buy me a present, because you should.  Today, my oldest is two years old!

They grow up so fast.  Actually they mostly stay the same size after their first birthday, but you know what I mean.  Last year I made it rain cat toys and treats all on her, like a good mother.  I tried to make that happen again this year, but Olive stole half of them and Joey ate the other half.  Oh the life of the oldest child.  I would feel bad for her but I was a middle child, so yeah.

For those of you who don't know, Penny was the human equivalent of 'an accident'.  And by 'accident' I mean, I didn't really ask the boyfriend before I got her.  Oops.  Accident.  November 2011, the week of Thanksgiving, I was scheduled to get my wisdom taken out.  Now, I know what you're thinking, 'why the heck would you get surgery on your mouth the week of America's biggest eating holiday?'.  Well, I don't like to eat animals,  so it wasn't that big of a loss for me.  I did eat roughly 18 pounds of mashed potatoes, which is what Thanksgiving is all about in Tina Land. Anywho, the weekend before my surgery I decided I would need some company while I was recovering, so I hopped up to PetCo with a quick I'm going to get a cat text to the bf, and brought home my Penny.

See, accident.  She was our first pet, and this was still a little early in the relationship, so I think my just bringing a cat home was a little charming.  Now that we're on to the third pet and coming up on our third anniversary, most of my antics are far from charming, I'm sure.  Each time I've decided to just get a cat, I always think to myself, 'What's he going to do, break up with me over a cat?'.  I feel like for every woman's house you go into with over five cats, there's a man somewhere out there she once thought the same thing about.

Ok, I better cool it before he does leave.  It took me seven years of dating to find a guy in Orlando who wasn't allergic to or didn't hate cats.  I better go buy him a cat, I mean present.  A cat.

Show Me the Money

So, I've come up with some pretty fantastic ideas in my 26 (27 in three weeks) years.  Well, I think they're pretty fantastic, and if you ask my boyfriend in front of me, he'll probably think so too.  These ideas involve places, inventions, television shows, you name it, I've almost quit my 'day' job and tried to make millions.  Now these ideas aren't as solid as when Nestle had the stroke of genius that was Girl Scout Cookie Crunch Bars, but I think I could get some of them off the ground.

 These bad boys are back, by the way.  You are very very welcome.

Idea #1:  Cat Park

You know, like a dog park, but for cats.

Now, this would obviously need to be kept indoors, otherwise it would just be a park full of a bunch of humans who had just lost their cats.  I don't know if you've been around a cat person recently, but we're a little nutty, so this would basically just be a bunch of people strangling each other screaming, "What have you done with Mr. Wiggles?!".  Throw a bunch of boxes and some string in a room covered from wall to wall with carpet and you're set.  This isn't really necessary for older cats, but for the younger ones who like to climb up your bare leg and jump on your head while you're sleeping this would be heaven.  Think about it.

Idea #2:  A Shoe Store Where You Can Buy One Shoe

Genius, right?  Well, if you're a dog owner, you think it's genius.  I have roughly six shoes sitting in my closet missing their buddies, thanks to my middle child.

Sometimes the shoe happens to belong to a pair I'm in love with or wear on a regular basis and feel the need to replace.  So, now I have two left shoes and one right.  Stupid, right?  Insert a magical shoe store where you can walk in and buy just buy one shoe and problem solved.

I could just train my dog not to eat shoes, but since I've had zero luck with that, insert my third genius idea.

Idea #3:  Beyond Scared Straight for Pets

Animal Planet needs to team up with A&E right now and make this happen.

 


That Ceasar Millan is way too easy on those dogs.  I've tried being nice, it landed me in the emergency room.  The only problem with this is the cats might confuse this with the cat park, so I have a few kinks to work out.  But I expect I'll be signing a contract for this show and getting Joey some head shots any day now.

Well, I'm off to discuss plans for my doggy bakery, Joey could use a cupcake.

And I know a good lawyer, so if you guys try to steal these ideas, he'll probably tell his son to break up with the crazy girl herding cats into the spare bedroom.

Happy Monday! No, really.

I haven't quite nailed down a theme for this blog yet, and most likely never will, but one thing you won't see on here is a once a week 'I hate Monday' post, because I don't.  I don't hate Mondays.  I love them.  That's pretty weird to read, huh?  Say it out loud, that will really freak you out.  Why don't I hate Mondays, you ask?  Because I've been on my couch pretty much since I woke up at 10:00.  That's right, suckers, I don't work on Mondays.  This comes in handy for quite a few reasons:

1.  Any hangover I manage to get at any time over the weekend has until Monday night to buzz off (see what I did there?).  Whether I go hard on a Saturday or do some pretty solid day drinking on a Sunday,

I have all day long Monday to start feeling like a normal person again.

2.  If I'm not hanging out with some of those dudes up there, I prefer to hermit it up all weekend long in the house with the pets.  Having Monday off gives me the day to clear the house of all to go boxes and wine bottles, and finally take a shower and put some pants on and basically spend the day trying to once again become a productive member of society.

