I think DSL stands for “Doh! Sorry, Loser”

I feel strange.

Awkward.

Uncomfortable.

Discombobulated.

Don’t you just love that word? I do. Discombobulated. Dis-com-BOB-uuuuuuuuu-lated. I wonder who made it up? It sounds so … I don’t know, scattered? Nonsensical? Almost a little sexy, don’t you think?

I’d say Dr. Seuss made it up, except that the words Dr. Seuss and sexy should never be in the same sentence. Ever.

It describes me to a tee lately. Discombobulated, that is. Well, so do scattered, nonsensical and a little sexy.

Except for the little sexy part.

I’m feeling out of sorts because I’m blogging from a foreign land called My Kids’ Computer. Mine is still recuperating from the catastrophic hard drive failure this past weekend.

Carbonite, my online backup service, is chugging along, restoring my files, and working at a pace known as … hang on, I wrote it down here somewhere … here it is: FOR SHIT’S SAKE, I CAN GROW A THIRD EYE FASTER THAN THIS. WITH CATARACTS AND EVERYTHING.

But that’s not Carbonite’s fault. It’s doing what it’s supposed to do and it’s not Carbonite’s problem that I have 53,000 files to restore and that my DSL connection, which is normally speedy quick, has decided to choose this particular moment to have an identity crisis and channel a slug.

I’d like to give a shout out to Marshall at Carbonite. He checked out my restoration status and told me that all systems were go and that if it weren’t for my schizophrenic DSL connection, I’d be seeing faster progress.

Dear Santa,

I would like a better computer with a faster DSL connection for Christmas.

And a waist.

Love, Andy

When my hard drive has finally been restored, I’m going to celebrate by throwing a wicked awesome party. I just hope my nursing home allows liquor and non prescription drugs, otherwise my great great grandchildren will have to teleport them in for me. I better be senile by then because I fully intend to get trashed and strip and do a pole dance around Nate and this would be a whole lot easier if I did not have to give a flying hoot the next morning, or have to explain myself to Nate when he wakes up from his nap and finds a bunch of dollar bills stuck to his walker. Oh and don’t worry about going blind from the show, there will be shots of eye bleach for everyone! Yay!

Speaking of sloooooooooooooow, my kids’ computer is sooooooooooo damn slllllooooooooowwwwwwww. It runs at a pace known as … wait a sec, I wrote it down … here it is: THIRD EYE? PANSY ASS. I’M GROWING A FOURTH ONE JUST WAITING FOR THIS PAGE TO REFRESH.

Though it may not look like it, I’m typing as fast as I can right now, so please don’t blame me if you age a year or two before finishing this post. Just read slow and savor it, ok?

This hard drive fiasco has caused me to become slightly delusional. I know this because the above statement? It actually makes sense to me.

I don’t have my photos. I don’t have my custom desktop. I don’t have my iTunes. Or my shortcuts to the 3,702 sites I visit on a daily basis, which means I have to manually type out all the urls and that makes me cranky. And tired. And to top it all off, I haven’t opened up Photoshop in a week. One week. My God, do you realize it is entirely possible that I will be blogging about Christmas from a detox facility?

Will Santa even find me there?

I feel stripped down and naked and nothing good ever comes out of me being stripped down naked. Except my kids. But that was with hours and hours of heavy breathing and pushing and sweating. Not to mention that whole labor and delivery deal.

There’s no heavy breathing or pushing going on here, but I have lost a total of 12 pounds due to stress sweat.

I’m thinking of going to Wegmans for some grocery shopping later today, if only to get away from the Carbonite status screen. And to be honest, we do need some food, if my kids’ prone and lifeless bodies splayed across the floor in front of the fridge are any indication.

So if you hear of a naked and discombobulated woman having a complete and total nervous breakdown in aisle 8b because the ziti was not where she last saw it, just know she’s tired of things not being where God intended them to be. That reminds me.

Dear Santa,

I’d like a boob job too.

Love, Andy