Cranky Stabbington Rides Again

Remember how I said that the toxic people in my life were dead to me? WHY THE HELL DIDN'T YOU REMIND ME YESTERDAY?

Seriously.

A year ago, J's friend D was on vacation all the way over on the Arizona/New Mexico border (about 4 hours away) when his car broke down. After 19 hours of waiting for the Cochise County Sheriffs to fetch them, they gave up and called us. J drove down there and towed them back to their home (about 80 miles south east of PHX). Then, D stayed with us for three weeks until he could afford to get his car fixed.

Six months ago, J used his connections to find D a super cheap used car. That ran. Decently even. D now has three cars. D, by the way, is a mechanic by trade.

Friday night, D calls J. He's down past Tucson and his car is broken down. The only one of his three cars that runs, by the way. J leaves the house at 8pm, drives 2 hours and tows him back to his house. Apparently it was a blown water pump. He then stays over night, drives D into town to get the parts, helps him fix it and comes home.

Sunday, D's wife calls. Guess whose piece of shit car has broken down on the AZ/NM border again. NO SHIT. So, at 3pm on Sunday, I call every single rental place in the PHX area looking for a tow dolly. I finally find one in the town D lives in and J leaves to go get him. It's a four hour drive each way.

All of this would be merely an inconvenience, only D, as usual is dead broke. WE paid for all the fuel AND the trailer rental.

OH BUT IT GETS BETTER. Or worse, depending on your point of view.

J calls me at 10pm on Sunday and tells me that because he has to work, and D hasn't got a car that runs, *I* need to take off work early, drive 80 miles to pick up D, load up the trailer, drop his truck off at a repair place, then drive the trailer back to the rental place and OH BY THE WAY, all of this needs to be done by 4pm.

So, like a sucker, I leave work at 1:30, drive down and knock on D's door. He's not ready to go. Half hour later he comes downstairs. It's now 3pm. Despite the presence of 3 teenage boys inside, me, D and his 10yo daughter Lea hook up the trailer and load up the truck. Then, OH OF COURSE, D needs to dink around with the truck. It's 3:30. We have to go about 25 miles. I, as you know, am blessed with The Crazy. One of my symptoms is I get all panic-y when I'm late for an appointment. We manage to get the truck to the repair place by 3:45 but are still about 20 minutes from the rental place. I call them and explain that I live 80 miles away and won't be able to drop it off the next day, that we're on our way, are maybe 20 minutes from them could they PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE stay on site until we arrive? The girl assures me that they can.

At 4:03 we pull into a deserted parking lot. With a locked gate. And no one answering the phone.

AND OF COURSE in all his forward thinking J has rented the trailer round-trip meaning I can ONLY return it to this place. That is closed. That is now going to charge me an additional day and to where I will have to take ANOTHER 3+ hours off work to drive the trailer.

AND THEN, J calls me and chews my ass out for not making in on time. Because it's OBVIOUSLY all my own personal fault.

OH HELLS NO.

So I start calling rental places until I find one that will be open long enough for me to get there.

It's in Phoenix.

That's 80 miles away.

We haul ass and drop it off and you know what? In addition to charging me an extra day for dropping it off late the UnNamed rental company wants to charge me DOUBLE the rental price for returning it to a different location.

So let's add this up.

3 tanks of Diesel at $75 each = 225
1 Day of trailer rental = 60
Tank of gas for bronco = 60
Late Penalty = 60
Wrong location = 172.50

That's $577.50 kids.

Have I said OH HELL NO yet? Thought so. I, in my best cleavage thrust forward, big batting blue eyes, sweet helpless girl manner related with as much humor and chagrin as possible to the UnNamed rental men how frustrated I am with this whole situation. Luckily for me one of said UnNamed rental guys is the district manager and agrees that the other location has been a poor representative of their company and so he waves the late charge and drop off fees.

I thank them profusely and run to the truck in case they change their minds.

Then? I drive ANOTHER 80 miles to drop D & Lea off.

AND THEN I DRIVE ANOTHER 80 miles home.

I left work at 1:30 and I walked in the door to my house at 9pm. I could have been at Disneyland in the time it took me to drive the same stretch of freeway five times.

To be told that I should have "used my time better".

AND PEOPLE WONDER WHY I DRINK.

Rawr, Baby.

Dear BJ,

I know that you objected to the last boyfriend I found you. Though I don't know why, as he was clearly a Klassy specimen of man flesh, but WHATEVER. I guess some people are just picky.



