Friday, November 30, 2007

Scare Tactics for Teens

Yesterday Suzel's Sass did a little post about running low on gas. It got me thinking about how running out of gas is one of my big fears. Yeah. I know, totally irrational, but true. I have never in my entire life run out of gas.

I also tend to be an overly cautious driver.

Here's why:

When I was a youngster my parents always chose a preparatory form of discipline, meaning they would go way overboard with warnings prior to my having done anything wrong. A sort of preemptive strike of tough love, if you will.

The one about gas went like this:
If you ever run out of gas it is your own fault for not paying attention, so don't bother calling us to come help you. We will leave you stranded wherever you are.

Here's another one concerning the fuel tank of the car:
If you ever return our car without the same amount of gas that was in the tank before you drove it, don't bother bringing it back at all.

And yet another teen driving related gem:
If you ever get into an accident while you are driving our car we will take away your driving privileges until after graduation.

Do you know they said all of these things to me before I even got my learner's permit?

Most teenagers (in Ohio anyway) look forward to turning 15 because that is the year you can get your learning permit. You take a written test and if you pass you get a permit to drive with a licensed driver in the car. Most teenagers look forward to learning to drive.

Not me.

All those rules with no room for error?

I didn't care if I never learned to drive. A freakish attitude for a Mid-Western teenager indeed, but I had a bit of an attitude problem about everything generally and didn't ever like to get excited about much of anything. Especially if was something that I saw other teen-age girls getting all charged up over.

I sneered at charged up teen-age squealing.
I sneered at driving.

On my 15th birthday in July of 1982 my parents got me a certificate to get driving lessons from Lazarus, a local department store that offered individualized lessons with a private instructor. They didn't approve of the Driver's Ed classes offered for free at my high school. Not thorough enough they said. They were right too because I didn't know of anyone that took the driver's ed at my high school that didn't have to retake the driving exam at the BMV multiple times to finally get their license.

A few days after my birthday my mom took me to our town's branch of the Ohio Bureau of Motor Vehicles and I got my learner's permit. She asked me if I'd like to drive us home. I said no.

In the days and weeks that followed my mother repeatedly asked me if I wanted to drive everywhere. Grocery store? No. Pick up my sister from summer school? No. End of the street? No. Crazy Aunt's house to go swimming (she lived a few blocks away)? No. No. And still NO.

After several weeks of constant nagging I finally agreed to drive to my friend's house that I had made plans to hang out with one Saturday afternoon. I buckled to the constant harping, figuring it would get my mother, who was by this point whipped into a frenzy over my cool aloofness with regard to driving, off my back for a little while.

The poor woman was clearly puzzled and not just a little concerned about why I was not peeing in my pants with excitement about learning to drive. Add this to the her litany of other concerns, Why didn't I have more "normal" friends? Why wasn't I trying out for the dance team? Why wasn't I more interested in boys? For most of my teen-age and early adult life, unbeknownst to me but to my utter delight when I found out years later, she wrung her hands and stayed awake at night worrying that I was a lesbian.

You guys know that I'm kind of an asshole, right?

The truth is I didn't want to learn to drive. It was too scary.

Also I reasoned, based upon the all of the rules and warnings listed above that had been issued and repeated like a broken record over the years, in stern, angry tones, it would be yet one more privilege to be dangled in front of my face and yanked away at their will.

Fuck that.

I further reasoned that if I didn't learn how to drive, not only would my parents have one less way to punish me, but also that my mother would have to continue to drive me around to all of my various teen-age destinations (mall, my best friend Bob's house, etc..), like a station wagon chauffeur and that would just be hilarious. Most of my other friends were learning to drive so they could cart me around since I was spending most of my time with them anyway. Besides, I had a bike.

So the big day finally arrives when I am to drive to my friends house.

My sister was with us, taking her spot in the back seat. She was confused when I got into the driver's seat and my mom got into the passenger's seat. She said, "What you doing?" My mom had been explaining to my sister the whole time that "Lady is a big girl now and she's going to drive a car!" So all of this time, in addition to my mother's constant nagging, I also had my sister asking every time we went anywhere all summer, "Lady gonna drive?, Lady gonna drive?", and my mother answering sadly, "No, not today Honey. Today Mommy's gonna drive".

