Saturday, March 29, 2008

I finally broke down and purchased myself an ipod to use at the gym. I've given so many of those fuckers away as gifts, I would have thought Apple would at least thrown me one.

Yeah... but no.

However, they did allow me to select two free plastic pieces of shit cases so that made me happy. Until they admitted that they were running some kind of promotion and everyone got those.

Cheap Bastards.

My ipod that costs half a mortgage came in a little tiny box with little tiny instructions. It didn't really matter how big the instructions were anyway. I couldn't figure the fucker out even if they were written specifically for me.

"Chris, plug that little white thingumabob into the front of the computer with the big sticky saying plug in HERE."

I still would have fucked it up.

In my many years on this earth, I have gotten to know myself a little bit and don't even attempt to try to install, program or even open packages with sharp instruments. I immediately turned the little box over to my son.

"Put music on this".

Three minutes later my entire itunes collection was on it along with a couple of songs he had stolen from somewhere that he thought I would like.

That's my kid.

So now I have this little rectangle thing that I need to figure out how to work. Seeing I received a satellite radio for Christmas that I have yet to learn how to turn on, I thought I might be in trouble.

It was then I was informed by my wonderful son that the headphones that came with the ipod suck duck dick.

That is also my kid.

Don't worry, he says, he'll send me a link of what I need.

Which costs the other half of that mortgage payment.

I decide to stick with the duck dick ones and psyche myself up for a lesson.

"OK, Mom, see this wheel?"

"What wheel?"

"The wheel in the middle of the ipod," he said patiently.


"No? Right here, this white round thing," he said with a tad less patience.

"That is NOT a wheel, it is a white circle and if you are going to complicate this with all that technology jargon, just stop now," I snapped.

I wonder where I can get a Walkman?

Friday, March 28, 2008

Two Nuns Walk Into A Bar. The Third One Ducks.

George Carlin has a new special on HBO. I would tell you the name but I don't pay attention to shit like that. I just channel surf through pay channels and stop when something may have the potential of making me forget my crappy boring life for fifteen minutes or so.

This morning, while having my daily infusion of caffeine and cigarettes, I noticed Georgy's name with the name of the special (that I forgot) on the info tag.

And stopped to check it out.

First thing I notice is the G Man has gotten fucking OLD. I saw him live a couple of years back and he had mentioned he recently quit drugs. I think he should take them back up because he was looking a lot perkier back then.

The second thing I noticed is that his new special is his last two specials with the name (that I forgot) changed. None of it seemed original although it was still slightly humorous in a familiar sort of way.

No, this isn't a review of Mr. Carlin's new HBO with the name of the special I forgot. It is more about age and knowing when it is time to give it up.

When my son and I saw him a couple of years ago, the dude was reading off of note cards. He joked about it explaining he needed to learn new shit for his up coming HBO special (the name of which I also forgot) and he is working some stuff out.

Not for anything but I think he should have paid the audience if he was only going to use us as practice.

I am sorry but I don't think old performers are nostalgic. I think they are used up and a little sad.

Sort of like the 50 year old walking through the mall with the long dyed blond hair and the hip huggers.

There are some things I just don't want to see.
When I am trying to be entertained and I feel obligated to laugh or clap to make the performer feel good, it is time for them to go behind the scenes and help out the up and comings that don't require note cards and naps between sets.
Just sayin'............

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Tramp Stamps and Whale Tails

and lions and tigers and bears. Oh, my.

I am a hypocrite.

My attitude towards the world is live and let live..god unto others and knock yourself out.

Except please try to show a little class while you do whatever the fuck you want to do.

I took the kid to Dennys for our weekly ritual junk breakfast before school and was treated to a lovely view of the ass of the gal at the adjoining table the entire meal.

What amazed me is not only was she totally unabashed by her butt being on display, she offered it purposefully.

To show off her ass in her low rise jeans, purple whale tail and her tramp stamp.

At 7am.

In Dennys.

