Many of you are particularly curious about Martin and his couch shartin‘. To put your minds (and my sanity) at ease, I’ll address the some of the questions. (That sounded so press conference-ish.)

Fortunately, for me, we moved 3 years ago from the house next to him. Which, I guess, is quite unfortunate for you, because I can’t imagine what else would have happened in those years that I would have openly blogged about. While I’ve never relieved myself on someone else’s couch, I’d imagine it would make you a lot more comfortable with them. or uncomfortable. I guess it depends. Speaking of Depends…

Believe me, the two years we lived next to him were full of entertainment.

Now, the question at large was what we did with our couch following the incident. We did get rid of it. Luckily, we had plans for a new couch anyway, and while there was no residual mess (another common question), it was still gross. It was definitely wiped clean. Since we have family in the furniture business obtaining a couch the NEXT day wasn’t any trouble. We gave the old couch to a family who needed one. In the end, I am not sure how charitable donating a couch that had been severely sharted on really was.

Also, some people were also wondering about what Martin did after he shat our couch. Well, friends, he jumped up and ran to the bathroom.

After running to the bathroom, he walked back into our living room (poopy pants and all), apologetically told us he had to go home because his wife called (she didn’t) and waltzed out the door. He never addressed the issue at all. EVER.

But don’t be fooled! Letting it go on our couch certainly did not stop him from frequently returning to our home which resulted in even more mayhem. Trust me, there’s more to come.

On a separate note, I think I’m going to copy what several of my other blog pals are doing right now, and offer some Q & A. So if any of you have questions, ask away. If you don’t have a question, ask me something completely ridiculous. I’ll probably answer. Or you could also shower me with kind words. I’m having a rough day.

“I can’t believe you told the internet about Martin* pooping on the couch,” Adam said.

“I know. I tell the internet A LOT of stuff. But the internet LOVED that someone had pooped on our couch,” I answered.

“What do you tell the internet about me?”

“Oh, just little things here and there– like shaving random spots patches of hair on your body, and I sometimes I write poems about your superior mess making skills.”

“All of that stuff?”

“Yes!” I said, walking into the other room.

Then, I hear him ask, “You’re going to go tell the internet we just had this conversation, aren’t you?”

“You know it.”

“You better not tell them about the time my pants split open when I wasn’t wearing underwear!!” He fired back, very seriously.

“ha-ha. That’ll be tomorrow! I can’t talk about butt related things two days in a row!!”

“Are you really going to tell them,” he asked.

“You know it!”

*Name changed to protect the filthy.

A few years ago, Adam and I lived on a street mostly filled with elderly couples. We were by far the youngest couple in the neighborhood, and in that manner, we definitely stood out. The house to the left of us belonged to a lady in her 90’s and her 50 year old daughter. Her daughter (Carla*) had never been married, and rarely, if ever. That is, until she found AOL Instant Messenger.

You see, that’s the beauty of the world wide web. I’ve never dated online. Not due to personal afflictions to the idea, but because I was crazy lucky enough to meet my soulmate in real life. Otherwise, maybe I would have.

But back to Carla, she met a man online that she enjoyed quite a bit. She enjoyed him so much that she moved his unemployed ass up to her house from Alabama and married him a week later. Let’s call the man, Martin*.

Martin was a jolly character of nearly 400 lbs. ( It’s very important that you remember this. )I only know this, because he often talked about his weight. He often talked about everything. He was very friendly and quipped with a southern drawl rivaling that of any O’Hara. He seemed like a nice enough guy.

Our first encounter with Martin was interesting to say the least. It was nearly midnight, and seeing that our lights were on and we appeared to have company, Martin decided to invite himself over. Of course, we let him in, because we know a character when we see one.

Luckily, we were right.

After gracing us with thirty minutes of what could only be make believe stories, Martin randomly asked for a whole bottle of whiskey. We had one, and Adam, for some reason, felt compelled to give it to him. Mostly, he was under the impression that Martin would take it home and drink it.

Wrong.

Martin decided to break the bottle open right then and there, and drink it. ALL.

