Unlike what happens in Vegas, which ends up on the internet.

Bum: Excuse me beautiful lady, do you have any change?

Me: Nope, sorry.

Bum: That's okay, we can still get married.

Me: I've already got a husband.

Bum: Damn, girl. That's okay. We don't have to tell him. What happens downtown can stay downtown!

Everyone Else is Doing it!

People are stupid. Seriously.

My parking garage has a single driveway that feeds two gates. EVERY SINGLE FUCKING DAY there is a line of chumps waiting to get in the garage. Why? Because like lemmings they all feel the need to line up at the same gate. Failing, apparently to realize that if there are two gates, two cars can slide in at once! The novelty!

Sometimes, for fun, I sit at the gate and pretend like I don't know how to make my card work, just to see if they'll wait patiently behind me rather than break rank and move to the other gate.

Because I'm an asshole.

Da Who Dores

My make up is all fucked up, y'all. And I blame Christmas.

I've resisted very heavily the idea of putting up any and all decorations for Christmas. I haven't written a single card, I've only just barely wrapped any gifts and even those only because they had to go in the mail. I didn't make a single cookie and the only person I've wished a Happy Christmas to is the Salvation Army Bell Ringer (put a nickel in the pot, save another drunken sot).

I tell people it's because there isn't anyone going to come to my wee little house on the east end of the world, but the truth is it's because I simply couldn't bear it. Christmas is about Family, and even though I've got an amazing bunch of friends (and Shush, let's not forget him), my family is far away. M is far away. The idea of a Christmas morning with out her...well. Let's just say there isn't water proof enough mascara.

But still, I missed it. I missed the hassle of figuring out why there are three rows of branches labeled "N" and none labled "L" and I missed the stupid string of lights that has to have it's plug's angle JUST SO or it doesn't work. It didn't feel right though, some how, to put up the decorations made of glued macaroni and glitter. Somehow, that tree leaning lopsided in my living room made Christmas too real. Made it too hard. No go. I'm Grinching it. Fuck those stupid Who's and all their Who Spirit, Mama isn't interested.

On his way home this morning Shush called me to tell me he was bringing home Something that had been given to him by a friend at work and while he didn't know what it was there was a lot of it and I was under strict instructions to open it today.

He carried in boxes and bags and laid them on the living room table. A half dozen happily wrapped boxes (with ribbons AND bows. Show off).

The biggest box was to be opened first, he said, so I did.

Y'all...this is where the tears started.

There, inside a that cheerful Santa paper was a Christmas Tree. A gift from a girl I've never met but who somehow knew exactly what I needed. Box after box contained ornaments, lights and even a star for the top of the tree, somehow chosen in exactly the colors I would have picked.

I can't even begin to tell you how much it touched me. Here, somehow, was the whole meaning of the holiday. The proof that even when you're alone, you've got someone, somewhere thinking about you.

Pretty Pitty

Some of you may be all too aware that I'm slightly obsessed with a trainwreck of a show called Toddlers and Tiaras. Have you ever watched it? It's HORRIBLE. And by horrible, I mean AWESOME. The kids are brats, the mothers are psycho's and the costumes make them look like the spangled offspring of a whore and a particularly tacky drag queen.

Basically, it's everything that reality television should be.

Sadly, I have no toddler. But I DO have a dog!

A dog who is probably going to kill me in my sleep now.

Norman Branches Out

Remember the movie Psycho? Remember how after you saw it the first time, you showered different and were scared of roadside motels, unmarried thirty something who live with their mother and guys named Norman? And you thought, REALLY, what could POSSIBLY be scarier than the Bates Motel?

I'll tell you what.

THE MOTHER FUCKING CLOWN MOTEL.

SEE THAT SHIT? That's real, right there. I didn't make that up. That's an actual hotel in Tonopah, Nevada. Let me tell you something, kittens. I'd have rather stayed in the creepy, abandoned, broken windowed Sundowner Motel across the street than brave one single night in this shit.

SEE? They're even ON THE DOORS. Like, Hey! Weary traveler! Come on in! We're going to FUCKING KILL YOU WITH OUR BIG RED SHOES! Hee hee! Just kidding. MAYBE.