I totally get wanting to attract men and being half naked is certainly the way to do it. The construction workers and UPS guy were certainly enjoying the view unless they actually needed to go back and forth to the restroom four times each. However, it was fucking Dennys in the morning!

Always willing to research oddities for the benefit of all man kind, I quickly assessed whether Bambi was perhaps a leftover from the clubs last night.

You know the look...the finger brushed hair and the rumbled clothes from being on the floor all night after wastedly falling into bed with a stranger.

I mean not that I personally would know anything about that kind of thing.

Of course not.

Nope, this little gal was showered , spiffy and ready to start her day.

I hushed my kid who was babbling about something unimportant such as failing math or a school bully and tried to tune into the conversation going on at the next table.

Where was Bambi headed in that attire?

Her breakfast companion was a fully dressed young lady about the same age who fucking mumbled! The bitch.

Shit, I really need to learn how to read lips.

The best I could get was that they were indeed off to work after their nine cups of coffee and Asscrack was adamant about not taking any shit off the boss that day.

Okay kids, so tell me, what line of work permits employees to dress a perfect 10 on the Slut-O-Meter with normal work hours that doesn't involve a pimp?

I am at a loss.

Monday, March 24, 2008

Fuck all of you that don't update at least once every week.

You know who you are. Quit looking around all innocent like.

Yes, I am one of those sucky lurkers that don't comment often. While I love you all blowing smoke up my ass, I don't have the patience to enter my blogger name, password and then put all those fucking meaningless random letters in that little piece of crap box.

But I read you, oh yes I do. How else am I supposed to get through this G-d Damned work day?


I may have to start a shit list. Those people that are too freakin' lazy to come up with at least one anecdote to share with those of us that have limited social lives and only this to look forward to.

So go back and write about that fucked up bitch that was ahead of you at the market Saturday or that inconsiderate prick who brought his rugrat to the movies or that lady walking through the mall with her skirt caught up in her granny panties.

Don't make me beg.

Friday, March 21, 2008

Meet Sam. Sam is a six pound Brussel Griffon that I adopted as a spare to keep the dog I like company.
Not considering myself an animal lover...well I am not really a lover of anything that isn't fattening or clothing optional afterall............ I was surprised when I grew attached to the little Affenpinscher I bought last year. I think I grew attached to it simply because it grew attached to me and either I got used to him following me around all the time or punted him across the house against the wall.
Lucky for him, I choose the former.
Max was bought to replace a bitch beagle mix that lived up to her name. Fucking thing took a hunk of thigh out of a neighbor as a late night snack.
At that time, we also had a poodle mix, Cassie, that was also a big pain in the ass but because since it was too small to do any real damage to the neighbors, I allowed my kids to keep her.
So two little dogs hanging out together while I worked, having puppy parties and living it up.
No problemo.
Except that technically the poodle was SCMs dog. After his step father died, his mother was lonely and asked if she could take Cassie to live with her.
I didn't give a shit, I never liked that little bitch either.
Apparently, Max the Affen did though and mopped around in loneliness for days and days.
Believe me, the fucking Dog Whisperer was out of the question but even hearts of stone sometimes get a chip in them.
So, in comes Sam.
Sam the spare dog to play with Max the real dog.
Sam is a pretty good sort. Came pretty much house broken, likes to be held and scratched, doesn't eat too much...etc.
So is this a post to introduce the world to my cute little puppy?
Geez, you guys know me better than that by now.
No, this is a post about a little dog that has the WORST gas of any person or beast I have ever encountered in my forty something years.
And I had an Uncle from the old country that could fart the star spangled banner in two keys.
This thing, though,....this thing is a walking fart machine and holy shit does these farts reek!
His old owner was feeding him pretty cheap food so I thought once I got him on some better stuff, his gas should subside a bit.
I now am convinced one of my loving children are feeding the fucking thing broccoli when I am not looking.
My house smells like a porta potty during a heat wave at a country fair.
That serves fried Twinkies.
And Turkey Legs.
The good news is I no longer wonder where little Sammy is. I look for my family members and go to the place in the house that is furthest away geographically.
Max has even taken to avoiding Sam as if saying..."Dude, can't you do something about that? Have some fucking mercy."
So we are renaming him Stinky and have resigned never to take him to the dog park.
We don't want all the other dogs to make fun of him.
That's our job.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

I have decided that I am not going to allow this fucking bad hair ruin my day!

