One of my favorites when describing a total whack-job:

The guy is all foam; no beer.

One of the projects I work on for my paying job is Needled. It’s a social community site for tattoo enthusiasts, collectors, and voyeurs.

My husband, who’s a fan of Needled (probably more a fan of mine and the work I do), recently created an imeem playlist for Needled.

I thought it was pretty darn good…so good, I’m posting it here.

Spade

I nearly forgot to post my Spade-ism for the week.

This week’s Spade-ism is in honor of Boot Camp, something I haven’t posted on in a while. Suffice it to say I am now in my third month of Boot Camp. Yes, you heard correctly. Numero tres. Just call me crazy. I did switch over to a class that starts an hour later, so I am no longer driving to Boot Camp in the dark. However, I am no longer sleeping in either. While I do suck wind every once in a while, my stamina has definitely improved. Of course, this could also be due to the fact that I am no longer carrying around as much weight on my bones. The junk in my trunk is 14 pounds lighter. This is not to say I am back to my Bo Derek bikini days. Far from it. The ol’ muffin top, though, is a lot less muffin.

So, today we ran some sprints and yesterday we did suicides. And, I noticed that my sprints were quickly turning into jogs. My bones ached. I mean, what happened to the limber girl I used to be? I was like an 80-year-old out there. My “quick turns” in suicides were like slow-motion dance moves. Pathetic.

And on that note, I give you this week’s Spade-ism:

I have seen smoke come off of dog shit faster than that.

After a baby, sleep is a thing of the past.

I watch my child fighting sleep and think to myself, “I would give someone a million dollars to be in your shoes right now…cradled in my mother’s arms with a warm bottle of milk and a soft cuddly blanket.” Who wouldn’t want to trade places with a baby?

Hell, I am so sleep-deprived these days, I often look at my two dogs and think the same thing. Lazy mutts. When will it be my turn to lay in the sunshine all day, waking only to get up and switch positions?

Life is funny that way. My 10-month-old takes two to three naps a day, but only exerts a small amount of energy crawling around from one toy to the next. He doesn’t do much for himself these days…we feed him, change his diaper, dress him, carry him, play with him, and so on. The kid should be bouncing off the walls with all of the sleep he is getting.

An adult on the other hand (like me, for example), is waking at 6:30am, getting milk for her kid, feeding her dogs, possibly folding a load of laundry in between those two things, dragging her ass to Boot Camp, then rushing home, showering, making the bed, getting dressed, wolfing down some breakfast, possibly Swiffering the kitchen floor in between those two things, driving to work, working for seven to eight hours, racing to pick up her kid, grocery shopping, bolting home, feeding her kid, shoveling dinner down her throat, possibly emptying the dishwasher in between those two things, checking email, and finally going to bed…only to be woken at 4am by a cranky baby, a snoring husband, or a spoiled mutt.

If anyone needs a nap, it is me. I could actually use more than one nap a day. I would be so much more productive. So much happier. So much healthier. So much sexier. So much more attentive to my poor husband who usually only gets to see the “I am so tired” me in the morning and the “I am exhausted” me before we go to bed.

I think someone should invent Daycare for adults. A place where adults could gather to get work done, carry on meetings, check email, answer cell phones, play with Lincoln Logs, and so on. At certain intervals of the day, however (preferably 10:30am and 3pm), everyone would grab a blanket and take a quick little nap. Snack time would be optional, but nap time would be mandatory.

No more caffeine-hyped-up employees. Just well-rested productive citizens ready to take on the world.

A little nap goes a long way.

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This next poll was brought to me by a friend. It’s more of a collection of facts than an actual poll, but it requires participation nonetheless, so please share this post with your friends and neighbors.

Poll #2: What is it with these paper signs nailed to lamp posts, telephone poles, and trees all over the city? Advertising at its best? The terms “bandit sign,” “snipe sign,” “vertical litter,” “street spam” and “stuff on a stick” (SOS) have all been used to describe these ugly posters.

