WTF?

Separated at Birth?

2008-03-24T18:06:00.005-05:00

Detroit Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick & his lover/partner in crime Christine Beatty

Separated at Birth?

2007-03-18T21:49:00.000-05:00

Kate Middleton and Lance Bass

Eiffel of Penis: A Fun New Game?

2006-10-13T13:41:00.000-05:00

First, some background information: My poor 19 year old daughter caught a glimpse of my husband's naughty bits while he was sleeping. She'd walked into our bedroom, slowly, to see if his feet were covered (if his FEET are covered, it's a pretty safe bet that his schwaangas are covered, too). Not this time. Poor kid is scarred for life.

Fast forward about 2 weeks: The kids and I are trying to remove boxes from the master bedroom while my husband was sleeping.

My son, 13, started chuckling and whispered, "This is just like that game 'Don't Wake Daddy.'"

My daughter didn't miss a beat, replying, "Yeah, but in THAT game, you DON'T get an eyeful of PENIS!"

Needless to say, we hightailed it outta there so we wouldn't wake daddy hehehehehe

My Computer is SCREWED

2006-09-29T17:48:00.000-05:00

I don't yet know what's wrong with it, but hope to have it fixed soon.

Guess I should use my "down" time to finish moving into our new house hehehe

Gotta love craigslist :D

2006-09-17T19:24:00.000-05:00

craigslist.org is handy for picking up cheap/free stuff, but this belongs in a world of its own:

M w/ male voices in my head, seeking F counterpart w/ female voices - m4w

25 y/o male, with the misfortune of hearing only male voices. Not a single woman upstairs. We make great conversation but can only take so much of each other, and none of us clean up. Ideally seeking my female counterpart in the mirror situation. Please have between 3 and 6 female voices (not counting THE ONE). Only people in control of their voices please, the last thing I need is someone who lets the lessers drive. If you respond to this please don't do so as one of your subs. I want THE ONES to match first and then we can slowly introduce our subs to eachother if it seems to work out. Prefer to meet around Motor Parkway in the region where it is south of the LIE. Please do not respond asking me if I'm the keymaster, because ha ha very funny I've heard that before. Yes I saw that movie too, thank you, you are very witty. OK! LEts do this. Motor Parkway, female voices.

P.S. Please meet a standard level of hygiene.

What do YOU think??

2006-09-13T21:28:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure I'm seein' the resemblance...

The Wrong Family was put down

2006-08-09T18:40:00.000-05:00

Zoo meerkats test negative for rabies: Five of the popular animals euthanized after girl, 9, is bitten

Unbelievable.

Blah, blah, blahhhhhh

2006-08-07T13:13:00.000-05:00

Sorry for the inactive blog lately. I have tons of shit to post but it seems as if there really aren't enough hours in the day (yeah, lame excuse, I know. So SUCK IT!)

I need to upload pictures of our new blind, deaf AND (as an added bonus) RETARDED cat. Sweet little guy is SERIOUSLY fucked up. No lie. His story can only be told WITH pictures, so you'll have to wait.

What's more fun than running into an old boyfriend?

2006-08-07T13:10:00.000-05:00

Finding out that in the intervening 31 years he:

a. Went to prison for 6 years
b. Rides a bicycle to work
c. Works at Taco Bell (and NOT in management)
d. All of the above

Poor guy was such a sweetie, but truly a lost soul. Seems like I was the only one who ever really cared about him. I recognized him in the drive-thru by the set of his mouth. If I'd seen him up close and without his glasses, I would have known him instantly by his piercing blue eyes. In addition to his troubles, the years haven't been kind to him. But I can't say they've been all that kind to MY fat ass either lol.

We chatted for a bit; he, stating with bravado, "I've had a good life." Me, trying not to look upon him with the pity I felt that he hadn't had a BETTER life. I can STILL read him like a book.

His downfall had always been his self-destructive behavior. Seems he'd get up to a certain level in life, blow it all up, and start all over again. Ad infinitum.

I hope he is on an upward swing now and wish him all the best.

Something COMPLETELY unoriginal for my 100th post!

2006-07-27T14:13:00.000-05:00

Just bizzy bizzy bizzy with all sorts of shit. I hope to be blogging more SOON.

For lack of anything interesting of my OWN to post, I proffer THIS: How NOT to act on J-Date

Talk amongst yourselves.

Can You Hear Me Now??

2006-07-03T08:55:00.000-05:00

I'm driving home from work this morning on some 2 lane roads. I am behind a truck, but we're not crawling along, so it's OK. It's nice & sunny and I am enjoying the relaxing drive.

Before I know it, some tail-gating asshole is right up on my ass. He actually starts leaning to the left in his seat, almost sticking his head out the driver's side window. Then he's riding the yellow center line, looking for opportunities to pass me & the truck. Problem is, he doesn't STOP riding the yellow line at any point while he is behind me. All I can think is, "I'm NOT gonna do anything to SAVE your dumb ass when you get into a head-on crash." He recklessly passes me and the truck, without much room from oncoming traffic. What a dick.

Several miles later, I find myself behind HIM at a traffic light. I notice what looks like a cell phone up against his right ear. I said to myself, "No wonder he's driving like such an asshole--he's talking on his cell phone!" Then he starts moving his head around, giving me a clear view of his head. When I noticed that he had a matched set, I realized NO he WASN'T on a cell. Those were his EARS. Holy Fucking Shit on a Stick.

Hippo Birdy 2 Ewe (me)

2006-06-30T12:32:00.000-05:00

It's mah birfday, it's mah birfday. Ahm gonna partay lahk it's mah birfday, drink Bacahdi lahk it's mah birfday...

This is what I have to look forward to today: a Chocolate fudge layer cake with REAL buttercream frosting. Nothing artificial. No preservatives. THREE types of REAL vanilla extract in the frosting, PLUS enough butter to clog the arteries of anyone within breathing space. Word.

The taste of this frosting is so different than anything I have ever experienced. It's almost like eating a stick of butter that has sugar whipped into it, but not too much. Reminds me of when I was little and got to lick the beaters when mom was making a cake :)

I'll post a picture of its beautiousness when I find the cable to my Treo.

What's in a Name? (part 2)

2006-06-05T12:00:00.000-05:00

I pity the children of celebrities. For with all of her weath and privelege, Shiloh Pitt will STILL be "Pile-O-Shit" to her uppity classmates. The booger-eater doesn't fall far from the tree.

FBI searches for Hoffa?

2006-05-28T16:03:00.000-05:00

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

2006-05-27T12:51:00.000-05:00

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

2006-05-15T20:23:00.000-05:00

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

2006-05-06T15:57:00.000-05:00

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

2006-05-06T00:43:00.000-05:00

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.

Corrupting Young Minds Since 1987

2006-04-22T20:07:00.000-05:00

I really need to shut up when I am in the car with my impressionable Schmancer. While running errands today, we spotted a brand new Corvette driven by a well-dressed young man. The personalized license plate said "Eduardo."

Schmancer (sarcastically): "Do you think that his name is 'Eduardo'?"

Me (not so sarcastically): "I think perhaps he is Eduardo's BITCH."

Laughter ensued.

I then shook my head and realized that I really, REALLY need to keep my mouth shut.

Does That Thing Have a Hemi?

2006-04-21T19:27:00.000-05:00

While driving home from White Castle this evening with Schmancer, the conversation went something like this:

Me (Driving the speed limit in a well-patrolled area): Man, that Dodge truck is riding my ass. I bet he is gonna fly past us in a sec.

Schmancer: Yeah, here he comes. Watch, now he's gonna weave around that car next to us.

About 60 seconds later, we see him stopped 2 lanes over sitting at a red light. Schmancer & I look at each other & laugh.

Me: Looks like he wasted a shitload of gas racing to a red light.

Schmancer (laughing): I guess that makes us Karmatologists.

We honked & waved at him as we passed. I am SUCH an asshole, and I am teaching my children well. Hehehe

:)

What's in a name?

2006-04-19T10:08:00.000-05:00

So "the" Scientology spawn has arrived. I can't tell you how incredibly SAD I feel for Katie Holmes. I think she is in waaaaaaay over her head. Not with motherhood, but with her baby daddy--He Who Shall Not Be Named.

I can't escape the feeling that, while she should be overjoyed at her baby's arrival, there is a cloud hanging over her. WIll this baby truly ever be her own? I dunno. And will the DNA results become public that this is NOT that particular Scientologist's genetic match? Time will tell.

As for the baby's name? Suri is short for "Surreal," which this whole thing is.

A sweet tale, just in time for Easter

2006-04-13T16:00:00.000-05:00

No, REALLY! My sarcastic ass is taking a brief hiatus from my assholity during this holy time. My twisted views and foul language shall return soon.

Deetsie was a sweet little one (yeah, Deets, I said WAS. Ok, she still is). Because of rain, I decided to hide the Easter eggs in our family room. Knowing how gross a lost egg would get within days, I made sure I counted them correctly and hid them easily.

Imagine my surprise when Deetsie started counting in her 2 year old voice and she surpassed the number of hidden eggs. I couldn't help but laugh when she remarked with delight, " The eeter bunny leff me twelb eggs anna GOFFBAW!"

She had found a bright orange golf ball under the couch in her quest for eggs. Guess I should have cleaned a bit better :D

Happy Eeter, Happy Pathover.

Trine to Compeet Wif Mah Frens

2006-03-28T12:07:00.000-05:00

I wish I had a pet that would allow me to dress it up and then photograph it for all the world to see. But I don't. My cats are bitches like that. Come to think of it, so are my kids. They outgrew me long ago. Heh.

So, I offer you the next best thing:

Look, ma! I'ma wanna be a pink poodle for Halloween!!

This is what happens when you let me loose in the costume aisle of Meijer while dorm-stuff shopping for Deetsie. The only one brave enough to stick around and photograph the evidence was Schmancer. Deetsie and her BF scattered. Sorry for the shitty-ass quality, but it's from my camera phone (the very same one which shall be used to immortalize the evil Larchetta).

Wait until I start posting the "dress up" pics I have of dem keets o mine.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

P.S. I think I can give Jessa a run for her money, don't you?

The Happiest Place to Work!

2006-03-26T22:33:00.000-05:00

That is what the "Now Hiring" sign in our local Taco Bell proclaimed. Perhaps somebody should have mentioned that to Larchetta. Names have NOT been changed to protect the innocent. Hell to the no!

As my son and I walked up to the counter (no waiting! Woot!), Larchetta gave us the stink-eye. It was to be her last eye contact with us. She had perfected the art of seeing beyond someone by looking off into the distance over their shoulder lonnnnnng before we ever got there.

Sucking something out of her teeth, she slowly ambled over to her register, all the while looking off into the distance. She was watching traffic, squirrels frolicking, birds shitting on the light pole. She never said a word. No "Welcome to Taco Bell. Can I take your order?" No "whutchoowant?" No "whutdaFUCKyouwant?" No "Did you know there's a Mack Donald's right next door?"

Being the civil human being that I am, I was the one who said "Hi." Ooooo, chilly. No response. So, of course, I thought I'd fuck with her.

"Tell me about the Steak Grilled Stuffed Burrito," I said to her. I KNOW she thought I was smoking crack. I mean, who goes to Taco Bell & asks about that shit? Doesn't everybody who eats there KNOW what's on the menu? Maybe everyone but US lol.

"Whutchoo mean TELL you 'bout it?" still looking out the window, but over my OTHER shoulder this time. Still sucking her teeth. Yuck.

"What does it have in it besides steak?"

"ricebeansbajasauceredsauce" Larchetta stated in a fast monotone as she rolled her eyes. She left out a few ingredients, but I got the basic idea. What an asshole.

"I'll have one with NO sauce."

Making that "tsk" sound with her tongue was a nice touch before she asked, "WHUT no sauce? No RATE sauce, no BaaaaHaaaaa sauce...?"

"NO SAUCE at all," I replied

I paid her, making sure that I touched her hand with my hand. I am not one of those people who are afraid to touch other ethnicities. It used to make me chuckle when I worked retail in the racist '70's when other ethnicities would touch MY hand thinking that I was gonna freak out hehehe.

She sullenly gave me the change that the register told her too, bills on the bottom and change unceremoniously dumped on top. Except that some of the coins fell out of her hand onto the counter. I still held my hand out to receive the rest. Fuck THAT if she thinks I was gonna scrape it off of the counter. Sheesh. Lazy Ass.

We eventually got our food and decided to eat it there. Overhead, we heard Britney Spears' song "Lucky." My son & I were still watching Larchetta using her excellent customer service skills. I started cracking up when I said to him, " 'syo lucky day! You gonna be onna innanet! Smile fo mah cam'ra phone." Then I realized I didn't HAVE my fucking camera phone WITH me. Shit.

She left shortly thereafter. I will go back sometime and sneak her picture. The expression on her face was SO priceless.

This reminded my of something one of my favorite comedians said:

"There's no shame in having an every day job. All workers of all levels are needed to make this society function properly. We are all fundamental pieces of the puzzle and are an important part of the whole. But whatever it is, do 'your' job well. It's not my fault you have 'your' job. If you don't like 'your' job, then change it by getting some better skills. Until then, Shut the Fuck Up and get my burger! And I'd like that with a smile. - Carlos Mencia

My Reasons for Being a Blog Slacker

2006-03-24T22:14:00.000-05:00

Painting, painting and MORE painting.
Yes, my foyer is 2 different colors.
3 different colors visible from this area.

And my favorite room? My laundry room!

My New Hirr

2006-03-24T22:10:00.000-05:00

I got tarred of my old color so I went for something a bit different. I actually let Schmancer pick out the color!

I need yo hepp

2006-03-19T15:53:00.000-05:00

I need my own web template. Something that, in your opinion, screams "This is soooo YOU!"

I bought Adobe Creative Suite 2 Premium edition. This was perhaps a bit premature of me since I DON'T HAVE A FUCKING CLUE WHAT TO DO WITH IT! I know enough to be dangerous. Perhaps buried within my delusions of grandeur is exactly such a template. Not likely, but I'm hopeful.

I welcome all suggestions. And I welcome all creative assistance. And if you actually want to create it, I'll um........ I don't know WHAT I'll do hehe

So throw some ideas at me--colors, graphics...anything that you feel would express who and what you see when you come here & read. I reserve the right to NOT post your submitted pics of any fecal matter, so there.

Happy Taint Patrick's Day

2006-03-17T13:05:00.000-05:00

That's it. I have lots of ideas to post but no time right now. We're trying to get our new house all painted so that we can move our stuff in & then put out CURRENT house up for sale.

"Why wait to put your house up for sale?" you ask. Simple. We have 5 cats who aren't afraid of people. They will greet prospective buyers at the door, turn around and show them their little cat butts. They will follow them throughout the house, showing them where I hide the jewelry (it's not just a "dog thing" to do with burglars). They will jump on counters to beg for food. And sweet jeebus they will probably all race to the litter boxes to compete in the "Who Can Shit the Largest, Smelliest Pile Without Covering It Up" contest.

I think it's best to move them into the new place so that people can wander around here unassaulted by friendly felines.

I was thinking of reprising the Tiva Stories from Spring Break last year... If you've not yet read them, they are back in the archives--some of my first few posts in May. You'll need to start from the bottom up. Ten parts of the most annoying-ass traveling companion you'd ever want to encounter. I never DID finish them lol.

Here's the first installment, then you can click over for the rest:

Adventures in Spring Break 2005, Orlando (part 1)

GIRLS GONE WILD!!!! Naw, that was just the MOMMA hehehe. I don't think I have EVER said "FUUUUUUCK" as much in one week. If I'd put a quarter in the Swear Jar, I could have upgraded to First Class my flight home. FUUUCK

Let me first say that WE HAD A BLAST. We laughed, we vegged, we talked, and we definitely rolled our eyes a LOT due to one of our group members, whom I will call "T," per her request. Even doe we ain' in duh club, k? On second thought, I will call her Tiva, cuz "T" was a DIVA. She is the basis for this post. Her cellphone was an issue, but I will discuss this in part 2.

I just about had a heart attack when she showed up at our house with not ONE, but TWO large suitcases PLUS a carry-on. For a 7 day trip. To ORLANDO. Where we were most likely gonna be in the amusement parks all day, and somewhere else at night. Let's see, that should be about 7 daytime outfits & 7 night-time outfits (give or take a couple for bed-wetting incidents), wouldn't you think? We discovered otherwise, but I digress.

The reason we'd set a baggage limit of 1 large/duffel-type bag and a carry-on was because of LIMITED TRUNK SPACE IN THE RENTAL CAR. At our trip planning meetings, Tiva & her momma nodded like bobbleheads when I asked if everyone was clear on that ONE rule. REPEAT AFTER ME: "WE HAVE LIMITED TRUNK SPACE IN THE RENTAL CAR." Understand? Bobble, bobble. Good.

So we stuff the van way beyond capacity in order to get to the airport. We get to the airport planning about 1.5 hrs to spare. SURPRISE! The airline changed the flight time (and flight number) and didn't think it was important enough to notify me. We now have just 20 minutes to get checked in and get our asses onto the plane. Shit.

Four of us checked our luggage without incident. Tiva was another story. She drags her luggage to the counter, and flings up bag #1, only getting it halfway onto the scale. She needs to give it a full-body push the rest of the way. Fifty pounds even. Phew!! That was close, or she might've had to pay the "oversized luggage fee."

She can't even lift bag #2 up onto the scale. Our track star/pole vaulter pushed her out of the way & easily flung it onto the scale. Uh-oh! Looks like Tiva packed a shitload of bricks in that bag. DING DING DING!!! Seventy-five pounds! We have a WINNAH! Shit. On a stick.

The clerk tells her she needs to pay the $25 fee. Tiva wonders what she is getting for this extra $25. She stares at the clerk, wide-eyed. Then blinks once. Twice. Slowly shakes her head as she grumbles, digs through her carry-on, then through her purse. She purses her lips with "attitude" & with a little head shake and a "mm-mm-MM" hands over the cash to the clerk. Remember, we have 20 minutes until our flight leaves. They are boarding. We are on the other side of the airport. I am fat and cannot run like I used to. Plus, it is Easter weekend & we haven't even gotten to the security checkpoint yet. Shit. On a stick. With sprinkles on it.

Needless to say, I am One. Pissed. Off. Momma. Dis ain' NO way to be startin my bay cayshun.

Surprisingly, we make it through security relatively quickly. Nobody gets cavity searched, or even wanded. Yay. We haul ass to the farthest fucking terminal at Metro Airport's Smith (which should be called "Shit") Terminal. The boarding area is totally clear of people & we manage to be the last people on the plane.

Being a fat girl, I HATE being the last person on the plane. Especially when I have a middle seat. Nobody ELSE wants the fat girl to be the last person on the plane either. Especially when they thought the middle seat would stay empty for this leg of the flight.

When I sat down between 2 younger guys (who had a look of sheer terror on their faces as I approached--I KNOW this look, I have had it myself), I promised them that I wouldn't spill into their spaces and that if I fell asleep, I wouldn't lean on them & drool. That seemed to break the ice, as they chuckled nervously.

Fat girl at WalMart in Spandex pants and an ill-fitting T-shirt...

2006-03-12T09:50:00.000-05:00

I've become that which I have laughed at.

I actually went out in PUBLIC dressed like that. But I guess it was OK since it WAS WalMart, after all.

I usually don't shop there, or Sam's Club, or Walgreen either. It's my form of protesting their unfair labor practices. But they are the only place where I can find a certain brand of paint that I like. So I cheated on myself, broke down and (shhhhh) bought paint from WalMart.

Now I need to REALLY describe my attire: forest green VELOUR-looking spandex pants, a tie-dyed Tshirt (homemade -and abandoned- by Deetsie as one of a dozen she made for friends), socks and old tennis shoes. All were paint-stained, so I hope that anyone who saw me and then blogged about the fat girl at WalMart in the spandex pants and ill-fitting tshirt MIGHT be convinced that I usually don't dress like that.

But it really doesn't matter, does it? Since every fat girl who goes out in public is pretty much smirked at no matter WHAT she wears, whether it is a business suit or Daisy Dukes and belly shirt.

BUT, I will have you all know, there were NO Oreos, Ho-Hos or Twinkies in my cart. Only 4 gallons of assorted paint and, um, oh yeah..some (shhh) Little Debbie coffee cakes for my hubby. Really. Since if it were for ME, I'da picked up anything CHOCOLATE.

:)

(_____)(_____) <---- my ass

ohsweetgeebus wassat SMELL?

2006-02-20T04:29:00.000-05:00

I am still shaking my head violently, sneezing and trying to blow the gawdawful SMELL out of my sinuses. I seriously need to consider a lawsuit against a patient's husband for Olfactory Assault. Rectum? He damn near KILLED 'em!

Sweet patient. RANK husband. SERIOUSLY rank. I mean it. In addition to BEING an asshole, he SMELLED like one. Well, actually he smelled WORSE than just ONE. Oh sweet Geebus, I don't know where to begin. I can only hope to paint you the picture of what was my own private HELL. Thankfully, it only overwhelmed 8 of my 12 hours on duty.

This happened over 2 weeks ago, so you KNOW it was bad if I am STILL experiencing it. I was taking care of a new mom and baby. On her last night in the hospital, her husband (who'd stayed home for 2 previous nights with a cold) decided to spend the night in his wife's hospital room.

He was a big guy; tall, wide and rather pear-shaped (which looks really strange on a dude). He was arrogant, demanding and just a pain. in. my. ass. I tried my best to make sure he was comfortable, even getting a twin sized cot for him to use. Hot beverages. Cold beverages. Ice packs for his neck. Heating pad for his back. Extra pillows. Extra blankets. Adjusting the thermostat. I was a regular fucking Concierge. I have no problem providing for my patients, and their spouses to some degree. But when their level of assholiness reaches HIS, I am THROUGH. The worst was yet to come, however.

Being their first baby, they had a lot of learning needs. All of the things I'd spent time teaching her now needed repeating to HIM because he didn't seem to believe it when it came out of HER mouth. Oh joy. Oh rapture. I did NOT get into the nursing profession to fix marital issues in 48 short hours. I wasn't wearing my clerical collar that night either.

He was finally all settled on his cot, and I stepped out of the room to grab some breast pumping supplies. He knew I was coming right back. I opened their door, stepped in and closed the door behind me. And then it bludgeoned me furiously about the head and upper body.