But it will.

I am vain and self conscious like that.

Every time I talk to someone I will think they are looking at my hair and wondering what the fuck I could have done to make it frizz up like that.

Or worse, think that the bitch has finally lost her mind and that finger in electric outlet is her new look.

But I will not allow this to ruin my day.

Every trip to the ladies room will have me pulling out the brush and the hairspray trying to create some semblance of order to this mop and each effort will be awarded with grunts, growls and a look worse than when I walked in.

But I will not allow this to ruin my day.

At lunch, I will decline going out because I just know the rainy humid weather will create havoc on my already disastrous golden locks so I will send out for a salad and eat it at my desk.

But , NO! I will not allow this to ruin my day.

This afternoon, I will stay in my office and decline to see any vendors or salespeople because I can not make logical decisions when I feel like shit about myself.

But, I will certainly not allow this to ruin my day.
As I bid goodnight to my employees they will leave wondering why I was a recluse all today and what they did to make me want nothing to do with any of them.

No, a bad hair will never ever ruin my day.

At closing, I will put on my sweats and tee, pull the mop up into a pony holder and head to the gym where it is acceptable to look like shit and feel normal for the first time all day.

Good thing I did not allow a bad hair day to get me down.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Rumor Control

If you are one of the kids from the kewl table that have been around a while, you know that I run a small company.
I love what I do and enjoy most of the people I work with.


Because in every office there has to be one or two people that can not be happy unless tornadoes of shit are constantly swirling about.

You know the type. Not only do they listen to other people's conversation, they jump right in as if they have a right to know everything that is going on. Of course they must give their opinion as well.
Lucky me, I have a pair of these numnuts.

They both are hard workers and good at their jobs but Lord Almighty, they can get a rumor around as fast as steroids in the locker room at a wresting match.

One of my little stars has a small office catty corner to mine. When I oversaw the construction of the workspace we utilize, I asked specifically for my office to have extra insulation for privacy.

Which means her rumors are close but not quite right.

I guess holding the little glass to the door has its problems.

Yesterday I met with the accountant to discuss some financial concerns regarding the first quarter of 2008.

Concerns. That's all. The economy is slow and our numbers are slightly down.


This morning I came in to odd expressions on the faces of every employee to which I offered my typical good morning greeting.

I shrugged it off knowing if anything major is going on, I'd be privy to it soon enough.

I was not disappointed.

My assistant came in and wanted to know how many employees I plan to cut and from which departments.

Ummm, WHAT?!
When I asked what she was talking about she told me my neighbor, Ms. Gossip McNoseypants said she overheard that we are going to have to lay off 25% of our workers.

Now first of all, this woman doesn't even lie about listening at the door. She admits is freely and with no shame.

Secondly, she listens INCORRECTLY and proceeds to scare the shit out of people that now fear they are going to lose their jobs.

I attempted some damage control but it is hard to convince people that it really is a rumor when they are frightened.

I need to speak to the stupid twat but am trying to calm down so I don't rip her arm off and beat her to death with it.

Saturday, March 15, 2008

I was invited to a small dinner party a good friend of mine is hosting this evening.

I have a few concerns about the outing.

This is a woman who doesn't own a vacuum and opens her windows wide to move the dust around once a month.

The type of person that if her dishes come out of the dishwasher still crusty, she considers it leftovers.
The friend you insist she bring the bottled soda to pot luck luncheons because you found dog hair and cigarette ashes in the mystery casserole she brought to the previously shindig.

Needless to say, I am not overly excited about my prospects for this evening which I picture concluding with a trip to the ER to have my stomach pumped.

I suggested we all pitch in for Chinese food or Pizza so we could enjoy each other's company and she wasn't stuck in the kitchen cleaning up all evening.


