Should I buy a lottery ticket?

A couple of years ago, my boss received a Laugh-A-Day calendar, the kind where you rip off a page every day and read a funny quote or movie line or something on that order. I saved the pages and use them as scratch paper or to write myself little notes (like "you look fantastic today!" or "stop stealing from the fridge and pay the damn $3 for the Diet Cokes.")

So today, I was writing myself a note of one of these little papers. When I was finished, I flipped it over to see what was on the other side. Oddly enough, it was a quote from a book I'm reading. And in fact, I had read that quote earlier today.

What does this mean? Should I buy a lottery ticket? Consult an astrologist? Hide in the basement? Prepare for the apocalypse?

As for right now, I think I'll have a drink and ponder some more...

And if you're wondering, here's the quote:
Regardless of the situation, for [my brother] it was always about the joke. A warm embrace, a heartfelt declaration of concern - in weakness we'd fall for these setups, vowing later to never trust him again. The last time I allowed my brother to hug me, I flew from Raleigh to New York oblivious to the sidn he'd slapped to the back of my sports coat, a nametag sticker read, "Hello, I'm Gay." The following the hilarity of our mother's funeral.
David Sedaris, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim

So I'm on Twitter now

So I thought, if I'm going to publicly embarass my family I might as well do it on Twitter too. Find me at Grumpopotamus! Boo yah!

Cast of Characters

So you may find yourself wondering "so who are the people and creatures in the life of Grumpopotamus?"

First off, I am married to an intelligent, funny guy. Let's call him M. M loves sports and naps and his family. He pretends to love yard work so he can spend his Saturdays outside or at Home Depot. We've been married for thirteen years, much to the surprise of everyone we have ever met. He is nominating himself for sainthood because he's married to me. Can't say I blame him.

Next is my beautiful daughter D. She's a great student and is a dancer, actress, singer, pianist and softball player. I spend my entire life driving her around, hounding her to finish her homework, and attempting to get the girl to eat something other than ramen noodles.

Our oldest pet is a 15 year old cat named Angel. Aaaaaw, how sweet. Angel. Honestly, nothing could be further from the truth. Her story started at the Humane Society, where M and I just went to 'look' for a cat. From across the room, I hear him say "Deb, look at this one" and I knew that we were leaving with her. She started off being a lovely, cuddly, sweet kitty. Now, 15 years later, I live in fear that she will, in fact, find a way to make her deepest desires for my permanent removal from her world (or at least her home) come true.

The cat hates me. I'm pretty sure she sits up nights thinking of ways to kill me. She has already unsuccessfully attempted to sit on my mouth and nose, and successfully managed to trip me, claw me, and annoy me to the point of psychiatric breakdown. Every night, I say a little prayer that she will not spontaneously grow opposable thumbs. Once she can wield a weapon, I'm doomed.

The next cat is Trixie. She's 14. She pees on things. I can attribute my newly-developed facial tick on her. You would too if you've washed the same tablecloth three days in a row, and have spent more on cat-pee-removal-cleaners in a year than on your hair, makeup and nails combined.

About nine years ago, before the peeing and the attempted murder, innocently standing with our then 2 year old daughter in the driveway, Stella the cat walked into our lives. Literally. Through some delusional decision making process, we kept her. It changed the entire house. She's an OK cat. She has no horribly annoying habits and just wants to be left alone. But the other cats didn't like her and turned into the psychotic messes they are today.

Because living in fear for your life and facial ticks just weren't enough for us, we got a dog. The day before Thanksgiving 2008, M and D walk into the house with a two pound, four month old Silky Terrier named Mia. She was possibly the cutest thing in the entire world. A bundle of energy, she jumped up and down all over me and gave me a lovely dog-spit facial. Everything was wonderful until we realized that she wasn't quite as potty trained as we were told she was. Well what a shocker. Then we read about her breed to find they are notoriously difficult to potty train, sometimes taking a year. And a year it took. At least she went on the puppy pads we blanketed the floors with. Actually, there were so many it would have been difficult to actually poop on the floor. I started to think of the puppy pads as a type of weird, white, non-cozy carpeting.

It seemed that I was suffering from some sort of sudden onset Tourette's Syndrome - I was walking around the house swearing all the time. We were one animal away from requiring zoological certification to even live in our house. There was always a tiny poop on the floor somewhere. The dog chased the cats. The cats chased the dog. I spent a lot of money on headache remedies the first year we had the dog.

Now she's a great little dog. She always wants to be by me or M. She swallows her pride and lets D parade her around in a stroller. Mia no longer poops on the floor. My Tourette's seemed to have subsided.

So that is us. Crazy, usually happy, lots of silliness.

Welcome!

Someone told me a while ago that I was funny. I hope he was referring to my ability to make people laugh, and not how I look. I might have to get all Joe Pesci on his ass if it was the latter.

Regardless, I figure why not? Let's have some fun.