Ass gas. Swamp gas. Sewer gas from HELL. ohsweetgeebus. It was as if he had inhaled and I was vacuumed deep up into his colon. I HAD to have been. There was no other logical explanation for that level of stink. It was un-Godly. I have NEVER smelled anything so vile in my entire life. Ever. Not near a rendering factory, not at a sewage treatment plant. I was quickly losing consciousness and my ability to see. How in the FUCK can I stay in this room, smiling, talking, breathing in & out and acting like I don't notice that his emissions are surely that of a diseased cancerous cow? They both acted like nothing had happened although their new baby's eyes were bugged out like that scene in Arnold Schwartzenegger's movie "Total Recall" when he & Melina are out in Mars' non-atmosphere without masks and oxygen.

"It" took on a life of its own--permeating my very soul. I was sure that "It" lingered on my clothing. He might as well have wiped his ass with me, "It" was that bad. I was in that room for what seemed an eternity. It was actually only 4 or 5 minutes. As I stepped out of their room, I made sure to not inhale my breaths in gulps outside of their door. Good thing, too.

The green cloud rolled under the closed door and wafted into the hallway like a fog machine at a concert. I ended up having to go up and down the halls with air freshener, stopping at their room to aim an extra blast toward the bottom of their door. However, my hell was only just beginning.

Mama walked down the hall to shower and the Swamp Creature decided to leave their door open to air out that room. Did he bother to crack the window at all? Noooooooo. Did he think to perhaps HOLD "It" IN? Noooooooooooooooo. Patients began calling the nurses station as well as my cell phone (we carry hospital-issued phones while working)to ask about "It."

How can I delicately explain exactly what they smell? I certainly don't want to lie and tell them that it is the sewer system. They would badmouth us to their friends & we'd lose business. I REALLY want to embarrass that arrogant Sharer of the Ass Air from Hell and point toward their room, but his wife is a sweetie.

My co-workers thought I was exaggerating until they smelled it and didn't even have to walk down my HALL. Our unit is T-shaped, with the offending hall as the long part of the "T." The Swamp Creature was actually wayyyyyyyy at the BOTTOM of the "T"--at the FAR END of that hall.

Later that night, I asked one of my co-workers to take a baby from the nursery & into mom's room to nurse. We were so busy that I didn't even think to warn her that she was entering "It's" room. This was several hours past the initial assault; how much Ass Air could he still have anyway? Apparently, "enough."

She came back into the nursery with her hands covering her nose & mouth, walked up to me and quietly said, "Remember this: Paybacks are HELL." I apologized profusely.

The resident doctors make their rounds between 6 & 7am. One of the residents was preparing to go into "It's" room. I debriefed her and then offered her some Vick's Vapo Rub for her nostrils. She took me up on it. A few minutes later, she came out of that room, eyes practically bugging out. "What WAS that???" she asked. We agreed that it was OtherWorldly.

Even writing about it, after all this time, makes my mouth water in that "ohgeebusIhavetopuke" way.

Ahhhh, all in a day's work in the life of a nurse.

I'm Back

2006-02-13T14:04:00.000-05:00

OK, bitches. Enough of my softer side.

Gather roun', chirren & I will tell you a tale about Shirley, a nurse I used to work with waaaaay back. Being who she was, I am guessing she probably died in the 90's of various untreatable STD's or was murdered by someone she played but I can't be sure.

Shirley was pretty, although quite large. Her IQ was questionable but, politics being what they were in the 70's & 80's, she was able to graduate as an LPN from a questionably accredited nursing program, no longer in business. She had very little common sense but a lifelong store of Old Wive's Tales which she was more than willing to impart to our young, impressionable, indigent pregnant patients.

She was an admitted racist and suspicious of "crackers." I think I was the only white person she had ever liked, as she told me she thought I was more of a sistah than a honky. But she was a chameleon, so I don't truly know if she actually LIKED me or was just playin'. Whatever though, we had a lot of fun together at work. She was funny as hell to listen to, that's for sure. She was about 10 years older than me.

I am a very down to earth person, and can get along with anybody. I don't hide things, so WYSIWYG. If I am happy, you'll know it. If I am pissed, you'll know it. Anyway, she didn't have the greatest nursing judgment. As a charge nurse, I really had to cover my ass when I worked with her. If there was a corner to be cut, she'd cut it. If there was a task she could postpone, she'd postpone it.

One of our pregnant patients, who was admitted to our high risk unit for premature labor, was a manicurist by trade. I could smell nail polish down the hall one afternoon. I followed the scent into her room to discover that Shirley was getting a manicure and watching her "stories" on TV. The patient was also very obviously in labor, grimacing and rocking in her bed as she worked on filing Shirley's nails. Shirley was either oblivious to the signs and symptoms or didn't care because her manicure wasn't yet finished. I ended up having to actually TELL Shirley to get up & get a fetal monitor as I assessed the patient. Thankfully, we were able to stop her labor with medication. But I had to reprimand Shirley.

"What were you THINKING?" I asked her.
"She tole me dey wazzin' dat bad, so I let her keep on workin'" Shirley replied.

I couldn't argue with THAT now, could I??? Duhhhhh.

A few months later, a bunch of the nurses decided to diet together, weighing in to keep us honest. We'd walk the hospital grounds only when there were a shitload of us working, since our hospital campus wasn't exactly safe. And we certainly didn't want to walk the lower level corridors because they weren't any more safe than the hazards outdoors. The housekeeping dudes would shoot dice & play cards while getting high in the lower level locker rooms. It was overlooked by our chickenshit hospital security guards, who I am CONVINCED would be the first to hide under a desk if any of us were threatened.

Although I think it was unintentional, the staff was divided on weekends. There was a black weekend and a white weekend. I joined the black weekend because it was REAL and I didn't have to deal with the tightasses who worked the white weekend. We'd joke that us niggahs had to stick together. We got along great and worked well together. We were really tight.

So, on our black weekend, we'd planned a dieter's potluck breakfast. Shirley brought a grocery sack full of waffles. The smell was wonderful wafting out of our staff lounge. I walked in to see that she had the entire contents of 1 box of waffles on her plate. A stack of 12 waffles, smothered in butter & syrup.

"Yo, Shirl. What's up with all the waffles?"
"It's mah brekkfest. Only 120 calories!"
"Um, Shirl, there's 120 calories in 1 SERVING, NOT in one BOX!"
"Dayum, I wondered how come I could eat so menny uv em!"

We both just laughed like hell, but she finished that whole fuckin' plate of waffles anyway. Black weekend had ultimately said "FUCK that diet!"

Pity the Poor, Sweet Children

2006-02-12T21:50:00.000-05:00

I don't know whether to laugh or cry, so instead I'll blog and perhaps there will be laughter amongst the tears.

I admitted a patient with her new baby last night. Sweet little baby, docile mom. They were accompanied by her Momma and the Baby Daddy. It became immediately clear that they were no typical family.

As we wheeled New Mom into the room, her fat ass Momma tried to cane her way past us to hobble into the bed FIRST. We had to cajole her out of it by reminding her that it was her DAUGHTER who'd just had the baby, not HER. Reluctantly, she got up & New Mom got in. Baby Daddy was busy stacking all of their worldly possessions in the corner. NEXT to the wardrobe cabinet. He didn't KNOW that it was a closet.

As New Mom got settled into bed, I examined that sweet little baby who looked up at me with the most intelligent eyes. I was softly talking to him, as I do all the babies when I realized that otherwise the room was silent. I didn't hear any of the usual banter that occurs when the new families get settled in as I assess the baby. Utter silence behind me.

I finish with the baby and turn my attention to the trio. They are all staring at me. One blinks. Another. And another. It is eerie, I tell you. Not a single word is spoken by any of them. I start to explain what they can expect from us during the rest of my shift. I ask them if they want me to leave the baby with them, or if I should take him for his bath (it is 4am).

Silence. Blink. Blink. Blink. I swear I could hear crickets, like in those old Bud-Wei-Ser commercials.

I took him to the nursery for his bath and then had time to sit and review her medical history, as I do with all of my patients. This is where I find out that New Mom is mentally challenged. She's mid-20's and has had 2 other children who were taken away from her. She is homeless most of the time, along with Baby Daddy.

Her Momma doesn't look right either. She has a simple look and half-smile plastered on her face and asks repetitive questions, mostly about where SHE is gonna sleep. Her girth is spilling over the chair and she rests her hands on top of the cane standing between her legs. Her housing situation is also unstable. It was reported to me that she slept through the entire labor & delivery on a bed in the labor room. Missed it all. While in the same ROOM.

Baby Daddy is repetitively shaking his head and pulling at things he perceives are in his hair. He has that odd look of someone who was dropped on his head more than once as a baby. I surmise that New Mom and Baby Daddy met in a group home or something like that. He is 30 years older than she is.

As I bathe that sweet little baby boy, I wonder to myself what kind of life he is gonna have. Things do not bode well for him. His immediate family is comprised of simpletons. His own intellect in unknown. It's unlikely he'll ever know his older brothers. The best I can hope for this sweet, innocent perfect-thusfar baby boy is that he'll be adopted by a loving family.

And I can still hear the crickets down the hall...

My Life is Desinerating

2006-02-12T21:42:00.000-05:00

Not really. I just needed a sentence in which I could use that "word."

Somebody actually USED that word on TV. What she MEANT was "disintegrating." I almost pissed my pants. Almost.

Just like when a guy thought that his ex-girlfriend was "self-superficial." I think he might have meant to say that she was selfish and superficial.

I dunno, but I think that all these self-superficial peeps are causing the desineration of the English language.

Word!

Holy Yram Mother fo Dog

2006-02-01T23:45:00.000-05:00

I fucking HATE word verification. How is a slydexic bitch like me supposed to get them right on the first try?

Goddamn spammers who necessitated that shullbit!

How Come They Won't Sell Me Sudafed?

2006-01-22T16:56:00.000-05:00

So what if I have scabs on my face. I nervously pick at every loose little piece of skin. My teeth? I just never smile & then only mumble replies to their questions like, "How long have you had allergies? Why is this your 40th purchase this week?" It's nonya dam bitness!

Costco has product cards sitting on the shelves where the pills should be. You're supposed to take them to the pharmacy counter to get the meds. Costco locks up all pills containing pseudoepehdrine in their pharmacy. Costco's pharmacy is closed on Sundays. Today is Sunday. My sinuses do not GIVE a shit that it's Sunday. I tried to fool them into thinking it was Monday, since my son had no school last Friday, but my sinuses could not be duped. Stupid sinuses.

Stupider Costco.

The manager shook her head as she returned empty handed from the pharmacy. I shrugged my shoulders & made a joke about the meth lab in my basement. Eyes bugging out of her head, I thought the young cashier was gonna have heart failure. Oh Jesus Fucking Christ I was KIDDING!

Stupidest Costco.

This was NOT in the brochure!

2006-01-20T20:37:00.000-05:00

Can someone PLEASE point out just WHERE in the friggin "Cat Book of Rules" it says that you can't puke in the same spot? I know there is a rule that says it MUST be on carpeting, expensive throw rugs, furniture and newly folded laundry. Another rule says that all puking post-sundown MUST occur in the line of foot traffic from owner's bed to various other locations in the house. Nothing says "I love you" better than cold squishy cat hairballs.

But why oh WHY do cats start their puking in ONE spot and then move to several OTHER spots until they are done? Would they be arrested by the Feline Police if they actually fucked up only ONE spot on the carpeting? Don't even THINK about approaching a spewing cat...they can make it onto Aunt Gert's lovely antique dresser before you block them.

Shit. Good thing I hated that old lady to begin with. I think I'll let the pile of cat vomitus crust over on that ugly-ass dresser. It adds a touch of artistic flair, don't you think?

Is that a likeness of Jesus that I see???

2006-01-07T23:52:00.000-05:00

OMG

Taking a second look at the 2nd photo in the "Separated at Birth" post below (but not in the "zoom" mode), I'd SWEAR that I see Jesus in Boots' bunghole.

Oh Christ. I AM going to hell.

Oh well, see y'all there!

Meteorologists

2006-01-06T14:50:00.000-05:00

How the FUCK does an everyday news reporter become a meteorologist overnight? There is a weather guy who pronounces it "Meaty Urologist."

Is it wrong for me to feel all tingly in my pee-pee place?

Separated at Birth?

2006-01-04T11:24:00.000-05:00

Mike from Monsters, Inc
Boots, the Forsaken Pixar Character
aka Boots, the cat with the biggest asshole E.V.E.R

Is she going to Hell?

2006-01-04T11:11:00.000-05:00

A burst of laughter heard from the kitchen. Then I heard Deetsie say, "I love how old people try to jump and they can't."

Can't beat The Price is Right on Geriatric Day for its entertainment value!

Rude Asshole Shopper

2005-12-29T16:22:00.000-05:00

After work, I wandered through the housewares section of Kohl's just before Christmas. As I am intently looking at a deep fryer (yeah, I KNOW my ass is the size of Kansas! STFU already!), I hear this obnoxious voice YELLING at me.

"How much are these vacuums?" bleated the fat man in the plaid coat and earflap-hat.

I looked at him and said, "I don't know," and went back to browsing.

Almost immediately, he sarcastically said, "Well, you'd sell a hell of a lot MORE of them if they had PRICES ON THEM!"

Annoyed with his assholity, I replied, "I don't CARE since I DON'T WORK HERE!"

He never even apologized (sheepishly or otherwise) for mistaking me for a sales clerk. I mean, if I see somebody wearing SCRUBS in a store I know I immediately think, "Now THERE goes a SALESPERSON!"

The ONLY fucking similarity was the presence of a NAME TAG which, if he'd even REMOTELY glanced at it, said "RN" and didn't have the KOHL'S name on it.

Does his group home supervisor know that he was out in public unattended??

Dickhead

Monkey Nut's Adventures in Michigan!

2005-12-27T20:46:00.000-05:00

Over the holidays, we had a visitor from the U.K., via Arkansas and then Canada and Washington state. After stopping here in Michigan, he will be headed (in order) to Arkansas (different city), Alabama, Pennsylvania, Virginia and then most likely to Arkansas (where he started in the U.S.) and back to the U.K. unless someone else requests a visit!

He seemed innocent enough upon his arrival. He was really quiet and didn't freak out our cats when he showed up.

He couldn't wait to get out of his box when he heard there was snow outside! He gazed curiously at the cold white stuff and was amazed that there was a swimming pool under all of that. He wanted to take a dip, but we convinced him it would be more fun shoveling instead!

After shoveling, we thought Monkey Nut would enjoy some pampering so we took him to get his hair styled. He enjoyed the scalp massage and admired the stylist's work.

He throughly enjoyed the fast pace of a Detroit Pistons basketball game and had lots of fun getting into the spirit!

Later that night, I took him to work with me. I knew he'd have a lot of fun in the maternity ward. Silly boy, he wanted to be treated like all of the other babies. He thought the cribs were pretty comfortable and enjoyed napping, although the screaming babies kept him awake. He hopped onto the scale and we found out that he really WAS the littlest little monkey in the nursery!

How do you keep an active monkey occupied at 2:30am? Why, you let him ride up & down the hall on an IV pole! We had races, but he readily beat us all. He was SO proud! It wasn't so nice that the little shit PEED on me. His wang was MUCH bigger than one would expect from such a lightweight!

He got really comfortable with us during his stay, let his hair down (so to speak) and showed us his WILD side. I had NO idea monkeys could DRINK so much! He snuck into the liquor cabinet, downed a few, and groped a stripper. He passed out cold when he got home.

At that point, I figured I'd better send him along to the next victim, er, HOSTESS before he landed in jail. Funds are a bit tight here and I wasn't sure I could afford paying bail money or damages!

May-we fwiggin kwiss miss

2005-12-24T12:36:00.000-05:00

uhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuh <------Elmer Fudd laughter

I'm working a stretch of night shifts so we'll open presents when I get home from work in the morning. The big meal will have to wait until next week when I've had time to sleep and then cook!

In the meantime, enjoy your famblies and be thankful for all that you have. See you in a few days!

Hey, Parking Lot Asshole!

2005-12-19T16:13:00.000-05:00

It has come to my attention (and the attention of everyone else who works here), so why don't YOU have a fucking clue, Sherlock?

It is painfully obvious that pulling into a parking space successfully has special challenges for you. "Successfully" would hint at the following:

1. You were able to pull into the space in one or 2 attempts. Max. Any more than that and you should be parking in the out lot all by yourself. Really.

2. Your vehicle didn't touch any part of the vehicles around you as you made your attempts.

3. There is enough space for you to exit your vehicle without ramming your door into the vehicle next to you.

4. There is actually enough space between your vehicle and those around you so that the small midgets might actually be able to ENTER their own clown cars.

5. You park straight.

6. You park between the lines.

7. You park straight AND between the lines. This is not an "either/or" scenario.

All of these bring to mind the ultimate question that we all want answered: If you have such a difficult time pulling INTO a parking space, why the FUCK do you think you have the talent and skills to BACK into a space? Especially during the "gotta run like hell to punch in on time" crunch?

Do your co-workers a favor and either get to work really EARLY or really LATE. Oh, and you might want to practice your parking skills at home. Better yet, practice at the mall all this week and prepare for the beat down you so richly deserve. Asshole.

Oh, and another thing? Are you aware that people can actually see into your car windows? They aren't one way glass. You see us, we see you. And we so totally enjoy watching a grown man eat his boogers and ear wax. S'all I'm sayin'.

For now.

Create Your Own Levels of Hell (well, sort of)

2005-12-15T13:27:00.000-05:00

Unfortunately, the creator of this quiz pre-selected those destined for different levels of Hell. You are only able to add ONE of your own personal choices, and you aren't able to delete any of the others. Personally, I would have had the Democrats and Republicans on the same level since I believe that all politicians, once they've achieved their goal of being placed in office, forget why they are SUPPOSED to be there. Oh well.

Parents who bring squalling brats to R-rated movies
Circle I Limbo

Democrats
Circle II Whirling in a Dark & Stormy Wind

Scientologists, General asshats
Circle III Mud, Rain, Cold, Hail & Snow

Republicans
Circle IV Rolling Weights

Uday Hussein, Qusay Hussein
Circle V Stuck in Mud, Mangled

River Styx

George Bush
Circle VI Buried for Eternity

River Phlegyas

Saddam Hussein
Circle VII Burning Sands

Osama bin Laden
Circle IIX Immersed in Excrement

NAMBLA Members, pedophiles & child abusers
Circle IX Frozen in Ice

Design your own hell

If I had any experience in HTML, I would've created my OWN quiz. My choices would have included:

loud cell phone users (we're so interested in what you have to say!)
shitty drivers (out of blinker fluid, severely merging-impaired etc)
rude service providers (Don't like your job? Get another one!)
health care providers lacking compassion
people lacking common sense
mean people
STUPID PEOPLE
selfish people
those with an unearned sense of entitlement (they "deserve" it)
chronic welfare collectors (a way of life for generations)
child abusers & pedophiles
animal abusers
students who can't write, spell or put together a coherent thought
the teachers who PASS them
those using words whose meaning they don't know
people without a sense of humor, those who can't take a joke
asshats who created the culture of "political correctness"
human predators of all types
radio execs deciding it's OK to play Christmas music 24/7 starting 10/31

Disclaimer: this list is in no way complete! Add your thoughts to the list!

To gift or not to gift?

2005-12-11T15:02:00.000-05:00

What to do for public servants (not to be confused with PUBIC servants--they deserve LOTS of gifts!) at the holidays?

I probably sort more mail than our mail lady does, since she seems to put it all in our mailbox anyway. Even from houses that are nowhere NEAR ours, their only similarity being the same digits in the house numbers, but totally different subdivisions! Dumb ass.

I have decided if I get magazines with someone else's address, they are MINE. Oh I'll give them back when I'm done reading them. Kinda like the post office delivering my National Enquirer and Globe magazines a week late and well-thumbed through. Peckerheads.

At least I stopped personally delivering the wayward mail when it became an at LEAST twice weekly thing. Now I just circle the address with a Sharpie and stick it back in the mailbox with the flag up.

I particularly love it when she puts a fucking NOTE in my mailbox telling me to SHOVEL so she can drive her mailcar closer to the box. Listen bitch! If you can reach my fucking mailbox to put the NOTE in, you can reach it enough to put the REST of my mail in, mmmmkay?

Here's your Christmas present, Biyatch. Do what you're paid to do, and don't expect me to subsidize your gub-ment job.

Deetsie: an introduction to my eldest child

2005-12-11T13:49:00.000-05:00

Deetsie's Car Ride, OR "What NOT to Say in Front of a Toddler"

It has come to my attention that I have unintentionally ignored my 18yo daughter here in my blog. I shall commence to end this slight today. Honey, be careful what you wish for! You just might get it. hehehehe

First, a little history:

"Deetsie" is the blog name I have chosen for her from the slang term my German mother used for "pacifier," Deetsie's most favorite object EVER. Until dating. But never mind that! Deetsie always had it with her. Since she was an exceptionally droolie kid, I always had to have a cloth diaper "Dydee" on my shoulder. These 2 items became the MUST HAVES of this child for a lonnnnng time. Let's just say I never left home without them. Ever.

She is the product of my first marriage to her father, The Donor; the one I insulated after I found out he cheated on me when she was just 10 weeks old (there is a post about that somewhere in my early blog. Read it! It is fucking HILARIOUS.) Needless to say, I filed for divorce when Deetsie was 8 months old. I was almost 28 at the time. I'd been with the Donor for 12 years, 7 of them as his wife.

The Donor is now skinny, his face drawn and haggard. He went completely gray at 46. He deserved it. He is now remarried and has a 6 year old girl, whom I believe is the Antichrist, a fact known to all but her parents. He deserved THAT, too. He has received his just reward.

My husband, Pic, (I hate using the term "current" as it incorrectly implies that there will be another--oh hell to the NO) and I began dating when my daughter was 13 months old. My daughter had only previously been around those with lighter complexions and men without facial hair. Pic had a full beard and jet black hair. He is of German and Mexican descent.

I carried her into the room to introduce them. He smiled at her sweetly and softly said, "Hi Peanut." She stared at him, wide-eyed, and then her face absolutely crumpled as she burst into tears. Thankfully, she rapidly got over this and Pic became her "main man."

Pic is a kid magnet. He is the one you will find at the bottom of a pile of nieces and nephews. He is a big kid at heart and I love him dearly. I also love how he has so totally loved Deetsie as if she were his own from the very beginning. Hell, she IS. He is 12 years older than I. He was also MY babysitter when I was 4 years old. That will be another blog post :)

When Pic & I had just started dating, Deetsie became very sick. She had an awful upper respiratory infection that caused her to only be able to breathe in an upright position. She was just this side of needing to be hospitalized, according to her pediatrician. As a single mom with a full-time job, I was completely exhausted from my lack of sleep with this round of illness.