So, because I LUVS you like a fat kid loves cake...actually let's make that "like I love cake" I have been hard at work finding you a NEW boyfriend. Someone with real, animalistic sex appeal. The sort of man that makes you go all She Wolf up in here.





I KNOW, right? You're totally welcome.

Luvurleopardprintguts,
Kiki

PS. Don't forget I can perform weddings. Real, legal weddings.

PPS. As long as there's cake.

PPPS. I like chocolate cake, just FYI

PPPPS. It didn't say, but I'm pretty sure his name is Dwayne.

Right or Wrong?

Husband and I had a...let's call it a disagreement...about this and I'm still annoyed, because OBVIOUSLY I am correct and he's an ass. But I'll let y'all weigh in, just in case I'm off my tree here.

It happens.

Scene:

BabyMama is in the kitchen making dinner. Smooth is upstairs playing video games. BigSister is sitting on the couch and baby Gigi is in her Bumbo chair on the coffee table about a foot away from BigSister (she's ten)

Situation:

Gigi has figured out how to make her arms and legs work and wiggles free of her Bumbo (first time she's ever done so) and topples off the table. BigSister sees her escape (at her own admission) and makes no move to catch her (also, her own admission) and when Gigi is lying on the floor screaming her head off, rather than picking her up says, filled with wonder 'Sissy fell' as BabyMama sprints the 10 feet to the couch, climbs over it and snatches baby up.

Result:

Gigi is fine, but BabyMama is annoyed with BigSister for being a foot away and not only not preventing her from falling, but also doing nothing once she's fallen.

Conflict:

I'm ALL on BabyMama's side here. At ten, you should be old enough and responsible enough that when asked specifically to do something (keep an eye on the baby, in this case) that you should be capable of doing so. She wasn't left alone with the baby and was close enough that doing ANYTHING could have prevented the fall.

HSB says it's BabyMama's fault. Why? Because he's fucking crazy, that's why. Yes, she's the adult, but let's be realistic here, she left baby in a (presumed) safe place with an older child to watch her while she was FRYING FOOD ten feet away.

I say she was reasonable to do so, he says she's neglectful.

What say you?

(PS. No, Gigi isn't allowed to sit on the table anymore)

Someone else's boobs, for a change

Friday afternoon I was thinking that I was going to spend the whole weekend lazing about my house, eating cheddar popcorn and reading the books I bought at Savers.

Then my sister called.

Next thing you know, I'm on my way to Vegas. Hell yeah, VEGAS, Baby.

We were staying at the Monte Carlo, which should you be looking for a place to lay around the pool and people watching is a fantastic place to be. The pool area is small, loud, crowded and ripe with WTF was s/he thinking? outfits.

Which is nice, should you forget your hat and be left with only ironic Bolivian Trucker Hats to prevent your face from catching on fire.

It's also a decent place to read a book and eat over priced steak sliders and drink giant, expensive, weak frozen drinks.

Once we had made sufficient progress on our tan lines


(these are Krissy Oh!'s boobs, by the way, not mine)

we ate dinner with children wearing fanny packs

You can't see it, but he's got an impressively large bottle of hand sanitizer in a quick draw pouch in the side.

Then we went upstairs where despite how it looked we had not actually been robbed

and got ready to go out for the night.

We wandered around for a bit, hitting clubs like Coyote Ugly (the "ugly" wasn't ironic in this case) standing around at an epically disorganized LAX at the Luxor and then chose to bail on invites to Pure and Rain because high heels are not made for walking in.

Which brings us to Sunday.....

OMFG, Sunday. Let me just say that if I had used my own camera right now you would all be begging for invites to next years trip, but since I had my sisters camera you're going to have to wait until she uploads them.

A Greeting fro the Season

I've spent the last four days in a half-hearted, though frantic, attempt to procure reasonably priced gifts that don't scream "WALGREENS DRUG STORE 2/$10" too loudly and as a result am currently both drunk and on probation for biting an elderly woman in a disagreement over who would be purchasing the last bottle of Old Spice Cologne.

And I learned a very valuable lesson; Fixident doesn't fix your dentures in as well as they want you to believe. SUCKA.

So, as I bid you a Merry Christmas from the damp but sunny desert, I want you to know that I have found the perfect gift for all of you.

You're welcome.

Conversations Men Never Have

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.

Roth Wriscey Writes Blogs I Very Much Enjoy

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.

A contest about cuss words! With a REAL prize!

Late at night, when I lie in bed thinking random thoughts I like to think about what I'm going to blog the next day.

