Today is the last day of 2008. And you know what that means?
Now, let's be honest, most resolution (ahem, mine, in particular) generally last till about noon New Years Day. Because they are unreasonable. Seriously, like I'm EVER going to stop drinking so much and start exercising more? Don't make me laugh.
So this year, I've decided to make a realistic resolution.
Drink more and exercise less!
Who's with me?
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
Have y'all seen that movie "Christmas With the Kranks"? No? Well, it sucks. But that's not my point. I know, right? Shocking that *I* of all people should start a post with a sentence that has nothing to do with anything and possibly isn't related even one itsy-bitsy bit to the post.
What was I saying? Oh yes, Skipping Christmas. That's the book that movie was based on I think. I haven't read that either, but I think if I were the author I'd be glad that people didn't associate my likely passable or possibly even stellar literary genius with that crapfest. I mean, really, with as hard as it is to get published, let alone have a book that translates well into film, would make you think you'd be pretty pissed if someone did THAT to your baby. And believe you me, a book is a lot like a baby. It makes you want to kill yourself at least once a week because you can't sleep at night and also? It makes your ass fat.
This post has lost the plot entirely.
WHAT I WAS GOING TO SAY is that this year, we skipped Christmas. Well, not exactly skipped it, more like showed up late and then ducked out early. Like the birthday party that you go to because even though you don't like the birthday person, you know the booze will be flowing and food will be tasty. So you eat, drink and bail. That's what I did, this holiday season. I strung one row of lights around the porch and wrapped the mailbox with tinsel garland and that was exactly it. No tree, no cookies, no giant pile of shredded wrapping paper. We cooked the big meal, broke out the booze and watched The Dark Knight on television while Uncle Chuck dozed on the sofa.
As a result, the 8lb 6oz Lord Baby Jesus gave me the plague.
Because he's like that.
So, I spent the rest of the weekend in my pajama's sniffling into a paper towel because we were out of Kleenex and foraging through the left overs for sustenance and drinking a boat load of whiskey n' honey because we ran out of NyQuil sometime Saturday.
The only upside, if there is one, is that I have learned that you can burn 9,000 calories! from coughing.
The line to make out with me forms to the left.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Me: Holy shit, that girl at the bar is gorgeous!
Mel: (turns to look) Oh my god. Wow. She's got the body, the hair, the face and look at those boobs. Damn.
Me: I know, right?
Mel: (contemplating current seedy location) I bet she's lost. We should offer to help her. Like, slip her a note that says "wink twice if you've been kidnapped".
Me: Then, when we get her in the parking lot, we push her in the mud puddle.
Mel: HIGH FIVE.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
My favorite part about the Christmas season is the movies. Not your typical "Miracle on 34th Street" or "It's a Wonderful Life", no what I love is that the movie channels break out the classics. Things like "Breakfast Club" and "Mary Poppins" and the Christmas Eve traditional showing of "Sound of Music". My mother in law and I liked to sing along to that one, back in the day when we lived in the frozen tundra of the north. We had to sing loud to drown out the incessant yelling of things like "Is that a cat in heat outside?" and "I think the kitchen window just shattered". But did that stop us? NO IT DIDN'T!
I have to say though overall my favorite movie that seems to only be shown this time of year is "Top Gun"
I was 11 when Top Gun hit the theaters and my BFF Heather and I begged and bribed and whined until her brother agreed to take us to the Bay Theater in his orange Chevy Nova and buy us tickets. Because we simply had to see it. Even at 11, I was a sucker for a man with a uniform.
Oh, I swoon to this day over perfectly pressed pants and a crisp shirt....
but let's not digress there, because we'll never come back from my cataloguing the virtues of a well kept man.
I remember sniffling and wiping my eyes on the sleeve of my sweatshirt when Goose died,
trying to act cool but then totally losing it when Meg Ryan hugged Maverick and told him to fly anyway; that Goose would have wanted him to.
Mostly though, I remember leaving that tiny, filthy theater with the unwavering desire to be Charlie.
I begged my mother for permission to cut and perm my waist length stick straight hair. I colored over my blond eyebrows with mascara swiped from my mom's makeup case and I practiced saying witty things like "Hemlock, is it?" as I donned men's undershirts liberated from my fathers drawers.
I studied up on things like her car (a Volkswagen Karmenn Ghia, that I would STILL love to have to this day!)
and I dreamed of afternoons lounging on the porch of my adorable beach front cottage
spent with boys fresh from the volleyball pit
How, exactly, I planned to accomplish these things was irrelevant. Dreams often lack specifics in my experience.
But oh how the weight and substance of those dreams carried me through many an angsty junior high night.
I think that's what this season should really be about, don't you? Not presents, not huge dinners, not rushing to and fro and stressing about how much it's all going to cost. The spirit of Christmas, to me, is the possibility that one day, all your dreams are going to come true.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
One of my very most favoritest bloggers from Myspace has been seduced over to Blogger. I suspect it's because I promised him I would tell you how awesome he was. Which is true. Both that I said I would say that and also that he is awesome. Really, really funny shit that makes me snort out loud in a decidedly unladylike way. For example songs about dead midgets and a pictorial review of his slovenly room. And lots and lots of posts that reference porn in some fashion. No doubt you can see why I adore him.
Good thing I didn't offer him cash or anything to come over here. Because then people would die. Or so he says. But sometimes he lies. He's like that.
So y'all go visit Roth and enjoy the warped world he brings to the Blogger table.
Or I'll be forced to blog pictures of my boobs again and we all know that leads nowhere good.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Raise your hand if you haven't finished your Christmas shopping yet.
Now raise it if you haven't even started.
Am I the only one with my hand raised?
Fine then. In the interest of being or at least looking productive here are some things you might get from me at Christmas. And by "christmas" I mean "some time next summer."
A kit to turn your glasses into a spy camera!
Think of all the fucked up shit you see all day that you wish you could show people!
The perfect tee shirt the people in your life that whine all the time
OR maybe this for all those times when you wish you could just hug some pork products
That's right, it's a stuffed bacon pillow! The perfect gift for the baconophile in your life.
Because nothing says love like saying what you mean there is always this
A perfect gift in so very many ways....am I right?
Normally, I don't talk about my work here, on line, where I could potentially be Dooced for it, but it bears explaining. And by "explaining" I mean "ranting about". I'm okay with doing it here simply because I've already said basically the same things (though likely with fewer swear words then you're about to read) to my boss.
Some of you know that I am an accountant. I work for a small finger of a very large company. My finger manufactures custom vehicles. An industry that is not surprisingly being adversely effected by the current economy. As a result we've had to lay off a substantial number of employees, we've cut our hours and we've got a few departments soliciting outside work to supplement cash flow. It's simply not bringing home the bacon.
Yesterday, my boss announced that we would be closing for the next two weeks and no one would be getting paid for it.
What the fuck? It's a week before Christmas and he gives twenty people three days notice that they're losing a half month's pay? That's pretty fucked up.