Pic had a few days off from his job. He offered to stay in my home and help me with her care, sleeping in the guest room and caring for her during the night so that I could get some much-needed sleep. While I had only known him as a kind soul, I couldn't help but feeling there would be an underlying sexual pressure for this "favor."

I couldn't have been more wrong. When I awoke after my first full night's sleep in a week, I tip-toed into Deetsie's room to check on her. I was amazed at the sight that greeted me.

There, in the rocker, was Pic with Deetsie snuggled into the downy fur on his chest, enveloped in his arms. They were both sound asleep wrapped in a quilt. I melted. Here was a man who showed me the utmost respect by not sneaking into my bed. Here was a man who selflessly snuggled this sweet baby who wasn't even HIS all night so that her mom could sleep. I knew then that he was "the one." We have now been together for almost 18 years, married for 14 of them. He is my soul mate and everything is still as new as it was when we first started dating. But I digress. THIS is a tale about Deetsie.

Pic has a habit of name-calling bad drivers. His usual term at the time was "Bonehead." He had Deetsie strapped into her carseat on a day which was filled with heinous drivers of all sorts. She was dreamily looking out the passenger rear window, with the ever present pacifier in her mouth, absently fingering Dydee (not as porno as it sounds, you pervs!).

After voicing "Ya BONEHEAD!" a few times, that just didn't seem to satisfy him. As a guy cut him off, Pic spoke out, "Go ahead, Shit For Brains!"

Deetsie apparently came to, popped the pacifier out of her mouth and loudly said to him "Dough thay 'shiffer brain', thay BONE HEAD!" And in popped the pacifier in again as she resumed her sightseeing.

Gulp. It was hard for him to NOT crack up as he got lectured by a 2 year old on the proper technique for heckling a suck-ass driver. But you can bet your ASS that he watched what he said in front of her after that!

Walking Dolls

2005-12-05T23:35:00.000-05:00

A blog friend brought up an old memory of "walking dolls." In the 1960's, the manufacturers in toy land thought that little girls needed an almost-life-sized doll to "walk" with them. They were supposed to work by cranking one of their arms so that their stiff plastic legs would march Hitler-like next to you. Great. That's all this little girl with a fully-accented German mother needed in a redneck neighborhood. Why didn't they just come up with a full-face swastika tattoo kit?

I got one of those "walking" dolls for my 4th birthday. I was a really tall kid & she came up to my chin. I never DID get that bitch to walk! I don't know if it was because I was just stupid or uncoordinated. My parents thought it was cute that she and I had the same blond curly hair. Little did they know that in my young mind I was concocting a shrewd plan!

They'd tuck me in and go to the kitchen for a snack. Meantime, I'd tuck the DOLL in my place and high-tail it into the living room, behind a recliner, to watch TV. We'd watch TV as a family, unbeknownst to them. They'd go to check on me and all they'd see from the bedroom doorway was a curly head sticking out from the covers. They never even considered that I might be perpetrating fraud upon them! I did this for a couple of years, believe it or not!

HAHA! Not only did my sneaky 4 to 6 year old ass completely blow my bedtime "curfew," but I got to watch "late night" TV, too! (which, back in the 60's was 9 or 10pm LOL)

My dad never found out, but I confessed to my mom when I was a teenager. She laughed like hell that I'd been able to come up with the idea & actually pull it off for so long.

Good times :)

You cancelled yourself, man

2005-11-29T13:34:00.000-05:00

To the guy in the business suit at lunch today: I was really gonna give you your props for taking that loud-ass cell phone call immediately out of the dining area.

However...

The fact that you didn't think TWICE about blowing the most vile fart in the 4'x4' heated vestibule negated that desire.

Tearfully yours,
Me

Cat Assholes and Other Nonsense

2005-11-22T02:23:00.000-05:00

My cat, Boots, has the biggest asshole EVER. Really. It isn’t usually the first thing that you’d typically notice in a cat, but Boots’ asshole is an exception. I would say that it’s THE exception, but that might be presumptuous of me & would put a LOT of unnecessary pressure on Boots. I mean, being “THE” anything would be a bit daunting, don’t you think?

A key part of this little story is that Boots is so fat, she looks as if she’s swallowed a soccer ball. Black & white, she has a HUGE rotund belly and stubby little legs that resemble pegs more than a means of support for the vastness that is HER.

Being the last cat to join the household, and the hardscrabble runt from a farm, she must feel the need to scarf down every last morsel from the feeder as if it were her last chance. On the rare occasions when they get a treat of canned food, she is the one who licks ALL of their bowls clean. Kitchen scraps? The sound of my footsteps in the kitchen takes care of that. She just HEARS the sound of the pantry door opening and she is IN it. Unwrapping anything? Boots knows what it is before YOU do.

She is a chewer. Memory Foam pillows? Not anymore; she eats the fucking memory right out of them. Dust bunnies? No problem with Boots around; they are inhaled like magic. She saves me lots of vacuuming. Plastic grocery sacks? No match for her sharp little teeth. Paper of any kind? Packing tape hanging off of a box? History.

Bawling in fear that my “baby” had puked up what looked like the lining of her stomach (it really resembled tripe), I took her to the emergency vet one weekend. A mere $200 later, I discovered what paper toweling looked like after having been chewed up, swallowed and vomited by a cat. I mean, WTF? I'd never noticed all those ridges on a wet paper towel before.

I have learned to turn the kitchen trashcans so that the access area is NOT facing outward. I learned this after hearing a HUGE commotion in my kitchen at 2am. Apparently, Boots had been beckoned by something in the domed trashcan. I am guessing the exchange went down something like this:

TrashCan: “Hey, cat!”
Boots: “Whuh? Hoozat?”asked sleepily, looking around from her perch on the sofa.
TrashCan: “Over HERE, lardass! I gots some of those foam meat trays in heeeeeeeeeeere for ya!”
Boots: “Ohboyohboyohboyohboyohboy! I LOVES me some meat flavored foam!”

She managed to nudge the lid up as she stood on her hindlegs, bracing her front paws on the trashcan. Her weight was enough to topple the trashcan toward her as her head nudged that domed lid up. Then she was trapped inside the overturned trashcan. I can testify that NOTHING moves 4 other sleeping cats faster than hearing one of their roommates in an embarrassing situation. They all rolled around, pointing and laughing at her as I stumbled down the stairs to rescue her dumb ass from the trash.

She also shows signs of being at least mildly mentally retarded. Bring a box home, and I can predict to the very SECOND when she will commence to tapping the box flaps. Set the box down, see her come into the room & head straight for it. Three-two-one: right front paw up annnnnnnd taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap. Switch paws. Taptaptaptaptaptap. Repeat ad infinitum.

I wouldn’t tolerate most of this from my “real” kids, so why put up with it from THIS furrball? Simple: she is abso-fucking-lutely adorable due to her personality, which is at least as huge as she.

This is the little sweetie who greets me by two-stepping in place and getting all dreamy-eyed when she sees me. She crawls up onto my lap or arms or stomach or laptop to snooze, after flipping herself onto her back. She is the one who grooms everyone and everything in sight. They don't usually reciprocate as she picks a fight with them at some point during the process.

This is the little terrorist who gives all the other cats hell in her own special way. She is loving & playful, but definitely rules the roost. A nip to the others in their ass cheeks, and they know she’s the boss.

This is the little shit-ass who makes me crazy. Her obesity has brought new problems to light. I never gave any thought to the fact that a fat cat simply can’t lick her own ass, even with the best intentions. So, even if she pinches that loaf like a professional, she is bound to have an itchy asshole once in awhile. And since I have never seen a cat use a paw to scratch its ass, what better way to relieve that itch than to drag her ass for about a foot on the carpeting in the family room? I think I'll start calling her "Scooter."

I’ve never seen a streak, but I can tell she’s been there when, as the others pass, they stop and intently sniff the invisible trail that says “Boots’ itchy, stinky fat cat-ass has been here. And here. And HERE, too.” They give their little heads a shake and perhaps a tiny sneeze too.

So now, I have a NEW daily job. Everyday, I grab a baby wipe and proceed to clean the hell outta that humungous asshole. Clean cat, no itchies, no streaks on the carpet, invisible or otherwise.

Jesus H. Christ. What have I become?

What?

2005-11-17T15:04:00.000-05:00

Haven't any of you ever been abandoned before? Jesus H. Christ. You whiny-ass baby (you know who you are, Floyd) hehehe

I will come up with something witty SOON. I just had a lonnnnng stretch of work, taking classes and teaching classes. Lemme see what kind of word vomit I can come up with later, mmmkay?

And I'll leave you with a final thought to tide you over: Did you know that those smooth-as-a-baby's-ass shaved cooters that you covet can resemble the shiny, near-transparent, over-collagened, lemon-sized lips of most Hollywood celebrities? S'true. They don't even fit inside regular panties.

I can see the ads at birthing centers all over America: "Now you, too, can have lips like a Hollywood starlet!" Too bad they won't be on your face.

Schmancer, Part I

2005-11-07T00:26:00.000-05:00

This is the story of Schmancer, my schmeckel dancer. A nice, fine blog name to be sure. He is so named for that cute little dance thingy he used to do with his, well... THINGY when he was a little kid. Assuredly mortified to be blogged about (he’s now 12), I decided to not use his real name. Oh, and he reads my blog. Hi, Son-Z!

When he was handed to me in the delivery room, his eyes were wide open, as if to say “Holy shit, what just happened here?” For the next 45 minutes, he alternately studied my face and scanned the room. He held his head still, but those big eyes were slowly taking in everything and everyone, pondering all. He seemed most fascinated with the patterned border near the ceiling. He’d scan it from left to right and back again. That should have been a signal of things to come. He was intense.

He rarely slept. In fact, he didn’t sleep through the night until well after the age of 2. I was so sleep deprived that I thought I was going to die. Really. He was hyper-alert and absorbed the most minute information like a sponge. My husband had a tendency to react to minor annoyances by saying, “Oh, God-dammit!”

Let me just share a formula with you: Swearing + a child-sized human sponge = hilarity.

At 15 months, Schmancer had gotten into something in the family room. My husband reacted with his favorite phrase and quickly scooped him up and into the playpen. Schmancer, holding onto the siderail, began jumping up and down and saying “O guh-dammit o guh-dammit o guh-dammit!” Surely he thought this was the way to get out of the playpen. It wasn’t.

I told my husband that he’d have to watch his language around Schmancer. Hubby says to me, “What makes you think he learned that from ME?” To which I replied, “Well, if he’d learned it from ME, he’d have said ‘oh, FUCK!’” Case closed. One point for Mommy.

By 18 months, Schmancer was speaking in full adult sentences (no baby talk at all) and figuring out the proper way to use every single piece of electrical equipment in our home. I always said, “He’s either gonna be an electrician, or electrocuted!” He was always working on things, but never inappropriately. He always knew how to plug stuff in, and never tried to put anything other than tapes into the VCR. He was kicked out of his first daycare at 18 months for finding the lady’s well-hidden gas line under a counter. He was like an idiot savant, without the idiot. He was just a busy, busy little boy and I had no Xanax, for me OR him. Dimetapp was a blessing (and you moms out there KNOW what I'm talking about) ;)

At that time, Barney was his big thing; that, and all videos. And Barney VIDEOS were like Baby Crack to him. He watched them until they wore out. You know, to the point where all you see is a jumping screen and static? It was hilarious to see him stand in front of the VCR with his dad and hear him say, “Dad, time-a clean da heads.”

We put child locks on the stereo cabinets. He’d hold all of his stuff in one arm, and reach his foot up to hold the cabinet door open enough to push the latch down & open with his other hand. As parents, we realized we were way out of our league. But, alas, he was too large to return to the womb.

He has always loved music and would carry his Sony boom box wherever he went. It weighed nearly as much as HE did! He’d lug it in front of him, his arms straight down, having to walk sideways to do it. I always knew where he was because I’d see that bright yellow boom box.

The summer he turned 2, we’d moved into a brand new subdivision and had a block party to meet everyone. He was playing contentedly on our lawn as I BBQ’d in the driveway. I looked up not 2 minutes later & he was GONE. My eyes frantically darted down the street where I saw his boom box sitting on a neighbor’s porch, 2 houses down.

I quickly found the neighbor & embarrassingly asked if I could look for my son in her house. She led me through the front door, which Schmancer had opened. We found him sitting on the floor in her family room. Apparently in the space of less than 5 minutes he’d gone into her house, found a Barney tape, stuck it into the VCR and was quietly watching it. Thank GOD she and I became fast friends, with a true Schmancer Bond. She continues to be delighted with him to this day.

Next installment: "Shit, honey, we're gonna have to find a different Emergency Room before they call CPS on us!"

I've been to Baby Hell

2005-11-04T01:19:00.000-05:00

I am recovering from a 3 day stretch of 12 hour night shifts at a local hospital. Out of 36 moms on the unit with 40 total babies, 30 of the babies spent those nights in the nursery. There was much wailing (them) and gnashing of teeth (ours). Not really, we wailed more than we gnashed teeth. They just erupted from both ends, making sounds that would make Daddy proud.

I haven't seen that much baby poop and vomit in one place in a long time. But their "Popeye squints" and elongated heads looked quite cute for Halloween. The volunteers had dropped off a batch of pumpkin hats for all of them which looked adorable, except on those bright yellow jaundiced chirrens.

It was truly Baby Hell. Now I'm off to bed for a bit.

That is all.

Disgusting Memories of My Life in Retail, Part III

2005-10-29T17:48:00.000-05:00

There were a number of poor people who shopped at that K-Mart store. There were also a number of pigs as well. It wasn’t always just a question of someone not being able to afford to dress better or not knowing that they were dressed inappropriately. I’m convinced that it was a mission for some.

It was common to see heavily made-up girls, their stubbily-chewed nails with chipped dark blue polish, wearing skimpy tube tops barely covering their 48DD’s, and Daisy Dukes so short you could see their tampon strings dangling. None of the clothing EVER covered up the humungous hickeys on their boobs, beer bellies or thighs. And nothing ever came close to hiding the filth and calluses on their pudgy feet. Flip-flops were called “thongs” back then and were as disgusting on their feet as current-day thongs would be on their asses.

I won’t even get into those little brown, stubby, hole-filled Chiclets that the men and women tried to pass off as teeth. All sorts of things swirled through my head such as, “With teef that NASTY and decaying cigarette breath that STANK, how could you have sex with it??” And let them give you hickeys? That leaves a slimy trail of stinky spittle in its wake. EWWWWWW.

It was always a hilarious eye-rolling experience to see guys strutting in their “muscleman/wife-beater” t-shirts ripped wide open at the armpits so that you could see a hairy nipple and most of a beer belly. Of course, the shirt couldn’t have hidden that gut even if it wasn’t torn. Usually they had receding hairlines, 3 days facial growth, dirty hands and an unfiltered Camel hanging from the corner of their mouths. They looked at you with one squinty eye, trying to keep the cigarette smoke out of the other. Even after 30 years, I can still picture the collective group.

These “males” (they surely weren’t men by any stretch) were convinced that they were charismatic and desirable and were sure to work overtime at increasing their girlfriends’/wives’ insecurities by hitting on us. Typically they’d berate the girls/women, who were usually fat, in the checkout line. While the women would look like beaten dogs, the males would then turn on the charm to the cashiers. This was to show the woman what a piece of shit she was and that he had a “bond” with the cashier who’d surely fuck him in the parking lot if he’d only ask. “Sure, handsome! I’ll take you on right here, especially since I didn’t hear ANY of the vile things you just spewed at your girlfriend/wife, as spittle sprayed her & ran down your chin. And even if I DID, I’m sure she deserved it!”

One of my more enjoyable moments was when one pig mentioned that he forgot to grab a 12 pack of condoms. First of all, everyone knew we didn’t have them at the checkouts. Then he tried to be suave , mentioning he’d need them for a “busy night.” Big mistake. I looked at him with a sad, straight face and said, “Quick shooter? Sorry that you waste so many. " I should've told him that we didn’t carry anything that small except for the finger cots in the stationery department. That smirk left his face and he looked like I’d ripped his balls off. In retrospect, I sure hope I didn’t cause his girlfriend/wife to get her ass beat after that.

A vision that will be forever burned into my retinas came to me in the form of a HUGE unkempt woman. She surely weighed at least 300 pounds. Her face was so fat that it looked like someone had punched it in. Combine that with shoulder length greasy, stringy blonde? brown? hair whose dirt I could smell across that counter, black rimmed men’s eyeglasses on her pimply face and horrendous underarm odor. I didn’t know whether to feel sorry or disgusted. I settled on both.

The coup de gras? As I bent down to write information on the personal check she’d given me, I made the mistake of looking up. My head was about 10” from the counter, and belly high to her. Her belly was resting on my counter. Her navy blue polyester pants had split up the front seam, and were held together vertically by those huge safety pins. In addition to being overcome by horrible rottencrotch stench, I was treated to the sight of her pendulous doughy abdomen pressing through those straining safety pins that would’ve punctured my brain had they blown open. The hair from her “trail of misery” poked through as well.

Jesus fucking Christ, my eyes started to water. My jaw started trembling, mouth watering, ass cheeks sweating. I needed to get the fuck outta there NOW. I processed her check, practically tossed the bag of merchandise (including Rid Shampoo, wonder why?) at her, shut down my line and as politely as I could, tore outta there toward the employee bathrooms at the back of the store.

I was happy to graduate to the Service Desk, where I got to deal with REAL thieves!

Harriet Miers--the ringer?

2005-10-27T23:00:00.000-05:00

Am I the only one who thinks that she was never a serious contender, but rather a ringer to throw us off? I'd bet some serious money (if I HAD any) that the REAL candidate has been waiting in the wings the whole time. This "real" candidate would obviously have to be a huge douchebag, someone who'd not likely get the position if presented as GWB's first choice.

By presenting someone so woefully inappropriate as a nominee to the Supreme Court, whomever GWB really picked would have to be a shoo-in. I mean, we'd all be so thrilled that it wasn't Harriet, right?

Just my way o' thinkin'. Anybody?

Disgusting Memories of My Life in Retail, Part II

2005-10-27T16:37:00.000-05:00

I tried to have patience, people. I really did. Men used to piss me off when it was time for them to pay. Toothpicks dangling from their mouths, they’d grunt at me, mumble unintelligibly and literally TOSS the money onto the counter, ignoring my outstretched hand. We didn’t have conveyors then, and it was a bitch to try picking up change from that counter. I’d get so pissed off, if they had change coming, guess who slammed that shit down on the counter for THEM to pick up? Fuckers. Don’t mess with a bitch, yo.

It used to make me abso-fucking-lutely crazy when women would pile a shitload of merchandise on the counter for me to ring up, knowing they didn’t have enough fucking money to pay for all of it. I’d have to call a supervisor to void it all out and it was time consuming as hell. The women didn’t give a shit. And it always seemed to be the Sistahs that did this. I don’t know why.

Or they’d tell me, “Stop when it gets to $30.” Back in the 70’s, $30 bought a lot of shit. It pissed me off when, after I told them they’d reached that $30 mark, they’d start pulling shit out of the pile that they wanted me to VOID so they could add something ELSE instead.

I finally got smart. When they’d pull that “stop at $30” shit, I’d tell them. “How ‘bout if you pick out what you want MOST?” It worked every time. Until I added that fucked up package of chewing gum to their total.

Hehehehehe

I also LOVED their fake looks of surprise, when I’d find hidden merchandise inside other stuff they were buying—boxes of all kinds, purses, coolers, jewelry boxes (“No, it doesn’t fucking come with jewelry IN it, dumbass.”). Seriously, did they think we weren’t going to check? We weren’t TODAY’S cashiers who’d let you walk out with 100 CDs inside that opened box containing the boom box you were buying!

Disgusting Memories of My Life in Retail, Part I

2005-10-26T02:21:00.000-05:00

During high school, I worked 30 hours a week at a local K-Mart. My co-workers, for the most part, were pretty cool kids from other local high schools. There were also the older women who, for the most part, were bitter hags without much edumacation.

I started as a cashier when I was 16. This particular store was located at the juncture of lower and middle class towns. It just happened to be inside the city limits of what was referred to as “Taylor-tucky” (I didn’t create the name, so no offense meant to any Kentuckians, OK?)

I have always been open-minded and pretty tolerant of anything but “stupid.” I have always had a reeeeeeealy hard time with “stupid.” Unfortunately, Taylor-tuckians were a whole lotta “stupid” with special sauce.

In the late 70’s, there seemed to be a HUGE population of young, white unwed mothers with green-snot nosed kids in tow; many times more than 3 of them per shopping cart and the obligatory one on the hip. The kids were usually without shoes or socks, dressed in dirty t-shirts that didn’t quite cover their little bellies and wearing saggy disposable diapers. Their huge eyes and matted hair haunted me. They’d be smeared with various substances, most notably boogers, dirt and tears. I’d bet that they were all less than 1 year apart, based upon their size and the haggard look of despair worn on their mothers’ faces.

It was a pitiful thing to watch these girls trying to handle all of their kids. “Parenting” wasn’t exactly something that was taught in Junior High before they dropped out to start popping out these babies. On any given day, you’d typically hear a woman yelling at her kids several times, then a loud “SLAP” quickly followed by wailing of one or more child. This was followed by more yelling and the cycle was repeated on down the line until everyone in the shopping cart was crying, as she furiously jerked the cart around the aisles on 2 wheels. Child abuse? Never heard of it in 1976.

Sometimes the mothers would actually NOT hit their kids. Unfortunately for K-Mart, this usually meant financial losses were incurred leading to their subsequent bankruptcy some 30 years later. Mommy would merely reach for something in the candy or cookie section of the store & start feeding her spawn, never intending to pay for any of it. The store would then discover the torn packaging in the Ladies underwear department and write the items off as a loss. Don’t EVEN get me started on the used Pampers that would be found in the Infant’s department or stuffed into boots in Footwear.

I was a great employee. As a cashier, I was fast, efficient and careful with handling whatever people were buying. I mean, how many times has any employee at K-Mart actually FOLDED underwear rather than stuff it in the bag? But I digress.

