M: Why do they drive on the right side of the car in England?
Me: I don't know, go look it up
(disappears to use the computer)
M, upon returning: It's so they have easier access to their sword arm, so they can like, sword fight with other drivers or something.
I'm pretty sure M is smoking something she shouldn't be. Or possibly I shouldn't have deprived her of so much oxygen when she was a small child.
On the other hand, that child is damn entertaining.
A brief selection of the What the Fuck she subjected me to yesterday includes;
Regarding "Jacob" from Twilight: Rawr! That there is a sexy man-beast!
In the produce aisle: Wait. I thought CHIVES was a rash?
About Matt on American Idol : Is that thing on his head a whaddagyacallit dot like Indian Girls wear? I thought they were red. Maybe that's why it's not working and he keeps picking crappy songs?
After being told not to eat ALL the ice cream: I already spit in it, so that makes it mine and I might as well just eat it.
Reading the People Magazine cover: Mel Gibson is a MAN?
In a phone call just now;
Me: Good Morning (my job)
Lady's Voice - Oh my god! HAHAHAHA. I, just....hahaha GO FUCK YOURSELF!
Me: um...hello?
LV - Seriously! If you'd seen that llama yesterday! You would want a bigger box of condoms too! HAHAHAHA
(phone goes dead) (Damn) (because I want to know about the Llama and the condoms!)
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....
Me: (laughing)
M: I'm wrong aren't I?
Me: (laughing, harder)
M: (resigned) you're going to blog this, aren't you?
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.
Me: Thanks.
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
Me: True
RV: the only thing MORE perfect would be one with sex toys.
Do y'all feel like I've been phoning it in a bit? Yeah, me too. Here's the thing though, this blogging? IT'S WORK.
Saying that kind of makes me feel all Vanna White. Remember that time she interviewed about how HARD it was to smile all the time? And how turning those letters meant SO MUCH to people and that's why she pushed through the pain? Like that. Only with out the sparkly dress. And more typo's.
Basically, my life? Not that interesting. I'm an accountant, people. And I sincerely doubt you guys want to hear about how WICKED awesome it was that I finished my quarter reports in 8 days. Or about how totally hilar it was when I discovered that I'd accidentally changed the year to 2009 and had to re-run 78 checks! OMG. Aren't you just, like, rolling on the floor clutching your sides? Did you know you can make your adding maching type "8008" and it looks like "BOOB"? And then, if you hit repeat, it will type BOOB forever? Scintillating, right?
Which means that I have come up with things to tell you. And you know what? My kid? ALSO not interesting. Likewise, dogs & husband. Pretty much everyone in my life is actively thwarting my attempts to amuse you by doing only normal, reasonable things.
In fact, the only vaguely interesting thing that I have to tell you is that my mother in law, having recently discovered Facebook, is now able to read all of the wall post from my friends that make it look like I'm having virtual torrid, Canadian, pseudo-lesbian love fest, on a pig farm, wearing flannel and keeping tasty young men captive for my own amusement. Where later on, I will make them braid my leg hair and feed me hazelnut gelato from a chocolate spoon.
And that my poop looks like chicken fries from Burger King.
Why do news stories never tell you the really, really important things?
Like did he use the money to buy a new toilet? Because I bet you could get a pretty kick ass toilet for $40,000.
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.
Here in the desert, school started for most kids last week. But because M goes to private school she’s still got about a week left. Like the epically prepared people that we are, she’s just started her back to school shopping. Because her grandmothers are taking her. I know, SWEET, right? Grandma’s way easier to talk into stuff than mom right?
The text messages regarding this little adventure have flown fast and furious between the Gram’s, M and me.
Mom: Whattt can (M) wear to school?
Me: Whatever.
Mom: Not helpful
Me: You’re welcome
M: MOM pls cn I hv dcs? AND EnV2?
Me: Yes shoes. NO phone
M: Ima B gud ths yr. PRMS
Me: Doubt that
M: UR NOT COOL
Me: That’s my job
Mom: Your kid wears shoes that don’t fit
Me: Good luck with that
MIL: (M) wants to buy school clothes at goodwill?
Hold the phone here, chickens.
This morning, MSN.com is running a lead story about school clothes for kids. They tout this article as being reasonable. So I’m thinking; “Ways to look cool but not break the bank”. I’m expecting to see Target, Steve & Barry’s and places like that. Clothes topping out around $40 per piece, because, let’s face it, 13 year olds are basically giant, slightly more ambulatory 3 year olds. Except messier. And with worse attitudes. And hygiene issues. And messier.
I about spit diet coke like a fountain when I saw their suggestions. Almost $200 for jeans? For someone who is going to write “I heart Nick Jonas" on the knee in about a week. I don’t fucking think so. Especially not in this economy. Inflation is up 8% in just the last quarter and that’s OVERALL. Some things, including cereal & milk are up over 10%, fuel for the car is a lovely $3 PER GALLON MORE than it was 3 years ago, there are 7 houses on my street alone in foreclosure. The jobless rate is at 5.5% and they’re recommending a $100 sweater for a child?