Yes, I get that we're in a pretty dire economic state, I do the books, believe me, I've been freaking out for months now. And if we're being honest, I was expecting hours to be cut further. I was expecting notice though. I would have expected the boss to have been the one to break the news. I would have expected to have answers to things like "will the doors even reopen?" and "what about my health insurance deductions?" and "how the fuck am I supposed to pay my mortgage?". But I have answers to none of those things and despite my tiny black heart, I feel like an absolute asshole telling someone I know is living paycheck to paycheck that they should trust me, things will be okay.
So I'm not. I'm telling them to get their resumes' out there. I'm telling them to hedge their bets. I'm telling them Merry Fucking Christmas, love The Boss.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Me and M went to Mervyn's last Sunday to spend J's money on crap that was Up to 70% off including, but not limited to a back pack, a giant fuzzy pink pillow and a bunch of socks.
Now, me, I'm a simple girl. I'm not a sock fantasist who can only wear Champion socks or what have you. No, if they're clean and relatively the same design then they're fair game. I've even been known to wear one with a grey toe and one with a grey footbed, because really, who is looking? And matching all those damn socks? SO BORING.
However when I buy new socks I think when they should match when I take them out of the package. Even when they are 50% off.
The pair that I put on this morning though? Well, look for yourself.
They aren't even close to the same size. Now, lest you think that I just have one scooted up all weird or something, here is a picture sans shoes
see how the sock on the right is a totally different size? WTF?
Also WTF, why didn't you people tell me that no matter at what angle one attempts to photograph their own feet, it's going to look like you have freakishly fat calves?
Unless, it's not the camera angle and it IS my freakishly fat calves. At which point, then it's WHY-T-F didn't someone tell me I have such gihugent calves? LOOK AT THOSE THINGS. We're into circus side show territory here, people. If I didn't have such a nice rack, I'd probably join a convent that still wears the floor length habits.
Except that, you know, I'm not Catholic. Which I guess might be a hitch to this plan, but SERIOUSLY for good cankle coverage? I would convert. Provided that the habit had a nice v-neck, of course.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
Hiya Chickens! I've spent about the last 24 hours and the hospital, and if you've been reading my twitter updates, you'll know that as of yet, there is no progress. And by "no progress" I mean that the baby mama is still at 1cm and 0% effacement. Which means no adorable squishiness today either.
But, we do have two contest winners! Yay! Contest winners! Because I'm on the hospitals computer I couldn't do anything fancy like Miss Lorrie Veaseyalways does, so I randomly wrote down two numbers between 1 & 33 (33 being the total number of comments received) and with out further ado, that makes our winners
RPC (with the stellar suggestion of DUCT TAPE as next years must have) winning the flower clip
Melaina25 (with the dubious, though no doubt sadly accurate prediction of PEEP TOE GLADIATOR BOOTS. A trend from which I, for one, will not partake, thanks just the same) winning the cocktail ring!
If y'all would be so kind as to email me your mailing addresses, I'll drop your goodies in the post some time next week.
Now, I want to make sure that you kids are aware that tomorrow is one of the most important days of the year. It's a day second only in it's glory to the date of my own personal birth. It is perhaps more glorious though because everyone gets to celebrate it with equal vigor. It's
WOOT! That's right! It's the day of the year when every woman should be escorted by her significant other to the nearest jewelry store and be allowed to chose what ever her heart desires. This brilliant day says to the lady of your heart "I know I'm an asshole, but here's something shiny to help you forget it." Acceptable Sparkly Day gifts include all manner of jewelry, new cars, designer hand bags and should the love of his life so chose, perhaps professional home remodeling. Basically, whatever Mama wants, Mama gets.
I recommend all you girls tell your husbands/boyfriends/wives about this, the most special holiday of the year. Gentlemen, you know what needs to be done, so unsheathe the credit card and get to it.
And lastly, since wee baby Gianna is being a pill, I thought we'd have a little fun. In the comment section, leave your best guess as to the day, hour and minute of her arrival. The person closest to the correct time will win....something. Oh! I know, I have one last flask-and-booze prize sitting on the shelf.
SO! Guess away and happy Sparkly Day to all y'all!
Thursday, December 4, 2008
So here we are on Thursday, about 36 hours AFTER when Baby should have made her appearance and have we seen said baby? Not hide nor hair. And why? You may ask. (Let's assume that you DID ask, because otherwise I will have to come up with a new blog topic.)
Because there were 19 babies swimming down stream yesterday. 19 of them. And the day before that there were 17! Do you know what that means? It means people in this neighborhood can't keep their damn pants on, that's what it means.
What it also means is that today's post, which was meant to feature adorable newborn squishiness is RUINED. Thanks a lot, humping neighbors. Do I ask you not to park 3 cars on your lawn? No. Do I ask you not to play polka music at top volume at 3 am? NO. Do I even ask you to take down your Christmas lights by September? Of course not. The ONE little thing I needed, a blog topic that doesn't involve my boobs in anyway and you fuck that up for me.
Thanks a lot. Just for that, I'm going to have to post a picture of my boobs on the internet again.
See what you've made me do?
Can one of you helpful invisible internet type people explain to me why it is so damn hard to find a good tee shirt? one that doesn't make me look boxy, lumpy or vulgar? Seriously. I thought I'd found it at Old Navy this weekend in their "perfect fit" tee shirt and since it was only $5 I bought several of them. So then, I check myself in the mirror the other morning and I think, "HEY! This IS a perfect tee shirt! I LOVES IT!" and go to work. But first, I stop at QT for my vat of ice tea because hello, Mama needs her caffeine, and the construction workers were all very solicitous and that was nice and even the ones that weren't directly at eye level with my boobs smiled at my in an only mildly leering fashion and so I go on about my merry way, all day, wandering around in this tee shirt and then, at like 5 pm, I catch a glance at myself in fluorescent lighting and HOLY MOTHER OF PEARL that shirt? It's not opaque. You can see the Twins right through it. And I'm all NO WONDER that guy stuck $5 in my pants!
So I went and bought another tee shirt. What can I say? Work what the good Lord gave you...
PS. Don't forget to go enter the contest!
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Guess what I'm doing today! You'll never guess. GUESS! Why aren't you guessing? Don't you like guessing games with random answers? No? Okay, fine, I'll tell you. I'm sitting around waiting for my friend to extrude her womb fruit! Doesn't that sound fun? I mean really, what's NOT fun about watching something the size of a grape fruit try and shove itself out of a hole the size of a lemon? nothing that's what. Unless, I suppose it's your own personal hoo-ha that's being torn asunder by a little bald headed parasite. However, in this case, it's not my hoo-ha, I just get to take the day off work. So, you know, win for me!
So I thought, in honor of the expulsion of wee Gianna from her uterine playground, we'd play a little game! Doesn't that sound like fun? I know! Now, I know y'all are used to getting alcoholic prizes from me, but I thought we'd mix it up. Call it my own little Oprah's favorite things. Only, you know, Oprah is still caged up in my basement and I can't afford to hand out a car, so it's Thystle's Favorite Things. Almost as good, but much less classy. Like me!
