What could Susan Dey, hot teenager from The Partridge Family and only actor who didn’t appear in the reunion this morning on NBC, and Texas Independence Day have to do with each other?

These are the subjects that Americans are searching for right now. We aren’t wondering about the state of the nation, we aren’t too concerned with the Earthquake in Chile or the continued efforts to help the Haitians. No, we want to know why Susan Dey dissed her make believe family and skipped the reunion.

We could be worried about the unemployment that ran out for millions of Americans this past week but no, we NEED to know why Susan Dey wasn’t a partridge.

I don’t have the answer. I don’t care why she wasn’t there. I don’t care all that much about Texas Independence Day either. If they still want to leave, let them.

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I don’t usually remember my dreams. I know I have them, I majored in psychology in college and learned all about REM sleep and that we enter into several times each night. The thing is I rarely remember my dreams. It seems when I do remember dreams they come in clusters. I go for weeks without a dream, at least it seems that way, and then bam I have tons of dreams that I remember.

Last night I dreamed I was wearing my retainer. You know, the thing you wear in your mouth after the orthodontist takes off your braces. The appliance, as they call it, that costs tons of money to replace every time it gets thrown away with the contents of the lunch tray.

In my dream I could feel the damn thing and was having a difficult time talking to the orthodontist who was showing me her min pin dog who was wearing a green tutu and had some funky high heels on. Also a cape but the cape didn’t match the tutu or shoes so I suggested to the orthodontist that she not allow the dog to wear the cape.

I still have my retainer, somewhere. I come across it every ten years or so and manage to wear if for about a minute before I toss it back in the box I found it in. My son’s orthodontist has told me I should still be wearing it at night, that in fact I should wear it for the rest of my life. I think she must smoke a lot of pot or something.

Anyway, I wonder what kind of bizarre dreams you all have. Do you dream in color? Do you spend a lot of time analyzing your dreams or do you just accept them as brain farts?

*** General Hospital***

This week on General Hospital Sonny’s trial for murder begins! One son is tormented when his father takes the fall for him while the other is called to stand to testify against his father.  What do you think these sons will do?

*I am a participant in a Mom Central campaign for ABC Daytime and will receive a tote bag or other General Hospital branded items to facilitate my review.

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As I was leaving the house yesterday I noticed what looked liked dog kibble all over the yard. I have a dog, and a child who likes to feed the dog, so it didn’t seem like an odd thing to see. Except that the kibble was still there and had not been eaten, and that it was placed within animal prints in the same spot each time.

I’m pretty sure this is squirrel poop but since I have never seen squirrel poop before I really don’t know.

I have never noticed this before in my life. I have often wondered where squirrels poop since I’ve never see it on the lawn.

Apparently, if this is squirrel poop, they like to poop in my back yard. It was everywhere once I started looking.

I was actually excited when I found this yesterday. First of all I knew right away I had a post for today, but also because I have often wondered what squirrel poop looks like. I know what rabbit poop looks like, I am very familiar with dog poop, baby poop and even cat poop. I can identify cow poop and horse poop but I have never before seen what squirrel poop looks like.

Am I the only one who has been missing this?

** UPDATE**

The general consensus, from people who know more about these kinds of things than I do, seems to be that these tracks, and the poop, are made by a rabbit and not a squirrel. I would have to agree. After spending the better part of an hour watching the squirrels in my yard I noticed a couple of things. First off they don’t leave tracks. They little buggers aren’t heavy enough to break through the snow. Secondly they don’t stop to poop.

The mystery remains…where do squirrels poop and what does it look like?

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Yesterday my daughter was talking about her birthday. She is already making a list for what she wants for her birthday this coming February. I don’t know if she realizes that she is skipping right over Christmas of if she simply realizes that she won’t possibly get everything on her Christmas list. Of course she still believes in Santa so she probably was just mentally counting all her bootie.

Usually the conversation starts out like this:

“Guess what’s after Christmas, Mom”

“New Years” I say.

“Do we get presents on New Years?” Daughter will ask.