Table for Awkward, Party of Me

So remember when you were a kid and you thought your teacher lived in the school and then you saw her at the Safeway and you were all WHAT THE HELL? Mrs. Lyle DOESN'T live in a cave behind the coat closet? NO. WAY. Then she said "hi" to you and even though not two hours before you were waving your arm around shouting ME! ME! ME! trying to get her to pay attention to you, now, because you're not at school, somehow her saying hi to you makes you blush and sort of hide behind your mom?

Yeah. Well the adult equivalent of that? It's seeing your male gynecologist at the Victoria's Secret holding a pair of red lace thong panties.

Oh, Snap!

I suspect people think I'm kidding when I tell you that I see things like a fat lady at a bus stop wearing nothing but a bed sheet, or the time I saw a guy walking a rooster on a leash, or that time the mariachi band rear ended the nuns. But I'm not!


This time, I have photographic proof! Proof that I almost DIED getting for you guys! Because that's how dedicated I am to this blog. You're welcome.

It's a Red Neck Strip Club. Seriously.

Keeping Him in the dark

At risk of being repetative, one more Operation Obnoxious story.

Scene: Sitting on the tailgate of my truck in the driveway drinking a glass of $5 wine.

Door to Door Jesus Lady: How're you today miss?
Me: (holds up glass of wine) Exxxxxcelllllent
D2DJL: I'd like to talk to you about God.
Me: Okay
D2DJL: Do you know God?
Me: Yes, we're on a first name basis. I call out to him from time to time*
D2DJL: That's wonderful. Let me ask you one question though.
Me: Okay, but just one. This wine isn't going to drink itself!
D2DJL: Will you go to Heaven?
Me: Only if He doesn't look under my bed. **




*during sex. Obviously.
**No, I don't actually have that under the bed. It's in the top dresser drawer.

Public Service

I find my analytics endlessly entertaining. And a leeeetle disturbing. But! In the interest of assisting the world in their quest for knowledge, I've chosen the repeat searches to address here. So search no more, Kittens!

Q) bio fit bra + transgender
A) Yes, sugar, you CAN wear a bio fit bra. Even if you're a man. We don't judge here. One must be fabulous mustn't one? Maybe order on line though. Just saying.

Q) Blogger + granny + saggy
A) What the fuck, man? Are you referring to my granny panties? Because shut up! They're comfortable. Until they get so big that they blouse around your buttocks and then scrunch up until you've got panty lines that would make Stacey London fall down dead. Then it's time to buy new ones. Or go with out. If that's what you're in to. Not me so much. Ever zipped your pubes? Then you know why. Not that I've ever done that. I tend to...well never mind what might or might not have happened when my waxer went away for the holidays and I tried to use J's hair clippers for a bit of maintenance and wound up looking like a mangy porn star.

Q)Dumification
A) I have nothing to do with the dumification of the interwebz. I place blame for that solely on the likes of Perez Hilton and his propensity for drawing white dribbles down every "celebrities" leg. See how I just used "propensity"? Proof I'm not at fault.

Q)Fear of Outhouses + snake phobia
A) Yes. Very much. Have you ever USED an outhouse? I rest my case.

Q) SriLankan homely aunties with bra and panties still photos
A) So are you offering me these or asking me for them? Because I don't care WHAT you've heard I don't hang with exhibitionist sri lankan aunties. Very often.

Q) Turd farming unflushed toilet
A) Might I refer you to the fear of outhouses reader? I suspect you two have much to talk about.
Also? Gross.

Q) Why don't the British fix their teeth?
A) Beats me. Perhaps they're less obsessed with the superficial implications of popular standard of beauty than Americans? Or maybe it's just too expensive? Or maybe they don't want to offend the Queen who may or may not have British Teeth Syndrome because if they did she'd chop off their heads and then where would they put their hats?

Q) Shamwow Party with Xanax
A) Oh. My. God. Yes. I am so there. There is nothing in the world I enjoy more than a party that involves hooker punching, disturbing weasel faces pitch men, absorbent material and legally prescribed narcotics. Unless it's a party with ILLEGALLY prescribed narcotics, hookers wearing absorbent material while punching weasel faced overly loud pitchmen.