Tori’s response: I am sure I pass hundreds of these a day…in one brain, out the other. A few I recall are “ROOF STAIN REMOVAL,”LOSE WEIGHT IN 30 DAYS,”WE BUY JUNK.” Now, if it’s something regarding a lost or found pet, I am driving off the road trying to read it. Otherwise, I’m usually not paying attention to the street spam. I will say, a local insurance agency caught my eye this past tax season with their stuff on a stick…simply because they had a person dressed in a Statue of Liberty costume carrying the stick. You have got to be kidding me. Pull it together sweetheart and get out of the costume. I’m so embarrassed for you, I’ll pay you double what they’re paying you to not wear that thing.

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My next few posts require polling, so please be sure to share the posts with as many people as possible using the social bookmarks below (Digg, Reddit, StumbleUpon, etc.). I need to gather several responses here in order to provide accurate analytics on these debates.

Poll #1: Is there a right way and a wrong way to hang the toilet paper roll in the holder? Do you roll down from the top or do you pull up from underneath? And why?

Tori’s response: I roll down from the top for several reasons. First off, many public holders do not allow for the correct amount of space between the holder and the roll, so, if you were to pull up from underneath, the paper would scrape against the back of the holder and the wall. Yuck. Germ-o-rama. We all know I have OCD, so this clearly doesn’t cut it for me. The whole reason for wiping in the first place is to stay clean, so who wants to risk rubbing the toilet paper all over the germ-infested wall first before using it. Yuck.

Secondly, I like to fold the end of my toilet paper into a nice little triangle for my guests. Just like a fancy hotel. Don’t ask me why. Only the first guest gets to see the nice little triangle before he or she tears it off and uses it. Every once in a while, you’ll find me folding triangles during the middle of a party if I’ve spied an unruly toilet paper end on my way through the house.

Finally, I find that the pulling up from underneath maneuver oftentimes leaves a long trail of paper draping on the floor. The roll gets up so much momentum from the pulling that it just keeps on going. Of course, the person in the stall before me obviously does not need that much paper, so she attempts to tear off what she needs, leaving the rest hanging all over the place. Yuck. A germ-fest and a huge waste.

In summation, I am a “roll down from the top” kind of girl. And, because of my slight OCD tendencies, I usually have a hard time resisting the temptation to flip the roll when I’m in someone else’s washroom. Toilet paper should roll, not pull. After all, that’s why it’s called a “roll” of toilet paper.

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A friend sent this to me today. Having just turned 38, I found it to be quite funny. My mom and I just celebrated her birthday this past weekend, so I know she will get a good laugh too. Here’s to aging (gracefully…and with a martini in hand)!

George Carlin’s Views on Aging…

Do you realize that the only time in our lives when we like to get old is when we’re kids? If you’re less than 10 years old, you’re so excited about aging that you think in fractions.

“How old are you?” “I’m four and a half!” You’re never thirty-six and a half. You’re four and a half, going on five! That’s the key.

You get into your teens, now they can’t hold you back. You jump to the next number, or even a few ahead. “How old are you?” “I’m gonna be 16!” You could be 13, but hey, you’re gonna be 16!

And then the greatest day of your life…you become 21. Even the words sound like a ceremony. YOU BECOME 21. YESSSS!!!

But then you turn 30. Oooohh, what happened there? Makes you sound like bad milk! He TURNED; we had to throw him out. There’s no fun now, you’re just a sour-dumpling. What’s wrong? What’s changed?

You BECOME 21, you TURN 30, then you’re PUSHING 40. Whoa! Put on the brakes, it’s all slipping away. Before you know it, you REACH 50 and your dreams are gone.

But wait!!! You MAKE it to 60. You didn’t think you would!

So you BECOME 21, TURN 30, PUSH 40, REACH 50 and MAKE it to 60.

You’ve built up so much speed that you HIT 70! After that it’s a day-by-day thing; you HIT Wednesday!