And there's only two things being given away. Because I'm cheap like that. But that does mean that there will be two winners ! Hooray for winning shit!
Prize number one is a flowered hair clip. These things are starting to pop up all over and I predict they're going to be big this year.
Prize number two is an adjustable cocktail ring. Those of you that have been around the Thystle Patch for a while may recall that last year at this time, I vowed to bring cocktail rings back into fashion. So I used my powers for world domination instead of mayhem for a bit and bada BLING they're everywhere this season! Score yours!
Now for the part where I see just what y'all are willing to do to get a prize! Email a naked picture of yourself, posing with a garden gnome, a bottle of red wine and a....JUST KIDDING. Gosh, relax. There are somethings I just don't need to know about you. Like that you have three nipples or your middle name is Herman. Things like that. Also, I don't need to know that once, in third grade, you puked in the parka hood of at that little boy that was mean to you all the time. Actually, I take that back, I totally want to know stuff like that about you. In fact, that will be next weeks Favorite Thing contest question! Remind me next week, okay?
Now I've lost the plot entirely....oh yes! For this week's contest, in the comment section leave your prediction for what next years MUST HAVE item is going to be. It can be anything. On Friday, I'll draw two names at random from the submissions and announce the winner.
Not to leave the male readers out (either one of you), should a man be selected (or I suppose should the selected winner prefer) then something manly will be substituted. What this manly thing might be will just have to be a surprise, but it will probably come from Home Depot or Best Buy or some other place that manly men shop. I'll have to ask a manly man where that might be should the occasion present itself, because I'm not a very manly girl. Except for the gun. And the truck. And, you know, my vast collection of porn.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
M: Is an oral surgeon some who does surgery on genitalia?
Me: What the hell are you talking about?
M: Oral surgeons? You know like oral sex? Only surgery? See? "House" confronts an oral surgeon....
M: I'm wrong aren't I?
Me: (laughing, harder)
M: (resigned) you're going to blog this, aren't you?
Monday, December 1, 2008
Right, so this weekend.
Mostly, I took a nap. Like, for the whole weekend. To the point that on Friday, I didn't even put on pants until like 5pm. For real. That's like, some kind of record or something. If it's not, it should be.
Now, WHY did I take a nap for the weekend?
Because I'm depressed, chickens. For reals, even. Not like OMG I'M SO GOING TO KILL MYSELF WHILE I LISTEN TO COLDPLAY AND STARE AT MY EDWARD CULLEN POSTER depressed, but like, bummed. Out of sorts, one might say. And by "one" I mean my Gram, because that's the kind of thing she says. She also says "Lord Love a Duck" which has nothing to do with anything it's just cute, so I thought I'd tell you. But back to me? I'm depressed in the way that means you stand staring at your closet, and then walk away still wearing your pajama's because the prospect of a shirt? JUST TOO DAUNTING. Lucky for me, I work at a job wear no one would bat an eye if I came in wearing a bunny costume, vampire fangs and roller skates. Which, lets be honest, would really be kind of awesome. Like Bunnicula goes to Xanadu. True story, I used to know a girl named "Xanadu". She was a slut. I don't know if that's related to being named after a rollerskating musical, but it could be. Best that those of you expecting to spawn soon keep it in mind, just in case.
Anyway, there's some crapola potentially, maybe, possibly about to be, going down in my world. Nothing major, just, you know, craptastic. Also, it's nothing I can really talk about here, on the interwebs. But if I COULD talk about it, I'd say that if you happen to have advanced knowledge of this weeks winning Powerball numbers I'd totally cut you in because otherwise I might need to borrow some of your old clothes to hang out in soup lines and at freeway on ramps and places.
I'll be fine, I promise, but just for today, I'm going to sulk a bit.
And take a nap.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
I had this whole good blog post planned in my head like a half hour ago, but then, I dropped my birth control pill and spent 30 minutes crawling around on the floor, moving trash cans and cabinets and stacks of paper and when I finally gave up, I found it.
In my bra.
So maybe I'll post later, if I remember it, but if not;
Happy Turkey Day, y'all!
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Bet you thought I wasn't going to post today? Well, I'm really not. I just wanted y'all to see this.
The 10 Unhealthiest Holiday Foods - 10 - MSN Health & Fitness - Nutrition Slide Show
Talk about a bunch of fun-sucks. They list like every single tasty food. So scoot down, because I'm going to need your part of the couch too according to MSN.
But it will be SO worth it.
Monday, November 24, 2008
I don't feel so terrifical. My tummy hurts still. Even though I spent all weekend on the couch drunk...(that was a typo, but I left it because it's funny even though what I MEANT was "drinking 7-up"). I blame the damn kid for my current case of infirmity. Can I just give you all a tip? Puking when you can't open your mouth more than 1"? VERY HORROR MOVIE. Seriously, the puke spews like a fire hose.
So if anyone wants to come and clean my bathroom, raise your hand.
What? None of you do? Fine. Doesn't matter, I did it myself already.
That was the only thing I did though and it took me all four of the hours I was awake yesterday to do it because I kept having to lay down in the shower and rest. Showers? Less comfortable than bathtubs. But jumbo Costco sized bottles of shampoo do make pretty good pillows, should you ever find yourself in need. Eventually, I did get it cleaned up, and have managed not to make a mess of it again. Except, can I just ask y'all WHY is it my husband always feels the need to shave/give himself a hair cut THE VERY MINUTE I finish cleaning the bathroom. Seriously, what is it about a clean sink that says "PLEASE fill me with thousands of teensy little hairs?" Very poor form. Good thing I'm saving for a maid. It's probably cheaper than a divorce. Although I hear murder-for-hire is getting more reasonable due to the weakening economy. Do you suppose hired killers have lay-away? I should call and ask.
No, that would be wrong. Hi, government blog monitoring people! I'm just kidding! Har-har?
Also not awesome, I have a houseful for the holidays. For whom I will be cooking and I HATE to cook. I tried to talk them into going out, but NO, some people believe in a beautiful family holiday in which the mom slaves away over the stove for 39 hours and then sits down to cold turkey because she was busy refilling the gravy.
While I slept for 20 hours on Saturday, the pig hunters (actually, they're javalina's which are peccaries, not pigs, but they look like pigs and anyway, WHO GIVES A SHIT, not me and now I've totally typed a big ass aside and lost the plot entirely. Where ways I? Oh yeah), no laundry was done, no floors were mopped, no carpets were shampooed, nothing was dusted, no clutter was cleared away and no grocery shopping was done. The dogs are pretty down with that last bit though, because they got hot dogs (including buns) for breakfast since we were out of dog food.
And now? I'm a work.
I needs a hug too, gratuitously adorable puppy.
Friday, November 21, 2008
I thought I posted yesterday, but I guess I didn't. I was going to post this;
When I look at my nose cross eyed, it looks really hairy. Would you please look at your nose and tell me if it's hairy too, because if not, I'm going to start freaking out.