Most of the time, in my head at least, these late night mental bloggings are really, really insightful and funny. Sometimes, they're even profound. Like really profound, not Thystle-profound. Usually, as I mental blog, I'm all "DAMN! This is like the BEST BLOG EVER" and then I go to sleep all smug and filled with my blogging prowess.

Do you think I ever, even ONE TIME, remember the next day what the hell that wicked awesome blog was about? NO I DO NOT.

Last night was no exception. I even giggled out loud and startled the dog. Who farted and then ignored me. Much like most of the Internet.Then, this morning, I wake up and feel all bright eyed and bushy tailed and I'm all "I've GOT to log on and blog that....SHIT MOTHER-OF-FUCK what the FUCK was that blog about last night" and then I started thinking.

For an Honorary Southern Belle I've got a damn foul mouth. It's not very Truvy of me to say MOTHER-OF-FUCK and it's really not at all Scarlett O'Hara to say it in all caps, as I'm wont to do (aside; don't you like how I worked "wont" into a sentence? It's way more challenging than slipping in a "hence"). So I got to thinking, what can I say instead? What kind of signature phrase can I parlay into "Fiddle-dee-dee" status? What will be my "Sweet Nibblets"?

I need something more sarcastic than "Snap!" and something more biting than "Bless her little heart" and something that will rival "Lord Love a Duck!" but not slide too far into "Great Cesar's Ghost!" in it's cutesy folksy charm.

Now, to me "Cheese and Rice" has always sounded a little to like the ill thought out response to "WHAT DID YOU SAY YOUNG MAN", so that's out. "Heavens to Betsey" is just a bit to Ouiser for me and "Jumped up" while flexible, has probably got it's basis in something racist.

So here I sit, alone in my office, saying possible F-word substitutes out loud. Which isn't even the craziest thing I'll probably do today and to be honest is preferable than what I usually do at my desk, which is examine my chin for errant hairs and try to speed dial radio stations to win contests while surfing eBay for random items like human eyes and pig guts . Isn't being middle management AWESOME?

But, despite my strong work ethic, I am no closer to solving my sailor mouth issue.

Which leads me to you!

I KNOW! I can feel the air around me buzzing with your excitement!So, what, Invisible Internet Lovelies, do you suggest I say instead.There's an expensive and illustrious prize in for you. And by expensive I mean "cheap" and by illustrious I mean "alcoholic".

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!

Awesome, right?

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.

Calvin's Secret isn't the same as Victoria's.

This year is a big year for weddings. I’ll be officiating at my first ceremony in two weeks and I’m pretty nervous that at some point in the service, probably between “Friends, Romans, Countrymen” and “do you take this man”, I’m going to blurt out “FUCK FUCK FUCKEDY FUCK FUCK”. Because I keep thinking “don’t say fuck, don’t say fuck, don’t say fuck” which of course means, I’m going to say fuck. That’s what I do when I’m nervous. I either turn into the bastard child of a thesaurus and an English Lit professor or I let my true colors out and turn into someone Britney Spears would be embarrassed to know.

I doubt that “I’m country, y’all” will appease the bride very much though.

Three weeks after I do my best impression of a Reverend is sister CK’s wedding in NYC. The experience should be a laugh a minute since the Sugar Plum Nightmares ™ are bringing a WHOLE LOT of whiskey. Because that’s what we do.

Two weeks after THAT my boss is getting hitched. In an effort to fit into his suit, he’s given up chew and beer. To keep his wedding night fresh, they’ve gone abstinent. Yes, he told me that. He tells me a lot of things. For example he told me that his lovely fiancé sleeps in the nude. THEN he tells me that he doesn’t sleep in the nude. Because he worries that at some point, on some night, he will scratch his booty and leave a skid mark on the wife’s gorgeous 2000 thread count cotton sheets.

WTF?

This is not a scenario that ever would have entered into my mind. Seriously. Skid marks on the sheets? So, I do what I always do and run this story by the boys that I know. Sure enough, every single one of them conceded that it was reasonable to be concerned about that occurrence and to always sleep in skivvies.

Then, there is the boy that we’re going to call Mike (because it’s a nice, generic name), and Mike, well, Mikey is the dire warning that all boys would prefer not to be.