After that and several cycles of the same stories he had entertained us with previously, Martin’s new wife called his cell phone informing him that he had to come home, NOW. He wobbled home, and in the process of walking to his front porch, ran straight into his house. Do not mistakenly read the word ‘ran’ as in super fast walking. I mean, he literally walked into the side of his house and fell down in the grass. and passed out– which was way funnier to witness than you might think.

Sadly,this was not the last time that Martin felt the need to grace us with his presence. It started occurring regularly. Too regularly. In a sad sort of way, we got used to him. Having him around was sort of like having your drunk Uncle around, he told funny stories and somehow lacked the ability to sense that we could see through his lies.

Finally, one night when we had a lot of friends over, Martin invited himself in again. He came into our living room, sat down, and made himself at home. Never liking to go without notice, Martin started up his hoopla about living with Dolphins and monkeys riding in his truck with him, when I heard very, very loud flatulence. Or at least, what I thought was flatulence.

Until all 400 lbs. of Martin bolted up off of our nice leather couch, high-tailed it  to the bathroom.

Yes, friends, Martin had just shit himself on my couch.

(And yes, my mother did raise me better than to call defecating “shitting”, but what else do you call it when your 400 lb. neighbor lets it go on your couch?)

Don’t you fool yourself into thinking this is the last we saw of him either! I’ll save the rest for later.

*Names have been changed to protect the nasty folk and the naive spouses of the nasty folk.

I was tagged by the Gypsy at Heart for this meme. I think they’re interesting questions. So here it goes:

How long have you been blogging?

I’ve been blogging since July of 2007. However, I’ve had a personal online diary/journal in some form for years. They were mostly always completely private. I had one or two to which I added friends. But those journals weren’t the real thing. It was quite a while before I could just open up like this. I think I was sort of scared to start. Akin to a child on their first day of school, I was afraid the blogosphere would chew me up, spit me out, and tell me to go home. Fortunately, it has yet to do so. There’s always tomorrow.

What inspired you to start your blog, and who are your mentors?
I’ve always been journaling. I don’t think I was inspired by any one particular blogger. It was a culminations of all of the bookmarks I’ve had in my browser for so long. I knew I wanted to do this, but as I said before, it took a while for me to make the plunge.

Are you trying to make money on-line, or are you just doing it for fun?

I’m just doing this for fun. It’s just something for me. I desperately needed a creative outlet and a little something to keep me sane.
What 3 things do you love about being on-line?

#1) I really enjoy all of the friends I’ve made since I started blogging. I’ve met some amazing people and interesting people. Finding other people who share my sense of humor has been fabulous.

#2 - I like all of the information that is at my hands. I like being in the know.

#3 -I like goofing off on here . I like that I can post stories about randomly shaving bald spots on my husband..I love that people laugh at them, and can either relate to it or at least find it hilarious. I like that I was actually nominated for bloggies, and then, I actually got picked by the panelists in the Best Writing of a Weblog category. I would have never pictured that. I don’t even mind that I’m completely the underdog.

What 3 things do you struggle with on-line?

#1) I struggle with time management. Sometimes I’ll sit down with my laptop to do something as small as check my email (like I did 15 minutes ago), and end up on here for lengthy amounts of time.

#2) I also struggle with the idea of unintentionally offending someone with my words. I worry that somehow, someday something that I say will hurt someones feelings. I’ve never been a low-balling, feelings hurting kind of gal.

#3) I dread that eventually some asshole will send me hate mail. It’s silly, I know.

PS. Veronica gave me this yesterday! Thank you!

Lately, Allie has picked up a very interesting habit that involves completely denying her identity and claiming she is someone else.

Example:

“Allie, come here!”

“I’m not Allie. I’m Hannah!”

” What?”

“Yes, I’m Hannah!”

“Your name isn’t Hannah. It’s Allie.”

“Well, *insert super long pause* you SHOULD have named me Hannah!”

Later that day, she was Uniqua. She was also Ava and Lucy. Every new name involved a 20 questions type game concentric to the fact that I had denied her the faux name at birth.

But her trump card was the 30 minutes she spent as Bill Cosby.

You just can’t argue with a kid who wants to call herself Bill Cosby. Especially if you spent a year of your own life attempting to convince your mother to legally change your name to America. The others in the running were hooker handles like: Candi, Goodi, and Sassi.

