Super Whine-tastic

And I only WISH it was the kind that you drink.

I am seriously having a bad fucking day. Not the kind of day where someone dies or anything that terrible, but the kind of day where you wonder why the fuck you even bother?

You know that kind of day, right? Where it starts out with say, damp towels and no toilet paper then leads on to getting thrown under the bus at work and spirals onto revelations of things that everyone THOUGHT you knew and no one bothered to mention until it was past the point of repair and then slides into ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS BULLSHIT?

Seriously. I heart you imaginary Internet friends because the people in my FTF life suck some serious balls. Sweaty, hairy, salty goat balls.

Balls like these

That's right, I posted GOAT BALLS on my blog. That's how you know I'm serious. I am risking a thousand Technorati Searches for Goat Porn to show you that I mean it for REALS.

The only good thing to happen today? While I was Googling "Sweaty Goat Balls" I found these;

See how desperate the situation is Chickens? The only thing between me and a Clock Tower Rage is two guys with Mohawk and some schmuck with a dildo IN HIS EAR.

Marco Polo

We always danced around each other. I had a boyfriend and you liked me. You had a girlfriend and I lusted you from afar. You and she became "The Couple". He and I were "so cute". Finally, years go by and you are alone and so am I. The Boy plays in the next room singing a song about nothing while we get high in the living room and listen to Ella Fitzgerald.

You're leaned back against the mismatched pillows and I have my head in your lap, legs dangling over the arm rests. You pet my hair and pass me the joint. I miss the way she folded the towels you say at last. I tilt my head back, looking up to you as always. You blow smoke through your nose and stare at the ceiling. I have nothing to say to this but I know that you have told me something profoundly heart breaking. I should have had her show me how she got them all to be the same size; you say, I should have paid attention. You looked down at me then, eyes red and I understood what love was.

Do they serve whiskey at those early bird dinners?

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.

Hotness

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.

In Which I Lay My Shame Before You

I have a confession. It's the kind of confession that I am loathe to make, as I fear that it will cause you my imaginary Internet friends to judge me with the same harshness in which I have judged others.

I would offer an explanation for my actions, but they would merely be excuses and there is no excuse that will excuse what I have done. My house was not on fire, there was no baby unicorn in need of mouth to mouth, the ice cream truck was not handing out hundred dollar bills; I just did it because I could and I am so very sorry.

I left the house wearing leggings as pants.

I understand if we have to break up now.

Why I should Get My Own Room For Mother's Day

My husband can't understand why I am so cranky in the morning. It's because I do not sleep well. Not because of nightmares, not because I don't go to bed early, but because I'm never, ever comfortable.

Let me give you an illustrated version of why (you can click on the pictures to see them in detail)

Fig 1 - 10pm

See? I look pretty comfy don't I? I have plenty of room, plenty of covers and a comfy sleeping position. But, then there is;

Fig 2 10:30pm

Now, I am less comfy, but still not too bad. I still have most of my half of the bed, still have all my covers. Keep in mind Dog A is a rottweiler, so this drawing is to scale. Sometime later though, lucky me, comes this development;

Fig 3. midnight

Note that Dog B is almost the same size as Dog A. Also note that J has not moved an inch yet has managed to steal half the covers.

Still, I could deal with this. I mean really, I have learned to sleep through the sounds of Law & Order SVU reruns played 24-7 by a certain teenager while she listens to the Jonas Brothers at near top volume and talks on the phone because like OMG, can you believe how CUTE Joe Jonas is? LIKE NO WAY is Nick cuter! He is NOT! You are so way beyond, like CRAZY! So I can just scooch a little this way and scrunch a tad that way and I'll be fine. Right? Yeah. Not so much, because then there is this;

Fig 4. 12:15am

This is how I spend the rest of the night. Uncovered, being butt-cuddled by the Puppy, scrunched up to avoid crowding Dog B while both Dog A and my soundly sleeping husband blissfully saw logs.

P.S. Would someone please print this out and save it? My defense attorney might need it for the trial.

P.P.S. To all my mommy peeps, it's competely fine to check yourself into a 5-star hotel for the weekend and subsist entirely on champagne and chocolate for the next two days. Or two weeks. Or until they finally track you down and drag you home because they are all out of socks and you're the only one who is capable of working the washing machine. And also, can you please make 3 dozen cupcakes by tomorrow morning at 7? OH, and um, about that smell...see the thing is Dogs and entire boxes of cookies aren't compatible after all. And we're out of milk. And no one knows why there is glitter in the carpet. And the ceiling fan has always made that noise, so it's definately NOT because we tried to use it to fly. Also? Um..you might need to call a plumber. No, you don't want to know why. LOVE YOU MOMMY! Happy Mother's Day!