“No, but it’s really important to be quiet on the first day of the new year, in fact it’s a great day to spend with your father.” I tell her

“Guess what’s after Christmas?”

“What’s after Christmas?”

“My Birthday!” Daughter says excitedly.

“No, my birthday, then your brother’s birthday and then your birthday” I remind her.

She doesn’t really care about all these other birthdays but since daughter and son both have a birthday within four days of each other, and her birthday is after his, we are caked out. I still make two cakes but there is always half of his left over. Last year I got balloons for son’s birthday, I would have gotten them for her too but his were still up and they said “Happy Birthday”. Yeah, I know, but he didn’t care to play with them, she just wanted more.

Anyway, I got to thinking about my birthday. Mine is in January and usually by December I have already aged myself. I suppose it’s just easier to start getting used to that higher number a month or two in advance.  I never used to do this but my ex#2 always did and the habit stuck.

So I am in the shower yesterday thinking about my birthday and I realized I wasn’t sure how old I was.  I thought I was 44 and was fine with that number except I knew I was not going to be 45 next month. That just wasn’t happening. It seems like yesterday I turned 40 so there was no way 45 had already snuck up on me.  Also my brother had just turned 45 or 46 last month (I’m not really sure about his age either) and he is two years older than me so it didn’t seem possible. So I had to do the math.

I was born 1/17/1966

That makes me 43 for the moment and not 44 like I have been telling everyone, for nearly the last year, who asks.

They don’t usually ask, that would be rude, but I do because I like to compare myself to them if they are the same age as me (only if I look younger).

I have been nearly high on this information for the last day. I don’t usually care about my age but I am still surprised to find that things like Live Aid or the fall of the Berlin wall was 20 years ago. It seems like they just happened. Even 9/11 was almost ten years ago. Time flies and it seems to speed up as we get older.

Realizing I am a year younger is like finding a $100 that had been tucked away and forgotten about. It was always there but I had forgotten about it and now it is like free money.

I got a free year.

This is a post talking about female parts so all you guys out there can go visit Crotchety Old Man to read about his Brazilian wax job and how he is terrorizing the young nurses. Be sure to contribute to his couch fund. I figure if Dani can talk about her boobs all the time I can talk about the tubal I had yesterday. I also realize I don’t need to feel so guilty about not posting if Chelle, the whip-cracker over at Humor Bloggers dot com is making excuses about not posting during the summer because of such things as having mountains and oceans nearby I can certainly use the old 10,000 lakes excuse.

I have had three surgeries in the past year, all out patient, but all requiring general anesthesia which means I have been administered Propofol three times in the last year. I love this drug. One minute I’m lying on the table exposing my womanly parts and telling the anesthesiologist not to pull a Doc Murray on me and to remind him that I do not need to be kept under for longer than necessary, oh and is he sure he has enough oxygen around just in case, and the next minute, at least to me, I’m in the recovery room trying to get dressed even though I am still dazed an confused. In fact I don’t really remember getting dressed and as I was heading out to ex#2′s car I insisted to him that I needed to go back and get dressed. I was, but it was all a blur.

Ex#2 has been my escort to my surgeries each time. I was hesitant to ask him this time given the procedure and in fact had asked my brother, which was weird since he told me all about his wife’s tubal, but ex#2 called the day before and offered to escort me since it was sort of his area. I didn’t ask which area he meant, my physical part or his driving part. Anyway when we left the hospital and I had cleared my mind a bit I realized that the nurse hadn’t given me any of the pillows they call maxi pads so I asked my ex to stop at Walgreen’s so I could pick them up. I fumbled to get out of my seat belt to go in the store, when he suggested that he do it, which was very nice of him but something I wouldn’t ask even though he has proved in the past that he can and will buy feminine hygiene products for me. It doesn’t matter that he got the teen pads for very long girls. Pads that absorb about a 1/4 tsp of fluid or that he got the store brand which means they are plain looking and have no wings. I’m grateful he did it for me even if he went in the aisle with one hand over his eyes and just grabbed whatever he got his hands on first.

