Don't bother me I'm writing

When will I learn: FOOTBALL IS NOT MY FRIEND. It's SO beyond stupid. My  team will never win -- especially when I'm watching. It makes me want to stab people, and I'm certain the stress of the 2003 Apple Cup gave me shingles, which I wouldn't wish on a Husky or a Duck . Wazzu opened the season with an embarrassing loss to Brigham Young -- 6 to 30 -- though my Cougars were ROBBED of TWO touchdowns for bull sh** holds. Even the BYU-loving announcers conceded one of the calls was outrageous. What is it about this pastime that turns me into the Exorcist girl? And what would they say at the ER if I told them I had football demons inside of me?  I was jumping on the furniture, screaming myself horse, ordering a bunch of college KIDS   to "eat sh** and die." They couldn't even hear me.  The neighbors could hear me  -- the entire city of Bothell too -- but my team was getting its ass kicked in Utah, where I'm pretty sure even my loudest LOUD

Life's given me a lot to write about lately but nothing I want to publish on the Internet. God knows there are shit-tons of idiots out there who broadcast everything on the Internet from their morning poops to their evening circle jerks. I'm not one them. Health scares, financial hardships, family feuds -- they've all been stewing for the past three years. They're still stewing, and all I want to do is hide -- just bury my head in the sand and wait for my f***ing prom   funeral ; whatever John Bender would say to a 35-year-old Claire Standish. (I love The Breakfast Club.)  What I'm getting at in this scenic-detour sort of way is that I lack the energy -- moxy -- lately to spin my bull s**t into funny anecdotes on the trials and tribulations of being a tortured artist, writer, mother, wife and web analyst. There's only so much Bad News a person can take, and I reached my quota two months ago.  The good news: I'm done hiding It's time

Someone stole my identity last week to buy virus protection software from AVG -- $46. The bank called to verify whether or not I made the purchase -- I hadn't used the card since early 2011, so the late-night transaction struck some awesome banker as peculiar (thank you, Conscientious Banker). I was't aware that I had $46 available to charge on that card, otherwise I'd have purchased something much more exciting than virus protection -- the premium protection package at least. I wonder: what kind of genius is clever enough to access my account -- and then so stupid to use it, considering I owe more money than I'm worth? I can barely pay my bills. In fact I call my husband and the bank at lunch time to verify I have sufficient funds to purchase food, "I'm really hungry. Can I buy a sandwich?" Money is so tight I turned to the "interesting" section of Craigslist to see about a shady job or scheme to supplement my income. There were

I've had it. I'm done, fed up, exhausted, annoyed and not happy. Our fridge died, because someone -- I'm not pointing fingers -- left the freezer open while we were on hellcation last month. We've kept things chilled with bags of ice treating our refrigerator like a giant beer cooler. But the scorching temperatures we endured last weekend were too much to keep up with. I poured myself what should have been a cold glass of water on Sunday -- it was warmer than my pee. Jerod said the fridge was fine, but I could smell and hear the food rotting as I drank my hot beverage in our 92-degree kitchen.  My dad, a brilliant bacteriologist and veterinarian, begged us not to poison the children with potentially rancid food -- "Let me buy you a fridge." It arrived Tuesday -- a lovely white refrigerator with french doors and a night light and a water dispenser and a pocket butler who wipes your bum ... I've been dreaming of this day for five years -- the

It feels like a psycho killer chopped me into pieces and tossed them out the window of his orange 1962 Chevy pickup truck while driving in the middle of nowhere somewhere. Life happens to the best of us -- bankruptcy, death, illness, birth, natural disasters and office moves all at the same time so you're drowning every morning before you even step in the shower. There's a lot going on in my circle, and most of it is completely out of my control, which is great -- I guess, if you're one of those serene, wise folks they write about on refrigerator magnets. I'm not. I'm unstable which means I worry too much about the crap I can't control and not enough about the crap I can. For example: they told me at work "you may be relocated." "No," I shouted. "It's out of your control," they told me. "We need to make room for new employees." "What about my team?" "Get back to work." I couldn'