Once we were all loaded up, my mom handed me the car keys. Which I promptly stuck into the ignition hole thingy (don't look for correct technical terms here) and then we just sat there. She looked at me like I was an idiot and then calmly showed me that I had to turn the key and gently pump on the gas pedal. Then she had to show me how to put the car in reverse. Then we all screamed at the top of our lungs as the car zoomed backwards down our driveway, out into the street, bouncing violently over the curb of the sidewalk and into the grass of the neighbor's lawn across the street.

After a few moments we composed ourselves apologized to our neighbor, who understood as he had himself 2 grown daughters. We eventually got straightened out, took some deep breaths and drove the half block to the stop sign at the end of our street after what seemed like 20 minutes.

By this time, my sister had had enough of this shit.

As she did whenever she was upset, she began bouncing up and down in her seat and banging her forehead rhythmically against the seat rest in front of her, and quietly chanting, "I don't like this, I don't like this, I don't like this..."

The kid was onto something.

But Mom insisted we keep going.

I had no idea what I was doing and this shocked my mother to her core. She had been driving since she was a child and had learned to drive out of necessity on her uncle's farm. She had been driving for so long that for her it was second nature, instictive. She had mistakenly assumed that I would magically know how to drive too. So she kept us moving forward, thinking that at any moment my instincts would kick in.

They didn't.

We carried on with our journey in fits and starts that rocked the car back and forth for the 7 miles between my friends' house and ours. Each time my inexperienced foot touched the gas pedal we lurched forward, scaring the shit out of all of us and causing me to suddenly slam on the breaks in reaction. Along the way I encountered for the first time traffic lights, cars merging into my lane from a freeway exit, pedestrians in crosswalks, railroad tracks, etc..

By the time we got to my friends house all three of us were hysterical and crying.

My sister's chant had changed to, "Mommy you drive now, Mommy you drive now, Mommy you drive NOW..."

I was too shaken up to hang out with my friend so I offered my aplogies, suggested we hang out some other time and Mom and I switched places in my friend's driveway. We went back home in silence. My sister had ceased her chanting, but continued to quietly bounce and knock her head in the seat rest.

I didn't attempt to drive again for several months. The certificate for the Lazarus driving lessons sat untouched in my bedroom vanity for the rest of the summer and well into the middle of the following school year. My mother continued to cart me around, but somehow it wasn't that funny.

My sister, was scarred from the experience for several years afterwards. She would not get into a car with me behind the wheel until after I had turned 18 and had gotten my own car. Even then I had to drive her around the block a few times before she believed I could drive. Also I bribed her by allowing her to sit in the front seat and taking her to the McDonald's drive-thru.

Of course now I'm an excellent driver (Rainman reference). I enjoy it too. In fact MDH calls me "The Ultimate Driving Machine" and prefers that I drive on most of our car trips.

Oh, and I never let us run out of gas either.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Sad & Grumpy, Down In the Dumpy

Sometimes MDH and I use the word "nap" as code for "meet me under the sheets for that leisurely kind of afternoon lovin'." No sleeping is ever involved, which works out good for me because my sleep patterns get all goofed up when I partake of any extra kind of restful shuteye.

This post is about the other kind of nap. A real nap, but not a real nap, as I have never been able to master the art of napping. When I nap it's usually by accident and I wake up and stay up all friggin' night long regretting it.

Here's how it started:

Sometimes we have computer use and TV watching scheduling conflicts. This is way more likely to happen during football/basketball season, AKA fall, winter and spring, AKA three quarters of the goddamn fucking year.

Most of the time MDH is either watching his sports on (hogging) the main TV in our den, leaving the computer in the office available for me to use, or watching/listening to his sports in the office on (bogarting) the computer, leaving the TV in the den available for me to watch. It usually works out OK and I don't mind having either space to myself. Sometimes I've got other stuff to do that doesn't involve being in either room anyway.

But sometimes I do mind and I mind very much indeed.

So when he announced last night that he was going to spend the evening watching college basketball, I really needed a clarification. Where, when and for how long will I be relegated to a different part of the house?

I didn't like his answer.

He said he would start watching sports at 7:10PM, but planned on surfing the net in the office in the meantime. It was 5:30. I was already in the office using the computer doing a little research and backing up some files in preparation for reformatting our hard drive (coming up this weekend most likely). Then he said, "You've got the den until then." So he essentially kicked me out of the office. And what's worse? I let him.

Because of my passive aggression I gave no direct verbal protest. Instead I stormed about for a bit, pouting and muttering to him under my breath.

