The truth about being a cougar. From Iowa. Who has decent etiquette.

My Guy's cousin recently graduated from high school. The graduate is a really cool guy, and we were happy to send him a card with a little cash.

Because I'm a giant dork, I bought him a card from The Onion. And inside I wrote, "Follow your dreams and stuff."

I don't know why I don't work for Hallmark.

So, today, we got a thank you card. It was a masterpiece of 18-year-old boy wordsmithing:

My Guy and Cha Cha - 
Thanks for the card and the cash. I will spend it well. I will think of you lots at college.
Love,
Grad

I couldn't help but laugh. However, My Guy did point out that the thank you arrived with expedient aplomb. It was actually really impressive, as I'd sent the card just a few days ago.

My Guy: I don't remember writing my graduation thank yous that quickly. I don't think we even had a party.

Me: You didn't clean out the garage, set up folding chairs, and have a party with sheet cake and ham buns?

My Guy: Ham buns?

Me: Yeah. You know, buns from HyVee, sliced open, with ham in 'em?

My Guy: You mean ham sandwiches?

Me: They're called "ham buns."

My Guy: What is wrong with your people?

Me: You're just jealous.

My Guy: I don't even remember what I received for graduation gifts, besides lots of Bibles.

Me: Bibles? I guess people thought you really needed The Lord?

My Guy: I guess.

Me: The best gifts I got were from these 2 little old ladies at church. They were sisters - Mary and Alice. Alice gave me stationery, and Mary gave me stamps. At college, those stamps were like gold!

My Guy: Stationery? What did you do with that?

I looked at him. And then I realized that our 5-year age difference really matters here.

Me: I went to college before the Internet. I wrote letters ... like the pioneers.

My Guy: - blank stare -

Me: - grey head in weathered, elderly hands -

I watch it so you don't have to: Rock My RV with Bret Michaels.

Everyone's favorite reality teevee rocker is back!

No, Bret Michaels isn't starring in a mobile dating show called "Slut Bus," or a whodunit called "Who Gave Me The Herp?" Instead, it's "Rock My RV," wherein Bret transforms broken-ass recreational vehicles into probably uninsurable tricked-out behemoths.

Basically, it's "Pimp My Ride," but with RVs.

Evidently, slate.com calls it "The best reality makeover show yet." Umm ... OK?

Thus far, the show has taken on projects like transforming a 20-year-old RV into kind of a family pimp palace, and turning an old ambulance into a Bigfoot tracking vehicle.

You know that part of me that saw the same poolside waiter 4 years in a row and immediately became concerned about the guy's retirement plan? Yeah. That same part of me thinks that none of this dumpy RV rehabbing is economically responsible. But that aside ...

... Yeah, it's still a bad show.

I know. I know! I can't help it - I'm so annoyed by Bret acting like he comes up with these designs and then is actively working on the team who does all the implementation. He's like the smarmy kid in a group project who doesn't do anything but tells the teacher crap like, "I feel like we really pulled together as a team."

Bret helps with demo. They once showed him doing some spray painting. But other than that, he uses "I" and "we" a lot and slaps down design docs and says stuff like, "I want 4 pop-outs. Can we do it?"

Evidently, in Older RV Land, 4 pop-outs is impossible, due to, like, science and stuff. And the fabricator dude was like, "Ehhh ... I can't do 4, but I can probably do 2." And Bret was like, "I know you're great at what you do. Try to get 4 out of here."

So, he's That Guy. That Guy who also says, "I really wanna honor this vehicle, you know what I mean?"

Ugh.

Perhaps I am not the target demographic for this show. I hate camping. And I can't help but hold it against Bret when he pronounces "philanthropy" as "philantropy" or uses terms like "reimaginated."

Why wouldn't that stuff get edited out? Do the producers want Bret to look dumb? Because it's working.

At the end of every show, there's the big reveal. The RV is hidden behind a curtain, and Bret hollers, "Rock! My! R! V!" Then, 2 scantily clad women called "The Bretettes" drop the curtain, and the RV in question appears, surrounded by fire.

It's so cheesy, it's almost awesome. Almost. I just can't get around the ego at work here. Because Bret's ego is the only part of him working. Maybe I just have PTSD from too many group projects gone bad. And that PTSD is combining with my fear of camping, and this is just not the show for me.

Then, there was my husband's comment: "I'm really disappointed by the lack of sluts in this show."