I’m sort of glad I stuck with Amanda. sort of…

Disclaimer: I am not serious about this at all. So if you ended up here by google searching birth control methods or asking your Great Aunt Sally what she did, do not take this seriously! What do I know?

The ginger, Allie, is sick today. The day has been busied with coughing, crankiness, and number two-ing. While sitting in the bathroom with her during her sixth go ’round with the toilet, I started thinking very seriously about finding a diligent type of birth control.

That’s when it came to me!

Ladies, there is a simple solution. After some of the confessions in the last post, I know think some of you will be game for this grand idea.

Instead of attaching patches to our arms, taking pills, using barrier methods, or inserting spring like pieces of plastic into our nether regions (IUDs, what did you think I meant?) we should just STOP shaving our legs and armpits.

That’s right. It is really that simple. Just tell your razor to piss off.

Now, I am not suggesting that this action will hinder ovulation in any way. But–I am suggesting that the mere act of dumping the razor could possibly hinder the need for you to worry about ovulation. If you know what I mean..;)

Why hasn’t anyone thought of this before?

I’ll tell you what. Since this was my ingenious little plan, I’ll try this out for the next week or two, and I guess in 9 months we’ll know if it worked or not.

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Are you a parent sitting at home this weekend? Are you aimlessly growing out your leg at my suggestion? Join the Weekend Blog Hoppers, the genius brainchild of Jim the Busy Dad.
Come on, click on the picture, join, and get to hopping!

If you haven’t voted yet and you enjoy my writing, you could always hop on over to the Bloggies to vote. I’d be thrilled.

-I am the worst car passenger ever. I get car sick and anxious. Both of which lead me to giving the driver of the vehicle continuous instructions about how I think the driving process should go down. It irritates my husband to death. I’m all, “BRAKE!! BRAKE!!! That light is red!! OOPS, PEDESTRIAN!*bump*”

- Sometimes in the grocery story, I stick my tongue out at children. Then, when they rat me out to their mothers (and they all do) I put on a straight face on and concentrate on the items in front of me as if it didn’t happen. Honestly, I learned this game from my mother. She used to do it all the time. I can’t help it. It’s so fun. You have to try it!

-When I was in the first grade, I pulled the fire alarm in my elementary school cafeteria. The firetrucks rolled up soon after my innocent mischief. In my defense, it said PULL. What’s a girl to do?

-I adore all things science. I’m very serious about it.

-I’d rather be beaten with a bag of hot nickels than wash dishes. Seriously.

- I was a really prissy child, and that is completely opposite of how I am now. Once, while losing control riding my bicycle, I was given the choice between hitting a car or rolling down a dirty hill. I chose to hit the Buick, because I was not getting dirty. That is so far from who I am now.

- I went to not one but TWO New Kids On The Block Concerts. Danny was mine. All mine.

-Once upon a time, I smoked cigarettes like it was my job. If I look back and simultaneously make use of the broad definitions of job, I guess it was.

-I love to write ranty, rhyming poetry. I’ve been doing this since middle school, and I can’t stop. (I’m feeling one coming on tomorrow since I missed out on Haiku Friday.)

-I met the lead singer of the Goo Goo Dolls once in an airport. I was wearing zebra pajama pants, and I only had a barf bag from the plane for him to autograph. (It was empty! I promise!)

Okay, okay. Enough about me, it’s your turn….confess something. Come on, it’ll be fun!

PS. About the voting.

Lately, I’ve been rather troubled by the way non-bloggers view the blogosphere. While I’m sure that it varies for most everyone, personally, the non/anti-blogging folks that I know regard the blog as a stigma of sorts. It’s almost as if they think communicating your thoughts and feelings to the world by way of keyboard is as taboo as french kissing their Uncle. (eww!)

They roll their eyes or change the subject when blogging is brought up in conversation. Some even go as far as to verbally dismiss it in a tone you might use to describe the two week old spaghetti rotting sitting in your refrigerator.

Now, I will grant them that maybe* it is strange that I relish in relaying various aspects of my life to the world wide web.  Maybe, just maybe, my affinity for sketching out my brainwork on the internet is strange.

(I’ve not even told you people about the time my next door neighbor,an adult, pooped himself on my couch –yet.)