A. Nonnie Mouse.
But today I have bigger problems. I think my jaw is out of alignment. Which, I didn't think you could do but Google says that you can and my stupid husband says is a result of talking too much. I think I can safely say that's not the cause as *I* rarely utter a peep. Right? Hush, you.
What Google DOESN'T tell me is what to do about it. Because as much as I would really super love to go and get the hook up with some tasty medical intervention, the fact of the matter is I have actual work to do today. I know, I know, but one day I week I figure I should do at least an hour or so worth of work. You know, because someone has to do it and as usual, I'm the only one in the office. Which kind of blows, but then again right now, I'm eating yogurt and blogging, so it's not like I can complain. Mostly because there is no one here to complain to.
I even flipped the phone to nights so that I wouldn't have to talk, but of course everyone that calls some how manages to figure out my extension and it's ringing to me anyway. And if there is one thing I can not stand, and who am I kidding, there are like nine million things that make me beyond fucking nuts, but if I had to pick one right now, I'd say that I HATE the sound of a ringing phone. I also hate the sound of dripping water, incessant sporadic ticking, people chewing, fingernail tapping, dogs licking themselves, children having tantrums while their parents ignore them, whining children, Fran Drescher, and nose blowing.
Did I mention that I'm cranky as a result of said painful jaw misalignment? Hm. Well, I'm sure you'll figure it out yourself. You're clever like that.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Shrek, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt were all having lunch together.
Shrek said, I've always thought that I'm the strongest man in the world, but how can I be sure?
Angelina Jolie agreed. 'I'm told I'm the most gorgeous of them all, but sometimes I wonder.'
Brad Pitt said, 'I'm pretty sure I'm the sexiest man alive but I've never had it confirmed.'
They all decided that the best way to find out if their beliefs were true was to ask the famed talking 'mirror, mirror on the wall' to confirm whether Shrek was the strongest, Ang elina was the most gorgeous and Brad was the sexiest. They agreed to meet again the next day for lunch to discuss their findings.
The next day Shrek walked up with a smile. 'Well, it's true. The mirror told me that I am the strongest man in the world.'
Brad Pitt perked up and said: 'And I know for sure that I'm the sexiest man alive.'
But Angelina Jolie lifted her sad, gorgeous face and said.......
'Who the hell is Miss Thystle?'
PS. Yes, yes, Kristin, Contest results will be posted today
PPS. Um, Hi! Hi Racie & Megan! I, uh, don't have your prizes in my purse still so no need to look in there! Just, um....HEY! A Penguin!
Monday, November 17, 2008
I, as, usual am none to bright-eyed and bushy tailed. That's because I wax. Wait. What? Never mind. What I MEAN to say is that I once again did not sleep well. I can't even blame the dogs, since the primary reason for my wakefulness was the repeated slamming of the headboard into the wall. And not even the fun way. No, every time my beloved rolled over the bed lurched and slammed into the wall waking me up. Did you know he rolls over about 35 times a night? Neither did I, though I assure you I'm quite aware of it now.
As I tossed and turned myself (no headboard slamming thanks to my petite form...HAHA) I thought about a great many of the most ponderable ponderables the world has yet to ponder.
* Does the President get spam email? If so, I must wonder how he feels about the implication that his penis is of less than impressive size.
* How do the legs my pajama pants wind up bunched up about my thighs while I'm sleeping? Do I dream of my days as a Rockette?
* Did I remember to take the laundry out of the washer? No, I suspect not. Why does wet laundry begin to stink with in hours? A conspiracy by the detergent companies no doubt.
* Who buys the First Lady's tampons for her?
* Could the President, if he wanted to, change the song he enters a room to from 'Hail to the Chief' to 'March of the Empire'? Because that would be Bad Ass.
* If I were to burp 'March of the Empire' would it gain or lose it's dramatic appeal?
* Is this ring too much for day time?
* No, I don't care. I wore it anyway.
* Why do I always put off things until the last minute? Furthermore, knowing that, why do people ask me to do things for them? Especially unpleasant things?
* I wonder if there are any cookies left?
There weren't. And so I lay down on the couch to the sounds of thudding bed frames and snoring dogs and slept for about 12 minutes. Which might explain why my hair looks the way it does today.But probably not.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Sitting on my desk I have a "shoe a day" calender. I get comments about it all the time from men and women alike. But none quite like the one I got yesterday;
Random Vendor: That's a cool calender.
RV: It's perfect for you with all those shoes.
Me: Isn't it?
RV: You know, because you're a girl and you like shoes and stuff
RV: the only thing MORE perfect would be one with sex toys.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
I have, as usual, about 64,000 things that I should be doing, but of course am not. Not because I don't want to do them; but because I'm stubborn like that. And there's always tomorrow, because last time I check the filing elves were on strike. Short, lazy, bow legged bastards.
Lorrie was making fun of me the other day. Not that I'm tattling, but I totally am. She suggested that I should re-register this blog at www.checkoutmyrack.com and at first, I'm all, OW, MEANIE, but then I thought, that's frappin' hilarious. Because, let's be honest here, I do post a wicked lot of pictures of my boobs and my ass on this blog.
What can I say, they're magnificent. Awe-inspiring, even. SO THEN I thought what a great opportunity for a contest!
So, here's the contest; finish the following sentence;
My blog should REALLY be called________________because________________.
Enter as many times as you like, the winner will be drawn at random from the comments, so the more you comment the more chances you have to win!
The prize will be......A FLASK and a shot of some kind of alcohol!
The contest will run through Sunday night. If you can talk one of YOUR blog readers into comming over here to comment and they mention your name, you'll get an extra entry.
Awesome, right? I KNOW.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
I think we all remember that time I wore this, but at least that was in the comfort of my own front yard. It's not like I go out in public like that, right?
Except that last night...well, last night, I was half way through assembling my new bed frame when I discovered that I was missing one of the screw-thingies that holds the side rail to the head board. And, of course, it was not the sort of screw one has laying around the house, thus necessitating a trip to man heaven...I mean, Home Depot.
Now, I don't know about you girls, but I'm not a big fan of the HD. For one thing, every single damn time I go there, it costs me $100 to be let back out. At the least. Not to mention that I leave there with grandiose plans of slate floors and paint 'treatment' walls with gorgeous fixtures and remote control fans despite knowing full well that the LAST project started in my home was five years ago and remains "in progress". In fact, I'm more likely to be struck by lightening while holding a winning lottery ticket and getting a congratulatory kiss from Teddy Bruschi than I am to see a home improvement project actually improve my home.
Nonetheless, I needed that damn screw and quickly because Monday Night Football was about to start and traffic around the stadium (where HD inconveniently resides) is dreadful. So, unthinking, I grab my gorgeous, classy purse, slip on some $1 flip flops and dash out the door.
Dressed like this
No, you're not seeing things. I'm wearing a "burn out" pink tee shirt with a bright blue bra under it. In public.
And you know what? I'm going to do it again, because those HD guys? NEVER more attentive!