It was common practice for mommy to hand her screaming spawn packs of gum on which to chew as she unloaded her cart in the checkout aisle. She never actually opened them so that when you caught her piranha slobbering and gumming through the packaging, she’d quickly yank it out of Chewie’s mouth and stick the soggy, mashed gum back in the bin. “Oh, we don’t want that!”

Now, I can sympathize when a little one grabs something and mommy didn’t see it happen or wasn’t quick enough to stop it. But when the same stupid bitch pulls the same stupid shit with the same fucking cashier who SEES her do it week after week…that takes a whole lotta “special” stupid. Hence, my extreme sarcasm and loss of patience.

When I’d see these fucktards hand their kids the gum or food items, I’d just silently ring up the damage, without going through the Cashier Waltz of “Do you want those items?” I didn’t give a flying fuck if they went through the motion of taking it out of Chewie’s mouth, or out of Booger’s slimy hands. If the item had ANY bodily fluids on it, she just bought it. Even if she placed the items on the shelf near the counter.

See, lady? Since I went beyond 8th grade and wasn’t distracted by a drunk asshole at home, tons of dick and 4 little kids under the age of 3, I was able to memorize prices of items even if you never waved the price tag anywhere near my face. Those 25 cent packs of gum and 88 cent packs of cookies were now YOURS. Enjoy.

Chocolate Memories...

2005-10-25T14:06:00.000-05:00

My mom's entire family is in Germany. For summer vacations, we'd go visit the family for anywhere from 6 weeks to 3 months, usually the latter. We could only afford to go every 3 years or so back in the 60's and 70's.

I was almost 5 when I first met my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. I can still vividly remember MANY things about this trip. My cousin, Diana (who was 6 months older than me), and I were inseparable. We had the BEST times together!

I enjoyed staying with her in their home, which was actually in a building that resembled an apartment. They lived on the 2nd of 3 floors. There were 2 families on each floor, a shared basement where each family had a fenced-in storage area, and a large stone "cooking pot" with a wringer for laundry. The shared attic was huge, well-lit by windows that cranked open in the roof, and was empty except for the rows and rows of clothes lines everywhere. Each family was assigned a laundry day and a week that they were responsible for sweeping all 3 levels (including stairs). The apartment buildings were all attached in a row, comprising housing for approximately 30 families.

The people in the apartments pretty much kept to themselves. Directly below Diana's apartment lived a really mean middle-aged woman with her husband. She looked absolutely HUGE to me. Like a linebacker. Or like Miss Trunchbull in "Matilda." Her name was Schmidt, but my family referred to her as "Dicke, fette, Schmitty" (translated: "big fat Schmitty"). She glared. She spied through curtains and that little peephole in her door. She bitched about everything. It was just best to avoid her at all costs, and creep silently past her door on your way out of the building. She scared us kids shitless.

My most favorite times were spent on the balcony, since I had never ever seen one. There wasn't a SINGLE balcony that didn't havebeautiful cascading petunias of many colors. It was simply breathtaking for this little 5 year old. I was also enthralled by the huge colorful sun umbrellas everyone had on their balconies. I had never seen anything like it!

Diana and I would sit on the sprawling back lawn, which had a gently sloping hill facing the apartments. It was perfect for little girls to go rolling down toward the playground. There was a huge sandbox (probably 30'x30'), a few swings and slides, but best of all were the monkey bars. It seems that every little German kid was required to take gymnastics in school. They all had these cute little undergarments that looked like bathing suit bottoms. They would routinely show as the girls in skirts spun over & over the bars. I had underpants envy--BIG time. Turns out, they also coveted MY flowered American undies!

One day as Diana and I sat on the balcony, we decided to have a spitting contest. I don't know why we came up with this, except that it is just what kids DO. We alternately spit off the balcony & were quite impressed with our distance! We'd jump up and grab onto the balcony railing (with hang time) for that extra oomph. We'd laugh ourselves silly.

Then came my near-fatal mistake. Not giving it a second thought, as we were chewing the best chocolate in the entire world, I used the railing to give extra height to my spitwad. Not quite yet a physicist, I didn't realize that chocolate spit was significantly heavier than plain spit. Thus, although it had perfect arc, it flopped straight down. Onto Schmitty's bright yellow sun umbrella.

I swear that time stood still, Matrix-style. If I could have caught that chocolate blob in mid-flight, I would have. I would have leaped over the railing and fallen 2 stories down into the hedge roses to save that beautiful big sunny umbrella. But alas, I was 5 years old. So I did the next best thing. I swore my cousin to secrecy and we got the hell off that balcony.

Later as we were leaving the building with our mothers, who should meet us but Dicke Fette Schmitty? Blocking our path to the front door, with arms and legs akimbo, she proceeded to shriek at our mothers. New to the language, I didn't fully understand all of her words, but there was no mistaking what she meant. I wailed in the foyer as she berated my mother for her shitty parenting skills in raising a chocolate-spitting beast like me.

Once we were down the street, my mother dried my tears and treated me to ice cream as she got both of us to agree to never desecrate that umbrella again.

When I spoke with my cousin many, MANY years later, she told me that Schmitty never DID get that chocolate stain out of that umbrella. Not even an additional 12 years of exposure to the sun got helped. I smiled a little smile, knowing that I was still able to torture Schmitty in perpetuity from across the Atlantic. That old cow!

Getting the hang of this blogging thing...

2005-10-21T16:18:00.000-05:00

I don't typically post a comment to the comments that people leave here. Then I realized just how much I like to read others' responses to comments that I have left on their blogs.

So, I will endeavor to get better at doing so. After this weekend, since I am on 12 hour shifts the next 2 days.

I also haven't quite grasped the "blogrolling" thing & putting links to others here. Maybe it's simpler that way. I wouldn't want to piss people off by not listing them. Well, given my nature, maybe I WOULD hehehe

Slacking with White Castle

2005-10-21T15:50:00.000-05:00

Perhaps I should apologize for being such a slacker. Then again, maybe not. Hehehe

Being the attention whore that I am , I would like everyone who reads this to please go to http://www.risingconcepts.com/frapper/wtfblog and sign in. I would love to see where my blog readers come from!

Working my ass off lately, and sleeping otherwise. Not much of a life right now, but HEY! We're having White Castle tonight!! WooHOOOOOOO

The kids will ONLY eat them on a weekend when they don't have to leave the house LOLOL. If you've never had one, well... They are small enough to be gone in 1 to 4 bites (depending upon how big a PIG you are lol), they are LOADED with onions, they smell heavenly, are an acquired taste and are NOT like any other burger you have ever had. They don't nickname them "sliders" for nothin'! And you will "pffffft" for 2 days after eating them hehehe

You don't take someone there for a "hamburger" if they've never HAD sliders. These only resemble a hamburger in that they have a top & bottom bun, a meat substance in the middle and strangely mixed condiments. They mix ketchup & mustard so that it resembles neither, becoming thick & orange. Add dill pickle chips and rehydrated minced onion. They are actually steam-cooked on a grill, lying on the onions. The smell, to us Initiates, is heavenly. Good thing they smell pretty much the same coming OUT as they do going IN :)

I LOVE me some White Castle. Like all the Taco Bell/Pizza Hut, KFC/A&W's, there should be a franchise of White Castle/Krispy Kreme. Oh yeah.

...it occurred to me, he'd grown up just like me. My boy was just like meeeeee

2005-10-14T02:43:00.000-05:00

Out of the mouths of babes... okay, he's 12. But this was STILL the funniest Goddamn thing I heard today.

We were driving home from his orthodontist appointment this afternoon. He told me that he didn't like the assistant who worked on him today.

Says he: "She kept missing my brackets and poking my gums."

Ever the nice mom, I tried empathizing with him then he KILLS me with this:

"And she smelled like old cheese and loneliness!"

I almost swerved into oncoming traffic.

I just don't know where he gets it.

This isn't a sad post

2005-10-11T22:36:00.000-05:00

A couple of years ago, I lost a wonderful friend, Peggy, to breast cancer. We belonged to the same online support group and had actually vacationed together a few times. I had arranged to meet a few of our other BC buddies so that we could go to her funeral together.

You had to know Peggy’s relationship with her control-freak German mother, the Hun, to really appreciate this situation. They had always had a “strained” relationship and her mother was quite the prize. I wasn’t even sure she was human. Their fights, complete screaming matches, were legendary. Hun repeatedly told Peggy how much she hated her and how worthless she was. Peggy would simply say, “Oh mother, I love you too” and laugh it off.

When Peggy knew she was going to die, she spent a lot of money mail-ordering a 50 pound chunk of rose quartz that she absolutely adored. It rested on her dresser in the sunlight where she could gaze at it whenever her eyes were open. It made her mother SICK. She was furious that P spent “ow-uh money” on such a frivolous thing. She ranted. P smiled through her oxycontin haze.

She also made her final arrangements. She didn’t want the Hun to have any say in how she was making her exit. She put everything in writing; that she wanted her service held at the funeral home since she wasn’t religious, then selected cremation and paid for her urn and a beautiful plot overlooking a lake. She selected beautiful music. Rock was to be played by a guitarist and classical by a pianist friend from the local symphony. She was at peace.

During her final 3 weeks of life, the Hun stopped holding the phone up to Peggy’s ear when we’d call. “She’s sleepink,” she would tell us in her staccato German accent. One of our friends who lived near them would visit Peggy. It was during those times that we could talk softly into Peggy’s ear, tell her we loved her and continue to make sick jokes about cancer. We “victims” tend to do that with one another, even as death looms near.

It was during this time that we discovered the Hun had been inviting her “church people” (as Peggy would have called them) in to see Peggy. The Hun wouldn’t let Peggy’s own friends talk to her, yet she invited total strangers in to “counsel” her dying daughter. Peggy was too weak to protest, and her mother guided her hand in signing checks to buy bibles, dozens of them, which were now covering every surface in Peggy’s room. If Peggy had been aware of this, she would have had seizures.

When the BC friends gathered from all over the country for the funeral, we realized that cremation was her only wish honored. Everything else was pure Hun.

The service was held at “Peggy’s new church.” We were the first to arrive; we even beat the funeral director & watched as he carried her in, using both hands. We went up front to read all the cards on the flower arrangements and I almost fell over. On Peggy. The director had set her urn on the floor right next to a pew. I didn’t see it, but I heard it clang as my foot connected with it.

Thankfully it was sealed tightly. Slack jawed, we all stared at each other, I looked down and said “Sorry, Peggy” and we burst into laughter. It was SUCH a Peggy moment; she would have appreciated my kicking her urn. Especially since that wasn’t the urn she had picked out and paid for. Again, the fucking Hun had to have the last word.

People that Peggy didn’t even know gave her eulogy. They were “church friends” who spoke mostly of her mother’s special love. The music? OMFG—as a German-American, I recognized the German national anthem as the first tune. I even sang along to show my BC buddies I knew what I was talking about. I felt like I was at the Olympics. Holy shit. There was no rock. There was no classical. There was no guitarist or pianist. There was an old church man playing the old church organ.

We were sure we could see that urn jiggling as Peggy turned over & over in it. If she hadn’t been cremated, I’m sure we would have seen hives on her face from being in a church.

In defiance for Peggy, none of us stood or sang religious tunes when called upon by the minister who was a stranger to our friend. We were furious that her wishes weren’t respected. We felt like the Black Panthers and almost raised our closed fists in silent solidarity, but we realized that since these people only knew the Hun (and not Peggy) we’d look like assholes. Not that it mattered, we just wanted to show more respect for our friend than her mother did.

Do you wanna know the worst part? Instead of being laid to rest in her beautiful lakefront plot, she is currently sitting on her mother’s mantel. I’m sure the Hun takes time out of her busy life to yell at her every single day. Fucking bitch.

I Caved...

2005-10-11T12:37:00.000-05:00

I caved and did "that" thing. I entered "Michele needs" into Google & here's what I got:

Michele needs our prayers.
Michele needs our prayers. (again)
Michele needs your prayers.
(I am sensing a theme here...)
Michele needs to be more careful with her voodoo.
Michele needs to be healed desperately!

Now I have to wonder: how did I fuck up my voodoo so badly that I now need to be healed so desperately? I tend to be very thorough in whatever I do, so it surprises me that I fucked up voodoo.

And that whole prayer thing? Well, um...I'd really prefer that you send me fine, high quality European chocolate instead, thanks!

It's My Month and I'll Share if I Want To

2005-10-08T01:56:00.000-05:00

Here's MY contribution for breast cancer awareness month (I am refusing to capitalize this "holiday." Just because!).

Do monthly breast exams. You'll be your least lumpy and least tender on day 10 of your cycle (10 days AFTER your period STARTS). For menopausal women, pick 1 day a month (maybe the day they test tornado sirens) and do it that same day every month.

If you don't know what you're feeling, have your partner do it since they usually spend more time there than WE do.

Make a Boob Diary--get a notebook, draw a pair of boobs in it and plot out exactly where you feel stuff. Every month, bring it out for reference. Add anything new. Erase things that have gone away. GET TO KNOW YOUR BOOBS!

When you do an exam, you need to check all the way up to your collarbone and all the way over to your breastbone. Not just the fatty part of your boobs and your underarms.

Do this faithfully every month. Get good at it. If I had done them right, I may have caught my cancer a bit earlier.

Get your mammograms done! This is how my cancer was found. My mammogram was clear one year and showed cancer the next. It only showed a spot about the size of a thumb, but in reality, my total tumor growth was almost 10 cm --the size a woman needs to dilate to deliver a baby!

So take care of yourself & get them boobies looked after! Your family and friends want you around for a lonnnnnnnng time--no matter HOW big a pain in the ass you are!

The Making of an Infomercial

2005-10-06T22:50:00.000-05:00

Scene: resembles the 1950’s, targeting an audience packed with perfectly coiffed women wearing pearls.

Mr. Announcer: Ladies, are you tired of being the ones who always have to check the seat before sitting down to ‘do your business’? Tired of replacing floor tiles and wallpaper border? Sick and tired of throwing out full rolls of toilet paper, all because somebody can’t aim well?

Audience: nodding vigorously, smiling much too broadly

Mr. Announcer: We all know it’s a man’s world. Whether you live with just the King or a whole palace full of Princes, too, we have come up with a product to make your life easier!

Audience: bouncing up and down in their seats, applauding wildly, looking animatedly at each other

Mr. Announcer: Are you ready to hear about the most revolutionary product to ever grace your powder room?

Audience: bouncing up and down in their seats, applauding wildly, emitting tiny shrieks

Mr. Announcer: Well, here it is, ladies! I give you the TOILET FUNNEL™!!!!!

Audience: clapping wildly, shrieking loudly, and straining to see what it is.

Mr. Announcer: Here’s the way it works, ladies (a video begins playing as he extols the virtues of the Toilet Funnel):

When someone enters your powder room, a tiny sensor detects a male presence by measuring an Air Testosterone Level (ATL). For females, the system remains inactive, unless it detects a low level of AssAir (AA), an indication that someone is squatting over the seat instead of sitting. Depending upon just how much ATL or AA is present, the Toilet Funnel automatically activates and adjusts its height appropriately.

The Toilet Funnel mechanism then automatically closes the door behind the male and immediately surrounds him mid-thigh level with its patented FlexFunnel™ system. It has a special SplashBack Guard™ that curves back up around to his upper torso. This system is designed to catch urine no matter where he aims his little pee-pee.

Got someone who aims for the toilet tank? No problem, The Funnel’s got you covered! That wallpaper border with the sailboats? He can’t touch this! That basket of toilet tissue next to the commode? Not a problem with Toilet Funnel! The mirror and light fixtures? Impossible to reach! And best of all, he can’t even soil his clothing!

The patented FlexFunnel system is invaluable with drunks! Not only will they urinate into the right porcelain fixture, the Toilet Funnel is dual-purpose! The locking mechanism holds drunks upright at just the right angle to vomit! No more chunks on your throw rugs!

So order now! Operators are standing by!

Tom & Katie sittin’ in a tree, F-U-C-K-I-N-G (obviously)

2005-10-06T00:06:00.000-05:00

I used to like Tom and I even enjoyed his movies. And then he lost his fucking mind. Now I refuse to give him any of my hard-earned money. Or even the easy shit I get selling drugs to schoolkids. KIDDING!!! Back off, FBI!

OK, Tom—help me understand your twisted-fuck way of thinking. Which is the bigger sin in the eyes of the Church of Scientology? Taking antidepressants, or creating a child out of wedlock? Why?

This whole relationship has such a high “ICK” factor for me. With Katie constantly having a Scientology “chaperone” when she isn’t with Tom, it reminds me of the movie “Rosemary’s Baby.” Oh NOOOOOO!!!! Katie has been impregnated to spawn one of “them!”

And Katie.

Katie, Katie, Katie. Step a little closer, dear, so I can slap some sense into your God-damned thick, dumbass head! What are you thinking? Trust me, he can't possibly do as much for your career as he says he can. Neither can "they," except to help steer it into the toilet by association. And was it really worth it to sell your soul for the money?

Man, I feel sorry for you. Especially when you get postpartum depression because ol' dumbass with the gash-for-a-smile doesn't help you with that newborn, and then refuses to let you take the meds you'll so desperately need. Let me give you some advice: when you have to make the choice of killing your baby, or killing Tom? Choose Tom. The bitches in prison HATE baby killers.

I won't even get into how fucked up your "religion" is, because, frankly, I am not a fan of real religions either. But I have to chuckle that yours was created by a science fiction writer and that you people are actually stupid enough to buy into the "level" that you want. BWAHAHAHA

Earth to LRon, Earth to LRon, come in LRon! You Scientologists need to back the fuck off and not bother trying to enlighten me, and I'll agree to not take my medications in front of you, mmmkay?

Schmancer, The Schmeckel Dancer

2005-10-05T21:48:00.000-05:00

My son has always sparkled. That was simply the best word to describe him as a little guy. He has the most beautiful dark brown eyes; my mother used to say they were like black cherries. He had the cutest, most shit-eating grin you ever saw. I’ll post pictures someday & you’ll see what I meant. He also loved to zoom around the house naked.

Oh yes. These are the stories he will dread when he starts dating, I assure you. I just wish I had the pictures to go along with them. Sparkle THIS! Imagine the pelvic thrust of a 3 year old.

He would streak around the house before a bath. He would streak around the house after a bath. I feel a Dr. Suess-type rhyme coming on:

He’d zoom around without his pants
If he had just half a chance!
His schmeckel he would show to you
Whether or not you’d want him to!

One of the funniest things I remember was when he jumped, naked, into view from the doorway to the family room. In a “ta-da” manner he hollered, “LOOK! It’s BIGGGGGG!!!” Missing a tooth he'd knocked out one year prior, he was smiling from ear to ear.

That little 3 year-old’s erection was a hilarious sight. Of course, being the enlightened mom I didn’t want to wound his little psyche. So instead of shrieking, “Go get your fucking pants on!” I smiled and calmly said, “Yeah, and it will be big again tomorrow, too. Now go and get dressed.”

Blink. Blink. Blink. WTF just happened? "Hope he outgrows that shit," I thought to myself.

In the months to come, he decided that it would be fun to add a little “oomph” to his performance. Instead of just streaking, he now did a little gyrating dance so that his schmeckel would flop up and down, as he laughed maniacally, hands on his hips or behind his head like a Playgirl centerfold’s pose. We were all so used to it that it no longer fazed us.

Unfortunately, my 9 year old daughter’s friend wasn’t. As the naked Schmancer (short for “Schmeckel Dancer”) approached with a running start, my daughter’s eyes got as big as saucers. She tried to stop Schmancer but he burst into her room full-force and shook a mean schmeckel right in her poor friend’s face. That poor girl is now in a residential psych facility, sitting in a corner rocking back and forth, I’m sure of it. Oh wait, she is a freshman in college & lives in a dorm. Same diff.

While the Schmancer has outgrown that version of the schmeckel dance, he hasn’t outgrown his flair for the outrageous. I will pass along other tales of amusement as I remember them. Yes, he is definitely his mother’s son.

Ohhhhhhhh, That Feeling!

2005-10-02T17:08:00.000-05:00

I used to come up with funny phrases to describe different everyday things. My all-time favorite creation quite accurately described just what happens when you’re away from home and realize that you have to poop.

You know the drill. You are miles from home and get the message from your asshole telling you, “You are gonna need to shit sometime in the next few hours.” This is TRUE if you are driving AWAY from your house. This is FALSE if you are driving TOWARD your house. Allow me to explain. This is the phenomenon known as “Involuntary Sphincter Wink.”

Somehow, your asshole just KNOWS when you aren’t near your house, and won’t be there anytime soon. After it gives you that initial gentle reminder, it seems to go on a break & leaves you alone. You are free to complete whatever business you set out to do.

However, your asshole ALSO knows when you are approaching your own toilet. I think it actually gets excited or something. That’s the only word to describe what it does the closer you get to home.

For instance, within 2 miles of home, your asshole winks ever so slightly and you get a rumble deep in your lower colon. You start hoping that traffic isn’t too bad.

Within 1 mile of your own toilet, the rumble is a bit stronger, a bit lower, and actually hurts a bit. Your asshole actually makes a kissy sensation, outward and then inward. This is a mixture of pleasure and pain. You still dare to squeak out a tiny fart.

Within 1 block of home, you start to wonder if the Phantom Shitter remembered to replace that empty toilet paper holder in the bathroom when he was done. Your asshole mocks you by winking over and over again. Your forehead breaks into a cold sweat. So do your ass and the backs of your thighs. You are afraid to fart. You press your ass onto the driver’s seat in an attempt to cork that winking asshole of yours. At this time, it is appropriate to yell to anyone in the car, “I call dibs on the bathroom!!!”

Once you are in your driveway, the cramping has become other-worldly. Your sadistic asshole is winking furiously at you! There is so much sweat on your ass and thighs that you are convinced that you will never be able to peel your pants down in time. You slam the car in gear and leap out of your car, leaving your driver’s door wide open. With the car still running, the baby still strapped into his car seat, you holler at your 5 year old. You’ve just put her in charge of turning the car off and getting the baby into the house.

You run into the house, leaping over toys and small animals, thinking you are surely about to break your neck and die with shit in your pants. You get into the bathroom, not even taking the time to turn on the light or fan, and leaving the door wide open. You barely make it and proceed to take the biggest, fastest dump of your life. Sweet, JESUS! Your relief is palpable. You’ve overcome Involuntary Sphincter Wink without incident!

Now you just have to deal with the 5 year old, who is now standing in the bathroom doorway holding the baby and scrunching her little face in the “Oooooo, this stinks like shit” face.