Well sir, thank you so much for that generous offer... maybe I don't want to go to the den and maybe there is nothing on television worth watching during the allotted hour and 50 minutes you've so generously given to me. Maybe I'm a bit premenstrual, and maybe I'm a bit more likely to get miffed at your lording over both rooms all the time like you own the place. Well, you don't own me... Maybe I just won't be cooking your dinner tonight mister ...

and so on...

After sputtering around for awhile my final solution to was to say screw it to both den and office, go to our bedroom and slam the door, hop into our bed and start reading. That'll fix his wagon.

I never said I was rational.

After a few minutes I was enjoying my lovely novel and no longer miffed, but I was awfully darn cold, so I tucked in under the covers. Before too long I was face planted in the book, and sacked out for the next 5 hours, fully clothed.

When I woke up at around 10:30 I was completely refreshed and wide awake, but my nose and lungs were choked with the smell something left on the stove for too long. This can only mean that MDH cooked his own dinner. I knew he had cooked spaghetti before I even got out of bed. Not only because that is the only thing he knows how to cook, but I could smell the burnt pot. Apparently his recipe for making pasta includes leaving a huge pot of water to boil dry and burn until it starts stinking up the whole house and then boiling more water and starting the whole process all over again.

So I woke up infuriated.

Infuriated and wide awake at 10:30 at night and I continue to be wide awake this very moment. I'm not infuriated anymore.

I started off bitching that there was nothing on TV from 5:30 to 7:10PM, well I'll tell you there is really nothing on TV from 10:30PM til 7:30AM. So I read a lot, ate the last piece of pumpkin pie, cleaned up his filthy mess in the kitchen, watched Project Runway on my DVR and an edited version of Silence of the Lambs on TBS, did 2 loads of laundry. I finally gave in and started brewing coffee at 5AM. It was delicious.

Real naps are just not my thing. I don't even know the last time I took one. Whenever I have intentionally tried to nap, I set the alarm, so as not to sleep for too long as happened last night, and then lie awake waiting for the alarm to go off. My naps are usually not intentional and therefore end up lasting nearly as long as a full night's sleep.

My point is that unless it's the wink-wink sexy time kind of nap that's not really a nap, naps are pointless. Much like this post.

Since you made it all the way through this pointless post here is a video I hope you will enjoy. It made me fell better:

Rosey Grier sings "It's Alright to Cry" from Free To Be You & Me

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Nobody In Their Right Mind Would Need This #12 Special Only in America, Anger Fueled, Foul Language Whips & Dubs Edition

Bumper Nutz
Sometimes I really hate men. Sometimes I think a great majority of them are assholes.

But I always really hate being stuck behind this particular kind of asshole in traffic.

Asshole.

How long before someone invents Bumper Puss?

Diamond Rims for $22,000
Are you out of your goddamn mind with this ostentatious fucking bullshit?




Motherfucking Idiots On Crotch Rockets
Dear Shirtless and/or Helmetless Squids,

Please, by all means kill yourselves, but don't take me down with you. I know you think that you're all invincible and shit, but seriously, you're scaring the bejeezus out of all of us. You're giving me a stroke.

Assholes.

Dan Has the Conn

As I have mentioned in some previous posts our favorite couple friends Dan & Steph came to our house for Thanksgiving.

Dan has been one of my best friends for nearly 20 years. In the days when both of us were single we would sit around together in one anothers apartment playing video games or watching endless hours of TV, so it should be no surprise that although I spent a good deal of our time with his wife Steph in the kitchen, Dan and I managed to get in some good TV time.

Being a gracious host I turned over the conn (that's geek speak in my house for cable remote control) to Dan and let him have at it with the on demand programming available on our cable system. Here are a couple of tid-bits that he found on Adult Swim.

These are both from something called the Tim & Eric Awesome Show.

T'ird

Sports

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

My Sad iPod Haiku

My iPod is dead.

My lovely music all gone.
My ears are lonely.

Don't Bust Your Ass

One of the worst things that happened in the marriage of my parents was that after my father retired he began to care about the d├ęcor of their home. Suddenly after years of not caring or noticing, it became important to my dad to have some say in the purchase of furniture. This confused my mother greatly, for most of their life together she had gleefully made these kinds of purchases without his opinion or consent.