Of course she responded that she had no intention of doing that and dishes can wait until the following day.
Or month in her case.

As if this evenings menu wasn't frightening enough, she is also excited about attempting some new recipe she found for watermelon and cucumber gazpacho .

When I pointed out that watermelon wasn't in season she informed me she will improvise.

I was afraid to ask.

I love this friend to death. The other people on the guest list are outgoing and humorous and I believe the night will be a blast.

Now if I can only figure out how to slip an entire bowl of gazpacho in my hand bag.

No medical treatment required although I did get skived out when I heard a crunch as I stepped on what I am hoping was an old raisin.

She used cantaloupe as a substitute for the watermelon and served it in plastic bowls with plastic spoons.

I was polite and tasted it. So were my fellow house guests. The look on each of our faces cracked up our hostess who had bagged Cesar salad as a back up.

We unanimously agreed to meet at my house next time.

I think we should start a tradition on who can come up with the weirdness meal. I wonder where she got that gazpacho recipe? Maybe they have instructions for making fried frogs legs with peanut butter sauce.

Friday, March 14, 2008

At 5am this morning, I found myself standing on line to check out at Walmart along side the streetwalkers who were grabbing a Snapple before going home to sleep off their crack high and the construction workers that already had a lingering odor about them which I can only assume was from yesterday's still unwashed clothing.

I had often wondered who shopped at Walmart at odd hours making it worth while for the establishment to remain open 24 hours.

Now I knew.

I hate Walmart on principal. Although I do believe in free enterprise, I do not approve of their business practices and the way their astronomic market share impacts how other companies are forced to do business.

Stepping down from soap box........

So, what the fuck was I doing shopping at the evil monster at that ungodly hour?

I needed a birthday gift for a kid's party tonight and had a breakfast meeting at 7am.

Isn't it amazing how all my principals go out the window when a Barbie Convertible is on the line?

I noticed several employees with blue smocks wandering around bearing a striking resemblance to the cast of the Night of the Living Dead. They were pushing around carts full of misplaced merchandise with glazed eyes and no expression on their pale faces.

It was rather disconcerting.

I wondered if I went up and snapped in one of their faces whether they would respond or try to eat me.

Having seen one too many horror movies in my time and noticing it was still dark outside, I decided to leave well enough alone.

I located the toy department and picked up a few things from Ms. Robert's line of plastic crap that subconsciously succeeds in causing all little girls to feel bad about themselves and looked around for the greeting cards.

There was a section of cards priced at forty eight cents.


That's .48, less than 1/2 of one dollar.

For a greeting card.

That wasn't yellowed or had the old salutation erased.

In 2008.

After being accustomed to paying three or four bucks for some shitty greeting with puppy pictures or sometimes more for very sad attempt at a humorous wish, I was shocked.

How do they sell these cards so cheaply?

Suddenly I had a flash of little Chinese children cutting down trees to make the paper as their little sisters set up the type set as their 90 year old grandmother hunches over a big vat of ink stirring, her little bony fingers scorched from the heat.

All for nine cents a day.

I may have been desperate for a gift but I can go to Hallmark at lunch for a card.

Monday, March 10, 2008

Last night was my traditional birthday dinner at my parent's house.

In the past, five times per year, the fam would all get together, eat Italian food, pretend we actually like each other's company and fought to be the one parked at the end of the driveway thus allowing for that quick get away.

Then we all started spawning thus adding additional evenings of family togetherness and several more pounds of pasta to the calendar.

One would assume that if the birthdays fell within a week or two of one another that we could possibly get away with one get together that month....

Not so much...

The Matriarch of our dysfunctional clan feels that each of her decedents deserve their own private ceremony and should not have to share.

Actually what she really needs is another reason to whine and complain about how unappreciated she is for the time and effort involved in the planning of such momentous events.

Yes, it is true.....

The person that insists this tradition continues, that is constantly is growing and evolving, spends days in advance of said event and days post said event bitching and complaining about it.

Ahhh, but her greatest joy is when someone is late.