Hey, at least it’s not in your pants.

Sauna Edge!

2005-10-02T17:04:00.000-05:00

I am almost done with the human waste posts. Almost. This one isn’t really all that offensive (sorry, readers!).

I remember trying to potty train my daughter. She was about 2 years old and couldn’t quite get the hang of telling me she had to go to the bathroom before it became a Toilet Emergency.

We were in a grocery store, she in her training underwear and plastic pants, and I in my big-girl panties. She always carried a cloth diaper (“DiDee”) as her security blanket; she couldn’t go anyplace without it. She started moving rather slowly as we walked through the frozen food section, taking exaggerated steps, bogging us down.

“C’mon honey, let’s go pay for our stuff,” I said

The only response I got from her was the dragging of feet and a really faint sloshing sound. Oh, Christ. She peed and didn’t tell me.

“Did you pee in your pants?” I asked her.

Silence. But there was a wide-eyed guilty look about her. I lifted her little dress, and saw that her plastic pants resembled a plastic baggy full of piss. Without hesitation, I yanked her beloved DiDee out of her hand and shoved it down into her plastic pants so she wouldn’t leave a trail to the checkout. She was mortified at DiDee’s fate and began to wail.

I tried to comfort her, and reminded her that she needed to tell me she needed to go potty.

She looked up at me with this sweet face, and in her 2 year old-speak said, “But it wasn’t sauna edge yet!”

Looks like we’re gonna have to work on our toileting cues.

Gone for the Weekend

2005-09-30T13:58:00.000-05:00

It's "Family Weekend" at my daughter's university. Nevermind that I was there 2 weeks ago, amd she was HERE just LAST weekend. Hell, gas is only $2.84/gal and it's just 2.5 hour drive each way. Why do you think I have a paying job?

But don't you worry about the lack of posting for the next couple of days. I have a bajillion tales in my head. I will merely be perfecting them as I sit by the pool and marinate my brain in alcohol. College rules!

Toilet Etiquette 098: Remedial Toileting for Adults

2005-09-26T23:46:00.000-05:00

Fucking-A I hate public restrooms! It doesn’t seem to matter if they are truly public, or just shared between co-workers. You’d think that people would just inherently know the rules.

For example:

1. If you piss on the seat, wipe it off! It doesn’t matter if you are facing it and aiming, or if you are hovering and hoping. Wipe your fucking piss off of the SEAT!

2. Don’t forget to wipe the drips off of the porcelain piece in front either. I am not interested in using the back of my slacks to do it for you, thanks.

3. Guys: stand closer; it isn’t as long as you think. And for God’s sake, tear off a piece of tissue before you get started so you can swab the end of your dick. Forget the shaking already! You’re flinging piss everywhere. You also don’t get any extra masculinity points for banging it on the wall to dry it.

4. Do NOT sit there and scratch your pubes. Ever. And if you DO, don’t forget to wipe away all of the crotch crumbs you left behind. Nobody should be able to tell the color and texture of your pubic hair, which insects you harbor or the color of your undies by the fuzzies you deposit. And God forbid you leave tiny pieces of damp tissue behind. And what is all that other stuff? For chrissake, take a shower once a week or so!

5. Wimmin: do NOT leave any used sanitary products within view. Ever. Wrap whatever it is in toilet tissue. If you don’t want to stick your hand into that little metal mailbox thingy in your stall, then don’t. But do NOT leave your stuff on the back of the toilet, next to it or under it. It is full of YOUR bodily fluids. It is YOUR job to carry it out of the stall and bury it as far down as you can into a trash receptacle. If you don’t want to stick your hand in the trashcan, then don’t. Stick the fucker in your purse and carry it home. Nobody cares as long as we don’t have to see it!

6. Courtesy flushes are your friend. Don’t be embarrassed by them. You will avoid those horrible clogs if you use them appropriately. Whether you are a mega-shitter or just somebody who uses an entire roll of toilet tissue at a time, frequent flushing will avoid over spillage onto your shoes.

7. If you need to shit, please, please for the love of God do not let it marinate! Have mercy on our burning nostrils and eyeballs. See #6.

8. If you are a Bowl Speckler, please wipe any remnants of your rectal blowout from the rim before you leave the stall. See #2.

9. Just picked your nose while hatching? Don’t even think of wiping that booger onto the wall. There is tissue hanging right next to you. Use it please.

10. Graffiti is so passé. But if you’re going to write my name on the wall, at least have the fucking decency to spell it right!

Oh, I almost forgot--to the DOCTOR with the lazy-veering to the left-eye who doesn't get paid to clean his piss from the floor? They don't pay you to PUT IT THERE, either! Assbag...

A Few Basic Life Lessons

2005-09-26T23:04:00.000-05:00

Be a decent human being. It’s pretty easy to do. Think before you speak. If what you are about to say or do will hurt someone, hold it in for a moment. Is the fallout going to be worth it? While you might think you’re being funny or cute and it may get a big laugh from others, what will be the ultimate effect on your designated target? If you were looking to be a total asshole, then your goal has been achieved. If you just want to have fun, but don’t want to wound anyone, come up with another way that is less painful for all involved. Even those who laugh are flinching inside.

Don't be a cancer. Don't be the one who eats away at someone's insides. Don't be the one who chokes the life out of others. Don't be the one who causes others to have difficulty swallowing in your presence. Nobody should get the bloody shits from being around you.

Consider Karma. It has long been said “what goes around, comes around.” If you believe in any sort of justice in the universe, you need to seriously check your Karma. How long do you think you can go on living a great life if you consistently fuck over other human beings? There is most likely a larger force than you in the universe. And it probably has a different take on “funny” than you do. I think that larger force would find it MUCH funnier than you would to shit on your head, as you shit on another’s.

Look for the olive branch. You know, that thing carried by the dove of peace? Use it for something other than with which to beat someone. The hardest thing for human beings to do is be the first to apologize. Nobody knows this more so than you. Recognizing this, you need to be receptive to apologies when you meet them. Smile, shake hands, think “How do you do?” Then get over it. This will take time and effort. You don’t need to tidy up in one day. But avoid the urge to slam the door of forgiveness in someone’s face. You will undoubtedly be on the receiving end of that door in the future.

Work for the Greater Good. Sometimes it isn’t all about YOU. Suck it up and take one for the team sometime. Don't look for personal glory. Think of others before you waste food, water, electricity or money. Consider adopting a family for the holidays. Better yet, consider doing something throughout the year when “seasonal volunteers” aren’t thinking about the plight of the less fortunate. People aren’t just in need during the holidays.

Make wise choices/Listen to your instincts. They may not always be the easiest or most obvious choices, but you know in your soul what they are. If something gives you a moment’s pause, or tugs at your gut-strings, it probably isn’t the right thing to do. If you feel lighter inside with your decision, you’ve made the best choice for you.

Rid your life of toxicity. If something causes you such stress that you are physically ill because of it, get rid of it! If someone sucks all of the oxygen out of the room just by showing up, dump them! Life is too short to waste on people you dislike, doing things that you hate.

Don’t be a rescuer. It isn’t your job to “fix” people. We must all grow from within. Don’t be an enabler by rushing to “help” one who truly doesn’t need it. Don’t allow anyone to use you as a crutch or vice versa. Nobody likes a co-dependent.

Get over yourself. Believe it or not, you aren’t even #1 in your mother's universe. What makes you think you are #1 in anyone else’s? We all have our places. We are each just one more living being in a vast pool of other living beings. In case you need a reminder: you probably shit just like everyone else.

Keep things in perspective. Sometimes things just are. Don’t blow things out of proportion. Sometimes things aren’t even as they appear. When you have to work hard at maintaining your fury, perhaps it is time to let it go.

Avoid drama. Creating it, feeding it, nurturing it, and resurrecting it. Cut off its air supply, its food supply and any other lifelines. Without these, it will wither on the vine. If you actually thrive on drama, you should seek professional help for your self-esteem issues.

Avoid the urge to act out. Stop trying to look so cool; it looks pitiful. Don’t work so hard at being an individual that you end up just like everyone else. While doing stupid and/or outrageous things attracts underachievers like moths to a flame, it does not endear you to the type of people you actually seek. When you are left with nothing but the underachievers, it won’t much help your low self-esteem.

Take responsibility. Sometimes it is your fault. Rather than looking to blame someone else, suck it up and admit that you were the one responsible for whatever the misfortune. You alone are in charge or your life and happiness. What you think, say and do weigh far heavier on this outcome than anything anyone else does. Don’t give others that kind of control over you.

Fix your situation or SHUT UP. Don’t like your job? Find another one to which you are better suited. Nobody likes to repeatedly hear how abused you are by your coworkers, bosses and customers. If your job is that horrid, why do you still choose to work there? On the flip side, if you feel disdain for the stupidity and cluelessness of your coworkers, bosses and customers, what are they thinking about you? The fact is, you can’t possibly hide that much hostility no matter how hard you try. In the meantime, STFU if you aren’t serious about changing your situation. We are tired of your endless droning. Besides, it's not like you would take anyone else's advice anyway.

Pamper yourself. You should always buy the softest sheets you can afford. With any luck, you spend approximately 1/3 of your life in bed. It should feel like a little piece of Heaven. There is no better way to do that than 300+ threadcount sheets, or the thickest flannels. Oh, and if you are a bedwetter you should literally Pamper (or Huggies) yourself. You'd KILL yourself for messing up those expensive sheets.

Be kind to animals. Just because that's what decent human beings DO. Sure you can still eat things with a face. Just don't intentionally try to make roadkill. (Disclaimer: this message was definitely not sanctioned by PETA)

Meet my Kitties

2005-09-23T15:30:00.000-05:00

I need to start out by telling you that I absolutely ADORE cats. All of them. I would adopt an entire houseful if my husband wouldn’t divorce me because of it. I envision myself as a very old lady sharing my dinner on pie plates with about 70 indoor cats. Or perhaps it is they who are sharing their dinner with me. I guess that will depend upon my finances in my old age, now won’t it?

Our current menagerie consists of 5 (soon to be 6) indoor felines. Their personalities are as diverse as their coloring. It seems that we collect weirdoes and oddballs, but they are the coolest cats ever. They come when we call them. They hang with us wherever we happen to be in the house. Sometimes I have 3 on the chair with me--both armrests and back. Sometimes they try to help me computerize by lying on my forearms as I type.

Meep: he actually has a number of names. “Meep” came from a little sound he used to make as a kitten. That morphed into “Mi Pasa” (an offshoot of “Mi casa,” obviously), which morphed into “Pasa.” We vacillate between “Meep,” “Pasa,” and "Pas-Pas"all of to which he readily responds.

He is a Siamese mix and, as such, retains the distinctive markings, blue eyes and vocalizations. But rather than being small-boned and delicate, he is friggin’ HUGE! His paws are bigger than silver dollars. When he stretches on the floor, he is more than 3 feet long from the tips of his front paws to the tips of his tail and hind paws. His weight is almost a hefty 20 lbs. Yeah, I know that there are larger cats out there, but he is the biggest one WE have ever had. He is also totally cool.

He can open doors by reaching up and pulling down the handle. He is a “hunter;” dragging 2-3 lb. packages of meat up and out of the kitchen sink, through the house and up into the master bedroom to present us with his “kill.” Of course, he always takes a chunk out of it first. Royally fucks up the carpeting, lemme tell ya.

For his size, he is actually a big baby. He loves to do the “kitty 2 step” in the crook of my neck. He first nuzzles, sticking his nose in my ear so that I hear his breathing, and 2 steps the pillow. Purring, he is trance-like until one of the other cats sticks her nose in his butt. He huffs off in righteous indignation, vocalizing to anyone within earshot as he streaks off the bed. The usual culprit is Boots, the terrorist to whom you will be shortly introduced.

The next 3 cats were adopted at the same time from an animal shelter we found on http://www.petfinder.org . We went with the idea of getting 1, maybe 2 cats. We couldn’t leave the 3rd behind, since she had lived in that cage for 6 months already.

Cleo: is a tabby with the most exquisite green eyes I have ever seen. She looked positively regal, hence the name “Cleo.” She also goes by “Cleophus,” “Cleefie” and “Fifi.” Unlike a certain psychic friend, this cat is nothing special in the intuition/scam department. In fact, she is as dumb as a stump which has earned her yet another nickname: “Stumpy.”

She will lie around the house, typically in any path used for foot traffic. She will lie behind me when I cook (and no, it does NOT get her treats when I step on her). That is typical cat behavior, I know. But what makes Cleo different is that she n-e-v-e-r moves when you accidentally kick or step on her. You will feel guts squish and see her intestines pop out of her asshole before she will even think about getting the hell out of the way. The only thing she will do is give you a surprised-sounding “Bleh-eh-EH?” in the form of a Scooby-Doo question. Rut-ro, Raggy! A real lap cat, she turned out to be the mother of the 2nd of the 3 cats we adopted.

Luna: Where oh where do I start with this piece of work? Oh God, she is a tortoiseshell, or “torti,” cat. You cat lovers know what I am talking about. A fellow blogger at http://catoutloud.blogspot.com described this breed best: “Tortis are totally off the wall. Too smart by half, and the other half is on hallucinogenics. They are often a challenge to tame. There apparently has actually been research linking the legendary torti attitude to the torti coat…. If you can only have one cat, and you want intellectual stimulation plus something to laugh at, and you aren't offended if your cat loves you today and snubs you tomorrow---in return for watching her chase her tail while hanging by her stomach over a ladderback chair---get a torti.”

She started out rowdy as hell, initially earning the name “Taz.” Then my son (who was probably 7 at the time) decided to dress her up and keep her in his room as he played “family.” This caused her to freak out and now all she does is hide under my bed from “THE BOYYY!” When I am home, she sits near me or on me. When I am in bed, she sleeps the same way. Of all family members, she loves me best. She is a pain in the ass and the subject of a previous post on a “Catastophe,” which is humorous reading if you like stories about flying cat piss.

I purposely left a 7-foot ladder set up in my room after painting because she has such a blast zooming up and down, and hanging over the part that holds a paint tray. I keep waiting for her to tip that part and fall, but she never does. She doesn’t seem to know why I can touch her belly when she is laying on that tray shelf. She is nuts.

Callie: A calico, she is a “special needs” cat. Personally, I thought she was one of the ugliest cats I had ever seen, with fur that looked like someone had colored it by touching her with different colored paintbrushes. When we selected the other two, my husband noticed her affectionately rubbing on her cage. She adored rubbing any fingers you could stick through the cage door. She was the sweetest little girl.

We asked what made her a “special needs” cat. Nobody knew the reason, but she shakes uncontrollably. Her rear legs are weak and don’t look as if they can support her skinny body and she can’t jump up at all. Her rear feet point outward; her hind end resembles a plant stand in this respect. There is no muscle mass in her hind area, her bony spine feels like a stegosaurus to the touch and her hips are very narrow with bony protrusions. Since there was no problem with bowel or bladder control, we took her home too.

Her previous owner was in a wheelchair and now in a nursing home. Callie had lived in that cage in the shelter for 1/3 of her life. While she was bold & affectionate through the cage door, she was agoraphobic when we took her out of the carrier. She immediately bolted under a chair, where she stayed for the next 2 weeks. She wouldn’t let anyone touch her.

We just let her “be.” When she would pass close by, we would lightly give her 1 stroke down her back. This went on for months. She finally let my daughter gently touch her after about 6 months. The rest of us had to wait almost a year. She would freak out if there was more than 1 hand at a time touching her. Her preferred way of getting close to you was to come into the bathroom as you sat on the toilet. She would stay just out of your reach, as if she was used to being touched with a cane from the distance of a wheelchair.

Callie also has what I call “monkey paws.” Her front paws resemble a monkey’s, and she has the ability to grasp and pull herself up rather than climbing like a typical cat might. Her front half is very buff since the only way she can get up on anything is by climbing. This is absolute HELL on our leather furniture, BTW. Finally, she got used to getting stroked with 1 hand and then 2. She still will not let anyone pick her up, but that’s okay. She has blossomed into an attention whore who will poke your waist with 1 claw if you sit at the dinner table and ignore her.

Boots: Also known as “Bootcita,” “Bootita” and “Booty-boo.” She is a tuxedo cat with a little Hitler mustache, which also earned her the nicknames “Ah-dolf” and “Dolphie.” Appropriately, she is the terrorist of the group. She was a farm kitten with a hard-scrabble life. A tiny thing, she was pushed away from the food dishes by the other farm cats. She regularly felt the love when they’d pop her on the top of her head. The first time I laid eyes on her, she was looking up at me with dreamy, half-lidded eyes and two-stepping in place. We knew we were taking her home with us.

She is best described as short and squat. Upon discovering an endless food supply here, she now resembles a short, stout, over-inflated soccer ball with 4 toothpicks for legs. She also has the biggest asshole I have ever seen on a cat! It appears human-sized and totally out of place on her. When she turns around & sticks her ass in my face, I sweetly talk to her in a sing-song voice and tell her, “Booty has the biggest butthole EVER!” She loves it, she purrs like crazy.

When the middle 3 cats came on the scene, Meep was totally out of sorts. He’d been King Shit for so long that he became depressed. He stopped eating and started into liver failure. A costly trip to the vet managed to save him and turn him around. But he never got beyond snubbing these 3, or demonstrating his major asshole-ness by growling and hissing at them whenever he had the chance. Be careful what you wish for, Meep. You just might get it.

The other 3 have avoided him like the plague. Now when he wants to play, it is they who snub him. I mean, who needs that asshole? Enter little Boots.

The one who routinely got her ass kicked on the farm, came into our home and kicked some serious Meep-ass. He didn’t know what hit him. He was about 3 times her size and totally surprised when she kicked his ass as he growled to show her who was boss. He started giving her a wide berth, and didn’t harass her. HAH! That didn’t stop her from harassing HIM!

And in a sweet little twist on feline ass-sniffing as greeting, Boots would nip the back of their thighs when they offered her an ass to sniff. So instead of, “Hey! Hi, how ya doin’?” They’d be all “Hey, hi—YOUCH-what the FUCK?” At least they were smart enough to make sure she was never behind them again. Who said cats are dumb?

Some Freak Fambly History and the story of Freak3, the Marryin’ Kind

2005-09-18T23:07:00.000-05:00

Our dads were brothers. There were 6 of them, all of whom should have been rendered sterile by a higher power. If there was ever a fambly that should not have been allowed to breed, it was our ancestral cesspool.

In doing the fambly research, I have found that from waaaaaayyy back, this gene pool needed some serious chlorine. Back in the late 1800’s there were already signs of major fuck-upped-ness with the Scottish and then Canadian side.

A great-grandfather of ours abandoned his pregnant wife with six other children, while he traipsed across the country doing God knows what (other than enlisting for WWI a few years later, stating that he was single and had no fambly responsibility.)

Our grandparents were totally devoted to each other, but they had NO business procreating. She bore 6 boys, loving none except the first and last. Their home was one with military rules and no love. There was physical abuse of the middle 4 sons, while the oldest and youngest were pampered (as best as robots could pamper, that is).

While our grandfather was an “ok” guy, wealthy but choosing to wear golf hats and mesh shoes everywhere, our grandmother was a flaming bitch in fur and pearls. A greater dichotomy didn’t exist. He was down to earth; she viewed everyone as inferior. In my entire life, I received only one birthday card from them. And I remember that it had $1 in it for my 8th birthday. That was probably more than my dad ever got from them, though, other than an ass-whipping for talking at the dinner table.

These non-parents then bred and raised other non-parents. These needy men married co-dependent women, who bred other needy men and co-dependent women. I can honestly say that out of 22 cousins, only I escaped relatively intact. No shit. It took me until my second marriage to banish the fambly demons, but I did it. I am proud of who I have become, the way I have been raising my children, and my ability to throw out all of the fambly bullshit. I thank God for my mother, as I am sure she is the ONLY reason I am who I am. She never took any shit from my father, and she taught ME to never take any shit either.

My cousins, Freak1 (F1) and Freak2 (F2) have a misguided sense of fambly. They both come from shit, and seek to find some connection to strangers through Scottish heritage festivals and genealogy, since there was no emotional connection within their own fambly.

F1 is the editor of a fambly newspaper for those with the same last name, or variations thereof. F2 fancies himself the fambly genealogist, failing to credit anyone else’s input. I have researched much of the history, and fleshed out confirmation of the data but choose not to share with him. I don’t think he is smart enough to not fuck it up. Plus, I am still holding out a sliver of hope that we are somehow NOT related.

Freak3 (F3) comes from yet another branch of the fambly tree. He has 5 freak-o-da-week siblings, and one who is relatively normal. He used to be really cute when he was young, then he let all of his teeth rot right out of his head. That was a goooooood look, lemme tell ya. Anyway…

Feeling like an outcast, he, too, longed to belong someplace. He became a member of the “clan” and active in Scottish Highland games. While F2 was bizzy bein’ a truck driver, F2’s wife (who shall be known as F2.5) became the keeper of the genes, so to speak. She and F3 began IM’ing regularly.

F3 was looking for a woman. Apparently F2.5 was looking for something other than F2. F3 began sharing poetry with F2.5. She swooned. Soon, they declared their love and rejoiced in finding their respective soul mates!

For some strange reason, F2.5 took a liking to me & felt the need to share her innermost thoughts on marriage. Basically, as soon as she could divorce F2, she and F3 were going to wed! She gushed at how she’d found the perfect man! He was so caring, thoughtful and romantic… He was a profoundly deep poet who knew what was inside her very soul!

Never being one to mince words, I reminded her that she’d never even SEEN him, let alone MET him. Not only that, but I gently reminded her that there had to be SOME reason that F3 had 2 ex-wives! She coquettishly told me that they’d “seen” each other on the internet, via some “interesting” photos (her words). Well, at least they knew that their genitals would fit like a puzzle, if one or the other wasn’t lying. Sheesh.

Somehow, he became a kilt salesman, of all things. Prior to this, I think he’d been incapable of holding a job due to previous “work injuries” (fambly speak for “I got tarred of werkin’ so I faked an injeery so’s yood havta pay me monees so’s ah’d go away n not soo ya’s”) This kilt sales job involved travel to various games throughout the U.S. As fate would have it, they finally met at one of the games. (cue angels singing; cue beams of light from Heaven above)

By now it was Christmas, a time for the barrage of fambly letters that this cesspool was adamant about sending year after year. Note to self: Move and leave no forwarding address to anyone.