3.  This last one's a no brainer.  Not working on Mondays means this girl gets a three day weekend every week.  How's that taste?

This weekend I mixed it up a little bit.  Laid around during the day on Saturday and then got a little sassy that night.  I was a little unsure on what mode I was in for the weekend, so I got confused and forgot to shower.

Sunday was extra nice because I got to spend the day with my aunt and grandma, which doesn't get to happen near as much as I would like.  I'm extra glad I got to sneak in a little Nana time this weekend because today, this beautiful lady turns 81.

(picture courtesy of my aunt's facebook page)

Annnnnd to make this Monday even better, it's also my daddy-o's birthday.  

I could bombard you with some more daddy and me pictures, because my Nana walked me down memory lane this weekend and sent me home with tons of pictures.  Unfortunately for me and fortunately for everybody who ever gets to lay eyes on these pictures, I had roughly 20 awkward years.  I might need to dedicate an entire post to those bad boys.  You're welcome in advance.

So, next time you feel like bad mouthing a Monday, remember on this Monday, I got to celebrate two of my favorite people.  So, cut Monday some slack, it's not her fault you guys have to work....and I don't.  My couch just threw something at me, I better head back over there.  Deuces.

Dear Pinterest

Dear Pinterest,

      We need to talk, girl.  Now, I'm not here to yell at you about how much time I waste on you.  Let's be honest, that's all my fault.  I know exactly how to find that little 'x' in the top right hand corner of my laptop and use it.  It's not your fault that it takes me roughly six hours to make use of that 'x', and immediately after doing so, I open you up on my phone.  You're the website, I'm the person, I should have the power.  But I don't, and that's just fine, because, like I said, I'm not here to yell about that.

You know what my problem is with you?  You're a big, fat liar and you have done a piss poor job of preparing me for life.  I was completely happy buying everything from Target and hanging out in a regular three bedroom house with my boyfriend and my pets. Until you came along, I didn't know I was able to pull our boat up to our house like this,

Our boat's sitting underneath a tree and smells funny.  Strike one.

Oh, I can put glitter on everything? Can I?!

Have you ever tried to do that while shacking up with a boy? It doesn't work.  Strike two.

Last week I made these

Did this

And then had to lie to the nurse at the hospital about my weight.  Jackass.  That's your third strike, but I have few more bones to pick with you.

Seriously? Have you ever tried to drink this many bottles of wine and then get crafty?  I have.  I almost lost a finger.

And last, but certainly not least, let's talk about this:

Ryan Gosling has never 'hey girled' anything on me.  I checked.  And the last time I inhaled a burrito I'm pretty sure my boyfriend thought about leaving me, and he loves me, so I doubt that Mr. Gosling would be sticking around after that.

You know where liars go, Pinterest?  Nowhere you can find on that Travel board of yours, that's for sure.

I Think I'm Paranoid

I think I've decided this blog is actually going to be less about my pets and more about my very casual relationship with reality.  Not only do I occasionally (all the time) think I'll be wandering this great land with  dinosaurs sometime soon, I've allowed television to convince me that, at any given moment, somebody is plotting my death.  I have an absolutely unhealthy obsession with crime TV.  Criminal Minds, Law & Order, Dateline,  The First 48, you name it, I've had nightmares after a marathon of it.  They all scare me beyond any rational, sane level, but I love them.  Can't stop watching them.

I tell that little weird fact about me so I can tell this story:

So, today I'm minding my own business, going on the power struggle that is my everyday walk with Joey, when I notice a helicopter.  It's Orlando.  There's tons of traffic and other reasons for a helicopter to be flying around all the time, right?  No.  This helicopter?  Obviously looking for somebody who just went on a killing spree and is heading right for me.  Do I warn the mailman 1/2 a mile down the road?  Do I start knocking on doors and telling people?  WHAT DO I DO?!  This is my actual thought process.  After weighing my options, Joey and I hightailed it out of there.  We covered a little over a mile in seven minutes.  Nothing like a non-existent, crazed gunman on the loose to scare me into a little extra cardio.  After we were safely in my very locked up house, I turned the TV on and searched the Internet to see if they caught this crazy man, and believe it or not, he doesn't exist.

I would love to say this is the first time I've reacted to something like this, but it's not.  It's not even the second, third, or twentieth.  At least once a day I refuse to answer a knock on my front door, peak through my blinds with my phone ready to call 911, because somebody had the nerve to drive past my house more than once in a hour, or I yell at somebody walking too close (less than a mile) behind me when I'm jogging to 'Stop following me!'.

Do you have any idea how many episodes of Criminal Minds start out with a 20 something year old girl minding her business? ALL OF THEM.  They may not me running a story on Dateline about my husband trying to kill me, but that's only because I don't have one.  You just wait.  Somebody's husband will try one day....

I bet you guys didn't think when I started a blog you would be introduced to the actual nut job that is this crazy girl right here, did you?  It gets worse.  I hope you all have a new level of respect for my boyfriend.  He has his hands full over here.