This is why I can't have nice things

See that? That is my husband driving my $40,000 (new, retail...now probably about $25,000 BUT STILL) truck down a dirt road so jacked up that if he stuck his hand out the window he COULD TOUCH THE GROUND.

And then Kiki died laughing

Scene: Victoria's Secret Christmas Eve day

Nervous looking Man: My girlfriend wants the big boob bra in purple. She's...um...a size small?

Sales Girl: Okay, great! Do you know what cup size?

NLM: Um. I....I don't know (scopes girls around him looking for similar boobs)

SG: Okay, are they more the size of apples, oranges or grapefruits?

NLM: (thinks hard)

NLM: Lemons.

Derailed

Earlier this week, when I was getting coffee at that exclusive little shop that I love *coughQTcough*, a man turns to me and says "you smell fantastic". It completely made my day. There is nothing quite like a genuine and unexpected compliment, is there?

Then, I had a super shitariffic week.

BUT THEN.

As you are all well aware, I have a tiny little addiction to my Blackberry. The first thing I do in the morning is turn it on and check my messages. Unlike Saint Dolly, who claims the first thing she does in the morning is get dressed and go home. (I want to BE Dolly Parton. Seriously. I love her. Probably more than I love that wicked temptress Oprah.) Where was I? Oh, yes, my Blackberry. The first few messages kind of set the tone for my day. For example today, Ash told me that I was an evil whore for telling him that Emily Deschanel is a vegan and then mentioning scary porcelain headed clown dolls come to life and kill people at night. This is why I love my friends. Especially the imaginary ones that live in my computer. Because who else would call you an evil whore but mean it with LOVE? Oh. Right. My sisters.

And then there was this comment left on a post I wrote back in April;

Anonymous said...
I found this site using Google And i want to thank you for your work. You have done really very good site. Great work, great site! Thank you!Sorry for offtopic

Thank you Anonymous, you totally made my day.

So here's what I think we should do today, I think that we should all make a conscious effort to give someone, a stranger maybe, a sincere compliment. I think we should all remember the courtesy wave. I think we should all remember that Nice Matters.

There you go.

I'm done being all preachy.

Now I want to know WHY THE FUCK I am the only person in my household that can fill the dogs water dish? SERIOUSLY. It's not that fucking hard. You put the bowl in the sink and fill it up. It's not like you have to milk a penguin or anything. It's water.

Also, my dogs are assholes. The puppy, who at two and a half probably isn't a puppy anymore but WHATEVER, has terrible dry skin, and our vet recommended that I put a tablespoon of olive oil on his food to try to alleviate it. It works, I don't know why. Now? Not one of those little fuckers will so much as touch their retardedly expensive dog food until I drizzle it with olive oil. What a bunch of fucking princesses. For the record? Rottweilers and Pit Bulls are a bunch of babies.

Don't you think that Facebook should have an "I hate you" button? or maybe a "stop bragging you bastard" button? And why do people do things like post a message to dead person? I've seen "Rest in Peace, Uncle Bob, you will be missed" or something similar more than once. Do you seriously think that Uncle Bob is sitting in Heaven checking his Facebook alerts? Basically, what you're saying is LOOK AT ME! SOMEONE I KNOW IS DEAD! I'M FUCKING SPECIAL! No, you're not. You're just as bad as the people that post updates that say things like "Betsy wonders why you did that?" Why who did what, you bitch? FUCKING SAY WHAT YOU MEAN. If you mean that Larry stole your boyfriend say "Betsy wonders why Larry is a such a back stabbing man stealing anus eater?". By leaving open ended, vague updates, you're CLEARLY just begging for people to comment and ask you why so that you can tell your victim story. I hate you.

Lastly, as I lay awake at 3:30 in the morning, it occurred to me that if you say the name "John" enough times in a row it stops sounding like a word and sounds like some kind of made up alien language. So do "prom" and "referee". Try it. Say each one like ten times in a row. Not even words anymore, right?