F1 blathered on (again) about being President of the Clan and its newspaper editor (again), like he was William Randolph fucking Hearst or something. He sent yet another complimentary copy that he was certain would make me want to join the clan THIS time! Er, ummm save the clan’s postage, Sparky, I ain’t bitin’.

F2’s Christmas letter took the fucking cake. In it, instead of his usual run-on sentences talking about his dog and his truck and his dog riding in his truck, he chose to vomit all over anyone unlucky enough to have opened that fucking envelope. Dear God, WHY did I open it?? I should have known what was coming. I swear the stationery was tearstained.

F2 commenced to telling the whole sordid tale of how his cousin stole his wife. And how his wife left him for his cousin. And how his wife was no longer living in his house. And how his wife was gonna shack up with his cousin. And how his cousin was having an affair with his wife. His format? He used their full names throughout the whole letter, in case we’d had any doubt about who was doing who.

Christ on a bike, it was the saddest, tackiest, most miserable Christmas letter I had ever received. What else could I do? I laughed my fucking ass off, and then I wrote him a scathing letter telling him to grow up, that he was an asshole for having sent such a letter and to take me off of his Goddamn mailing list!

Unfortunately, F2 forgot and mailed me a terse Christmas card the following year. He simply signed it with his full name in case I didn’t recognize his name on the envelope. Loser. Leave me the fuck alone!

And Now, Time for Some STFU!!

2005-09-18T19:50:00.000-05:00

I was raised to be kind and to never hurt anyone’s feelings. I was taught to be gracious and accommodating. Trained to listen and smile, nodding my head when appropriate, I was never to interrupt. And I was most CERTAINLY not to ignore or tell someone to please stop talking. Getting breast cancer cured me of THAT shit.

There are pretty much 2 ways people look at getting cancer:

1.) OH MY GOD, how TERRRRRRRIBLE FOR ME!
2.) Wow, this is truly a gift. I should REALLLLLY learn something from this experience!

Well… maybe there are two and a HALF ways of looking at it. How about a twist on way #2?

I found that pretty early on, I was in camp #2. Sort of. While I sure did not see what a “blessing” (whatever THAT is) cancer was, and that it was NOT a gift in any way, I began to think that I just might take another look at my life and change that which was stifling me. I realized that I was tired of being the “good-girl,” the doormat, the receptacle for the verbal vomit and imposition of others.

I decided to rid myself of all toxic things in my life. Oh please, I am still a chronic over-eater, and I still cuss more than a sailor. But this is for anyone clueless as to WHY I distanced myself from you or discarded you from my life. You would do well to heed the lesson it took me 36 years learn: Life is too short to waste at a job you hate, and associating with people you don’t like. Period.

Presenting: And now, time for some STFU

Big brother: After mom died, and I immediately discovered I had cancer, you totally dumped the full care of our invalid dad in MY lap. After choosing an assisted living apartment just 2 minutes down the road from your house, it was I who had to hire additional caregivers for him. I was the one who had to grocery shop and take him to the doctor’s office (a GREAT place for a bald, sick cancer patient with a compromised immune system, BTW). It was ME who cleaned his apartment and scooped his cat’s litter box. I was the one who yanked my wig off because I got too hot and nauseated washing his nasty, moldy dishes.

I learned that I couldn’t count on you for SHIT. You were a total disappointment, and I am sure that Mom would’ve come back to HAUNT you, if she had known what you put me through. You should STILL be ashamed of yourself. Oh, and thanks for still not having our parents’ small “estate” settled although Dad died over 5 years ago! Now, STFU!

Fugly: What can I say? Since you were my brother’s wife, I tolerated you for years. I felt sorry that in addition to being homely, you were socially retarded as well. I overlooked many insults, attributing them to “misunderstandings” on my part. Then I opened my eyes to the piece of work that is you. I chose to no longer overlook just how fucked up you are, when you found it exceptionally funny to try cutting me down when I was bald, sick and breastless. But I waited until a year later when I lost my uterus, too.

Thankfully, my husband (whom you coveted) and I had a terrific sense of humor and had already gone through the plethora of jokes about me looking like a man, or resembling a penguin, or possibly attracting members of the same sex when I was looking butch. But I immediately realized that yours were not attempts at humor, but true barbs targeting my soul. Too bad you missed, you bitch. Now, STFU!

Jabba: I can’t even count the ways you have sought attention from your selfish daughter, Fugly, through the years, but they have included half-assed overdoses and persistent whining about your diverticulitis. You have always babbled incessantly about random, mindless shit at every family function I have ever been cursed to attend. I realize now where Fugly inherited her innate ugly and tremendous sense of “stupid.” The immense stupidity which poured out of your mouth was mind-boggling! But I don’t think I could ever again experience such profound shock at hearing stupid comments, as when my mother lay dying in the hospital.

None of us had known Mom was sick. We had just 3 days prior been given her leukemia diagnosis, and she would die in 2 days. You and I were sitting in Fugly’s living room during a “birthday party” for my nephling. As I mindlessly nibbled on birthday cake, I was preoccupied with the thought of losing my beloved mother. In what I thought at the time was your way of “comforting” me, you said:

Jabba: “Your mother is the lucky one. That she is dying, I mean.”

Me: Blink blink blink. “What?”

Jabba: “Do you know how long I have been waiting to die? I have been so uncomfortable! You just don’t know what I have been through!!”

Me: Blink blink blink. “Excuse me; I need to go home now.”

Holy-fucking-shit. Through my tears as I drove home, anger bubbled over and I wanted a “do over” of that conversation because I realized what I should have said to you:

Me: “You’re right! I wish it was you who was dying and that MY mother’s worst problem was that she couldn’t eat food with seeds!”

Now, STFU!

Nephling: I loved you dearly as a child. As an adolescent you took a turn for the twisted and I no longer found you sweet OR amusing. Along with your intelligence (yeah, Fugly, I know he is a Talented and Gifted student), you absorbed your mother’s inner ugliness.

I always felt sorry for you that my daughter, who was younger than you by a year, was so totally able to kick your ass anytime you picked on her. Then you chose to be cruel to my son, who was younger than you by 7 years, because you couldn’t understand his speech when he had his orthodontic appliance in place. Yeah, she kicked your ass again, didn’t she? Good luck trying to become a decent human being. Now, STFU!

Freak 1 (see previous post): You make me sick. I tolerated you because you were “fambly.” Then I realized that I got nothing out of the "relationship” except a skin-crawly feeling of creepy.

Through the years, every phone call you’d make to me would ultimately turn to sex; how much you were/were not getting, what you liked to do, what a great massage you could give, and your date’s response….blahblahblah. Then you really crossed the line by asking me what I liked. How many different ways can I say and spell “ICK?” I would cut those conversations off as soon as I recognized that your tone of voice had changed. You fucking pervert.

When I moved and chose to not give you my phone number and address, you discovered me online through another fambly member. Fuck. Now I had to deal with emails of sex jokes and dirty cartoons (that you’d gotten from your DAD), and actual photographs of you! Thank GOD you never crossed the line and sent nude ones, although I am sure you thought about it. And, OH SWEET JESUS, the IM’s from you!

I put you on my “buddy list” only to keep track of your twisted ass. My skin would crawl and I would hiss, “FUCK!” every time you “found” me. Then you would IM your date-sex talk as if we were old lovers and you were trying to turn me on and entice me back into your fold. WE ARE COUSINS! THE ONLY REASON I WOULD EVER TALK TO YOU IS BECAUSE OUR DADS WERE BROTHERS! BTW, I am NOT attracted to dwarves wearing kilts! I don’t care that you are really into our Scottish heritage and attend all sorts of Highland Games trying to find ass from someone else who is as dweeby as YOU! Now, STFU!

Freak 2: You’ve not yet had the pleasure of being introduced to F1’s younger-by-4-years brother, F2. This piece of work is also quite the “tool.” Other than losing his wife to another of our cousins via an online relationship, he is Creepy with a capital “C.”

About 5’8 and well over 350 lbs, he wears his dark, frizzy hair past his shoulders and sports a mountain-man beard down to his breastbone. Add to this a cowboy hat and a lazy eye to go along with a heavy-lidded look and you have F2. And for those of you who feel safe in your homes, he is an over-the-road truck driver here in the U.S., so lock up your children, mmmkay?

His ex-wife (who eventually went on to marry and divorce that other cousin) told me that he’d been fired from one of his jobs for downloading kiddie porn. I don’t know whether this is true or just sabotage by the angry ex, but I NEVER let him near my children.

After a family funeral, when all of the low-life fambly members were enticed to cross state lines by free food on someone else’s tab, there was a “mini” fambly reunion at a restaurant.

F1 was there, as was F2 with a 35mm camera to record the “happy” event. I made sure to sit on the same side of the table as those 2, so that F1 couldn’t stare at me, and F2 couldn’t stare at and photograph my children. I also made sure to keep about 12 people between us and them but I still couldn’t keep the “creepy” factor from settling over us.

F2 would stand up to shoot, and I would block my kids. He would maneuver; I would out-maneuver. I finally approached him (F1 and F2 both thought for a HUG! F1 nearly elbowed F2 out of the way). I pushed F1 out of the way, and sticking my sharp index finger firmly into F2's breastbone, hissed for him to put the camera away and to not fucking DARE to take pictures of me or my kids. I haven’t seen him since, but he never fails to send me a Christmas card every year signed with his first and last name, as if I could ever wash his creepy name out of my head! Now, STFU and quit sending me cards, you freak!

Ick.

2005-09-17T21:15:00.000-05:00

Maybe someone should have told her that there are CREAMS for that.....

And Now, On to my Dad’s Fambly Tree!

2005-09-16T23:20:00.000-05:00

(or, “How I Wish I Had a Tanker Truck Full of Chlorine Bleach”)

He shyly smiled, reached for my hand, and looked lovingly into my eyes through his smudged glasses. Uncomfortable, I tried to avoid his gaze. His ripe, white-tipped pimples seemed to mesmerize me. I focused on the dozens of pulsating pustules, momentarily distracted from his words. I had never seen so much oil… A gentle pressure on my hands cleared the thick fog in my head and brought me back into the present. I shook my head slightly, certain that I had misunderstood his question.

“If I wasn’t your cousin, would you date me?”

(Cue the sound of a needle angrily scratching across a record album)

Holy fucking Christ… This can’t be happening…OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG He wouldn’t let go of my fucking hands. I hadn’t even realized what any of this was leading to. On the inside, I was screaming. On the outside, I tried to not let him see how repulsed I was. I kept a weird frozen smile on my face, eyes wide and unblinking.

He actually asked me this question with a straight face. He wasn’t even fucking KIDDING me. Holy SHIT, Batman! I swear to GOD. And for me to STILL have a vivid memory of it nearly 30 years LATER should be a good indicator of how traumatic it WAS (is) for me. I mean, WTF??? What kind of question is that to ASK me? We didn’t even live in the South! Thankfully, he lived on the other side of the country, or I would have certainly killed myself.

Initally, in my kind-hearted (at the time) mind, I had asked myself, “How could I possibly answer this “dating” question without hurting his feelings?” So I just said, “maybe,” scooted out of the house and left him watching “I Dream of Jeannie” with my dad. I shot my mom a look of “he is a weirdo,” and made my escape.

Now, of course, I would just blurt out, “Oh fucking hell NO! Hell-to-the-NO, you fucking FREAK!” and make fun of his lactating breasts, his very-likely miniscule penis and undescended testicles.

I was about 16, and the offending cousin in question (Freak 1, or “F1” for short) was almost 19. Freak-of-the-week. Of the CENTURY, even. And he was in MY gene pool. Ick.

For the week, he also happened to be in my backyard. Since he was visiting from California, it was my job to show him around, to make him feel a part of things. In retrospect, I should have left his ass home to watch Jackie Gleason reruns and eat Cheetos with my dad, watching as Dad chain-smoked his way through 2 packs. Instead, being the dutiful daughter, I bravely introduced F1 to my friends. Funny how every single one of them had something else to do whenever I called that week. Talk about deserting a sinking ship. Bitches.

So, I drove him around in my car, as he annoying flipped through all of the radio stations. We “cruised” all the main drags, covering all of my old stomping grounds. I drove him past my schools. We ate fast food. We went to the new mall (a big deal in the 70’s, lemme tell ya). We stopped for ice cream. We went roller skating. We went to the movies. All fucking week long, I had to babysit this mutant dwarf with the fucked-up giggle. And he never shut the fuck up. He was filled with useless knowledge. It was painfully obvious that he was socially retarded.

F1 was a good 6 inches shorter than me, and built like a rather stout truck with a huge ass. His legs were exceptionally short. In addition to his horribly pimply skin, he had a greasy, unwashed look about him. His short hair and face practically dripped. At least he didn’t stink and his hair WAS always combed. I felt sorry for him because he looked so lost.

Being a Navy brat, he had lived all over the world. I came to learn that he was a very intelligent, articulate know-it-all fuck. What I didn’t realize at the time was that, like his father, he had a very high opinion of himself, fancying himself as the shiznit. And that he considered our week together a string of “dates.”

I don’t quite know at which point F1 ceased seeing me as a cousin and began looking at me as potential “hubba hubba” for his oversexed and obviously underutilized nads. Come to think of it, I don’t know that he EVER saw me as off-limits. Looking back, there had been numerous attempts to touch my hand or brush my boobs. Hang on a minute, I have to vomit.

OK, I’m back (wipes mouth with sleeve)

Our nightly conversations on my parents’ porch were benign enough. We discussed school, tastes in music and movies. The alarm bells (which, unfortunately, weren’t yet fully developed) should have gone off in my head when he steered the talk toward relationships, kissing and *ewwww* sex. He wanted to know if I’d ever kissed a guy. (HELLOOOOOO, of COURSE you fucking retard, it was the 70’s for chrissake!) Then he wanted to know if I’d ever been “touched.” Uh-oh... (OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG thisisnothappeningtome!!!!!)

Then he wanted to know if he could kiss me and touch my boobs, to “see if it feels the same.” With that, I fully recognized what a huge-ass piece of shiznit he really WAS, pushed him off the porch into the picker bushes and locked him out of the house. Hang on a minute, I have to vomit again.

OK, I’m back (gargles, spits, wipes mouth with sleeve)

After telling my mother about the “dating” question (I didn’t dare mention the rest) she helped me avoid him the last 2 days of his stay. Fortunately for my blog, my stories of him do NOT end with this visit.

I’ve gotta give that twisted little fuck props for persistence, though. Shit, I am getting that drooling “I’ve gotta puke” feeling again.

Separated at birth???

2005-09-11T12:13:00.000-05:00

The Playpen Incident

2005-09-05T17:17:00.000-05:00

The Playpen Incident

I felt it was necessary to elaborate on that last post. I will briefly relate to you that which I term "The Playpen Incident."

High School drama apparently doesn't end after graduation. For various reasons, all of them stupid and immature (on everyone's part), my daughter's "friends" have decided to try making her away-from-home college experience a nightmare. Yeah, good luck with THAT, bitches.

Basically, the 4 girls go to the same university about 2.5 hrs away from home. They have been a foursome for about a year, although the friendships have existed in various mixes for about 4 years or so. Only 2 of them (my daughter & 1 of them)room together. The other 2 knew better, as they would "kill each other" (their words).

Keep in mind that they have NEVER been joined at the hip, and would hang out when there was something to do. My daughter has never been one to call someone just to say "Hi, how're ya doing??"

This summer, my daughter met her boyfriend, who also goes to that university and happens to live 1/2 way between our house and said school. The group dynamics changed from a 4some, to a 3some + others, and my daughter's 2some.

Fast forward to the first week of school. Boyfriend puts an away message up for his AIM/AOL account. Two of the 3 girls(let's call them SheBabies, cuz I am feeling charitable) assume it's about THEM. The two of them decide to barricade my daughter's dorm room door so that she can't get in.

Imagine the following temper tantrum:

L&R get up to her dorm, L tries to use her key & the lock won't turn. The door won't budge. From inside the room, SheBabies have barricaded the door with something. L tells them to open the door.

"NO! YOU CAN'T COME HERE!!!"

L reminds them, through the door, that she LIVES there.

"Well, YOU Can come in but HE CAN'T!!!" came the reply.

L reminds them that she can bring in anyone she pleases.

"But we signed that room mate agreement!"

L reminds them that the agreement was that ANYONE either of them chooses can come in.

"NOT HIM!!"

L starts to cry in the hallway. R is pissed off that they have made her cry. Again. He's been watching her weep over these "friends" for weeks now. She has felt at a loss in how to make things "right" or at least harmonious again. At this point, she feels like too much of an outsider to initiate anything with them.

The SheBabies finally un-barricade the door. L&R get in, L grabs her books and leaves, slamming the door behind her. She spent her day and evening studying in the Student Center.

She went back to her dorm to pick up some items and then spent the night at R's. She was still upset and told me, "I feel like I can't even stay in my own ROOM! I just want someone to HOLD me, ya know?? The only one who loves me out here is R."

Although it made me extremely sad and angry when it first happened, I couldn't help but laugh after seeing this image in my head of 2 toddlers with very large grown-up heads, stomping & screaming their heads off in a playpen while wearing saggy diapers, footie sleepers and holding their blankies on the other side of that barricaded door.

Is there ANY fucking way to sprinkle some magic "Sanity Dust" or "Let's-Be-a-Less-Fucked-Up-Bitch Dust" over that campus? How about a nice dose of "Shut the Fuck Up," or some "Leave-Me-The-Fuck-Alone-If-You're-Gonna-Be-Evil-Psycho-Bitches juice" in the water supply? Out of 22,000 students, she can't possibly be the ONLY one who'd benefit from this!

Either way, my main thought is this: If you want to continue to be friends, Y'ALL need to ACT like it. GET OVER SHIT, already! If you just exist to try to make her life miserable, you need a new existence. You should have learned that from this summer. After all, who had a summer full of hugs and kisses, while YOU had a summerful of nothing but bitching about HER?

I am going to have to remind my daughter that, for liability purposes, she is going to have to remember to keep the siderails up.

Oh, and remember that KARMA is a bitch.

I Could Fuck a Bitch UP

2005-09-05T16:13:00.000-05:00

Have you ever encountered such surreal bullshit in your life that you just want to shake your head, tell someone to STFU and then slap the living SHIT out of them? Such has been my overwhelming desire for the past couple of weeks, since taking my daughter to college. At the risk of going to jail for doing some serious bodily harm to a bitch, I blog it here instead.

What have we done to/for our children if they show NO remorse for ignoring the very basic requirements of a polite society? The very basic requirements of belonging to the human race?

I give you this

Now, children, for a crash course in being a decent human being, since you hyenas were never taught by your parents:

A Few Rules for Psychological Happiness--Some of the Basics:

Respect:
The right to exist without harassment. Don't fuck with anybody.

The right to one's own beliefs:
If you do not want to be told what to think or do
then do not tell anyone else what to think or do.

Derogatory Name Calling:
Derogatory name calling is disrespectful! The
right of all people to be happy is greater than
one individual's right of free speech. Speak
freely if your speech does not hurt the basic
rights of another to be happy and live without
harassment. Why should unhappiness exist just so
one person can be happy at someone else's expense?

Privacy:
If what I do or say makes me happy and does not
hurt you (negatively affect you're rights of life,
liberty and the basic needs of happiness) then
WHAT I DO OR SAY IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!

Get Rid of Your Magical Thinking:
Mind reading, fortune telling, assuming - we think we can read other peoples minds and feelings, or foretell the future, and then act as if what we assume is the reality. We often create self-fulfilling prophecies this way.

Don't STAR in the Soap Opera:
Blowing things out of proportion, playing the "King or Queen of tragedy." Some of us are addicted to "Trauma Dramas" and want the excitement and intensity of dramatic scenes while others of us are terrified of conflict. It is quite common in codependent relationships to have one person who is over-indulgent and dramatic emotionally coupled with someone who wants to avoid conflict and emotions at all costs.

Personalizing and Blame:
Blaming yourself for something you weren't entirely responsible for, or for how someone else feels. Conversely, you may blame other people, external events, or fate, while overlooking how your own attitudes and behavior may have contributed to a problem.

Straighten up, and GROW up, you fucking bitches. That's all I have to say about that. For now.

Thanks, son

2005-09-04T18:04:00.000-05:00

We were talking about watching TV tonight. HE wants to watch NASCAR. I want to watch Mind of Mencia. I told him I'd watch my program in my bedroom. Here is the conversation:

Son: C'mon, Mom! You're more redneck than Mexican!

Me: Well, I am more COMEDY than redneck. mmkay?

postscript: My husband is 1/2 Mexican & 1/2 German. And since bearing his child, I have always told people that I am "Hispanic by Injection."

Drunken Bus Drivers

2005-09-01T20:45:00.000-05:00

Went to a bar with a friend of mine for dinner. I love to people watch. There were all types in there; we appeared to be the only non-smokers. We were also the only non-drinkers. My 12yo son was with us. I was joking around that the ladies sitting at this huge round table were school bus drivers. The time of day was right.

Their collective "look" was also right. What is the outfit du jour of a female schoolbus driver in our district, you ask? That would be short shorts, tight fitting short sleeved shirts, ankle socks and tennis shoes. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention the prerequisite camel toe, since the school district has been instructed to cut sex ed. They figure the kids will see Bus Driver Toe and ask mommy & daddy all about it once they hop off the bus.

Now, you have to keep in mind that these female bus drivers are of all ages. The average age of this group was probably late 40-ish. Average weight was probably 200 lbs, and not at all proportionate to height. Remember this equation, kiddies: Camel toe + late 40-ish + overweight = extremely high ICK factor. And not a single one of them could sit like a lady. They sat as if they were straddling a chair backwards. I thank my lucky stars that the lighting was subdued or I might have been able to detect if the carpet matched the drapes, whether I wanted to or not.

We kept cracking jokes--asking the waitress for shots of "Drunken Bus Drivers." We pretended to be on "Jeopardy": "I'll take 'Drunken Bus Drivers for $500, Alex." One of them turned around & looked right at my son. Holy Hell! He recognized her as HIS bus driver. We laughed hysterically. Especially when we told him he'd most likely have to WALK to school now that she saw him there.

Funny thing about her, though. When she looked at him, I don't think she really SAW him. Her eyes seemed to look toward the OUTSIDE of her head--as if she had the ability to see out the right and left windows of the bus at the same time but not straight ahead. Wow. Who'da thought that Freak Eye would be an asset in a school bus driver!

a brief hiatus

2005-08-23T15:43:00.000-05:00

I am doing the whole "sending-my-oldest-to-college" thing so I will be scarce this week.

