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.

Imaginary Friends

Look! My imaginary friends aren't ALL imaginary! That's KWR221, me and Kristin's daughter hanging at Dave&Busters.

Relatedly, waiters? Not photographers. Although, to be fair, I am not particularly photogenic, so I suppose I can't blame him. But I'm going to.

Also relatedly, Cherry Berry Mojito's are DELICIOUS. Like, really, really DELICIOUS.

Next up, stalking the Blogslur girls in August...I'll bring the prickly pear syrup and we'll hail cabs using our bras and then pass out on Lorrie's floor.

It's going to KICK ASS.

Hell Bound

See that girl in the center? That's Mich. She was raised in a strict Mormon household in a mostly Mormon small town. Which is not a BAD thing. I was raised Mormon and *I* turned out mostly fine. Except for that lingering need to torment Missionaries. But I think they like it when you answer the door topless, it gives them something to pray about later.

Where was I going with this? Oh. I remember. Mich.

I have ALWAYS been an advocate of good underwear and even back in the day, I spent my allowance on it. One day, as we're standing around in the ladies blow drying our bangs so that they stood at least six inches high, I whipped off my shirt (for whatever reason. Who knows with me. I took my shirt off a lot back in the day. And by "back in the day" I mean "yesterday") and Mich let out a yelp of surprise.

I was wearing a RED LACE BRA! Oh my God! The scandal! The horror!

Mich, at 19, had never EVER in her ENTIRE LIFE worn colored underwear. Ever. EVER. White Hanes briefs, white cotton bras and white socks were all she'd ever known. Because colored underwear? WAS FOR WHORES.

I'm not kidding. That's exactly what her mother had told her. WORD. FOR. WORD.

See, this is the road to hell:

1) colored underwear

2) Holding hands with a boy

3) kissing a boy

4) letting him touch your boobs

5) sleeping with a boy before marriage.

6) hell

So I did the only thing I could do. I took her to the mall and bought her colored panties!

Then, about a month later, she was sleeping with three different boys, then engaged to another one, then dropped out of college, then broke her engagement because she met an all together different boy and then met another boy. I think she married that last one. But we lost touch for a while, so I'm not totally sure.

So maybe there was something to that theory.

I prefer to think of it as encouraging sexual liberation as a way to come to terms with a repressed upbringing.

I also believe all those boys owe me at LEAST a beer for explaining the finer points of giving oral pleasure. Which I learned from my friend Staceys drunk ass mom who used a banana as a cock and giggled as she told us that done right, a blow job will get a boy to do just about anything for you. That's the same night she taught us how to do tequila shots and the proper way to roll a joint. She was an excellent roll model. I miss her.

Thanks y'all!

Taylor made it to the finals of the Arizona's Next Top Model contest! Woot!



BUT now she needs your votes again! Click here to help her make it all the way through!



How can you say no to someone this pretty?

Win! WIN WIN WIN WIN!

So Lorrie is always giving away wicked cool stuff.

I have no wicked cool stuff.

What I DO have is this

Now, using my blogging superpower, I can here you going "Um, yeah, Kiki, I have a left arm, too", and for the record, I'm super happy for you, but if you people would look closely you would notice that I am sporting a wicked cool Good Decision Rubberband. Oh, yes, you're jealous, I can tell. I mean, really, who doesn't want a classic beige rubber bracelet to remind them that somethings? NOT GOOD IDEAS. Like telling that cop that you thought he would be cuter, so that's why you were speeding, or say, eating crab cakes and cheesecake for dinner are neither one good ideas. Whereas leaving me a comment? ALWAYS a good idea.

Because I too am a comment whore. I mean, because I LOVES all y'all. And I value what you have to say! Because you're all so smart! And pretty! And hey! have you lost weight, because you look beautiful!

So I'm going to make you an awesome deal, everyone who leaves me a comment will

WIN!

a beautiful, CLASSY, quality Good Decision Rubberband and as a BONUS will get a FREE GIFT of a limited edition Miss Thystle Sticker!

Act now, this limited edition FULL COLOR CUSTOM sticker is the PERFECT accessory to accentuate your lap top, car, mug, water bottle, cd player, bus pass, baseball hat, left over pie, bedroom wall, Trapper Keeper, locker, lunch box, mailbox, in box, moving box, boxers, cell phone, phone booth, toll booth, kissing booth or even?

Your booty.

Just in Case

So, if I die, I loved you all.

I just wanted to say that, because that’s what my Twin and I say whenever we part company. Primarily, we say it because we share a twisted, morbid sense of humor; but also we say it because it drives her mom NUTS.

Why am I saying it now? GOOD QUESTION. I’ll tell you why, don’t y’all worry your collectively pretty little heads about it.

I’m telling you now because the Other Shoe Dropping Bus is probably about a half hour away and it’s bumper’s no doubt got my name on it.

After a not that fantastic weekend, I was not all that thrilled to be back at work. I hate month end. HATE IT. Also, I had all of my quarter end crap to finish and turn in and in the words of the Head Corporate Bitch (I) “don’t know nuthin’ ovah therah”. This is pretty much true. However, if they want me to know “something”, they’re going to have to pay me a LOT more. Until such time (and I do the books so I know it won’t be anytime soon) I will continue to know nothing.

All this added up to a case of the Mondays like I’ve not had in ages.

BUT THEN. Oh, yes, BUT THEN.

Today, my corporate minder (whom I will be leaving shoes to in my will) came over to double check my reports and guess what? THEY WERE ALL PERFECT.

PERFECT.

AND THEN!

I got the following text from my husband –

“House looks nice – also like what u did w/deck”

WHAT?

I had to double check the sender. Seriously. My husband? Noticing that I’d cleaned house? WTF? There are only two possible explanations for this and they are a) He’s having an affair and he feels guilty about it or b) I’m going to die any moment.