Back to business, as far as blogging goes, it’s what I like to do. And I believe in doing what you enjoy–as long as it’s legal ;). If you like to riverdance, hop to it. If you like to bake, whip something up (for me). And if you like to pick scabs, well, I guess you can do that too… in private, of course.

But on a serious note, when a person’s notion is to act like blogging is an abomination rivaling that of Pluto being dethroned from planethood, I’m somewhat offended. After all, blogging is my outlet. Everyone needs an outlet. I’m not picking on theirs–yet. Maybe the nonbloggers like to sing, read, exercise, or grow 14-inch chin hairs while basking in the warm sun, but I like to blog. And you probably do too!

Honestly, I think those failing to understand the worth, community, support, and advantage of the blogosphere are simply missing out. Yet, you can’t explain it to them. It would be like telling a dinosaur about GPS. You can’t construe the wonderful people you meet, and how even when a few stinkers come your way the wonderful people more than make up for it.

In the end, this is the 21st Century. There are thousands of people typing away on their own little piece of the world wide web. As one of them, I fail to see what is allegedly so strange. But if this is it. If this is strange, I’m more than happy to be in its ranks.

*By maybe, I meant not at all. heh.

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PS. Since shameless is in part of my site name, I should continue to live up to it by once again asking you folks to go vote for me at the bloggies! Support an underdog.

I am full of a dangerous type of excitement.

So here’s the reason: when I randomly made a post where I was all, “hey, nominate me for the bloggies…”. I didn’t really think anyone would. But you did, and the awesome is rolling off of you all for that right now. I can feel it. I am surprised and stunned. Really.

I keep refreshing the page thinking that it’s some sick joke, and that really some hacker is taunting me with my own hope.

When I suggested nominating me, my thought was that even if I somehow got enough votes to be in the finalists considered by the panelists, probably they wouldn’t vote for me. I’m not sure why, but that’s how my mind works,and I can’t talk sense into myself. It’s similar to attempting to talk sense into a brick wall

So I am unbelievably humbled. Truly.

I was nominated for Best Writing of a Weblog. To me, the category was even more surprising than being in the finals. Honestly, most days I feel like my writing is about as pleasant as wearing a pair of sandpaper underwear. It’s sufficient, yet oddly uncomfortable.

Additionally, I’m up against blogs that all have massive, cult-like followings for all the right reasons. They’re fabulous, well written blogs by witty and intelligent people. Truthfully, I read all of those blogs regularly, and I can not believe I am even being grouped with their awesomeness. (You see, I used words like awesomeness?)

Nevertheless, if you enjoy my writing and it doesn’t have the sandpaper effect on you, I would be thrilled if you would go vote for me.
(By thrilled I mean pee in my pants, pull a Tom Cruise on Oprah’s couch, and caffeine high happy.)

My phone was continuously ringing just moments ago. I couldn’t get to it in time, and the person on the other line just kept calling and calling. When this happens, like any person thinks (or at least me), I decided to rush to find my phone, because Hello? It had to be an emergency or something. What kind of person just calls you a few times in a row for recreation?

So I find my phone, and look at my missed calls. It was my mother.

I return her call swiftly, under the false impression that perhaps a mini-apocalypse has occurred in her neck of the woods. And the phone call went a little something like this:

Me: Mom, Mom are you alright?

Her: Yes. Can’t I call you?

Me: That many times in a row?

Her: Well, I had an important question.

Me: Ask…

Her: Are you watching American Idol?

Me: Are you serious? That was your serious question? If I’m watching American Idol?

Her: Oh, stuff it! I just found this show. They have all these bad people come on and sing for a few weeks. I love this. They–ARE–HORRIBLE!Did you see this girl last week? She was MAD. (Understatement of the year, by the way).

Me: I’m still missing which part of this was serious?

Her: Ah, to hell with you. It’s funny, you see. *insert long sigh* You don’t understand.

Me: No…no..I don’t understand. at. all.

Her: you joy-kill.

I love my mom.
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EDIT: For those of you concerned about our dear Gary, she is now successfully thawed.  
Sidenote:
I was awarded TWICE today!
Once by Sandy and I received this one:

I was awarded the “You Make My Day” Award by Solomon.

Thank you both!!