She is supposed to move into the dorm tomorrow. She hasn't yet packed a THING--nevermind cleaning her room.

Sigh

I hope to be back by the weekend, sanity-willing.

fuckity fuck fuck FUCK

2005-08-06T21:35:00.000-05:00

I had an entire, as E-N-T-I-R-E post for you, but AOHELLLLL crashed and ATE the fucker. Hope to post tonite--it will be worth it, oh TRUST me, my little pretties......

teenagers suck

2005-08-05T14:40:00.000-05:00

Traits of the Modern Teenaged Girl
(also known as "MTG" of the species "bitchiness uninterruptus")

Unbecoming coven-like behavior.

Seemingly endless appetite for blood. This is accompanied by the ability to devour friends in a single bitch session.

Phenomenal ability to change their collective mind and redirect a huge arsenal of emotional missiles at their prey (also known as "friend in exile," "uncaring bitch," and "one who ditches her friends for a boy").

Tremendous ability to express glee upon hearing "Target destroyed, I repeat, target destroyed."

Amazing ineffectiveness at recognizing that THEY are next in line when the Tribal Council convenes and the alliances change.

Extreme tendencies toward misguided dervishes, feeding frenzies and histrionics.

World record holders of the "Ability to Generate More Negative Energy in One Place at One Single Time" award, 2005

Similarities between the MTG and spiders:

The digestive system of spiders/MTGs is adapted exclusively to taking up liquid food (also known as "friend in exile," "uncaring bitch," and "one who ditches her friends for a BOY") because the animals generally digest their prey outside the body and then suck the fluid.

Spiders/MTGs are generally carnivorous and feed only on living prey (also known as "friend in exile," "uncaring bitch," and "one who ditches her friends FOR A BOY") . They can crush it ....and almost always can inject a venom. The bite of some large spiders/MTGs can be painful, but most species are too small to break human skin ("sticks & stones..."), and only a few (teenaged girls) are dangerous to humans.

Their painful bite is followed by faintness, difficulty in breathing, and other symptoms in their prey (also known as "friend in exile," "uncaring bitch," and "one who ditches her friends FOR A FUCKING BOY") ; although the bite is seldom fatal (after all, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right??)

Hooterless and Uterless: a tutorial

2005-07-27T01:15:00.000-05:00

This is about my experience with the aftermath of various female surgeries (through breast cancer and for other various reasons). This isn't a mushy feel-sorry-for-me-get misty-eyed blog. Having survived cancer, and now being a few body parts short of a whole mannequin, I am still the rankest bitch I know. For proof, read the following tutorial.

I couldn't decide which would be the better idea: to write about the stupid, fucked-up idiotic shit that people say/do to someone who no longer has her tits or uterus, OR a tutorial on socially acceptable behavior for said retards. I guess this will be a combination of both.

"How to handle social idiots when you are Hooterless and Uterless: a tutorial"

or

"Things to NOT say or do to one who is Hooterless and Uterless: a tutorial"

First things first, I am not just a sum of my body parts (that tricky sentence was for all of you math whizzes, of which I am not one hehe).

Facts, as I know them:

1. Just because I no longer have my tits, does NOT make me a man. Please tell this to all of the SPAM vendors who send me their MONEY BACK GUARANTEE to increase my bust size. Without nipples, the effect wouldn't be the same. Really. Trust me on this one.

2. Just because I no longer have a uterus, does NOT make me even MORE of a man. Please tell this to all of the SPAM vendors who send me their MONEY BACK GUARANTEE to increase the size of my penis to "enhance her pleasure." Never having had one (or a matching ballsack), the effect wouldn't be the same. Really. Trust me on this one, too. Although with such clitoral enlargement, plus since I still have a HOLE, you assbags, I surely would be able to fuck myself in the truest sense, right?

3. Just because someone is bald, and has no hooters, and is holding the hand of a man, does NOT make them both "gaywads." It means that I am still a woman and my man loves me, no matter what. It means that he STILL wants to hold my hand, even though you can't figure out how such a handsome man could ever love a "chubby gay guy."

4. A bald and/or hooterless woman isn't necessarily deaf. We can hear you talking about us, whether you whisper or not. And old people are the WORST.

5. A bald and/or hooterless woman isn't necessarily blind either. We can easily see when you are pointing. Especially if you are talking/whispering at the same time. 'Nuf said

6. I don't have to wear a bra with 8 lbs of fake silicone hooters to make YOU comfortable with my cancer. Sure, my clothing won't ever fit right again (sleeves will be too long, necklines too low, front hemlines will be longer than the back), but I can live with that, You should too, or just STFU. Nobody CARES what you think of my appearance. Especially ME.

7. I am still the same lascivious whore I have always been. Trust me on this.

8. As an added bonus, I never have to get a mammogram again.

9. Being uterless=I no longer have to spend a small fortune on feminine products, either. Now I can put more money into T-bills and my IRA!

10. As a hooterless woman, I should be able to mow the lawn without a shirt. I should be able to give neighbors heart failure. I should be able to scare small children and animals. Law Enforcement should not EVEN attempt to write me a ticket, since Mr. POliceman has more up there than I do. Trust me on THAT one, too.

11. A trucker shouldn't write a check his ass can't cash. Specifically, if you write "Show me your tits" in the dirt on your rig, be fully prepared for me to oblige. I just LOVE the expression on your face when you expect fat-chick-hooters and instead get an eyeful of 2 horizontal gashes and my tattoo. Priceless. You make my day. Really. Trust me on this.

12. Roadside placard holders (that means "people who hold up signs along the roadside"). See #4. Even my KIDS know that I can't help but succumb to such temptation. I was THISCLOSE along a route of NASCAR fans on our way home from a race (yeah, I guess that makes me somewhat a redneck too LOL)

13. All of you bead-throwing m'fers in New Orleans: don't make the mistake of offering your beads and then reneging when I lift my shirt. I should get EXTRA strands, just for GUTS, ok? I WILL come after your Indian-giving ass and take your whole STASH. Then where will you be when the girls won't flash you cuz you have none left? HAH. Pay up, fuckers.

Stoopit shit that people have actually said to me:

1. I have been called "sir" in Taco Bell. Not just in the drive-thru lane, but INSIDE as well. I may not have tits, but I am otherwise NOT usually mistaken for a man. For gawds sake, haven't you SEEN my cameltoe??? Guess I'm gonna have to wear tighter pants. Sheesh.

2. I was once asked,"What happened to your tits?" by a drunk guy. WIthout missing a beat, I said "I lost 'em in a bar fight, but you should see the OTHER bitch." Fucking moron, I should have relieved him of his 1 remaining tooth.

3. My sister-in-law, Fugly, takes the cake. After my mastectomies (and when I was bald from chemo) she asked, "So, have you been hit on by any dykes lately?" I immediately replied, "No more so than YOU." (in retrospect I should have said, "not until YOU just hit on me!") Sidenote: any offense at dykes was purely unintentional.

4. Another Fuglyism after my hysterectomy, 2 years after my breast cancer (at least my HAIR had grown back lol): "So, you officially ARE a guy now." Then she proceeds to tell me a little story with a high "ICK" factor: "When I had MY hysterectomy (vaginally), the doctor put my G-spot right where your brother could find it." You have to imagine the smug look on her face. Then you have to imagine how lightning-fast I wiped it OFF. I mean, I KNOW my brother is a selfish, narcissistic pig. She sleeps alone in the master bedroom while he spends 24/7 in his basement office on the computer. Ain't NUTHIN happenin' to HER hole in that house ROFLMAO.

My response to her: "He put it on my brother's computer keyboard????" Now THAT was a priceless moment. Bitch, don't EVEN attempt battle if you don't possess the weapons that I do. Go play with someone in your OWN league. Oh wait, you don't HAVE a league. Sucks to be you.

So, now you are all well-edumacated in how NOT to be an asshole around a hooterless uterless woman. If you choose to stray from the tutorial, do so at your own risk. I know I can't be the ONLY bitch who reacts this way :)

That is all

More to come

2005-07-24T19:02:00.000-05:00

I have truly been a slacker bitch. I am just catching up on everyone ELSE'S blogs, and will be posting some follow ups to Spring Break, My Fambly and other shit soon!

I am a karaoke goddess!

2005-06-25T14:48:00.000-05:00

We went to this karaoke bar in the French Quarter called "Cat's Meow." Go to http://www.nola.com/bourbocam and click on the karaokecam at night hehehe. I haven't quite decided how the bar got that name but I have 2 pretty good guesses: (1) people sound like cats in pain, and/or (2) there is a whole lotta pussy there.

There was wall to wall people. a shitload of freak-dancing, and people wayyyyyyy past fucked up. I mean, how much alcohol does it take to get wasted before it becomes a waste of money and/or good alcohol???

There was a bachelorette party. The MOST fucked up one was the bride, getting married the following afternoon. She had some tiara thingy on her head with a small lace train on it. She had about 60 bead necklaces on over her strapless dress. Three guesses on how she got those beads. The last time I saw eyes that glazed was after my son stuck his face under the Krispy Kreme conveyor.

ZombieBride & her cohorts took the stage for a song. I must say that it was truly THE most unattractive wedding party I have ever seen. ZombieBride just rocked back & forth smiling, carrying an inflatable monkey. Tourette's-like, she kept blurting out, "I'm spanking the monkey! WOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" She seriously looked like a tard. For real! Then she collected more beads when she flashed her nips for the audience. Her mother must have been so proud! Oh wait, ZombieBrideMama showed HER hog-tits too. Day-um. They resembled 2 grapefruits dropped into 2 knee-hi nylons stapled to her chest, just a-SWINGING there! I wish I'd taken a picture to have emailed to ZombieBride's fiance,but I figured he was probably getting his dick sucked by some transvestite on Bourbon Street.

At the table behind us, there were 5 black girls-gone-wild and 1 black guy. My guess is mid 20's-30's. The women all wore micro mini's and commenced to freak dancing one by one with the dude. One actually had to hold down the front of her skirt at the crotch cuz it was all the way up over her naked ass in the back. For the record, she lets the jungle grow wild.

When this skinny, fucked up white dude saw them, he came over & lifted up his wifebeater T. He was rubbing his nipple with that hand and holding the front of his shorts away from his body so anybody could see what he was offering. Then he joined the freak dancing. He stumbled around a lot but I have to give him props--he never spilled ONE DROP of that beer he was holding up next to his nipple.

The black guy moved back to the table (one of the tall ones with barstools) and began rubbing his crotch on the leg of one of his girls. Another one reached under the table and started cupping his package. They were all laughing like hell, and thinking they were pulling some big secret off, not realizing that the action was right in my line of vision. I started laughing and they looked in my direction. I gave them the "2 thumbs up" salute & they cracked up. They carried on wit bidness & I got bored & went back to drunk patrol.

There was a group of 5 underage girls from Texas freakdancing each other onstage behind the hot-probably-gay DJ. Seems that the only things that grow big in Texas are the Whores. Ahhh, sweet youth. One of them started freaking him, simulating oral sex on him. He jumped back, joking "My pants are too tight for THAT tonite!" That wasn't true--he never even got CLOSE to sporting wood in those tight jeans. Now if some GUY had done that to him, I'd have had my eye poked out, we were that close to his crotch.

Finally it was my turn ot take the stage. Here I was, some middle-aged fat chick in typicial fat chick clothing going up to sing. I don't know what people were expecting but I seriously kicked some ass singing "Independence Day" by Martina McBride. When I finished, people had thrown money at me. ROFLMAO. This fat girl scored 7 bucks, which was 7 bucks more than anyone ELSE had gotten LOLOL. If they had tossed beads at me, I would have blinded them showing the scars and tattoo that remain from having my boobs whacked off due to cancer 8 years ago. Man o man, I was hoping for some beads hehehe.

We left shortly after that when some drunk wannabe rock & roller tossed the mike out into the audience, intending to pull it back quickly. It ended up knocking over my friend's drink and when he tried to pull the mike away, he dumped my 32 oz Hurricane as well. We got soaked, but at least it didn't look like we'd pissed ourselves.

There were OTHER chicks who obviously HAD out in the street. I really don't like Bourbon Street. The only really memorable thing for me was the smell of vomit & urine everywhere. I can go to a nursing home if I wanna smell THAT.

Good times!

The Evils of Gambling

2005-06-25T14:17:00.000-05:00

I am reallllllly glad that I have SOME semblance of self-control, or I'd go broke. Harrah's in New Orleans (oops, "N'awlins"--my bad) is a really beautiful place. That being said, it is tighter than a nun's twat.

I set a limit per day on how much I will spend. When that is gone, stick a fork in me. Somedays it lasts through the night. Other days, like today, it is gone in a couple of hours. I wander from machine to machine, sniffing for one that is attractive to me. I feel like a dog sprinkling my money into various slots, marking where I've been.

I used to kick ass in Black Jack, but I just can't remember all of the tricks, like when to stay or when to hit. And the tables move VERRRRYYYY quickly down here. I don't even have time to add up the value of my cards before it's my turn to bet. Heh. I STILL blame it on the chemotherapy I had 8 years ago, no matter WHAT the studies say about it not affecting the brain.

I haven't been able to find the "Black Jack Table for Retarded Folks" yet. I might stand a chance, although I would NEVER be able to tell any of you that I got my ass seriously kicked by tards!

I HAVE, however, found an African American Dwarf Convention down here. No shit! I don't know if there is a formal association, but I have never seen so many tiny black people in one place. Ever. Come to think of it, I haven't seen hoards of that many tiny people EVER, with the exception of "Wizard of Oz." They were all falling-down drunk too, though. How ironic is that?

I really need to get out more.

People Watching at the Boo-fay

2005-06-24T14:16:00.000-05:00

You can see the most interesting things in the buffet area of a casino. Man o man I didn't realize that there was such a HUGE array or barely functioning fucktards allowed out in public without supervision. I SERIOUSLY wish I would have brought a digital camera to add a certain "flavor" to this post.

First, in the dessert line was this...this...mutant inbred fuck (from somewhere in Appalachia, I'd bet). Sorry if I offend any "normal-NON-inbred mutant fucks" from Appalachia. She was as wide as she was tall, but that isn't all that unusual at a boofay. Hell, I am a fat ass myself. What I found MOST interesting, besides the 3 partial front teeth that seemed to be dangling by rotting tooth pulp threads, was her hairstyle.

She had long dark hair, probably past her shoulders, I'd guess. She had about 3/4 of it pulled into a loose (read: sexy) pony tail directly on top of her head (think: I Dream of Jeannie-style"). Except that it was CROOKED, so it was in the 1 o'clock position on her head, if you were looking at her from the front and if her face had been shaped like a clock

which
it
wasn't

It was rather full, but lonnnnnngggg. Kinda like a plumped out Twinkie. Or a pear. Or the Elephant Guy from the movie "Mask" (NOT the Kim Carrey one). In addition to the rotting, dangling tooth threads, she had a jutting jaw (think: Jay Leno on facial steroids). I had to force myself to not stare, since I thought she might be retarded, or that she was deformed. And I have never really been able to get used to people whose teeth moved in & out when they talked. Sorta resembled Chiclet-sized bamboo windchimes.

Yuck

Then I saw her mother/sister/aunt. I don't know who SHE'D been fucked by in the family to breed THAT, but mother/sister/aunt looked almost IDENTICAL to JeanniePearTwinkieHead. Except she was much shorter, like 4' tall. And her front teeth were GONE. I couldn't even THINK about her eating that fried chicken she'd piled onto her plate. On the positive side, having no teeth probably makes her an excellent fellatrix (is that the official word for blowjob giver? LOL). Think about it. No, don't. (runs to wash her eyes out with Drano after THAT vision)

Shudder

I moved away from JeanniePearTwinkieHead because her hair looked soooo dirrrrrrty. I couldn't be sure that the cinnamon sprinkles on the flan were supposed to be there, or that her tiny friends had jumped ship for the sweeter pastures of custard.

Ick

But, HEY, those two had NOTHING on the 2 females who wanted the booth behind us, Shaniqua and ShaNayNay. Wow.

First of all, we were seated in the "premium" dining area, for players who spend enough money to get all of their shit (food, airfare, hotel, gifts, shows etc) comped. Let me state that I was only a GUEST of such a player. I am definitely small-time. Thank God for gambling-addicted pals! But I digress.

The poor waiter was bussing that booth when he was assaulted by those 2 sullen hootchies, carrying their silverware. He looked at their receipt and attempted to guide them back to seats for "outsiders."

"uh uh. Mee-in my fren wanna sit here."

Again, he looked at their receipt and timidly but persistantly attempted to guide them to other seats. An added bonus for HIM would be that they'd be out of HIS section. Nope.

"ah SAY_ED, MAH FREN WANNA SIT HEEEE-YA!" and they plopped their asses down into the booth he'd just cleaned. He slinked away, head down and tail between his legs to get their drinks. Two "co-colas."

Then we had to listen to them bitch amongst themselves, and to anyone in earshot:

"Mutha fuckah was fuh-in wid us cuz we black!"
"What iddat Dy-min Club shit he wuz talkn?!
"He bedduh BRING dat fuh-in co-cola hee-ya, I gots me some TIRST!"

The seating hostess, who'd looked rather surprised since she'd seated them on the OPPOSITE side of the dining room, stopped by to see why they were so unhappy (and at the top of their voices). She had to listen to:

"He fuh-in say-ed we cunt sit in dis Dy-min sexion. whuuda fuckiss Dy-min 'bout it enny-ways? It just be some seats closer to da boofay."

The hostess, smiled and assured her sistahs that they could stay there, using her own GhettoLingo: "Umhmmm, girrrrrllllll, you all kin stay right he-yah. He still be takin care uh you, 'kay?"

This whole exchange reminded me of Debra Wilson's Mad TV character, Bunifa Latifah Halifah Shareefa Jackson. "Ohhhh, I see hah itiz, iss cuz AHM BLACK iddint it?" Um, NO, GhettoFucktard, considering you were SEATED by a black woman, and then you intimidated an ASIAN man.

I would have gone right to their level: "Get your skank-asses back to the cheap seats, before I "thow" yo asses outta here! Ya wanna sit with the big dogs? Ya gotta spend MONEY like the big dogs, mmmmKay? Now shuttup an' go stuff your face."

Good thing I am not in customer service at a casino. I don't think they make an industrial sized vat of Chapstick big enough for my swollen lips, after all the ass kissing I'd have to do. FUCK no.

As the waiter brought their 2 cokes (AS ORDERED), the skinniest GhettoFucktard shrieked, "I wannnn-edd some WAH-TER TOOOOO, DAY-UM! Can't you unnastant no ing-lish?"" Slinky moved away to get their water.

I will never complain about my job again. Wait. Yes I will.

Northwest really packs em in or...

2005-06-24T13:26:00.000-05:00

I'm looking for a T-shirt that says:

"I took a trip to New Orleans and all I got was an imprint of your ass on my knees."

I had the great misfortune of being in the center seat, meaning I had absolutley NOWHERE to stretch my not-so-incredibly-long legs. I had been running on only about 3 total hours of sleep in a 38 hour period (work, insomnia, blahblahblah). I began to doze off almost immediately upon belting in, with my knees wedged firmly into the seat in front of me.

Within minutes, the dumbass biyatch in front of me (traveling with 1 small-but-well-behaved child, and an empty seat next to her) reclines her seat all the way back. I mean ALLLLLLLL the way back. An immediate pain shot from my knees up my thighs (not in a GOOD way, I assure you lol). I reacted by sticking said knees firmly up into her rectum, at LEAST to the kneecaps. SHE reacted by squirming a little. Practically grinding her ass into my knees through the thin upholstery. I considered buying her a drink.

Any CONSIDERATE person might have said, "I'm sorry, I didn't realize my seat amputated your legs at the knees." She was SOOO not considerate.

I had the metal bar from the magazine-holder-flap thingy imbedded just under my kneecaps. I tried to straighten my legs underneath her seat, only to actually touch the back of her feet. I would have kept them there, just for shits & giggles except that the metal bars down the back of the seat and underneath it were causing extreme shin pain. FUCK.

I brought my legs out from underneath her seat and shoved them as heard as I could into the back of her seat. Wiggle wiggle squirm squirm went she. "Houston, we have entry," thought I. All the while this coy biyatch pretended to be asleep.

That's when I figured SHE owed ME that fucking drink. She must be used to really thick dudes entering her poop chute cuz both knees slid in without ANY lube, as far as I could tell. Christ, I wasn't even using any protection except for that nasty upholstery. We all know how often they clean THAT shit. I hope I don't catch a disease.

Meanwhile, the HellSpawn from 1 row back was shrieking (as only 2 year olds can), "I STUCK!!! I STUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!!!!" Correction, oh little HellFuck, you are merely restrained by a SEATBELT. There is a distinct difference. Namely, STUCK is what you would have been if I'd been able to dislodge myself from my seat an place your head gently but firmly into the toilet-vac of that smelly closet we were sitting near.

Remember this, my weary fellow travelers: The only reason to EVER sit at the back of an airplane is if YOU have diarrhea, or wish to meet OTHERS who do. 'Nuff said about that one.

whine whine, shrieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek, grind grind pretty much covers the 2 hours of my life on that plane.

I seriously thought of fondling the biyatch's ass on the way to baggage claim, but I know she didn't clean herself up after our little public woohoo. On the other hand, I was REALLLY hoping she would give me a kiss, a wink, or at the very LEAST a soft sigh or a "thank you" for all the pleasure I gave her.

Christ, it's not even like I had a fucking CHOICE in the matter. She TOOK me. She took my innocence. It was my first lesbian experience and I didn't even get OFF. Now I am in tears. This was NOT in the brochure!!! Where was the soft skin? Gentle caresses? All I got was rough grinding. And I didn't even get WET. Sigh. Maybe I should ask for a center seat on my NEXT flight & hope for an improved experience.

But it's all good. I am having a great time in New Orleans losing money as expected. I wish I could just win enough to cover the cost of my daughter's upcoming grad party, but I'm not counting on it.

Oh, here is the source of most of my stress lately: http://community.webshots.com/user/mikki630 Look under "new house"--my daughter is NOT the cause of that stress LOLOL. I am simply an idiot for planning a grad party at a place where I cannot guarantee running water, electricity or toilets by July 9th LOLOL. Must be my masochistic side coming out hehehe

A brief hiatus

2005-06-20T22:34:00.000-05:00

I'll be back with more "tales from my 'hood" ASAP. I am in the process of planning my daughter's grad party at our new house which is STILL under construction. I sure hope we have running water and toilets by July 9th. I'd hate to have to rent a Port-a-John..... Trying to do all this while NOT having heart failure lol. Wish me LUCK!!!!