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

Is That Your Final Answer?

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".

In Which I Am Helpful

In the coming year I will be part of at least three weddings. In the ten thousand years that I have been married, there have been so many changes to what is and what is not cool/accepted/done/considered bat shit crazy that I am having a really good time enjoying the spectacle. Also, because I'm not paying for it, I have no problem suggesting things like this

I know. Awesome, right? And the Disneyland Dream Wedding package that it comes with is only $45,000! A bargain.

What? Too Much? Fine.

I am also enjoying the search for dresses. Not my own personal search for this dress though.

Looking for this dress is proving to be a gigantic pain in my wobbly ass. But I digress, and if I digress much further down this rant, I may start to foam at that mouth and gnash my teeth and rend my hair from my scalp, which sounds both painful and unattractive.

So really, what I am saying is that I enjoy finding and sending out suggestions like this one;

Pretty freaking hot. I mean who doesn't want to look like Gay C3PO made their dress? No one who's cool, that's who. I would look simply freakin' smashing in that dress. Delightful and not at all like a partially deflated Mylar balloon. And it's CLASSY. Am I right? I know.

So yesterday while I waited for M to finish her insufferably long meeting, I entertained myself flipping through the bridal magazines at WalMart, including the very entertaining "500 Fabulous Wedding Hair Designs!" not hair styles, chickens, HAIR DESIGNS. Let me tell you, it did not disappoint. I'm thinking that this one is probably my favorite

If for no other reason then she looks like she snatched the wig off of an aging and drunken French Hooker. The runners up though are equally fabulous.

You have so many wonderful options for your big day! Big Ridiculous Hair Thing? Check! Random tendrils that make you look like you ran all the way here from the best-mans hotel room? Check! Clairs clearance "rhinestone" necklace artfully off centered and pink foam curlers ringlets half combed out to cover your Van Halen neck tattoo that you got in South Padre during spring break 1989? Check!

But maybe affixing things to your head isn't your thing? Maybe you're having a theme wedding? Like, say; Trailer Park Barbies Mermaid Stripper Dream Wedding. If that's what you're planning then I would say that this look is for you.

Too much garish makeup, home perm, odd tendril bangs, "pearl" ribbons? Check, check, check and CHECK. It's got everything. It's lovely in a Miss Boise 1989 kind of way. It says, "I slept with the entire set of Grooms Men and I don't care who knows! Except if you could NOT mention it to Trailer Park Ken that would be so, like, TOTALLY fab of you! I will totally hook you up with some Chesterfried next time you stop in the Feed n' Go!" And that? That's a good look on EVERYONE.

The Only Excerise I do Is Running My Mouth

Who wants to come over and wheel me around in my office chair?

Maybe I should back up...

About a week ago I bought a Pilates DVD at Costco. I read the box about how it was for people who had never done it before, it was easy, low impact, required no additional equipment, and best of all it was FUN! Look at how perky the she looks!

See? All bendy and slender and whatever. But all that perkiness belies her EVIL core.

Oh sure, she starts you out all easy with some stretches and shit


But then, just when you're starting to think, "Hey! I CAN do this! And it's not even that bad!" she starts to get more sadistic.

But, still you're all, "Maybe if the dog were not trying to get in my lap and lick my face while I was doing this, it wouldn't be that bad!" so then you pause the DVD and let the dogs out and do your centering breathing from your ready position and then start the DVD again and wouldn't you know it, in those two minutes that vicious acrobat uncurled her pointy tail and she's all "OKAY! That's great! If you're ready, let's move onto the mat work!" in that chipper voice with it's pleasant accent and you're laying there listening to the dog licking the window and thinking "WTF? I thought we WERE doing mat work!"

But you are thinking wrong, very, horribly wrong. Because that stuff you just did? That you are kind of light headed from all the deep breathing and centering and shit? THAT was the warm up! The mat work, which has been banned by the Geneva Convention, is yet to come! She expects you to do this
and if that wasn't bad enough, just when you've used the TV credenza to push your knees up over your boobs, a problem that the human pretzel apparently does not suffer from, she uncurls her rubber self and in a calm voice tells you to return to your ready position because guess what? THERE IS MORE.

ARE YOU F-ING KIDDING ME? She can not seriously expect average humans to do this! OH BUT SHE DOES! Okay, so there you are using the couch for leverage trying to launch your ass up and over your shoulders and the wee wicked bitch calmly informs you that now you should slowly lower yourself back to ready and then DO IT AGAIN. So there you are, giggling and grunting and trying to launch yourself into unnatural and wholly improbable positions when what do you know, the Mormon Missionaries approach your screen door and gazing inside mistake you for being in distress and call out "Ma'am? Are you okay?" Which of course, you are not, clearly you are mentally unwell and for just a moment, frozen mid-fling looking like a hippo having a seizure you consider yelling for the jaws of life, but instead calmly roll back down to Earth as if all of this were COMPLETELY NORMAL and tell the door to door Jesus sellers that you are in fact fine, just doing a little exercise! Because the body is the Gods temple! And wouldn't they rather come back another time?