“This one time” he tells me “I picked up a chick at a bar. And she was HOT. Smoking hot. Banging bod, great rack, kinda dumb, but good at pool and a she could down some beers. So we’re at the bar, drinking, eating bar food, hanging out and then we go back to her place, right? We um, well, um, anyway and then I’m naked and she’s naked and she’s asleep on my arm, right? And then my stomach starts to rumble and I know I’m going to fart and I don’t want to fart, but you know, I HAVE to, so I do, only it’s NOT a fart, it’s a shart. So I’m laying there, with her on my arm and my asscheeks full of shit trying to figure out how the fuck I’m going to get out of there. Because I can’t just roll over, you know, because then the shit will squish out, but I can’t wake her up either, because you know, then she’ll know I shit myself, so I’m doing this wiggle move (does the wiggle move to demonstrate) trying not to shift the shit or wake her up (still doing wiggle move) and finally I free myself, but then I can’t figure out how to stand up with out sitting up, and anyway, I got shit on her bed. So I wiped my ass, got dressed and got the hell out of there”

I thought he looked familiar.

Eating Worms

Lorrie stressed me out today. She sent me an email that commanded me to be funny. But, chickens, I am no trained chimp! This hilarity takes MINUTES of careful planning in which I consume Butterfinger bites and check myself for chin hairs. It’s a science.

So, I did the only thing I could do. I texted my friend Frank and said “Do something humorous that I can blog”. Wouldn’t you know that he, too, is not a trained chimp? What the hell? AND THEN he had the nerve to ask why I wasn’t doing work?! So I’m all; DUDE. I am getting FREE BLOG PIMPING today and I have no inspiration. NONE. Nothing funny happened yesterday. Nothing funny happened this morning. No one of dubious character hit on me this morning and that weird guy with the “lifted” ten speed is no where to be found. I am desperate here. This blog could be my launching pad to Oprah! And you know what that ass said to me?

Frank: If excuses were the equivalent of the 100 yard dash you would be Carl Lewis!!!!!
me: Ah, you're sweet.
Frank: I know, like a pickle
me: ew. I HATE sweet pickles!
Frank: Really
me: yep. They're an affront to the pickle species.
Frank: Ok then
I am sweet like a sweet tart?
me: I DO like those.
you may be a sweet tart.

AND EVEN THAT IS NOT FUNNY.

You know what that means? That means all my comments are going to say “YOU SUCK” and I’m going to get all depressed and stop combing my hair (which looks real cute today - see?)

Just kidding. Although, that would be fabulous. I should wear my hair like that to work. Now this

Just looks boring. GREAT. ONE MORE THING TO STRESS ABOUT. I'm not funny and my cute hair isn't cute.)

I will have to resort to doing ACTUAL work and by the time I get home I’ll be all exhausted (and will not get any damn sleep because of these two)

Which means will NEVER launch my career as a gift bag gift picker, I will never get interviewed on the local news by someone with a lisp and mall bangs, I will NEVER be witty and charming and attract the attention of a vacationing TV producer who will NEVER want me to talk about my successful Gift Bagging/Blogging life on a somewhat nationally syndicated evening infotainment program which will NEVER get seen by a Harpo producer and I will NEVER EVER get to meet Oprah.

SO THANKS A LOT FOR KILLING MY DREAMS LORRIE.

GOD.

Jersey Style

So those of you that have been with me for years remember the debacle of moving the Buttlickers two years ago. Because how could you not? But I've noticed a lot of new traffic here (Hi! Um, sorry about my bad language. And the goat balls. And um, sucking) so I'll catch you up...

2006 - This was the height of the housing boom here in the Desert and EVERYONE was buying new, giant, custom, overpriced houses. Well, everyone but us, because we love the ghetto and you know, being able to pay our mortgage AND eat. But my husbands friends, the Buttlickers, were seduced by an 80/20 ARM loan on a $400,000 semi custom house. Across the street from a dairy farm. I think they probably had to pay extra for the ambiance of cow ass. They decide to move on a day that registered 112* in the shade. But we're nice people (read: SUCKERS) so we show up to help them move. With our truck. And our trailer. And our hand-truck. And tape, boxes, drinks, tie downs and a babysitter for their children. (yeah, I KNOW). And guess what? THEY HAD NOT PACKED ONE SINGLE BOX. Okay, that may be an exaggeration. There were some boxes that were packed. From their last move. There were four trucks there though, complete with two or more movers each. That's what friends do, right? So as we pack them, the wife leaves. LEAVES. Leaves the kids, the house, all their friends and goes to Home Depot to buy paint for the new house. AND DOES NOT COME BACK. (Why, yes, I DO carry a grudge for ages!) Seven hours and two tanks for diesel fuel later (that I paid for), we break for lunch. That we pay for ourselves. Seven more hours and we go home, exhausted and vow to never, ever move them again.