Monday, November 10, 2008
There are any number of things that one should stop doing when one turns thirty. For example, cartwheels. Or, wearing mini skirts outside of the bedroom.
Or partaking in $1 shot night at the bowling alley.
Because, as it turns out, once you are no longer 23, you simply are unable to drink your face off and then arise the next morning unscathed.
A mere $8 into $1 Schnapps night and I'm hosed! It's like I was some kind of rookie! It's almost as though I didn't spend 4 years of college majoring in Shit Faced. By $12, I'm staggering around professing my undying love for things like the pool table and the drinking fountain. Then, crying when they did not love me back. When $15 rolled around the bartender cut me off and J had to take me home.
But first, we stopped at Taco Bell.
Sitting on the couch, talking to my chalupa about my thoughts on the recent election, global warming and what the best investments are in the current market, I realized that I needed a shower. Because my hair was so dirty. Seriously, how did my hair get this dirty? Was it this dirty earlier or is it a result of when I tried to restyle it into a mohawk using butter and decorating sugar?
So I carefully wrapped my leftovers up in a pillowcase and put them in the laundry room cupboard and go to the bathroom, turn on the water and get into the shower fully clothed.
Then M yells through the door;
"If you drown in there, can I have your stuff?"
Because that is the love my child has for me. Inspiring, isn't it?
Friday, November 7, 2008
Today, things are annoying me. Why? I don't know. Perhaps because no one loves me and feeds me peeled grapes while listening to me complain and then offering to fetch me ice cream and rub my feet while I watch reruns of shows featuring Tim Gunn.
But are any of you doing that? NO. No, you're not.
So fine. You know what? Now you have to listen to me complain anyway. SO THERE.
* Yesterday, I was mistaken for a whore. And offered $40 for car head. At first, I'm like, uh? I'm no mechanic, but I think headers are more expensive than that? Then, I was all, WTF? Uh. No. It's not that I'm necessarily against sex for pay, but $40? How insulting.
*This economic down turn has thus far not effected me over-much. It has however effected nearly all of the people I know. Which is cool. I get that maybe you don't have money for our weekly dinners out, but for gods sake SAY SO. Do not wait until the bill comes and then hand me $3!! I don't really mind paying, but I'd like to know in advance!
*My sweater stinks. Not badly, but just oddly. Like the laundry detergent wasn't good smelling or something. It's really bugging me. I'd take it off but I'm wearing a rather sluttastic tank top underneath it and after being mistaken for a hooker yesterday, when I was wearing a crew neck teeshirt, I can only IMAGINE what I'll be mistaken for in this shirt.
* I'm at work today. That blows.
* I thought I put on a black bra this morning, but it's really navy blue. So now, my bra doesn't match my panties and if I get in an accident, the doctor is going to refuse to treat me and I'm going to die.
* it's cooled down here, but isn't cool enough to switch out my wardrobe.
* I've had a headache for like a week. It's probably a tumor.
* I wanted to write a good blog, you know something witty and maybe educational, but do you think I could think of a topic? NO. Of course not.
* Did you guys watch 30 Rock last night? I think I'm un-breaking up with Oprah. That was some funny shit.
ALright, I'm done whining. Unless you think there is something else that I should be whining about. What are YOU whining about today?
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Y'all are a terrible influence on me, you realize that, right? Here I am, TRYING to be good. TRYING to clean up my unbelievably foul mouth and you know what the landslide winner was?
To just keep swearing.
Seriously, it wasn't even a contest, it was a SMACK DOWN with swearing taking in more than four times the votes of the next closest word.
BUT since the contest was to find a replace for swearing in situations when I can not (well, should not) swear, that makes our winner....
DRUM ROLL, PLEASE........
RACIE LOVER for her suggestion of "frappin"!!
Yay for Racie!
You know what though? It's my blog and I can do whatever I want, so there is also a BONUS prize! That's right I'm spreading the booze around! So let's give a big hand to Megan at Smartini for her submission "Heaven Help Me".
So, ladies, I raise a Kikitini to you this morning....well, not really raise it, more like suck it furiously through a bendy-straw while pretending it's just pineapple juice and hope that no one notices I'm singing songs from the hit Disney musical 'Little Mermaid' while laying under my desk with my feet up on the chair instead of doing important accounting things like...um...whatever it is accounts are meant to be doing.
I will be sending your prizes out this week and if the bottles arrive empty; I don't know how it happened!
Monday, November 3, 2008
I'm not going to tell you until tomorrow. Why? Because it's my blog and I can do whatevah I want. Also, because tomorrow is The ELECTION Day of all election day's and I'm obviously going to be much to busy watching CNN, MSNBC, Faux News and all the rest of the talking heads to blog.
Or to do any work.
So, basically, it's just like every other day, except that it's Tuesday and some days aren't. Why? Because they just aren't; that's why.
Instead I'm going to make you all SUPER jealous by regaling you with tales of plunder, a random list, some things I keep forgetting to tell you and a place where I beg for favors.
Maybe in that order, maybe not.
Why? Because I can.
Have y'all ever been to an outlet "mall" because your BFF said it was an absolute MUST VISIT money saving DREAM? Then been all "really? I drove eleventy hours for this? A Bali Bra outlet and a Mikasa? Really? I DEMAND MY GAS MONEY BACK, you bitch." Well let me tell you, the outlet mall in San Ysidro, CA? Not that mall. Just ask BJ whom I texted updates like "spending the mortgage payment" from the Coach factory store. Oh, yes. That's right. An outlet store for the purse of all purses, the classy, stylish, expensive Coach store.
Where I got an all leather purple hobo bag for $115. Instead of it's "real" store price of $400. And I happen to know this is a current-ish style & color, because I totally made out with the window display in the store near Union Square just a month ago.
AND THEN. Oh, yes, there is more. I got a logo print, patchwork evening sized bucket purse for $20. As in one dollar more than nineteen dollars. I KNOW, RIGHT?
Then, we had to go home, because, you know, I spent all my lunch money for the rest of the year.
Now for the random list of stuff that was in my purse (sub title, I know why I have shoulder pain)-
* Four half chewed packages of gum. All the same flavor
* Two 9mm rounds (also 6 shells casing of various caliber...keeps the cops guessing)
* eleven pennies, including one that had been run over
* A key to something, though I know not what
* 6 handi-wipes from Phil's BBQ...mmmm ribs
* 9 losing Power Ball tickets
* some kind of pill - I took it. I feel fine except for these antlers that are growing from behind my ears. I'm sure it's unrelated though.
* a box of binder clips for keeping my shirt from gaping open. Unopened, of course.
* 7 shades of lip gloss/stick/etc, almost all in some shade of red. None the "right" shade though.
* a used Kleenex (ew). I'll assume it's a snot rag not a "happy rag"
* Door key for some Marriott hotel somewhere. I sure hope that guy managed to chew through the scarves.
* ANOTHER door key for a Marriott hotel. Presumably a different one. Or maybe the same one. I always black out when I've been drinking Uzo, so there is no telling.