Word.

Paint fumes are real, people.

I've been painting baseboards.

I've been painting so many baseboards that I started thinking that I am the most amazing baseboard painter ever. My skill at free-handing trim paint is the thing legends are made of! My steady hand and raw talent is revolutionizing home rehabilitation.

Then, it got weird.

I started thinking that I'd probably be feted at the Kennedy Center Honors in recognition of my skill with a 1 1/2" angled brush.

Who would talk about me? Would they get Bob Vila to wax poetic about how I am a huge inspiration to him? Would I have to act like I wasn't pissed off when some big boobed, botoxed HGTV host who pretends to be a contractor but really just gets in the way talks about me? Except the Kennedy Honors shows seem to be really chill and classy. They'd find some good folks to talk about me.

And the little movie about my paint transformations? Well, they could show before and after footage of my 3 houses ... and the countless rooms I've painted for friends. Most people have "The Truck Friend" who helps them move. I am "The Paint Friend," who also loves to caulk.

I got mad skillz, yo.

But what would I wear to the Kennedy Center Honors? It almost seems appropriate to wear my very stinky painting clothes. However, that might be kind of awkward, seeing as how everyone else - including the president - will be in black tie. Oh, conundrum.

This is the stuff I think about while crawling around, getting paint in my hair.

And yes, I do realize that I need to get out more. Out of the fumes.

I'll take a kennel over a cubicle any day.

A year ago this week, I started a new job at Mega Corporate Behemoth. On my first day, I sat alone for 15 minutes in the lobby, waiting for my manager to fetch me. She was late because she had to stop for coffee. Because coffee was a higher priority.

I should have paid attention to the signs and run screaming from the building.

I have a friend who once took a new employee out for lunch on her first day. The newbie ordered an appetizer, entrée, and dessert, paid for by her new employer - and then never showed back at the office after lunch. Or ever.

My friend was horrified, but in a way, I admire that kind of moxie. Especially since sometimes, there are really obvious clues that a gig is not a good fit. See also: my first-day lunch at Mega Corporate Behemoth, wherein my boss and her harpy lieutenant invited me to dine, then ignored me and my attempts to join the conversation.

I was so unhappy in that job. Even thinking about it a year later makes me sad.

However, things are better.

I only had to sit in my Cube of Despair for 2 months until I was canned. That was a blessing.

In my next, equally boring but way-nicer gig at Globotron, I relearned that yes, there are nice people in Corporate America. I actually made friends. I also learned once and for all that I am not meant to be a cube dweller.

When My Guy and I agreed that I needed to say goodbye to Corporate America for good, he had 3 stipulations:

• Be happier.
• Don't feel guilty.
• For the love of all that is holy, no more dogs.

Well, 2 outta 3 ain't bad.

I'm still struggling with the guilt. I don't bring in the cash that I used to. And how could I possibly be a productive member of society when I'm unshowered and wearing yoga pants? Yoga pants with dirty paw prints on them?

I'm also struggling with how to describe myself, or explain what I do. My friends ask how things are going, and I'm at a loss, except to say, "Great!" and change the subject.

I'm kind of being a housewife and kind of being a writer. And I'm toying with calling myself an artist instead of a writer, because people expect artists to be a little crazy and defy description. What kind of writer can't even find the words to describe herself? But an artist? Well, that's different.

Here's what I know: I have 3 dogs curled up under my desk and a giant canine noggin resting on my foot. A dachshund is snoring. I am blessed.

A little frustrated at my difficulty in figuring it all out. But blessed.

An open letter to the azalea in my front yard.

So, I'd never used a hack saw before.

Much like the fight scene in "Anchorman," I think we can agree that things escalated quickly. I mean, that really got out of hand fast.

I'm so, so sorry.

I'm sorry, but I think we can agree that you were a little ... rangy. See, you're a shrub, right? You weren't ever supposed to be pushing 7 feet. I went in with my clippers to cut out all the dead wood, but everything above about 2 feet was dead wood, then more dead wood ... and then 3 leaves on top. Hence your extreme haircut.

The clippers weren't getting through the thicker branches, hence the hack saw. I thought I was just a weakling, but evidently, I was using a saw with a blade intended for cutting metal, not wood. This meant the trimming took forever and made my husband laugh. Well, he laughed at me after he got over his initial shock at the carnage.

It needed to be done. I was just surprised and saddened that it ended up looking so ... destructive.