The tardy custom has not changed in 20 years. She huddles around the pot of boiling water, perspiration beeding on her forehead, new hair do drooping as the pasta hovers in her hand over the pot awaiting the latecomer.

All the while mumbling about the drudgery and grind involved in these events and the inconsideration of the offending party.

This tradition begins at 2 minutes after the expected arrival time that was formally announced on her new favorite nag facilitator, the on line invitation.

This nightmare of an invention not only invites guests to an event, it sends daily email reminders if you have yet to reply. After you have affirmed your plans, it assists in counting down the event as if the invitation was to the inauguration of whatever stooge the CEOs of the Fortune 500 companies manages to get elected this time instead of veal parm at Mommy's next Sunday.

Of course to fuck with her, my siblings and I coordinate who will be the one to show up late. Who are we to take away her happiness?

When we are all present, 18 of us are squeezed around a table meant for only 8, dinner is served.

Then THE STORIES come.

The STORIES are fictional events from all our past.

Mother as the slayer of dragons and we her children, the meek and mild, in need of her protection.

Mother as the woman who should have been nominated for mother of the year but she would never had found the time to attend the ceremony since she was too busy adopting every animal, heading girl scouts, boy scouts and religious instruction as well as cooking for the poor in her rare spare minutes.

Mother as the one who had brought perfect children into the world but unfortunately, they sometimes befriended Satan's spawn who Mother immediately converted and got them on the straight and narrow path to righteousness.

Mother as the one who painted her house along with the houses of the neighbors, repaved her driveway, cleared out the trees in the yard to construct the perfect cedar patio all while Father sat in his easy chair watching the Mets game.

When I was young and foolish, I would find myself actually getting annoyed by these stories.

And, gasp, trying to CORRECT her memory of the events.

She would argue so adamantly and persuasively that I would start to doubt myself.

Hmmm, maybe Mother really was personally responsible for the moon launch because she sent those muffins to NASA in 1968.

Now I just keep my mouth shut .

Last night, my son at 19, found himself the topic of one of Mother's STORIES.

As he shook his head and opened his mouth to correct her I was tempted to stop him.

The hell with it, I thought, in this family it is every man for himself.

Friday, March 7, 2008

I remember when I was a girl, my mother would offer to anyone that would ask, and often those that didn't, that she didn't feel a day over 21 and couldn't understand where the time went.

As I glanced at her hair in curlers and her spreading butt in polyester pants, I couldn't imagine how the inside did not match the reflection she must see every morning in her vanity mirror. Just wait, she offered. Just wait.

Alas, as many other things she cursed me with had come to pass, such as my brats torturing me as I tortured her, so did the fact the face looking back at me in the mirror has no resemblance to the face I expect to see.

In my youth, I was one of the lucky ones. I was fortunate enough to be admired by many men and not just the lackeys at construction sites that will hoot and whistle and anything with breasts.

Of course instead of using that admiration to my advantage, I managed to hook up and marry two of the most worthless human beings with dicks that God put on this earth.

Yeah know, why marry a physician or an accountant when I could marry a wanna be rock star with a cute ass?

Needless to say, my mirror has been betraying me more and more as the days pass. It all started with the forehead lines as payback for the years of frying in the sun thinking my face looked so healthy with a tan.

This morning I noticed little lines beginning to appear around my eyes.

Laugh lines they are called.

I don't find them fucking funny at all.

Of course this butt is never going to fit a pair of size 8 Jordache again. And to think, back then I was embarrassed to have to ask a clerk for such a LARGE size knowing she was just snickering behind and about my fat ass.

Fortunately, there are still gentlemen that want to fuck me enough to tell me that there is NO WAY I look a day over 30 and to them, I offer my undying love and a pretty good chance at a blow job.

As for my mirror? I've changed all my bulbs to 20 watts and put them on a dimmer.

Now if I can only figure out a way to get my scale to cooperate.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

I tend to avoid taking a political stand on my blog. Folks in my real world are forced to listen to my rants but why would an opinion of a crazy, perpetually PMSing liberal mean shit to you kids?