Be back soon--I'm working on completing the Spring Break stories and adding to the "Fugly Chronicles" lol.

Come into my lair, said the spider to the fly (or, How My Brother Met Fugly)

2005-06-08T11:52:00.000-05:00

I have to give her credit for her ingenuity, although these days she probably would have been fired for going through his personal records. He was a student at a local university, she was a secretary in the computer lab.

He was and is a MAJOR computer freak (not to be confused with "geek," which he is NOT lol). As such, he spent hours in the computer lab. He has never been big on relationships, as they take too much work on his part. The women he has dated have all pretty much made the first move. He is handsome, 6'5, average build (working out would have also taken too much effort), funny and intelligent. Also narcissistic and lazy. Quite the catch, eh ladies?

Fugly is short, and rather non-descript if you want to be nice & not notice that she could eat apples through a fence. She is a shrew who always has an ulterior motive for doing things; they must be of benefit to HER in some way. Sad. Her personality is rather brash, and she often says totally stupid and intentionally hurtful things, in the guise of humor. I could have easily overlooked her LOOKS, had she ever been a NICE person. But I will get to that in a moment.

She kept "running into" him. When he would need something, it was always she who would be there to help, even if it wasn't her area. She would "accidentally" bump into him or just "happen" to pop into his elevator at the last minute.

Those things could have been perfectly innocent happenings, had she not actually had the balls to tell me what started all of it. I instantly hated her for that, but she didn't tell me until they'd married. That's when HE found out too, although he was flattered. Idiot.

Apparently, she really liked what she saw. Blond hair, blue eyes, tall, good looking. This is where her ingenuity came in. Looking at his lab sign-in sheet, she found his name and social security number. She then proceeded to search his personal records for information. She obtained his address, phone numbers, major (read: income potential), class schedule; every bit of his confidential info. She would show up outside of his classrooms at the end of class to "accidentally" run into him.

He asked her out because, with HIM, she was perky. Sickeningly, what KEPT him (according to HER) was her blowjob talent. Yes, she actually TOLD ME THAT. EWWWWWWW. That is a fucking image I did not NEED to have burned into my brain. My eyes are bleeding.

I hate to burst her bubble, but it wasn't just her special talent to not nick his dick with those bucked teeth that kept him with her. It was his hatred of my dad. He hated my DAD more than he liked HER.

My dad & bro NEVER got along well, and my brother hated living in our house. My dad was an oppressive asshole fireman (think: major power trips, delusions of grandeur, quite full of himself). My brother was a rebellious hippie-type, who smoked weed, played Zeppelin too loud & stayed away as much as possible.

Fugly had her own HOME. Hmmmmmm.....move in with her & receive regular BJ's and home cooked meals without being bitched at or stay at home and be harassed by the man... tough choice. NOT.

When he first started dating her, he brought her home to introduce her to us. She was quiet and bird-like, and obviously nervous about meeting us. I thought she was probably just shy. We did our best to make her feel comfortable. I thought that he could have done much better in the looks department, but I figured she must be a sweetheart. Wrong. That shy/sweet act was a disguise to help her gauge us.

About 2 weeks later, we were in my parents' family room/dining room (it is one long room separated by a room-length step. My bro was reading the paper at the dining room table. I was sitting on the couch next to my boyfriend watching TV. Fugly was standing next to my brother as he read and, unbeknownst to me, staring at me.

"Your brother is so GODDAMN good-looking, what the hell happened to YOU?" she blurted out. I just looked up at her, incredulously. I had to shake my head for a second to make sure I'd actually HEARD right.

"Excuse me?" I said to her. She actually repeated it! Well, my Miss Nice Girl politeness took a major hike.

I asked her, "Do you value your life?" She looked a bit perplexed and cocked her head slightly.

"Because I'll knock your ugly ass through that wall, bitch," as I glared at her.

She did a little curtsey-duck-in-next-to-my-bro-thing. He never missed a beat. Not even looking up from his paper, he said to her "She means it, too." That let the air out of her balloon.

And so began my "relationship" with Fugly (the Glamour Shots pic in the previous post is actually HERS). I will amaze and astound you with tales of her (and her mother, Jabba's) stupidity in posts to come. I will also have to link to some more pictures, just so you can compare our looks at the time she SAID this shit to me. I haven't always had great self-esteem, but I CLEARLY am more attractive than she. At least I can close my mouth over my front teeth. Bitch.

My Fambly, part 1

2005-06-07T13:26:00.000-05:00

I am envious of those of you with wonderful extended families. I really wish that I could say I am close to my relatives, but I can't. This entry isn't about pity. It's about the strange, fucked-up "family" known as "mine." I know that I am not alone in this, and that some of you had it much worse than me, but here is my story anyway.

Unfortunately, my most favorite family member, my beloved mom, died of a rare leukemia in 1997. We didn't even know she was sick, got a diagnosis and 5 days later she was GONE. Three weeks later, I was diagnosed with breast cancer at 36. Couldn't even cry on my mommy's shoulder. A real tragedy since she and I had been thisclose.

That left me with my dad, who had been a turd for most of my life and now needed my "care," since he was virtually an invalid who'd been burped & powdered by my mother and I am a nurse and the only daughter. Greaaaaaaaattttttt. Fuck. The promise I made to my mother on her deathbed (when she asked me to move my dad to MY house) was carefully worded as, "He will be taken care of."

Can't forget my older brother! He used to beat the living shit out of me daily when my parents were at work. I had bruises. LOTS of them. BIG ones. As I would try to run & call my dad at work, he'd pick up the extension so that I couldn't dial out. And then he'd laugh maniacally in my ear. This went on until I was about 13 and nearly killed him when I turned on him suddenly as he was chasing me upstairs. I'd had enough and just SHOVED him with all my strength. He's lucky I hadn't broken his fucking neck.

He hadn't been treated well by my dad EVER. No beatings, but psychological abuse at its best. My brother always thought that my dad loved ME more, but I knew better.

He just DISLIKED me LESS.

When my dad FINALLY died in 1999, and we officially became "orphans," I really thought my brother and I would become closer. We live less than 10 miles from each other, but only see each other when I make the effort. Same with phonecalls. Oh well, maybe it's for the best.

There are no such things as "family gatherings" anymore, since my mother was the ultimate matriarch and held us together. When she died, that glue dissolved. Oh, we TRIED to make Christmas Eve work for 2 years but failed miserably for the following reasons:

1. The traditional prime rib dinner was NOT the same without my mom in her light-up blinking apron. I am a great cook, but couldn't duplicate the atmosphere that she created.

ummmm--the rest edited out to preserve fambly relations :)

The ULTIMATE revenge story

2005-06-01T22:55:00.000-05:00

While this was actually quite a painful time in my past, this story is friggin' hilarious. Really.

A little background: I dated my first husband for 5 years, married him at age 21, and bore his child at 27. He is 4 years older than I. It was a planned pregnancy. It had been thoroughly discussed prior to conception. It was NO surprise. Things were awesome during the pregnancy & we talked of all the things we wanted to do with this child, whom we found out at 20 weeks was a girl. We were thrilled.

Unbeknownst to me, my husband got a girlfriend when our baby was 10 weeks old. Someone from work. Someone 10 years younger than him. Oh, did I mention she could fit her ass into a size 10 leather skirt? I found out that the ultimate reason was that "I felt like you didn't neeeeeeeed me... you were always with the bay-beeeeeeeee. I was loooooooonely." blahblahblah. Fucker. Forgive me for nursing and caring for MY little one, for cooking and cleaning while you worked & then came home & went to sleep. Asshat.

I began having suspicions that he was cheating on me when our baby was about 4-5 months old. Ladies, if you don't know some of the signs, I'll give you a clue: new cologne, being really cheery at home (unusually so), working out, new underwear, all of a sudden there are a TON of retirement parties throughout the week when previously there were 2. In a YEAR.

I found out for certain when our baby was 6 months old. I was told, "treat me like I'm single...this is something I have to go through...I'll be back..." Yeah, fucker, but I WON'T.

Fast forward a couple of weeks:

I was sitting on the basement floor, crying pitifully on the pile of dirty laundry(that I was doing for HIM). I looked up at the ceiling, wailing "What am I going to dooooo? How will I raise a baby on my own??"

Now comes the funny part. Really. There IS one lol.

As I am sitting on the dirty laundry pile, crying, looking up at the bare bulb of the ceiling light, IT HIT ME. Through my snot and my tears, behind that bright shining light, like a beacon from GOD, I found my answer.

Surrounding the basement window, glistening in the light was pink insulation . I put on a pair of latex gloves, climbed on top of the washer and pulled out a HUGE hunk of it.

I then proceeded to insulate the inside crotch of his clean underwear. Every fucking pair. Everyday. For TWO WEEKS. I was never so eager and happy to do laundry as I was then!

I rubbed that shit into it, from front to back. Then I moved on to the jeans and insulated the inside seams of those from crotch to knees. His shorts didn't escape me, nor did his bathing trunks. I left enough fibers to get the job done, but not enough to be noticed.

Then I folded them all up and put them away, like a good little wifey.

I wanted him to think that bitch GAVE him something. It was the hottest summer on record in 1988. I knew he'd be sweating like a pig and I wanted him to itch and burrrrrrn.

Sure enough, after 2 weeks of daily insulating, he called me at work (I worked with OB/GYN doctors). This really took balls (pun intended LOL) on his part, lemme tell ya. He told me that she was "having some female problems" and "needed a good doctor." I stood there, holding the phone with my jaw dropped open to my navel. What fucking NERVE! I told him I'd have to call him back.

I grabbed the yellow pages and looked under "Veterinarians." I figured that since they were both PIGS, this was the obvious choice. I picked out a name and called him back, telling him, "Dr. Davis is the best in his field." I never did hear back if they made that call or not. I'd wager not, since I am sure it was just a way to torture me.

Now I wonder, what exactly do insulation fibers look like on a pap smear slide?

God, indeed, works in mysterious ways.

Spring Break 2005 (part 10)

2005-05-26T00:17:00.001-05:00

Since we had basically fucked off for the first 3 days of the trip, we needed to move our asses to get good use of our theme park passes. At least we got out of bed by 8am on ONE day. But today was NOT that day.

We decided to go to Universal & then to Islands of Adventure. Like the good mommy that I am, I made sure everyone peed before we left the hotel & reminded them to make sure they had whatever they needed for the day. I put some frozen water bottles in my fanny pack and off we went for the 20 minute ride to the parks.

Parking was a bitch. We ended up having to park WAAYYYY the hell out in the structure. As we are walking toward the park, I just happened to ask if everyone had their pass. Check, check, check, check and Tiva, who asked incredulously, "I was 'sposed to bring that ticket WITH me?"

FUUUUUUCK

You have to understand that as I am trying to keep a civil tongue with her, my HEAD has a whole lotta OTHER things going on in there.

Me, on the OUTside: "Yes, that is your five day pass." (on the INside, "YOU fucking moron!")

Tiva: "I dint know that. I don't have it with me."

Me on the OUTside: "Crap, I guess we'll have to go back to the hotel & get it." (on the INside, "YOU fucking MORon!")

Believe it or not, I am usually a pretty easygoing person. But when somebody obviously has their brain set on "assbag," I have a problem with them.

The other girls looked stricken. I didn't see the point in them having to pay for Tiva's mistake. I told them to go into the park and ride the coasters that Tiva was so deathly afraid of. I figured they could get 1 or 2 of them in before we got back in about an hour.

Tiva and I were the only ones with cellphones, so I had her give hers to the girls. We would call them when we got back to the park. Off we went to battle rush hour traffic.

I'd actually stayed pretty cool--what else could I do? I didn't really care about being in the park anyway, so it wasn't a big deal. I just wanted the girls to have a good time.

We got her pass and made it back to the park in an hour. I dialed Tiva's cellphone number. Huh, that was weird--I got an "out of service" message. Tried again. Same thing.

Tiva tried it. Nothing. Then a light bulb went off in her head. Man, I swear I could SEE it go "BLINK!" right out of her ear holes. And she got this surprised, bright-eyed look on her face, as if this was the first good idea she'd ever had in her.whole.life.

"OHHHHHHH! They mussa shut off mah phone cuz I wennover mah minnits!"

Um, no Sherlock, that would be incorrect. First of all, you don't have a prepaid phone, you pay a bill every month (well, you are SUPPOSED to). Second, they are ECSTATIC if you go over your minutes because they can CHARGE YOU UP THE ASSSSS for the overage.

Whatever it was, we were FUCKED because we couldn't get in touch with the others. FUUCCCCKKKKK. I was beginning to think this whole "Take-Tiva-To-Orlando" thing was a mistake. Jesus H. Christ, she was like a jinx or a bad talisman or something. More like a really bad rash. I think I was allergic to her; I was breaking out in hives. I needed a drink. A BIG drink....and I am not a drinker. Shit.

We ended up wandering around the park for about 1/2 an hour and ran into them. We were all ready to eat dinner. But not all of us were ready to $hell out actual MONEY in order to eat. Gue$$ who?

Me, (on the OUTside): " Let's go eat at that restaurant we were talking about earlier." (on the INside, "I don't give a flying fuck if you ever eat again on this WHOOOOOOOLE trip.")

Everyone ordered, except for Tiva who spent the first 20 minutes using MY cellphone to call her mom about her cellphone dilemma. She also called 2 of her friends AND GAVE THEM MY CELL NUMBER, the dumbass! I snatched my phone out of her hand before she could call someone ELSE. What an ASSbag dumbass!

She got THREE calls.from the SAME girl.during our appetizers. All text messages. But I never handed my phone over for her to answer them. Fuck it, she could get the messages later.

We were all thoroughly enjoying our dinners, smacking our lips the whole time. Tiva was sitting there, looking sullen. I was getting soooo fucking tired of that look. If I could have gotten away with it, I think I would have wrapped her in a blankie & abandoned her at a local hospital, pretending she was a newborn.

Because she was such a tightwad, I did NOT want to share my dinner with her. So you KNOW it killed me that I couldn't finish my dinner and didn't want to haul a carry-out container around the park. DAMMIT.

"Tiva, would you like my ribs?" Before I'd gotten the question out of my mouth, she'd snatched my plate and had sucked the meat off of 3 bones. Not really, but it FELT that fast. You'd have thought she was a junkyard dog that hadn't eaten in WEEKS.

Everyone else followed suit & she ate everything that she was given. Spinach & artichoke dip with a spoon. French fries. Ribs. Steak. And she didn't offer to leave a tip.

Sigh.

Spring Break 2005 (part 9)

2005-05-26T00:17:00.000-05:00

Clubbing at City Walk

One of the "adults only" clubs became a "teens only" club for the night. They only admitted ages 15-19. There were a lot of disappointed grown-ups that night. I wasn't one of them.

Of course, I had to occupy myself since there was no way for me to pass myself off as a teen. I just decided to people watch while sitting at an outdoor cafe.

It's amazing how unHAPPY people can be in a place that's SUPPOSED to be fun, on what is SUPPOSED to be a vacation. Lots of kids whining/crying and getting dragged around by the arm, or being yelled at, or being smacked. Damn, people! Lighten up!!

After 3 hrs of people watching, in the rain, I was "red-to-go." They just happened to wander out of the club, as if on cue, and shared the experience with me:

"Ewwwwww! Some dude dry-humped my ass!" said one.

"OMG, those people shoulda rented a ROOM!" said another

I didn't know if I wanted to hear more LOL

All in all, it was an OK experience for them but nothing to write home about. They really did NOT like having their asses rubbed by strangers. Gee, I don't know WHY lol.

Spring Break 2005 (part 8)

2005-05-26T00:16:00.000-05:00

The first 3 days were the roughest. Without that fucking cellphone glued to her ear, she was like a fish out of water. But we gradually discovered that she could actually say more than "gurrrrrrllll," "HEY SHANAE!" and "MMmmMMMMM." Once she got rid of the cellphone, we realized that she could actually use more than 4 words in a sentence!!

Too bad the words she combined were TOTALLY fucking-assed ignorant. Oh well, we had picked our poison and were going to have to deal with it. I mean, how bad could it get?

We stayed up late and just talked about everything. We were talking about when the girls were babies & sharing some of the cute things they'd done. Tiva started chuckling and shaking her head like a crazy old lady in a rocking chair.

"My brother was a baby," chuckle, chuckle, shakehead, slapknee, shakehead, chuckle, chuckle. That was it. There was no other thought connected to that sentence.

One of the girls (the track star/pole vaulter) has had asthma since she was a baby. I remember her missing tons of school because she was always in the hospital. She'd even been life-flighted once.

Not to be topped, Tiva announced that she'd been in the hospital for a whole YEAR when she was little because she'd cut her hand. "Everytahm I moved it, the tendons 'n things would jess open up 'n fall out 'n stuff."

Being a nurse, I questioned this. "Did they really keep you in the hospital for a whole year for cutting your HAND?"

"Oh NOOOO," she laughed. "I had a head injury."

That explained a LOT.

Thank GOD we only had 4 more days of this.

Spring Break 2005 (part 7)

2005-05-26T00:15:00.000-05:00

I need to back up here about the whole Tiva/money thing.

After our first trip planning meeting, I booked this trip (on MY credit card) back in September. It was a relatively cheap $398 per person. Everyone was cool with it (probably cuz it was on MY credit card). Everyone paid promptly. Except Tiva. She made her first payment in FEBRUARY. Did you know that there are 4 months in BETWEEN September and February? She gave me $300 at our final group meeting.

Tiva: "I'll have the rest later."
Me: :blinkblink:

The group discussed which amusement park tickets to buy & cost. It was decided that we'd get a 2 day park hopper for Disney since there were only a few things they wanted to do at the Disney parks & they could get them done in 2 days. I found an internet special for Universal--buy 2 days, get 3 days free for $99. I think the total for both was around $270. I ordered them & charged it to my credit card a couple of days before our trip.

Fast forward to Orlando.

Given our experience with Tiva and her money, I figured I'd better collect what she owed me before she ran out of cash. Our 2nd night there, I told her I was ready to settle the bill for the rest of her expenses. Bobble, bobble.

She handed me a money order for $98, and then started counting out her $270. As she handed it to me, she looked at me with wide eyes & said, "Dang...I only got SISTEE dollahs leff. WHAT we gonna do for da ressa da week?"

I just looked at her & said, "Guess you're gonna have to call your momma & have her wire you some money, aren't you?" as I folded it up and put it in my pocket.

I figured it was either THAT or she could eat all of her meals in the room. Good thing she LOVES "Raymond" noodles. And I heard those TBS movies are great!

Spring Break 2005 (part 6)

2005-05-26T00:14:00.001-05:00

Considering that we didn't close our eyes until after 2AM, the chances were slim to none that we'd make it into any of the amusement parks before noon. Since this was the girls' Spring Break trip, I figured I'd let them set the pace. I had NO desire to be a commando and pushpushpush them this week.

We ended up just vegging, and then going grocery shopping. We knew that amusement park food & drinks were expensive so we decided to just "graze" our way through the parks & eat our more substantial meals elsewhere in Orlando. We bought loads of shit to eat. I think we covered all of the major food groups and THEN some lol.

I'd told everyone that we'd buy for the room but if there was anything special that they wanted for themselves, they'd have to pay for it. If 2 or more of us wanted it, then it came from the group grocery money. It was interesting how Tiva picked out all sorts of things--"Mmmmmm, those are SOOOO good!" or "THIS is GREAT!"--but didn't seem to want them when I asked, "Did you want to put this in your own personal-pay pile in the cart?"

When we came back from grocery shopping, it became clear why Tiva needed all that fucking luggage. Apparently her outfits could only handle being exposed to sunlight ONCE before needing to be changed. And did I mention that the same was true for her hairstyles?

I have absolutely NO problem if someone needs to change soiled clothing, or adjust for the weather. I DO have a problem if their obsession imposes on the REST of us. And it DID. Not only did outfit selection take 10 minutes, but re-doing her hair typically took over 1/2 an hour. And that was AFTER the curling iron got hot enough to use.

The rest of us just sat on the bed, looking at each other in silence. :blinkblink: We ended up watching parts of a bunch of movies. Did you know TBS has some great chick flicks?

It didn't matter that we told her that her outfit looked FINE. We told her that her HAIR looked fine. Obviously, we didn't know what the FUCK we were talking about because she'd re-do it all anyway. Did I mention that she packed FIFTEEN pairs of shoes? All of them kitten heels, and most of them some type of black sandal. WTF?

The assholes that we were, we allowed her to do this to us for almost 2 days. On the third day, we just walked out & started leaving her behind. She got the hint and severely cut back on her clothing/hair Jones.

The girls would go to pool and she would lag behind to fix herself up, complete with fresh makeup and kitten heels. I wanted to scream, "YOU ARE GOING INTO A FUCKING POOOOOOOOL!!! WHY DO YOU NEED FRESH MAKEUP??? AND WHAT'S UP WITH THE KITTEN HEELS?????" But I don't think she would have understood me. It was becoming painfully clear that we were definitely from different planets.

I told her that she needed to curtail her cellphone use to beginning of the day/end of the day-type calls because she was with US. I told her that she was being rude & inconsiderate. Bobble, bobble. We compromised. In addition to those times, she used her phone while on the toilet (yuck) and during her many trips up and down the stairway. Whatever. At least I wasn't on the other end, listening to her speckle the bowl. Again, didn't her momma teach her that it's rude to shit in someone elses ear? Whatever.

We went to IHOP for dinner & had the greatest.fucking.pancakes.ever. Believe it or not, they had cream of WHEAT in them! The food was pretty cheap, but guess who got wide-eyed at the prices AGAIN? "Dang, thoser some 'spensive sammiches." I made sure to ask for separate checks, or I'd end up paying her tax. FUUUUUUUUCK. I reminded everyone to drop a buck each for the tip.

After everyone had paid & gone to the car, I went back to the table to find she had NOT tipped. Again. I dropped an extra couple of bucks on the table. I realized that her lack of tipping was NOT a mistake, fluke or fuck-up. It was intentional. And that pissed me off even more.

I got into the car & decided to try a little subtlety. "There wasn't enough tip money left on the table." Each of the girls said, "I left a buck." Except Tiva, who just stared wide-eyed out the rear passenger seat window. I didn't know a human being could go without blinking for that long.

FUUUUUUUCK