Wow. This post has just gone totally around the bend. Just like me. HIGH FIVE!

Xanax wishes and Buttercream dreams for a happy weekend, my kittens.

Label Whore

Today, as I stood in line checking my Blackberry as I waited to use my Visa debit card to pay for my coffee in my refillable Starbucks environmentally friendly mug and my litre of SmartWater, I realized that I was wearing Gap jeans, a Lands End sweater, Frye boots, Victoria's Secret (matching, of course) bra and panties, a Gucci headband and holding a Coach purse. Inside which were the keys to my overly large, gas sucking American SUV. I suddenly realized I wanted to kick my own ass for being such a yuppie bitch.

What an ass

and for once, I didn't mean my husband when I said that.

Which is pretty certain to be the first sign of the Apocalypse. Or it could just be that I haven't talked to him today. Maybe both.

Shirt

Fanny-pack spotting is so over. All the cool kids are now playing a game called "shirt or dress". And by "cool kids" I mean me.

The rules of "shirt or dress" are simple. Is that skankily dressed girl wearing a garment that is meant to be a shirt or is it really a dress? The answer? ALWAYS SHIRT. I'm not fucking kidding bitches. If I can give you your annual gyno exam from ten feet away that shit is NOT a dress!

See? THAT IS A SHIRT, SLUT. A FUCKING SHIRT.

Okay, fine. Maybe she isn't a slut, I don't know her. Maybe she's an amnesiac who forgot she's supposed to put on pants before she leaves the house. In that case? Her friends hate her. Probably because their boyfriends spend all day gazing at the matching carpet and you know what? If you were a better friend you would have told her that's a FUCKING SHIRT and then she wouldn't be hooking up with your boyfriend behind the beer tent. So, really, it's your own fault, isn't it? I hope you've learned your lesson.

Smack Down

My child, for some reason, LOVES WWE. Loves. I suspect that it has less to do with the actual wrestling and more to do with the boys. Men. Whatever. With the spandex and the sequins and the pulled punches and the oiled abs.

And because I am THE BEST MOM EVER, I bought her and her bestie tickets. Not good tickets, but tickets none the less.

M and Tobi decided that we should all wear "Wrestling Costumes". Right. So here's what they picked out for me.



Thats a red vinyl dress, fishnet tights and knee high leather boots. AHAHAHAH. No. I wore jeans and a...wait for it...black tee shirt! Shocking, right?

I bundle up the chickens and we head down town where I pay TWENTY FREAKING DOLLARS for parking. To be fair, we were about 100 yards from the entrance, but still. $20 is a little over the top.

We got there an hour early and joined this line



It was totally sold out. Over 70,000 people were willing to shell out $30, stand in 100* heat and then suspend disbelief for a few hours.

Their sign says "Chuck Norris For President" on one side and "Ahoy, My Hardys" on the other. Because apparently we like someone called Jeff Hardy. I was also told we like someone called Finlay and we LOVE the Undertaker.

OMG! Jeff Hardy! OMG!

I'll save you a blow by slippery, oiled, blow by blow by no, really I'm totally going to hit you for reals this time blow review of the show because you can watch it yourself on Friday night if you give a shit. Which I don't.

What I do want to say is that at the very end, when half the audience thinking that the Jeff Hardy/(someotherdudeIdon'tremember) smack down was the grand finale had left, the lights stayed low. The girls started asking if we should leave, but I told them to sit tight, the house lights weren't up so it wasn't over. Sure enough the Undertaker comes out and puts the hurt on someone. Following his 3 minute show the Degeneration X guys came out and did a half hour Raw style show.

The crowd was MENTAL with the screaming. OMFG the screaming.

As the lights start to raise, the six remaining fighters start working the crowd. High fiving kids and posing for pictures. And then, the most awesome random act of kindness happened. HHH (who I'm sure you've heard of, since even *I* have heard of him) takes the hand of a 20-something man and leads him up onto the ring. The kid is going CRAZY, doing the DX thrust and as the camera zooms in on him I realize that this young man has Downs. Of all the people, of all the kids, and pretty girls and despite the fact that it was completely not necessary or expected, this star took the time to give this young man the experience of his life.