Please trust that I had only the best intentions, and that I'm sure you're going to come back better than ever - full and lush and the envy of the neighborhood.

If you don't bloom next year out of spite, I understand.

Just please don't die. Because I really don't want to dig out your ancient roots. And because my husband is making fun of me already. Please, team up with me to prove that his foretelling of your demise is wrong. I love you and believe we have a future together.

Two feet tall is a really good look for an azalea. Work it! Own it! Please don't die! I promise I won't trim anything else without adult supervision!

The problem with Pinterest.

I like the pictures.

I do. I really do. I'm a visual learner, and being able to gorge myself on ideas is quite satisfying.

However.

I typically troll the home décor section of ol' Pinterest, seeing as how I have an old house that will never be done-ish. I've found Pinterest to be a good way to research period details of my house. This has made slogging past all the McMansion posts to be a worthwhile endeavor.

However.

You know what really kills me? It's the comments.

"Must do!"

"Posting so I remember this when I have a house / baby / garden / bigger house / bigger baby / what-have-you!"

"Wish I'd done this."

Ugh. It's just all these women shoulding all over themselves. Like we aren't good enough, with our right-enough homes and our just-fine interior design.

No. Instead, we have to shame ourselves by publicly posting to-do lists and reminders of our own perceived inadequacies.

Most of my pins have just 1-word descriptions - really insightful stuff like "Entryway" or "Kitchen." Enough so that search can function. But I refuse to attach any kind of action or emotion to them. Because I am a crotchety old biddy who does not have the time to make freakish lists of impractical to-dos or OCD regrets.

And don't even get me started on the grammar on Pinterest. Oh, sweet Jesus.

Of course we talked boobs at the family reunion.

I spent 22 hours in the car this weekend.

Yeah, you know you're jealous.

My mom and I went to a family reunion in South Dakota. Did you know that in South Dakota, the speed limit on 2-lane highways is 65? And on the interstate, it's 75? That right there is reason enough to move to the more tropic of the Dakotas.

Plus, the gas station we stopped at had freakin' FULL SERVICE. The cutest boy in a high school football t-shirt pumped our gas. He was so clean-cut and adorable. I just wanted to make him a sandwich. This might also have been due to the fact that I was delirious with relief at finding a gas station, as I hadn't been paying attention to the fuel gauge on my mom's car and noticed after about 9,000 miles that the red light was on.

Obviously, it was an action-packed weekend.

This was a family reunion where I didn't even find out who was going to be there until I was en route. It was the descendants of my great-great grandparents. Basically, I knew my aunts and my mom's 3 cousins. Everybody else, I didn't know from a can of paint.

But people are kind, and it takes a special breed to either open your farm to strangers who are family, or to travel way out of your way to see family - or meet them for the first time.

I enjoyed spending time with my mom and my aunties. I got a kick out of their cousins, 3 brothers who were clearly up to no good and old enough to know better. And I loved watching the wheels turn as the group tried to decipher spotty genealogical information.

One relative had 2 kids who were 2 months apart in age. Sadly, my fantasy of him having multiple wives simultaneously didn't pan out. He just adopted his second wife's kids from her first marriage. Except that my mom and the aunties remembered the second wife, who lived with them while she was going to beauty school, and there weren't kids around. Or maybe she was the third wife?

Then, there was our host, who was the surprise baby of his family. "Mom was 45 when she had me, and dad was 55," he said, eyes bright. "She said she cried for 2 weeks when she found out she was pregnant. I have nephews who are older than me."

I discovered that my auntie and I are foot twins. Our feet look exactly alike. Surely this information will come in handy some day.

And then, there were the photos. Can you tell the difference between Neva and Laura? Which one is which? And just look at Granny!

My mom leaned across the photos and whispered conspiratorially to me and the aunties. "I just can't get over the boobs! You had to wear a belt to keep 'em above your waist!"

I laughed. "Yeah, they're all very ... bosomy."

My mom straightened up. "I just remember Granny and all the ladies as being really soft and cushy."

I considered genetics and my own NASA-engineered over-the-shoulder boulder holder. I sat up straighter and said a silent prayer to Saint Nordstrom, patron of big-boobied ladies and my personal savior. Then, I realized that high speed limit or no, I couldn't live in South Dakota, so far from the Nordie's lingerie department.

It was a good weekend, full of discovery.