* 4 ribbons, random lengths. Possibly related to room keys above.
* a single, green, linty gum drop. I hate gum drops.
That was just the "odd" stuff too. I didn't even touch on the regular stuff like the iPod, cell phone, vitamins and .38 Smith & Wesson that belong in there. I should just get a rolling suitcase. Or a minion. Who wants to be my minion? It pays nothing and I sometimes do not excuse myself when I pass gas. Apply in the comments with a sample of your best flattering for consideration.Hey! Remember how I had that sleep study? Turns out I DO have sleep apnea, except that I always sleep fine when I'm not at home and have a whole bed to myself. But those two studies cost my insurance company about $6000 (I'm not even exaggerating) so I'm totally taking that machine and selling it on eBay and using the proceeds to buy shoes. It's my own personal economic stimulus plan. I'm very civic minded, you know.
Those of you in California no doubt know about the Prop. 8 vote tomorrow. (Move along if you don't like politics even a wee little bit), For those that DON'T know, Prop 8 is about gay marriage. There were protesters out on the corner, and I being both classy AND tasteful and Deloris who is loud as shit and twice as crazy, put on a make believe lesbian love show for them. Because why shouldn't gays be just as miserable as the rest of us? No reason, that's why. Everyone should be given the opportunity to hog covers, leave dishes on the sink and threaten to abandon home and hearth for the circus with only their legal binding to prevent it. Also? How cute are Ellen and Portia? Don't you just want to go to there house and play Scene It? I know I do. And if you vote yes on Prop 8, then the Lord Baby Jeebus is going to be super mad and smite you for preventing that. I know, because I'm a minister.
M wants to go to boarding school for high school. Good idea/bad idea?
My toe that I smashed the other week is all crookedy.
Lorrie keeps giving Kristin prizes, and I love them both and would NEVER say they're cheating or anything like that; but I suspect there is bribes involved.
Now the part where I ask for something. Less of a something and more of and informational suggestion. I've got a friend in the LA/Oxnard area who's looking for a job and would be very grateful for any assistance thrown his way. He's got quite a lot of retail management experience and also some office/call center experience. If you know of anything that might fit the bill drop me a line.
I'll come over and drink Uzo with you to show my gratitude to your helpfulness.
But be sure to hide the scissors first. Because I won't answer for suggesting this
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Alright Poodles, I should have KNOWN that promising y'all booze would bring me amazing comments!
I tried to make a clickity poll, but after the third web site gave me a fatal error message, I gave up. So we're going to improvise! In the comments you may vote for TWO answers but answering with the numbers of the words that you like best.
Comments will be counted on Monday morning around 9 or 10-ish Mountain Time. Or maybe Pacific time. Or MAYBE Island time. You just never know. Well, you WILL know, because I'll post the winner (based strictly on number of votes received) then! SO you can promote this contest on your Twitter or your own blog to pimp your answer.
If I get more than 50 comments I'll send out a prize to the second place winner too!
OOOh, are you ready?
Let the EXCITEMENTIFICATION begin!
5) Othermay foay Uckfay
8) Pig Trucker
9) Sweet Mother of Pearl
10 ) Mother Goose
12) OR should I just keep swearing?
And a late suggestion from the Lovely Megan of Smartini, allowed because she said I have a nice rack,
13) Oh My
14) Heaven Help Me (as in Heaven help me if you don't knock it off)
There you go! NOW VOTE. Don't act like you're busy, I know your not, because if you were you'd be working instead of reading this. And you're not, are you?
This is the most important vote you'll cast this week.
Monday, October 27, 2008
What KIND of alcohol? Well, I haven't really thought that far. But it will be tasty and you will love it and it will fit in the SHINY flask that I'll send along with it!
So here's how we'll do it....leave your suggestions in the comments before midnight on Wednesday and I'll post a post a poll on Thursday or Friday.
Then, we'll vote. And if I don't like the results of the vote, I'll totally pad it. You know, to make it fair and all.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
The problem with explaining the reason that I posted the quote earlier this week is that then I will be telling not just the glossed over part, not just the Disney-fied public consumption version of the truth, but the actual truth. The parts of the story that are ugly. The parts of the story that make me ugly.
Therein lies the rub.
I tell you guys a lot. Everything, it would seem. But do I really tell you anything at all? I wonder sometimes. The truth is, it’s somewhere in between, I suppose. Somewhere between what really happened and what makes a better story. Somewhere between the truth and what makes me look least like the really horrible person I probably am. What I post here is likely to be heavy on sitcom and light on Lifetime Movie of the Week.
I’m just not good at that. While I have zero problem with you knowing that I was thrown out of a bowling alley as a result of my cleavage or that I suck heinously at Pilates or even that I once wound up kissing my neighbor when he used a shovel to save me from a lizard, writing about the time my kid almost died isn’t going to be the first thing I go to.
I tell myself that it’s not why you guys come here. I convince myself that y’all expect profanity laden high-jinks. But that’s not entirely the truth either.
The truth is I don’t tell *myself* the truth, either.
The truth is I prefer the candy coated version of what really happened.
The truth is I prefer to forget.
The truth is supposed to be cathartic though, right? You’re supposed to feel great weight lifted from your shoulders. You’re supposed to let it go and move on, right?
Well I guess we’ll see.
Here then, my friends, is the candy coated version;
Once, I had a boyfriend. And another besides. BF1 never knew about BF2, or perhaps he did and looked the other way.
I did it because I was young. I did it because it was exciting. I did it because I could.
Even the candy coated version is sordid, but not nearly so much as what lies beneath. The tarry smear, indeed.
For that, I suppose, it’s best to start at the beginning.
When I was 19 I had a baby.
When I was twenty I lost my shit.
I lost my shit in the kind of epic way that makes a good coming of age movie. Only instead of the plucky heroine triumphing over adversity with a weepy realization and an uplifting soundtrack, I left.
I walked away from my job. I walked away from my home. I walked away from my boyfriend, my family and my friends.
I walked away from my child.
I walked 785 miles away.
Well, to be fair, I drove. But either way, I left.
My best friend from college gave me a couch to crash on and a friend of a friend found me a job. Weeks went by and I remember none of them. I woke, I ate, I worked, I slept.
All through the winter, it snowed. Each blanket of white insulated me from myself. Each frozen breath lulled me closer and closer to the edge. The farther I moved from my life the more I believed that my life didn’t really need me.
I swallowed a handful of pills with a 1/5th of Gentleman Jack.
I did it on a weekend I knew I would be alone. I didn’t want to be stopped.
When I awoke cotton mouthed, my head was pounding and 39 hours had passed. I had vomited in my sleep. I couldn’t even master suicide.
Days passed and weeks followed them and I marched blindly through them.
Until one day.
It’s funny how, in memory, things take on a new light, isn’t it? It’s funny how, in retrospect, you can pin-point. HERE. This is where everything changed. THIS was the fork in the road. At the time it just seems like Tuesday.