2008 - They haven't paid their mortgage since last summer. Because he has lost five jobs in less than a year and has found himself to be unemployable in an industry he's worked in for 20 years. Their mortgage has reset bringing the monthly payments to the sum of twice their income. The house goes to auction and they have to move again. Guess who they call? Right. Guess who are the only people to show up? I'll give you a hint, they're suckers. So there we are, the only people they know (including their families!) who show up. I don't say this to pat myself on the back for being a good friend, I say this because I am clearly lacking in some mental capacity. I KNOW they are not fully packed because they TOLD me they weren't. Again. Yet there we are, with truck, trailor, cart, baby-sitter, drinks (they had nothing but tepid tap water - and two cups). Jersey Smooth showed up about a half hour after us and Dr. Hotstuff came by about an hour after that, so we set to moving. And you know what? I was glad I showed up. Their house was so filthy it made me feel much better about my own. (Shut up. I know I'm a bad person. Believe me, I KNOW)

The move was pretty uneventful, except for the screaming match. And their kids hitting each other with sticks and screaming so loud my uterus shriveled up. And Mr. BL almost rolling the truck. And the fact it was over 100*. And spending $50 on Gaterade, ice, bottled water & popsicles. And the second screaming match. And the third screaming match.

We did get all the furniture and packed boxes moved on Saturday, so we didn't feel at all bad about telling them they were on their own on Sunday. Then Mr. BL, knowing our house is 30 years old and a spec house at that, says Hey! Do you guys want new bathroom fixtures? Or some ceiling fans? Because we paid for all these upgrades and we're taking them with us. Right. They're taking the FIXTURES with them. Now you're probably saying, what kind of person moves out and takes the toilets. But me? I'm saying, SCORE! Because my toilets? They SUCK. One doesn't always flush and one flushes sometimes, but then leaks water from the tank and makes an annoying sucksucksucksuck noise and then flushes itself. Despite 6 replacements of it's hardware. So me? I promise Jersey Smooth some pizza and rootbeer (because a. He's a cheap worker and b. he used to be an actual licensed plumber) if he'll steal me the toilets.

Which is how we wound up back there on Sunday at lunch time. Where guess what? They had not moved one single thing. They had however managed to convice Dirty DEA and his lovely bride to drive 100 miles to come and help. And where was Mrs. BL? At the new house. Taking a nap. So we stole the toilets and left.

No, we didn't really. We stole the toilets, the ceiling fans, the faucets and the light fixtures and then helped pack the rest of the stuff (crammed in trash bags) into the truck. While making fun of their collection of breast pumps and thousands of dirty socks stashed in every nook and cranny of the house.

Then we went home and changed our phone numbers. Because I may be a slow learner, but I do learn.

One More Restaurant We Can't Go Back To

Red Lobster Waitress: Are you all finished, sir?
(sees that plate is empty except for shrimp tails)
RLW: I guess you are! Unless you want to munch on the tail
J: I love to munch on tail

Not a Webster

My father in law was recently downsized. Being that he's less than five years from retirement, he's not interested in finding a new career; just something to pay the bills.
So far he's applied to be a security guard, a Wal-Mart greeter (is that spelled right? The longer I look at 'greeter' the less it looks like a word) and most amusingly, a fish quality inspector.
Since he's been in the photography industry for the last 30 years, and the Navy before that, his resume is a little narrow. Undaunted, he filled out his application for the glorious field of salmon inspection. However, given his propensity for saying things like "windle" (window) "chimaley" (chimney) and things of that ilk, he called my mother in law to get clarification on his most legit claim to the job.

FIL - How do you spell Abbott?
MIL - Abbott? Like Abbott and Costello?
FIL - No, the other kind
MIL - (confused) Can you use it in a sentence?
FIL - "I am an abbott fisherman"
MIL - You mean avid A-V-I-D
FIL - No, I don't, I mean ABBOTT, like I'm good at it and I know stuff about fish? So, if you don't know how to spell it, just say so!

He didn't get the job. Apparently they're not interested in Abbott Fishermen. Go figure.

Fine, Your Second Favorite Then!

me: ...and your most favorite thing ever for after dinner
J: I didn’t realize they were selling them in packages now.
me: What?
J: blow jobs

The One With The Lizard

Oh.my.god. Y’all will never guess what happened to me this morning. I swear to Oprah that I just about crapped myself. Now, I have been in some scary situations. I’ve been held at gun point, I’ve wrecked a car, I’ve been on a plane without landing gear and I’ve been caught in a rip tide, but NOTHING, nothing is as scary as what happened this morning.