You get into your 80s and every day is a complete cycle; you HIT lunch; you TURN 4:30; you REACH bedtime

And it doesn’t end there. Into the 90s, you start going backwards; “I Was JUST 92.”

Then a strange thing happens. If you make it over 100, you become a little kid again. “I’m 100 and a half!”

May you all make it to a healthy 100 and a half!!

HOW TO STAY YOUNG

1. Throw out nonessential numbers. This includes age, weight, and height. Let the doctors worry about them. That is why you pay “them.”
2. Keep only cheerful friends. The grouches pull you down.
3. Keep learning. Learn more about the computer, crafts, gardening, whatever. Never let the brain idle. “An idle mind is the devil’s workshop.” And the devil’s name is Alzheimer’s.
4. Enjoy the simple things.
5. Laugh often, long, and loud. Laugh until you gasp for breath.
6. The tears happen. Endure, grieve, and move on. The only person who is with us our entire life is ourselves. Be ALIVE while you are alive.
7. Surround yourself with what you love, whether it’s family, pets, keepsakes, music, plants, hobbies, whatever. Your home is your refuge.
8. Cherish your health. If it is good, preserve it. If it is unstable, improve it. If it is beyond what you can improve, get help.
9. Don’t take guilt trips. Take a trip to the mall, even to the next county; to a foreign country but NOT to where the guilt is.
10. Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity.

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I actually had to look back at my previous posts to make sure I hadn’t submitted one on cheese dip before. I was shocked that I hadn’t. It’s basically a staple in my life. I would be nowhere without it. I’d also be skinny without it, but that would require giving it up, and that simply is not an option.

I am talking about the cheese dip you order at a dive-y Mexican restaurant. The kind that comes in a piping hot bowl with a layer of oil rolling around on top of it. The kind you sink ten thousand chips into without thinking twice about it. The kind that makes your stomach ache with pain because you’ve eaten a portion that could feed all of Ethiopia.

Today, I had that kind of cheese dip for lunch.

A glorious day. A glorious lunch.

Viva Mexico! Viva cheese dip!

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Recently, I’ve neglected this blog. I’ve been swamped. You’d think a quick post here and there wouldn’t take too much time, but it’s all about prioritizing. My paying job is a priority, so until this blog makes me millions, I sometimes put it on the back burner.

This week, I am going to make an effort to post regularly.

Today’s Spade-ism is in honor of all you busy people out there:

She’s so busy, she looks like a cat trying to cover up shit on a marble floor.

We have a dog named Wilbur. I adopted him as a single woman. I rescued him from the streets. When he’s bad, I threaten to take him back to the hood where I found him. I think he understands what I’m saying. He’s spoiled, but that’s what happens when a single woman adopts a dog. He ruled the roost.

As you can imagine, this behavior hasn’t been going over so well with my husband. There is a slight power-play going on in our house. Wilbur thinks he makes the rules; my husband thinks he’s the man of the house. It’s fun.

A few months ago, we finally banned the dogs to their own beds in our room. Previously, they had been “sneaking” into the bed with us. A 130-pound Bloodhound and a 75-pound mutt. Ridiculous. That’s like four people in a king-sized bed. My husband and me pushed to the edges, with nary a cover to keep us warm. Two spoiled hounds dead center, with covers and pillows galore.

The other night Wilbur sauntered over to my side of the bed and gently put his head on my arm. I thought he needed to go out or something, but he just kept sitting there. Eventually, I thought something was wrong with him, so I rolled over to tell my husband I was concerned. Before I opened my mouth to utter the words, Wilbur was up on the bed. Sinister little devil.

Wilbur planted himself smack dab in between us, and my husband conjured up yet another nickname for the poor mutt. “That cock blocker,” my husband exclaimed, “I was just about to put the moves on you.”

“Yeah, right,” I replied, “I’ve seen better moves at a sixth-grade dance.”

And Spade came back with another great Spade-ism, “I’ve seen better moves at an Asian massage parlor.”

Another romantic evening at the Rose household.

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