Since I’ve met my husband, I’m pretty sure it’s B.

So before I die, I want you to know that I love you.

And here is a picture of my ass to remember me by

Kodak Moment

My husband sent me on a mission to find this picture

last night, and while I was looking for it, I was killing myself laughing and then, I was sad. Because there was nothing quite like the thrill of picking up your roll of film from the drugstore, opening that packet right there and flipping through snapshots to find out if they came out as well as you hoped they would.

Not to mention the joy you feel when you find a photo like this
while you dig through the desk looking for last years property tax statement.

Or one like this

tucked into an old book to make you remember the smell of salt on your skin.

It makes me sad that technology will mean that M can just delete pictures like this
or this

to prevent them from being used against her later the way that I fully intend to use these pictures. (That's my sister EyeTest, I mean Kassie rocking the pink sweat-suit)

As I sat in the middle of my living room floor pulling out album after album I found myself remembering the time my twin & I "climbed" a mountain


(she dresses WAY better now) and how crazy and carefree we all were

how a summer day didn't mean being cooped up in an office


it meant getting high in the park.

I suddenly had a nearly overwhelming longing for another baby when I saw just how cute M was

BUT then I remembered she was a freakin' BRAT she was for about the first 13 years



a brat with a FIERCE sense of fashion, though

Just as I was finishing up, resolving to dig out my giant manual winding Canon from the closet I opened one last roll of film.

There was M's 7th birthday party. Twelve little girls and this guy

rocking out in my living room with a karaoke machine, the Josie & The Pussycat's CD and 36 inflatable fish. I smiled as I remembered how completely happy everyone was that day. Not one squabble, the birthday girl radiant with the idea that we would take her to a movie at 10pm that night, that she would get pizza for dinner, that everything she asked for she got. I look at the one picture of myself from that day, six silk flowers in my hair, I'm making a face at the camera, but you can see that I'm happy, that the day could not have been happier, more perfect.

My heart sank though, because I knew what was coming next. I kept flipping though that stack of pictures, marveling at how young you can look, how innocent. I traced my finger over M's smooth forehead and then flipped the picture. There was her birthday cake, only the candles visible in the over-dark photo. I should have looked away, should have stopped there, stuffing the rest of the pictures back into the envelope.

I didn't; instead closing my eyes and laying that photo face down I sucked in my breath as I looked at the next picture, taken just two days later.

M's little face swollen and bloody as she lays hooked to tubes and machines, her blankie tucked beneath her comatose arm.

And I was grateful for the ability to delete pictures you don't want to ever see again.

Move Aside, Award Winning Blogger Coming Through

Good news Peeps! I have been awarded a prestigious award called the “Arte y Pico” award! An award so coveted that YOU HAVE NEVER EVEN HEARD OF IT, it’s that secret and awesome. It’s so awesome that I get a magical…..just never you mind what it is.

I got this accolade of great glory from the hilarious Lorrie over at http://www.ournameisblog.blogspot.com/ That’s a lot of “blog” in one blog, but she’s well worth seeing past the repetitiousness of her blog name because she is a drunk like me….I mean blogger of great caliber.

She came to visit this filthy mouthed corner of the world and she thought little ol’ me was worthy of this wonderful recognition. You know what? I SURE FOOLED HER! And you know what else? I’m taking it and running gleefully away to pet it, and love it, and call it George.

You know what the best part is though? It’s the kind of award that you pass on down the road once you’re done molesting it. And by molesting it, I mean licking it. And by licking it, I mean….licking it. What the hell else could I mean?

I mean LOOK AT IT…..


You know you want to lick it too.

So here’s how it works, I am going to use my MASSIVE power to bestow this coveted glory on the following five people (in no particular order) who must then pass it on to others of equal, um, quality.

Ladies and Gentlemen, please give it UP for;

Miss Nadine Hightower at http://www.velvettush.blogspot.com/ because she’s my beloved blog sister. Beloved for being a)shorter than me and b)a kick ass beehive wearing queen of the country road.

Liz, My heterosexual pig farming life partner at http://www.elikapeka.spaces.msn.com/ she doesn’t blog much, but it’s because she’s busy chopping up bodies…FARMING. I mean farming.

Landinn – at http://www.landinn.spaces.live.com/ she gives awesome job hunting tips and rights insightful blogs about deep topics. Unlike someone you might know who blogs about her own ass a lot…

KWR221 at http://www.kwr221.blogspot.com/ she’s my new snarking buddy. We visit all the same sights and gasp at all the same fashion tragedies and yet still manage to not stab our collective eyes out with proverbial forks. AND she has a boat. She hasn’t invited me over yet, BUT SHE WILL.

And drum roll please…..the final Arte y Pico goes to……

Manda at http://www.sweetpainintheneck.spaces.live.com/ Miss Manda has three adorable babies, a hunky man, a lovely new house and she’s gorgeous. So I hate her. JUST KIDDING. I love her. She’s also very funny, very sweet and CANADIAN. I know, right?

So there you go ladies, you too can be one of about 65,000 people who are now equal to Nobel Peace Prize winners, the Poet Laureate and the Baby Jesus.

Alone Together (GBE 44: Independence)

There is a difference between independent and alone.

Standing on my own feet and having no one to support me are not the same thing.

Making my own choices, for my own reasons is not mutually exclusive to wanting advice.

I would give you the shirt off my back, the food from my plate, my heart to hold, my soul; if you needed it. I would give it to you even if you didn’t. I would stand up for you, stand up to you, stand up beside you; with out hesitation.

It scares the breath out of me that you would do the same.

All this time, I have thought I wanted to be alone when what I needed was independence.

Thank you for helping me see the difference.

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.