I was alone in the shop. Alone with my thoughts. Alone, completely.
It’s not that he was handsome. It’s not that he was charming. It’s not even that I liked him. It’s just that he was. It’s that, right then, that moment, a tiny crack appeared and he walked right through it.
It’s that, I suppose, I was ready.
The second day, he brought me a rose in a cheap grocery store vase.
The third day he brought me a sandwich.
The fourth day I fucked him on my kitchen floor.
I remember thinking that I should pull out the fridge and clean behind it.
Three or four times a week for the rest of that winter and spring he would come to town with a trinket or a wildflower or a sly, knowing smile. Three or four times a week I would look up and see him standing in the door brushing snow from his Carhardt and kicking it from his boots. Three or four times a week, I would smile. Three or four times a week I forgot that I wanted to die.
Then, one day, I realized living didn’t suck.
Not the sort of AH HA! realization that you might think, but rather one day I wanted to cease to exist and the next I realized breathing wasn’t a chore any longer.
Now I remember those days with a sort of haze around them. Like a movie with a soft focus filter that gives it the quality of a dream, they stretch before me so that I can see now where the corner was turned from darkness back toward the light.
A month or two went by and I began to realize that it was time to go home. Time to go back. Time to try to piece back together what, if anything, was left.
It wasn’t all sunshine and roses. It wasn’t all forgive and forget. There was no do-over.
There were only shards of before left to pick up. Some of them were broken, some were missing.
Some I’ve never found again.
It would seem when you come undone there is no way to mend. The scar will always remain, standing out, ruining the perfect weave of what was with the dropped stitch of despair, the huge black stain of fucking it all up.
There is no forgiveness.
What is left is the memory of how things went pear shaped.
What is left is the stories; the one you tell and the truth.
I am a slacker. I almost never pack my lunch and as a result am left to frequent one of the three or four restaurants in my industrial work neighborhood. Because this is Phoenix, more often than not, that means I eat some flavor of Mexican food almost every day. Only, here we don't call it "Mexican Food" we just call it "food".
Yesterday, true to form, I had brought no lunch and found myself at a local greasy spoon taqueria called "Filiberto's". There are about 123 places in the PHX called something-berto's, and they all serve moderately decent food for the most part. They're the sort of place you don't eat if you have a choice, but would murder Santa's elves for at 3am after a night of Corona & Patron shots. Or, you know, when you forget your lunch and your belly button is rubbing a hole in your back bone.
Anyhoodle, it was lunch time and I was starving and that chicken burrito was calling my name, so I eschewed my normally above reproach manners and rather than delicately cutting each bite, I tore into that burrito like a lion on the Serengeti happening upon a delicious dead zebra.
Now, anyone who has ever had the pleasure of my company at a meal know that my twins get hungry. Apparently yesterday they were hungry for burrito.
Now, that doesn't look to bad, right? Well get a load of this
That's right, it shot right past my mouth, down my chin, down between my creamy, heaving bosoms and INTO MY SHIRT. WTF? Who gets food INSIDE their shirt? Moi, that's who.
Not just a little either, a big, massive bright orange greasy stain
It kind of looks like a wiener. Like the ghost of Miss Manners squeezed out a big ol' mushroom stamp to teach me a lesson about not using silverware.
Because I am prone to dropping things on the girls, I own very few white shirts. To make matters even BETTER I'm on a strict No New Clothing budget right now so it's not like I could do what I usually do and just buy a new shirt, change in a parking lot and get asked never to return to that store ever again. But also? I'm a little vain, so it's not like I wanted to sit in a stained, peppery shirt all day either.
Then, like a ray of light streaming down from the Heavens, my eyes happened upon an ad in Glamour for the Tide Pen. For the most part I tend to think things like that are snake oil, but that adorable Kelly Ripa looked so smug cleaning her central-casting-daughters pinafore, I thought, Why not? Sure, I'd have to brave Super Ghetto K-Mart. Sure, I haven't had a tetanus or rabies shot in a while. But I had rubber gloves in my trunk and close toed shoes, so why not be brave?
And I was, chickens! I was brave! I got my Tide Pen and headed back to my office to strip down and do laundry at my desk. Because that is what professional women do; they multi-task topless.
I took my shirt off, placed a folded paper towel behind it and followed the direction on the package. At first, not a damn thing happened. Then, slowly, the stain began to fade. I rubbed and blotted, rubbed and blotted and was rewarded with this
WILL YOU LOOK AT THAT? The stain is almost gone! I'll be damned. For the low, low price of $1.99, my shirt went from being garbage to salvageable. It's like a beautiful miracle of science.
So Miss Manners? Go Fuck Yourself. I'll eat my burrito and wear it too, because Tide Pen is the bestest thing EVAH.
PS - Dear Tide People, that will be $25,000 please. While I may be easy, I'm NEVER cheap.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Okay, so for the record I AM WARNING YOU RIGHT NOW. You do not want to read this story. For reals. You should leave. Like now.
Are you still there? OMG. You people never, ever listen.
M, despite being an avid bird hunter, is wildly in love with every animal ever. If there is an animal, she wants it. I am asked daily for things like kittens, birds, fish, monkeys, lemurs, puppies, hippo's, sea lions and all manner of things that are either cute, fuzzy, cuddly, smooshy or all of the above.
My husband, having had caged pets like mice and guinea pigs growing up thought it would be a good idea to get her a hamster. I, for the record, do NOT love anything that lives in a cage. I put my foot down. The stepped on in their way to PetCo and came home with a fuzzy yellow rodent called "Carl".
Carl was a boring ass animal. He lived in his cage. He ran in his wheel, he shoved shavings everywhere and peed on you if you picked him up. Much like many of the dates I went on in college, he smelled perpetually of feet.
But M loved that little guy. She kept him in her room and told him stories and staged plays wherein he married Beanie Babies and even gave him a theme song (inexplicably "Mambo number 5"). It was frickin' adorable.
The problem was the dogs. Our lab, Buddy, excelled at opening doors. Locked doors. Doors both locked and held shut with a hook and eye. And Buddy, well, he wasn't smart. But he was affectionate. He loved everything but cats with an all consuming passion that resulted in everything he touched being "loved" to literal pieces.
Do you see where this is going? You should leave now.
WHY ARE YOU STILL THERE?
So, while we were at work one day, Buddy broke into M's room and "freed" Carl. You know, to play with him.
Days and days passed and we were examining piles of poop for Carlness, when lo and behold the little fuzzy bastard wandered out from under the t.v. credenza, missing a few toe nails but otherwise unscathed.
The bedroom door was give additional fortification, was always locked and Carls cage moved to a shelf about 5' high.
Which worked. For about a day.
And then, Carl was missing again. The cage looked like a hamstercide had occurred and M was inconsolable.
But, sure enough, two weeks later, there was Carl; alive, though barely.
Only, this time, well, lets just say, 6oz hamsters are not good playmates for 80lb labs. Like at all.