How out of touch can they be? The clothes aren’t even that cute!
I do not believe in washing my car. I’d like to say that it’s for some noble and earth conscious reason, but in truth it’s because I’m mental.
In the four years that I’ve owned The Juice, no one has messed with her. In contrast, my husband’s truck has been broken into twice, run into once and stolen once. Guess which one gets frequent trips to the car wash? In fact, the day they stole it, I’d paid $100 to get it detailed, the day it got hit, it’d been freshly cleaned as well. In my brain, this means that clean truck = bad things. Therefore, The Juice is and will remain filthy. I think it gives her character.
I do, however, try to cull the mess. No one wants to ride around in a dumpster after all, right?
Well, clearly when I say “no one” I didn’t take this guy* into consideration.
On one hand, you have to admire his tolerance for filth, because that can NOT smell good on days when it is 114*. . And what's with the 99c. Store seat cover? If your car is this filthy, are you really concerned about YOUR appearence?
But on the other hand, DAYUM. I need a gallon of Purelle, a Hep shot and a shower from just looking at it!
* Dude. You SO know this car belongs to a guy, because COME ON even the most slovenly of women are bound to draw the line at a seat someone has clearly vomited on.
I wonder if maybe the car you drive is more indicative of your personality than you'd think. I know that girls, at least, are snobs about what kind of car a man drives; dismissing out of hand a guy in a "chick car" as though he were wearing something offensive like an open necked silk shirt and gold chains. It's as though his effeminate car implies some lack of character or manliness, like a VW New Beetle convertible is a big gay flag that he flies.
Neither, though, are most of the girls I know overly attracted to guys in big monster trucks with their jacked up tires and TV head rests and spotlessly clean naked lady mud flaps. He, it would seem has too much testosterone. Or an absence of maturity. Or a very small penis. None of those things being desirable, obviously.
It would seem, that like most things, there should be some middle ground. Something like a Dodge Charger or Jeep Cherokee of a man that says, "I'm not broke, but not frivolous. I am solid and dependable. I like antique shopping and I'll hold your purse while you try on bras at the mall and then I'll insist that I saw on CNN that they've resized all the clothing lines a size smaller due to too thin Nicole Richie types rather than see you cry because you've gained ten pounds and have to wear a bigger size then last year. I will remember your birthday."
But then, I wonder, how do you explain the motorcycle factor? Is it our desperate clutching at youth that makes us eye the tattooed, beer bellied, bald guy as he goes rumbling past on his Harley while we sit in the other lane making a grocery list on the back of the water bill envelope?
What of a woman's car? Does the same hold true in reverse? Do men see a girl in a Mustang and see someone who'll go down on them in a movie on the second date while people three rows forward eat popcorn and laugh at Adam Sandler? Do they see a girl in an Escalade and mentally calculate the amount of alimony her Scottsdale ex-husband pays her? Do they see a girl in a beater hatchback and sense that any little scrap of affection will be enough for her?
I wonder then about how the girls in "non-chick" cars appear. Is she a ball breaker in her Power Stroke Diesel Ford 250? Does she drink too much if she drives a '68 Hemi 'Cuda? Is she a lesbian astride her Honda Shadow Custom?
I think maybe the "what kind of car do you drive" question should be seen more as a "what sign are you" than "so, what's your FICO?" kind of question. More of a personality clue that tells you if you're compatible on some mostly indefinable level than a materialistic inquiry.
Because I wonder, could a truck girl and a Cabriole guy ever find love? Or would the cost of the strap-on, the purple fur-lined handcuffs and H20 lube cause them to go bankrupt?
All of my life people have thought it was okay to say whatever random thing comes to mind to me. This makes my life pretty interesting. It's also taught me to think on my feet. There is very little that you can say to me that's going to leave me speechless.
This is an awesome trait to have I've found because most other people are easily made speechless. Especially when talking to someone whose brain has no filter. Like um...me.
But this isn't about what I say. This is about what other people say to me. ALL THE TIME.
Last week I was standing in an impossibly long, slow line at CVS. Because I'm prone to talking (that's what every teacher EVER wrote on my report card, btw), I strike up a generic conversation with the guy behind me.
Slow line I say.
Ain't DAT the truff he says. Gun be hot, t'day.
That time of year again I reply.
See? See how generic this conversation is? See how I am not making any reference to what I am, say, wearing?
Which was this, by the way.
We stand there in companionable line waiting silence for a minute and AT LAST it's my turn. I put down my Midol, my King Size Special Dark, my Diet Dr. Pepper and my Glamour and as I wait, MINDING MY OWN DAMN BUSINESS, my line mate leans forward, his mouth right by my ear and says
I bet you have amazing nipples.
WTF. Are you kidding me right now? WHO THE HELL says that to a random girl in a check out line on a Saturday morning? If I was at a club, okay. If I was wearing a bikini and dancing around a pole, OKAY. But at CVS? While I'm buying MIDOL? Come on now! So I reply;
I certainly do.
I mean really, what else COULD I say?
Have y'all seen this picture of me?
