FBI searches for Hoffa?

I have a BETTER idea. Put Sears Home Improvement division on the case. I offer the following as my proof:

When my dad went into a nursing home in 1999, we had his mail forwarded to our house. All of the investment bankers found him. All of the credit card companies found him. All of the time share people found him. All of these people invited him to fancy dinners,or offered "free" movie tickets while seeking his "estate." I should mention that he retired from the fire department, so SERIOUSLY, how much of an "estate" could he have? Anyway.

In 2003, my husband and I bought a piece of land and have just completed building a house on it. We just have not yet forwarded any of our mail to this house. Oh, this house has an address. And a functional mailbox, too.

What is DOESN'T have is my father. See, he died in 1999. So, christ on a bike, how did Sears Home Improvement branch find him there?

A note to the FBI: forget looking for Hoffa. If you haven't found him in 31 years, I'm not sure you ever will. For a sure thing, call Sears Home Improvement. Provide Hoffa's last mailing address and I'm thinking that they'll find him in, say, 7 years or so.

Lost Wages

You DON'T wanna know what happened in Vegas. It wasn't pretty. We came, we gambled, we won some and lost more. Well, at least I came home with some cash left. I put it out of sight after I won on the 2nd day. I didn't want to spend every cent I brought with me. I was a good girl. The best way for me to enjoy myself in Vegas is to just think of my money as "play money." If I start thinking about putting those 20's into the machines, I think it would make me SICK to think of it as real.

I didn't play blackjack this time; I was feeling too mentally slow. Those tables were moving quickly & I didn't want to look like the dumbass I am trying to add my cards to see how close I was to "21." They'd already be on the next hand by the time I figured that shit out.

I saw some young punk drop $1700 into a craps game. CRAPS is right, considering he didn't do too well. That was ANOTHER game that was moving too fast for me. Dice tossed, lot of yelling, chips moved around & repeat ad infititum. I just couldn't follow it. Bleh.

Poker? Well, let's just say I kick major ass at home on the computer, where I don't have to do anything without a prompt. I can't seem to keep the suits straight & Texas Hold-Em tables were always packed.

There was the usual gluttony (not just ours) at some nice buffets. Lets just say that I really love prime rib & baked ham & had it for 2 meals each day LOLOL. We had a CHEAP but wonderful steak dinner one night for $4.95. With what I dropped in that particular casino, I figured that fucking steak cost me about $100! Ahhh..but it was worth it.

We saw a couple of shows (comped): comedian George Wallace (he was ok; he's better on cable) and a musical tribute to the Coasters, Platters & Drifters (also just "ok"--glad I didn't have to pay for it).

People watching wasn't that exciting this time.

What's to say about a bunch of blue-hairs in scooters monopolizing 2 machines at a time? Try "Run into my fucking ankles again, and you'll WEAR that little basket as I shove the handlebars up your ass and take off with your key."







And for the dipshits who took their walkers onto the escalators and then got off too slowly? As we are all backed up on the escalator behind them, I wanted to scream "It's NOT a fucking elevator" where we could all just take our time waiting for them to exit. I almost started tackling some old bitches from behind as we all started piling up at the bottom.


Outside the casino was a beautiful young woman minding her own business. A group of 3 guys was walking toward her, leering. She held her head high, continuing through and past them. One asshole tried to grab her ass as she passed him but missed. He did, however, turn completely around as if he was going to follow her. Bobbing & weavinbg through the crowd, his drooling-fool ass didn't take his eyes off of her.

Biting his bottom lip, he tells his buddies, "Man, I'd hit that SO HARD..."

It was all I could do to keep my voice low as I said, "Yeah, as if YOU'D have a chance at THAT, asswipe."

I wasn't up for an assbeating, his OR mine hehehe

I'm Outta Here

Fuck. I missed writing my Mother's Day post. I haven't REALLY been a slacker. Until now.

Hold down the fort, beyotches! I'm goin' to Las Vegas for the week. Wish me luck! But with that goddamned HEAT out there right now (100 degrees--FUCK--after 90, who really counts? I mean, it all feels the SAME to me at that point).

I just hope my fat-hot flashing ass + enormous quantities of alcohol don't have me blinking brighter than the red signs at the Chicken Ranch!

See you next week.

I Think Our Parents Were Trying to Kill Us

No bike helmuts? The only kids who wore helmuts were the ones riding the short bus to school. Sure, we road our bikes (“look Ma! No hands!!”). We fell. We messed up our arms, legs, faces and sometimes teeth. But I don’t ever recall any of my acquaintances getting a head injury.