Before M could see poor little Carl I snatched him up and wrapped him in tissue. But six year olds? They're smart. She knew exactly who I was trying to spirit away in a Kleenex shroud and demanded to see him. Figuring it would be a good time to explain the Circle of Life, and since Carls head wasn't really too mangled, I decided to let her say goodbye and uncovered his head.
Reaching out her wee little finger she lovingly stroked his head and whispered goodbye.
Then, he tried to bite her.
She shrieked like a mad woman, "Oh, MAMA! He's alive! We must take him to the vet! We simply MUST!"
Uh. No. No way am I spending $85 for a $6 hamster to be put to sleep.
So I told her, no. Carl was in pain, but Mommy would give him a shot herself. That way he could go to heaven from his very own home.
This seemed reasonable and she flung herself to the floor sobbing as I carried the wretched little mite away. To the garage. Where I gave him a shot. With a...well, let's keep this PG-ish and say that it was quick and painless and the only option.
For a moment I felt very Laura Ingalls Wilder in my practicle farm girl resolution to the situation. Then, of course, I thought; WHAT THE FUCK? Why the hell do I have a husband if I'm left to do things like hit hamsters with hammers? Oh. Wait. I wasn't going to say that part. I did warn you to leave though. And it's not like I LIKED doing it. Or even had a choice. The poor little smudge will probably greet me in Heaven with a big sign (well big for a hamster, so like 1"x3" and attached to a toothpick) that says "THANKS FOR PUTTING ME OUT OF MY MISERY".
Then, of course, there I am standing in the garage with a recently euthanized hamster wondering what the hell one does with a dead hamster? It's not like Chipper the fish, or Jimbo the fish or any of the other fishies that found their final rest in the municipal sewer system.
Back in the living room, contemplating what to do with the victim I go to find M, holding a tea-light box coffin lined with scrap of satin and a cotton ball for a pillow. Her grief apparently overcome with arts and crafts.
"Let's have a funnel" she says.
"A funeral? For Carl?" I ask, and she nods, all big eyes and barely contained excitement. I agree and perform my duties as funeral director while she summons the neighborhood kids. ALL OF THEM. I swear to God there were 15 kids in my yard. You'd have thought I was giving away ice cream covered bicycles or something.
Solemnly, yet gleeful at the spectacle, they lowered the casket into the earth, covered it with dirt and placed a headstone over it. It read "Carl. Wus a gud hamper". When the eulogy was over and each child (many of whom I'd never even seen before) said a nice little bit about Carl's wonderful hamster contributions to the world, they demanded snacks.
Because children are macabre little beasts with no souls and never ending stomachs.
But they're resiliant, and that's something to be grateful for.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
“Everyone has two memories. The one you can tell and the one that is stuck to the underside of that, the dark, tarry smear of what happened.” ~ Amy Bloom
Monday, October 20, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
I have always driven the sort of car that required frequent mechanical attention. The kind of car that would be able to unironically sport the bumper sticker "At least it's paid for!"
As a result, while I am not mechanically inclined (because that would render my boobs almost useless), I am at least not illiterate in the ways of cars. I can check and add air, fill the oil and the coolant and even check the transmission fluid with out requiring a lie down when I'm done.
So this afternoon, as I was filling up my tank with delicious $2.89 a gallon gas, I thought I'd do a bit of routine fluid checking.
Sure enough the Juice was low on oil and transmission fluid. Now, because I'm a self sufficient kind of girl, I had both fluids in the cargo area. I retrieve them, find something to stand on (because I can't reach), open the oil, insert the funnel and top her off. No biggie. I'm feeling very smug and modern as I head over to the other side of the engine compartment to top off the tranny fluid.
Now, here's the problem, the transmission fluid is filled through a wee tiny spout way at the bottom of the engine. And my truck is tall. And I am not. But I am clever, so I climb up and stand on the tire. I can now both see and reach what I'm doing. I am not, however, very stable.
I have no problem inserting the tubey-thingy from the funnel, but it doesn't stay in unless you hold it, so balancing precariously, in flip-flops, on the tire, using my boobs for balance, I hang onto the funnel with one hand and unscrew the lid of the fluid with the other. With the sort of one handed skill that only comes from years of opening condom wrappers one handed, I remove the lid and slide my hand down the bottle to get a better grip.
Only, the bottle is warm.
And a little slippery.
As it starts to slide from my hand, I clamp down.
In slow motion transmission fluid erupts like a fountain. All over the engine, all over the hood and all over my arm.
So there I am, ass in the air, half inside the engine compartment, one arm dripping red and the other perilously close to being severed by moving parts. Defeated, I put down the bottle and hop down.
Now, do you think any of the fifty men at the station come to my assistance? No, they do not. Having no time and lacking the Spanish skills to rant loudly about the lack of chivalry, I decide the most prudent thing to do is clean up. But the towel dispenser is empty. And I have no napkins in the glove box. No tissues in my purse. No too small tee shirt in the trunk. No junk mail even.
Nothing but a package of panty liners. Fresh scented, even. Awesome. Really, though, what are my options? Drive home with an arm looking like a prop from a low budget slasher movie or bite the bullet and give myself a once over with individually wrapped lady diapers?
I only wish I had a camera, so that you could have seen the look on the face of the guy next to me as I discarded 12 bright red feminine hygiene products into the communal trash.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Monday, October 13, 2008
People who do not seem to understand the ironic glory of an airbrushed trucker hat. People who intend to wear them. On their heads. While sober.
M had a good time though, eating foods that don't exist anywhere but the fair. Things like deep fried mashed potato lumps and turkey legs.
Making out with farm animals
Risking life and limb on rides that may have been safety inspected some time in the Nixon administration
And trying on ridiculous glasses.
which I didn't buy, but now I kind of wish I had. Instead, for my souvenir, I got a sunburn.
(Which goes SUPER AWESOME with my robot hickeys from my sleep study that I redid on Friday night.)
And then, there was Jeannie. I don't necessarily believe in fortune telling and all that, but I also don't not believe. So for $2, I thought, what the hell? And this is what I got
I know it's hard to read, but HOLY CRACKERS is it spookily on target.
Prediction one - "An emergency situation will only be a minor inconvenience" - J had a tire blow out like an hour before. It should be covered by the tire warranty.
Prediction two - "Your stubborn manner will lead to physical problems" - I REFUSE to pick up J's mess. It's part of my campaign for clean. And by that, I mean; I WANT A DAMN CLEANING SERVICE. A few hours later, I tripped and kicked one of his abandoned boots and fractured my baby toe.
Prediction four - "Beware the unexpected" - I had to unexpectedly reduce my staff at work by a third on Friday.
Prediction nine - "Offense will be taken by another to offhand remarks you accidentally make" - Oh, Jeannie, it's like you read my soul. How, I ask you, HOW do you know that I have no filter on my mouth?
Now I'm pretty sure she's some relation of Zolton and I'm glad I didn't wish to be big, because if I had, I'd be typing this using my cane while drinking Metamucil through a straw, hosing down the neighbor kids and wondering wear I left my "good" teeth.