Why indeed.

Always having to be the little rebel, I am surrounded by right wing Republicans. My family and I keep the peace by avoiding any talk beyond the weather and I even think THAT is GWs fault.

However, there is something that is REALLY pissing me off even though it isn't a new issue by any means. As if I am not embarrassed enough living in the state of the hanging chads and the transition to a color in the dot you fucking moron system of voting;

Now Florida residents will get to vote in November on a constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage.

The group, Florida4Marriage, collected 649,000 signatures to get the issue on the ballot this year. This group of right wing fucktards with too much time on their hands are so pissed off that this ban failed in Congress in 2006 that they decided they need to handle this within state lines so that Mr. and Mr. John Smith don't buy the 3/2 next door.

The concept of not denying people their rights unless you can show a compelling reason to deny them is the very basis of the American ideal of human rights. Yet, over SIX HUNDRED THOUSAND of my fellow Floridians think that BANNING personal choices is the American way.
Of course we aren't alone by any means. Currently 26 states have amendments specifically banning gay marriage and citing that marriage must be between a man and a woman.

I am not a close minded person and have listened to the arguments for this ban. The one I hear over and over is the Big Guy doesn't like it. Believe it or not, this is the only argument I view as moderately reasonable.

People's spiritual beliefs are very important to them. It is that personal logic that dictates how the religious see the world and how they want the world to see them.

In other words, if you live your life believing the good book, thou shall not bring a gift and do the chicken dance at Mary and Jane's wedding seems reasonable. It is pretty clearly written in black and white right there next to the part about it not being a good idea to have an intimate relationship with Rover.

However, not everyone else practices religion and that whole argument seems to stomp all over this pesky little Constitutional phrase....

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof...

As a straight woman that has failed at two marriages, I don't feel the least bit threatened that a same sex union would somehow make my commitments have less value. I managed to assure my marriages had no value all by myself.

My point is this...

If you strongly believe that people of the same sex shouldn't marry, then don't marry someone of your same sex.

But please stop signing petitions that limit the rights of United States citizens.

It is making me cranky.

Saturday, March 1, 2008

I've been a member of the blogger community for several years now. We are an interesting little nitch in twenty first century society. A world unto ourselves. Some of us use blogging as an extension of our daily lives. It is put out there for friends and family members to get updates and keep in touch. Others use it to give political opinions and pop culture updates.

Still others to vent about what particular stick got rammed up their ass on that particular day.

As you kiddos are well aware, I fall into the latter category.

The blogs I keep going back to also fall into that category.

You all know we're the kewl kids. The kids that had our own table in the lunch room and sneered down arrogantly on everyone else.

I have tried to get on board with blogs that talk about Aunt Beulahs bunion removal or Little Joey's diaper rash but really....

I don't give a shit.

But when I stumble across a blog like that and I see 40 plus comments, I shake my head in wonder...

Who READS this shit? I mean I totally see the attraction of writing it. If you life is so sad that your musings are focused on bakes sales and play dates, well I would imagine having a social life online helps in not blowing your fucking brains out. But really....what the fuck is up with the other forty of you that not only read the entry but come back and read the same boring shit the next fucking day?!

So I, always the investigator of the mundane and pointless, follow the breadcrumbs and check out the commentors blogs.

Yeah, just as I suspected, they suck too.

So what I am proposing is a new warning screen that can go hand in hand with the adult content alert that is required when a naked boobie or two is contained within.

This one should say........

The following blog contains intense bragging about below average children and stupid fucking expressions like dear husband. You may find talk of hysterectomies and bake sales...perhaps a graph about weigh loss and if you really hit the tendious jackpot, a picture of a puppy or two. Do you agree to continue? If you click yes, go into your medicine cabinet, take DH's straight razor hidden behind your multi vitamin with iron, climb into the bath tub with generous amounts of that lavendar bath foam you use, settle in and slash your fucking wrists. You are already the walking dead so you may as well look the part.

I'll see the rest of you at the popular kid's table Monday.