Not bad right? Aside from the weird angle that it was taken at I look pretty cute. Except for one thing....well two things. When the hell did I get wrinkles? Are you fucking kidding me? Look at those bad boys!
And dark cicles too? Sweet Baby Jesus.
Someone bring me the hairspray and my rat tailed comb, a bottle of champage, a box of Godiva and a string of pearls, it's time to get to working on my Beehive hair-do.
It's 107* here right this minute (which, incidentally is 6:33pm). For those of you not familiar with Fahrenheit temperature measurements, that's roughly ten degrees hotter than the face of the sun.
Currently, I am sweating and that's really all I have the energy for. I have coated my entire body in a paste of sun screen and Anti Monkey Butt Powder and am lying on a bag of ice chips.
Earlier, I think I saw Moses parting the sea of children in an attempt to cut in the Ice Cream man line. He bought a cherry snow cone. I didn't see Jesus however, which is odd, since this is North Mexico and all residents are required to be named either Jesus or Juan. Unless you are a girl, then you may be called Juanita, which translates to "That Juan Girl".
Mexicans are the opposites of Eskimos. While Eskimos are well known for having three hundred and eleven words for snow, Mexican's (a very succinct group) have one word for heat and that is Caliente. Caliente can be literally translated to "Someone Turn on the Gosh Danged A/C this minute before my burro craps in the refried beans….too late!"
Here in the Southwest, we have many ways to deal with the heat. One of them is to take off as many pieces of clothing as possible and lie in front of a fan. This is best done in ones own home. I know this because apparently Wal-Mart has some silly rule that says you can't stand in the fan aisle in nothing but what your mama gave you. You think that they would have POSTED that somewhere! How was I to know?
Another tip is to go find some place cool to sit. Again, apparently you are not supposed to do this in public places like fountains, golf course lakes and the walk in beer cooler at Quick Trip. Really. I didn't know that either until my Quick Trip boyfriend Kevin (I see him every morning. The way he combs his three hairs makes me moist…or that could just be swamp ass*, but either way) told me that it was "NOT okay to lie on the cases of Bud Light" and "No one believes that (you) are a temperature control specialist with a specialization in beer coolers" and "Freezoni machines are NOT toys". I'm thinking of breaking up with him, he's just too judgmental.
The best tip I have for you today is "underpants are just extra pants". This is key. See, if you are wearing pants and drawers, you have two layers of fabric covering your ass. This makes for extra hotness. This can be avoided by a) wearing no panties or b) wearing no pants. Clearly, the only option is B) wearing no pants. You wouldn't want to be wearing no panties, just in case you're in an accident. And it's just too Paris Hilton for nice girls, if you know what I mean.
If you MUST swath your nether regions in some sort of outwear (rookies!) you should opt for something like a terry cloth sarong. This look can easily be accomplished by even the most novice of fashionista! Simply take a large rectangle of terry cloth, wrap around your waist and tie two corners together at the waist. Voila! Terry cloth sarongs can be found in the bath aisle (I have no idea why they have skirts in with the wash rags, but whatever) of your favorite retailer. They come in a variety of sizes from "guest" ( guest is a euphemism for whore) to "sheet" as in "Sheet, this sure is a HUGE sarong!" and almost any color. I just got one yesterday that has Dale Earnhart Jr's signature on it! I didn't know he was in to fashion design. I bet it's because he's so much prettier then that Kasey Kahne girl, she is NOT HOT at all, but she is a good driver. Although, what's so hard about left turns, I have no idea.
Any who, it's time to go make Popsicle salad and Ice Cream Sandwiches for dinner, so I've got to motor.
Stay cool, Peeps, stay FROSTY.
*Swamp ass is the hot, damp feeling you get in your nether regions when it's really, really hot. Most likely to occur during/after a ride in a non-air conditioned vehicle or after sitting on anything made of vinyl, plastic, leather, metal, wood, Naugahyde, leatherette, suede, stone or wool. To simulate the experience, pour about a 1/4 cup of warm water down you butt crack.
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
The fact of the matter is I want to look cute in headbands, but I don't. I don't know if it's the shape of my head or the size or what, but it's probably about time that I just accept that headbands aren't for me.
Over the years I've tried wide head bands (slid off the back..made me look like a Klingon), Alice Bands (make me look like I've got a tournequet on my head) fabric bands, stretchy bands, bands that trail a scarf down your back (dog ate...not a tragedy) and on and on and on. I don't know why I just can not accept that I will never be Buffy the Preppy Accountant, but I don't and I can't and well, I probably won't.
So when I saw these new rubber head bands at Target I just had to try them.
See? Not too bad? Right?
(and if you could ignore my messy kitchen that would be great)
But all day, I was pretty sure that my hair looked stupid. So when I got home I asked my husband.
Me: Does my hair look stupid like this?
J: Do you want it to?
Me: Uh, NO.
J: Okay then.
Me: That's not an answer.
J: Yeah, but I might want to have sex with you someday so, um, what's for dinner?
I think that's husband-speak for "Yes".
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