He was also a sweetheart and bought me food since he knew I had not been allowed to eat for nearly 24 hours. He even bought me my favorite snack in the world, Twizzlers, strawberry flavored ones. It didn’t matter that I didn’t have enough saliva to eat them since I hadn’t been allowed liquid for the past ten hours, because I knew when I choked on one he would be there to give me the Heimlich or possibly peel the damn candy off the back of my dry and crusty throat made sore by being intubated. His heart was in the right place.

So I am good to go today. I was a little light headed yesterday and since they filled my abdominal cavity with air, for reasons only they understand, I was a little gassy, the good kind not the rotten egg kind, but I am past that now, I think. I don’t have much of an appetite yet but have been craving a margarita something fierce. Go figure.

I don’t need to worry about getting pregnant ever again even though when I told my mother what I was having done she told me I could always adopt. I wasn’t too worried about becoming pregnant since I had another form of birth control and not really having sex but I have the kind of luck where something like that happens. I begin to see the light at the end of the parenting tunnel, at least having to be around them 24/7 and then bam I pop out another one and start the whole damn 18 year trip over again. I feel liberated to say the least. Twelve more years and I am ready to party.

I have some of my best ideas before I wake up. At least they seem that way for a couple of hours after waking.

This morning was no different. I woke up with an idea for a great little shop. I live close to Grand Ave. On the avenue are tons of little boutiques and shoppes that cater to people who have gobs of money and don’t have a clue how to spend it. Case in point is the Wedding Shoppe. The Wedding Shoppe is conveniently located across the street from my buddy the balloon guy’s shop. I worked for him years/decades ago when balloons were cool. They aren’t so much now and I spend a lot of time talking to the balloon guy about his poor career choice. He often stares out his window and tries to calculate how much business the Wedding Shoppe does based on the cars parked on the street and the parking lot that he no longer has access to. They have been trying to buy his property for years.

Anyway, my idea for a great store, located conveniently on his property is a store called the Marriage Shoppe. In this store one might find practical gifts for married couples to give one another. There might be a section for newlyweds, couples married five years, ten years and longer, though those sections would be much smaller.

In the section for newlyweds would be gifts like diamond necklaces, lingerie, scrap books of the wedding, shit that only twenty something females would like. There would be no need for power tools or porn until you got into the 5 and 10 year anniversary sections. Beyond that would be mortgage payments, vacations (separate vacations) and college tuition.

There could be a section for clueless guys with signs of what is not acceptable to ever buy for a wife: irons and license plate tabs with the universal red circle with a slash running through it. There could be dictionaries for men just on the words “fine” and “go ahead”. They would be rather large volumes.

It seemed like such a great idea for at least an hour this morning, until I remembered that even though I have been married for six years it was three years per husband and I don’t really have a clue how to have a successful marriage. I know what not to do but I don’t really know what to do. Finding the right guy would probably help a lot in going the distance of at least the decade mark.

And then I thought I could have a store called the Divorce Shoppe. I know all about divorce. There could be sections on lawyers. The pit bull kind that will take all your money and your soon to be former spouses money, the bend over backwards lawyers who don’t cost as much but then you feel like you just took it up the ass for the rest of your life.

There could be sections on mediation, visitation and restraining orders.

There would be a section for celebrating the divorce. Party supplies in black that at least acknowledge the end of the union. The divorced or soon to be divorced person could invite all their friends who will soon no longer associate with them for one last long goodbye. Liquor stores could sponsor a room or theme and kill two birds with one stone.

After thinking about this idea for a while it occurred to me that I haven’t even done divorce all that well. I’m not all that bitter, I get along with both exes, I don’t care about the friends that I no longer see and basically I have become a hermit. Of course if there was a store called the Divorce Shoppe I probably wouldn’t bother to go there since after being divorced so long I forget that I was married let alone divorced. And the last thing I want to do is meet other people in the middle of a divorce.

I wonder if there is a store called the Lonely and Pathetic Shoppe.