No shin pads or wrist guards? We roller skated. We didn’t roller blade. We had only those fucked-up $1.49 metal skates that were made up of 2 flat, open sections held together by a nut. There was a one-size-fits-all clamp that half-heartedly held your big and little toes in place, and an ankle strap that barely held the skates to your feet. Yeah, THESE were safe. And we were just stupid enough to hold onto a jump rope and let the bigger kids pull us behind their bikes.

Those skates would then get so hot they’d burn the rubber on the sides and soles of our canvas Keds tennis shoes, giving us a case of "hot foot."

It was a real treat to try skating down a rough sidewalk. You’d inevitably trip, one (or both) skates would flip off at the toes, sending you falling (face-first) with the skates still rattling around your ankles. Crying, with skates flapping, you ran home for some mercurochrome and a band-aid. We were too stupid to undo the ankle straps before running home.
Sometimes you opted to NOT get fixed up because the cure was worse than the injury. The orangey-red mercurochrome burned like hell. And when it came time to remove that band-aid, you’d lose more skin than your boo-boo took off in the first place. Those band-aids could hang on for a week, no problem.

As a curly-topped 3 year-old, I remember ironing my dad’s boxer shorts with the adult-sized ironing board lowered to my height and a miniature iron. It was a real iron. I never got burned. I remember getting the SHIT shocked out of my hand as I plugged it in, but I never burned myself. The electrical cords were thick, braided & rope-like. If they were frayed, you got zapped. Hell, I didn't know that. But my parents did, I'm sure. Hmmmm...

My greatest thrill in ironing the boxers was using spray starch. I loved the scent of Niagara Spray Starch. Needing two hands to work the can, I’d practically soak the shorts & then iron them perfectly. In later years, my mom told me how she and my dad would laugh because I had ironed the all the flys shut. Dishtowels and handkerchiefs were my other specialties.

Once upon a time someone came up with the brilliant idea of “Mr. Potato Head,” using real potatoes. Yeah, yeah, I know I’m old. I vividly remember the exceptionally sharp and pointy accessories that came in the kit. After all, they had to be sharp and pointy enough to make it into the raw potatoes. Those were some lean years and you didn’t want to get caught wasting food. You ended up having to use the same potato over & over again. It would look disgusting as the potato starch leaked out of the holes & turned black. We also used green peppers. Mom would just about shit herself when we did that.

I remember an especially unpleasant encounter with one of those sharp, pointy pieces. It seems that when cleaning up after playing, I’d missed one sneaky piece. I don’t recall which piece it was, but that sumbitch went right into the bottom of my foot. I hopped over to my mother, blood dripping, and she pulled it out. Mercurochrome & a band-aid; No trip to the ER. But we never saw Mr. Potato Head again. I got an extra punch from my older brother for that one. Fucker.

Ew. Just. Ewww

This is gross and disgusting and involves a medical procedure. If you are squeamish, this AIN'T the post to be readin'. You'll want to be coming back another day, mmkay?

When I worked for a general surgeon, I assisted her with in-office procedures (biopsies and such). One afternoon, a woman came in needing a cyst on her back evaluated. The doc determined that it needed to be sliced & emptied.

The fucker was HUGE. It's size & shape made it resemble the top 1/4 inch of a golf ball. We both knew that it was gonna have a LOT of shit in it. Shit that would be coming OUT once she sliced into it. We prepped the area & as the doc was injecting local anesthetic around it, it blew. It BLEW. I ducked, still leaving my arm & hand holding the gauze above the patient.

There was such a buildup of pressure around that cyst, but I had NO idea that it would spurt out just from having the area NEXT to it pricked with a needle. Pus squirted over the doc's shoulder. I frantically tried to block it with sterile gauze. But the best was yet to come.

As she poked the tip of the scalpel blade into it, she unleashed the farthest eruption of pus I had never seen. Resembling ricotta cheese, it shot out in multiple directions. I ducked, hand raised like I was in school. The doc did not. She never missed a beat. Her dress bore the brunt of it, along with a framed Monet print on the wall behind her, and the lenses on her glasses (one side). Once the initial explosions were over, the rest was less disorderly. I stood upright and continued assisting her.

In retrospect, I did NOTlook or sound professional. I remember yelping a little as I ducked, and then alternately making "ewwww" sounds and chuckling as I bobbed and weaved like a boxer trying not to get my ass kicked by pus. But I was lucky; at least I only ended up with a spot of it on my scrub top. I can handle a lot of things well, but extremely large quantities of pus is NOT on that list.

In addition to getting the pus out, it was necessary for her to actually remove the wall of the cyst so that it wouldn't come back. Now THAT was a freaky looking thing. She reached her tweezers in there & pulled out what looked like a deflated red balloon.

At this time, I would like to thank Certifiable Princess for the inspiration for this post.