Get a Grip, Girl

Ok, I can't  be the only person over 10 years old who has this problem.  I sometimes take issue with the fact that certain things in movies can't be real.  Why can't I go to PetCo on adoption Saturday and give an ewok a loving home?  Nobody's going to stick me in a pod and let me wonder around Pandora?  I don't necessarily want to 'volunteer as tribute', but send me to The Capitol so I can make use of that yellow eyeshadow from 10th grade, and let Peeta throw some bread at me.  And don't even get me started on how that letter didn't come from Hogwarts.  And Mr. Clark Kent, you're not getting out of this either.

First thing's first, this movie was absolutely fantastic.  I don't deal well with sitting still for that long (2 1/2 hours), but I did, and it didn't even phase me.  Plus, look at that.  Right up there.  Do you see it?  Sigh. Annnnnnd, since Jesus loves me, good ol' Detective Elliot Stabler was all up in this movie, too.

Hey there.

Anyways, how completely unfair is it that Lois Lane couldn't mind her business and next thing you know she's shooting through outer space and holding hands with Superman?  You know what happens when I stick my nose where it doesn't belong?  I get my internet privileges taken away and have to go to bed without dinner. I most certainly am not allowed to hang out in the desert with my two best friends, Henry and Christopher.    

But let's focus this bitterness on the real problem here.  Steven Spielberg.  YOU made me think it wasn't ok to kill mosquitoes, because what if they just crawled their way out of a some tree sap and have some dino blood in them?  YOU made me start saving my pennies so I could afford that ticket to Jurassic Park.  YOU made me switch my major to Archeology for a hot minute while I was I college.  WHERE ARE MY DINOSAURS?!

That one I'm still holding out for.  I might not be flying around on my broomstick, or jumping around in a catsuit (yeah, right) anytime soon, but I do plan having my jeep break down and running for my life with the dream machine that is Jeff Goldblum.

I'm off to read lines with Josh Hutcherson.  Catch ya on the flip side.

The Time Joey Tried to Kill Me

Yeah, it happened.  Kind of.  Wednesday, roughly one hour after getting to work I started to get a pretty awful pain in my left side.  I assumed it was heartburn since I had just eaten, and you know, you get that in your side, popped some Tums and went on about my business.  Cut to about three hours later and I thought I was dying.  Not in regular, dramatic Tina, dying, but actually about to stop existing, dying.  I popped some more Tums and went and got some ice cream (I know) and made it through the rest of my night at work.
Around 9:30 in the morning, after three hours of trying to fall asleep, I finally decided whatever the hell this pain was, was something serious and not going away on its own, so I cried my way to the car and drove my ass to the emergency room.

Now, I've had my fair share of injuries from 10+ years of playing sports and 20+ of tripping over my own feet and running into walls, but this, whatever this was, was EXCRUCIATING.  I'm always very honest in Triage when they ask you to rate your pain on a scale of 1 to 10, assuming 10 is the pain you would feel if you broke every single bone in your body.  On a scale of 1 to 10?  I'm making numbers up.  I'm expecting to pass out any second from pain.  I've seen Jesus at least six times in the past twelve hours.

Once the doctor actually saw me, and I managed to answer his questions in between tiny, pathetic sobs, shit got kind of real for a second.  The only thing scarier than seeing a doctor look concerned is seeing your usually stoic boyfriend look just as concerned.  Long story short, this on-again off-again smoker is forever an off smoker.  So, after lots of poking and x-rays, and scaring this piss out of me, he ruled out all things that could kill me, I was diagnosed with a strained intercostal muscle.  Seriously?! A strained muscle?!  Did he mean to say 'your intercostal muscle is trying to kill you'?!  After he explained everything to me, turns out, it's a pretty God awful injury, and I 100% agree.

And, she's responsible.

Yep.  She likes to not listen whenever we go for a run and stop whenever feels like it.  After being pulled back by her suddenly stopping in the middle of the sidewalk too many times, the muscle on the left side of my chest finally had enough.  Why am I telling you this story?  Because I just took her on a run and let her do it to me again.  Lesson learned.  They gave me some pretty weak pain killers, so I'm off to mix them with nail polish remover or something and cry on the couch.  Peace.

Here goes nothing.

Hey there! Welcome to about my 14th attempt to start a blog.  Or, if you're actually reading this, welcome to my blog.  Forgive the long domain name, I just wasn't sure if I would be doing this enough to actually pay for it.  Who am I kidding? The only thing I like more than talking about myself is typing about myself.

I'm pretty sure the only reason it took me so long to get this thing off the ground is I wasn't sure if I would be any good at blogging.  I'm still not sure, but I got a little bored today.  You can only watch cats play in a laundry basket for so long before you have to start talking about it.  Which leads me to what will most certainly be the theme of this bad boy:  my pets.

Meet Joey, Penny, and Olive.  Pretty precious, right?  I may or may not have gotten in a bit of trouble for that last little baby there, but, that face. So, if you're already in love with them like I know you are, than you just might enjoy this blog.  Maybe. Probably not.  Actually, these three guys will probably be the only ones to read this, because they have to. That, and Penny's the proofreader.  Happy reading and wish me luck!