I am not a morning person, first of all and I spend most of the first two hours of my day on autopilot waiting for the caffeine to kick in. In my zombie state I swung the garage door open. Then, out of the sky, out of nowhere, a lizard drops INTO MY SHIRT.

So, naturally, I start screaming. Because there is a lizard. And it is in my shirt. And it is touching me. And it is a LIZARD IN MY SHIRT.

So there I am, screeching like a Banshee in my driveway at six in the morning, red hair standing straight out on end, whipping my shirt off and throwing it down the driveway as far as a tee shirt will throw. Which is three feet.

And God bless him, Drunk Grandpa, my erstwhile boyfriend, comes running from across the street shovel in hand to save me.

“You! Mijah! Okay?”

And I manage to stammer something along the lines of “LIZARD LIZARD LIZARD!” and point at my discarded shirt.

Then he looks at the shirt and then at me and then at the shirt which is not ON me and a slow smile spreads across his face.

Now, I fully expect lizards to drop from the sky every time I leave my house.

Which I will never, ever do again.

Revenge

“Thank god you’re home. We’re SO HUNGRY.”
“I left you lunch money.”
“But it’s COLD outside. MUCHO FRIO. We had to forage. We’re so weeeaaakkkk nooooowww”
“There’s plenty of food out there. I’m sure you found something to eat.”
“No I didn’t. I couldn’t find ANYTHING. I had to make soup. And it wasn’t enough, so I had to eat those French bread pizzas. And M was hungry so she had to eat a chimichanga, but that took too long so I made her a quesadilla. And some toast. And a pop-tart.”
“Well, then, you survived.”
“But there was nothing to snack on.”
“And yet, you didn’t die.”
“Almost. We had to eat chips and cheese. But there wasn’t very much so we had to eat trail mix. And it wasn’t very good, so we had to put some chocolate chips in it and some cashews. And there was only one Kit-Kat bar so the dog didn’t get any and now, he’s mad at you.”
“He seems fine.”
“Maybe right now, but later? He’s going to rub his butt on your pillow.”

Of Course You Don't

“She looks like that girl.”
“What girl?”
“The blonde one? From the movie? Last weekend? You remember.”
“Was it porn?”
“Uh, no.”
“Then I don’t.”

Sheesh

Man Boob’s came into my office a moment ago and said;

“Thystle! Feel my chest!” but left when I replied

“They’re called Breast SELF exams! I told you that the last time you asked me to feel you up!”

Some people never learn.

Who Needs Enemies

Despite the fact that I am a Godless heathen, I LOVE Christmas music, and I love to sing it. Which would be awesome, if I could, you know, sing. I choose not to let that deter me however and was howling away to Santa Baby in my office this morning when my “friend” stuck her head around the corner and said;

“You know what’s awesome?”

“What?” I reply optimistically, certain my first vocal compliment is on its way.
“That you have a day job."

Play Ball

My Grandmas’ brain in basically Swiss cheese.

When her nursing home lost power in Seattle’s big storm last week, my uncle went and got her and took her to his house.

The very first thing Gram did was march up to the hallway bathroom (visible from most of the house) and take a big, smelly poo with the door wide open and then walk away leaving it unflushed. My uncle says to her “Mom, we prefer that the bathroom door be closed when people are using the toilet” to which she replied “But why? It stinks in there!” Can’t argue with that I guess.

Oh, but Gram-time gets even better!

The next morning, she walks out of the bathroom stark nekkid and proceeds to wander around the house. My aunt, who would be up for sainthood were she not Buddhist, says “Mom, you’ll catch a cold if you don’t get dressed” to which Gram replies “My underwear is too small. I can’t get dressed with out underwear.” Hmmmm again with the logic.

And for her grand finale….

Saint Auntie finds her in the office surveying an array of chargers for things like cell phones, MP3’s and laptops.

“What are all these pluggy whatsits for?” she asks Saint Auntie.

“Well, we have a lot of fun electronics and toys and everything needs to be charged up, and everything has a different plug, so we keep them all here so they’re organized”. Saint Auntie patiently explains.

Gram thinks for a moment and says

“Which ones are for the sex toys?”

Makes me wish we were going home for Christmas, the dinner conversation is bound to be scintillating!