As the cameras go dark and the lights come on there on the big screen, bigger than life was the happiest kid on earth.

And that was the moment I became a fan of WWE.

Another Reason California Sucks

Seriously, who makes a law like this?

"California law prohibits a woman from driving a car while dressed in a housecoat. "

Are you kidding me? How the hell else are you supposed to dress when driving that early morning carpool?

Maybe it's just me, but I'd prefer this

to this

Worst.Blog.Ever.

I was going to blog a video of my child (you know, the Window Licker?) dancing around a singing as she attempted to see exactly how truthful Vince was being when he said the ShamWow! would soak up ten times it's weight in water, but I was laughing too hard. Because honestly? Who does that? First off who buys ShamWow's? (For the record it was my husband) and secondly who gets THAT excited by the prospect of an As Seen On TV product? But I was laughing far too hard and she heard me and was all "What? What's so funny?" and all I could do was gasp out "Vinnnnccceeee" and then she looked at me like *I* was the crazy one.



So instead, I bring you this gem. Especially timely given my quest for a new tattoo. I think I'll get this one.





If you like that one you should see the rest over at ugliesttattoos.com

Good Fences

(I was going to post about Disneyland, but Blogger was down yesterday and I left my camera at home today and you really need to see the pictures, because otherwise, how is it a travel blog? Right? Right.)

Yesterday as I was pulling out of my driveway I spotted my mailman coming around the corner and decided to wait for him. We've had the same mail man for at least eight years and he and I chat from time to time about the weather, the amount of junk mail I get, the fact the neighbors insist on parking directly in front of their mailbox etc. Basically the kind of small talk that you have with people you know nothing about.

As he hands me my mail yesterday he says to me "Hey, I see that you refinanced your house! How did you manage that in this economy?" and I'm like wait, what the hell? I didn't refinance? then I remembered that our mortgage company went tits up and our statements now come from another company. And he noticed. So I explained it to him, we commiserated about the shitty housing market and then he asked about J's shooting hobby, wondered if I still was selling costumes and did M like her out of state camp and THEN I was all? WTF?

I mean, I get that my garbage man knows a lot about me. After all, the clinking of my empty wine bottles against the Zoloft bottles IS a very distinct sound. But it never occurred to me that my mailman was actually paying attention to what he delivers me. He even commented on the amount of ammunition components that my husband orders and how he knew which houses he'd run to in the event of an emergency!

How freaking creepy stalkerish is that? And yet, think of the GOSSIP I can get about the neighbors! I'm totally going to bake him some cookies. Because Mama loves her some gossip....

Bad Whitey

OMG, y'all. I am going to Color Blind-We shall overcome-One Love hell. Which is different from Mormon hell, Mom hell, wife hell and all of the other deservedly hot after worlds no doubt holding a place for me.

M has two best friends. They are both named Casey*. One Casey is of Hispanic/Caucasian descent and the other is African American. Because the kids are all out of school M and I have some version of the following conversation about once a day

M:Cn I go 2 Csy hse?

Me: Did you do your chores?

M: uh, letz say yes

Me: Then you can.

Me: Wait. Which Casey?

M: Casey Goodman

Me: Is that Black Casey or Mexican Casey?

SEE? See what I did just there? I broke every rule we ever learned at those yearly diversity assemblies where there were skits about how we are all the same on the inside.

But on the other hand, what the hell else am I supposed to do? Call one brunette Casey? Because they're both brunettes. Or maybe Skinny Casey? Because let's be honest, that makes the other one Fat Casey and that's really not any better. Also unacceptable is Smart Casey and Pretty Casey, because they are both great students and pretty girls.

So what am I supposed to do?

Help me out here, peeps. Is it really that bad to call one Black Casey and the other Mexican Casey? I mean, it's not like they don't KNOW they are either black or Mexican. And it's not like I mean it in a disparaging way, more like I would say "Red Haired Casey" or "Boy Casey" were one a ginger kid and the other a man.

Assuage my middle class suburban white guilt here!

*they are not really named Casey.