Then you firmly close and lock the opaque front door and remind yourself that it all could have been so much worse; you could have been wearing Spandex.

Damn Whippersnappers

If you are 30 or older you’ll think this is hilarious!

When I was a kid, adults used to bore me to tears with their tedious diatribes about how hard things were when they were growing up (ie: walking twenty-five miles to school every morning (uphill BOTH ways, etc.,etc.) And I remember promising myself that when I grew up, there was no way in hell I was going to lay a bunch of crap like that on kids about how hard I had it and how easy they've got it!

But now that I'm over the ripe old age of thirty, I can't help but look around and notice the youth of today. You've got it so easy! I mean, compared to my childhood, you live in a damn Utopia! And I hate to say it, but you kids today you don't know how good you've got it! I mean, when I was a kid we didn't have The Internet. If we wanted to know something, we had to go to the damn library and look it up ourselves, in the card catalog!

There was no email! We had to actually write somebody a letter...with a pen! Then you had to walk all the way across the street and put it in the mailbox and it would take like a week to get there!

There were no MP3's or Napsters! You wanted to steal music, you had to hitchhike to the damn record store and shoplift it yourself! Or you had to wait around all day to tape it off the radio and the DJ would usually talk over the beginning and @#*% it all up!

We didn't have fancy crap like Call Waiting! If you were on the phone and somebody else called they got a busy signal, that's it! And we didn't have fancy Caller ID Boxes either! When the phone rang, you had no idea who it was! It could be your school, your mom, your boss, your bookie, your drug dealer, a collections agent, you just didn't know!!! You had to pick it up and take your chances, mister!

We didn't have any fancy Sony Playstation video games with high-resolution 3-D graphics! We had the Atari 2600! With games like 'Space Invaders' and 'asteroids'. Your guy was a little square! You actually had to use your imagination!! And there were no multiple levels or screens, it was just one screen forever! And you could never win. The game just kept getting harder and harder and faster and faster until you died! Just like LIFE!

When you went to the movie theater there no such thing as stadium seating! All the seats were the same height! If a tall guy or some old broad with a hat sat in front of you and you couldn't see, you were just screwed!

Sure, we had cable television, but back then that was only like 15 channels and there was no on screen menu and no remote control! You had to use a little book called a TV Guide to find out what was on! You were screwed when it came to channel surfing! You had to get off your ass and walk over to the TV to change the channel and there was no Cartoon Network either! You could only get cartoons on Saturday Morning. Do you hear what I'm saying!?! We had to wait ALL WEEK for cartoons, you spoiled little rat-bastards!

And we didn't have microwaves, if we wanted to heat something up we had to use the stove or go build a frigging fire .. imagine that! If we wanted popcorn, we had to use that stupid Jiffy Pop thing and shake it over the stove forever like an idiot.

That's exactly what I'm talking about! You kids today have got it too easy. You're spoiled. You guys wouldn't have lasted five minutes back in 1980!

egards, The Over 30 Crowd

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.

It Would Seem Accountants can be Bad-A$$ After-all

(scene - Wal-Mart gun counter; last night)

Very Tattooed Thug – And a box of .45's
Wall of Thug Meat – Lemme get some 9's too, man
Me – That's what I need, too. Two of the hundred round boxes of the Winchester 9mm 125grain full metal jackets, please.
WoTM – Damn, Girl, that was HOT.
VTT – yeah, baby, you a bad ass.

(/scene)

Red Hats are for Wimps

My boss has an 88 year old grandmother who is the very model of what I aspire to be.
You see Grandma, after losing her husband, took up with a spry 97 year old. She flew cross country to live in sin with him and apparently went at it like geriatric rabbits until he kicked off.

Then, she wised up. You see the elderly keel over at an alarming rate, so she hooked up with a younger man. A mere whip of an 83 year old. All was well until he had the nerve to decide to reunite with his ex-wife. He wrote Grandma a "Dear Phyllis" letter and mailed it to her.
Understandably, Grandma found this to be déclassé.

However, her solution might have been a tad extreme. This morning she drove her Cadillac right through the elderly Lothario's house. Right. Through. The. House.

When her bemused son arrived to bail her out she quite calmly informed him that "The Bastard was rude not to tell me to my face!" because while felony vandalism is excusable, bad manners is not!

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