The closest she would come would be to say to him, “I’m buying a new loveseat.” To which my father would grunt acknowledgement of having heard her make a noise in his general direction, and then resume reading the sports page or watching golf on TV. The loveseat would magically appear some days or weeks later and if my mother didn’t say things to him like “Hey look! A new loveseat!”, my dad would have planted his butt upon it and never noticed anything new or different.

After he retired my mother’s blissful lifestyle of buying whatever she pleased came to a grinding halt.

My dad retired in the late spring and spent his days playing as much golf as possible. He was happier than he’d been in years. He joined a country club so that it would be easier to find other men to play with, as not all of his regular golfing buddies were retired yet. He even took a summer job as a Ranger at a local public golf course. His life was golf, golf and more golf.

Then winter came.

No longer able to play golf every day he became bored shitless. So much so that he took a part time job stocking potato chips in grocery stores. When this was no longer a fulfilling way to pass the time he began to accompany my mother on her shopping trips.

At first my mother was delighted to have my dad along. After years of being a golf widow, and abjectly ignored by my dad she was pleased with his desire for her company. Her delight quickly turned to irritation, as he either would wait for her in the car, thus causing her to worry about him waiting in the car, and began to rush through her shopping, OR if he actually came into the store with her, he had an obnoxious opinion about everything she wanted to buy, so she ended up buying nothing.

The real problems started when my mom wanted to buy a suite of furniture for the formal dining room in the new house they had built a couple of years after his retirement. They had never had a formal dining room before.

My mom began to scour through local furniture stores for ideas with my father tagging along. My mother, never very innovative (she was a CPA), tended to buy entire room displays, including the artwork and tchatchkis, from furniture stores so that the look was certain to be recreated in exactly the same way in her home. After weeks of looking, she finally found a suite of furniture she loved. To her dismay my dad hated it.

He did something he never did and put his foot down, forbidding my mother to buy it.

She was stunned.

The dining room sat empty for months.

Then spring came and my father was otherwise occupied with golf and no longer interested in shopping for furniture with her, He was back to golf, golf and more golf. Spring and summer came and went and still the dining room remained empty. The sight of it left a sour taste in my mother’s mouth every time she passed by.

Eventually they found a set of furniture they could both agree upon, but my mom had never gotten used to the idea of having to consider dad’s decorating desires. Something that used to be a joy for her has become a chore.

They now live in Florida (The Villages!), where my dad is able to golf nearly year round and often twice a day. He still insists on accompanying her when she shops for furniture. It’s the third house they have purchased since retiring and my mom has simply given up trying to decorate.

It’s noticeable the minute you walk in the door. My mother’s taste has always run toward a mix of contemporary and traditional and yet the first thing you see when you walk into their house is an ornately carved marble and wrought iron monstrosity of a wine cabinet. It’s the size of a Buick, with a cheesy carved sign over the attached mirror that says, “Cabernet”. “Who knew he loved a fake Tuscan theme?”, she said bitterly.

She despises this thing.

They bought their current house about a year ago and she hasn’t purchased one new thing for it. Not one. When I was there last May I asked her about it and she heaved a sigh and said, “What’s the point?”

It had gotten so bad that she even refused to buy a new office chair to replace the one that had been broken for over a year. They went shopping together to buy one, but couldn’t agree on a style. Apparently the argument turned quite ugly. They are still both sore about the entire experience and still without an office chair. My mother brought in one of the dining room chairs to sit in when she uses the computer in their little office, but my father refuses to admit defeat by using the dining chair and continues to use the broken one. I’m worried that his obstinate ass will suffer a broken tailbone when the leg of the chair finally gives out.

Now I have done something I never thought I would have to do. I told my parents to stop acting like children and ordered them to get a new goddamn office chair before someone gets hurt.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Something Wicked This Way Comes

He may have a brain the size of a walnut, but our cat Turtle is smart enough to know when a shit storm is brewing.

It began gradually last Monday when I put away the stacks of CD's that had been sitting in the living room for several months, then I threw away all the junk mail and scoured the half bathroom that is located just off the den. I started to do a general straightening up in preparation for our Thanksgiving house guests. Turtle sauntered behind me, sniffing disapprovingly at the scent of cleanser in my wake.

The cat doesn't like it when we clean. It makes him suspicious.

By Wednesday afternoon he was nearing insanity as the non-stop cleaning clicked into high gear. He watched me wash the floor in our main bathroom, casting his head back and forth with each stroke of the mop. When I started scrubbing the shower tiles the repellent smell of the bleach drove him away for the safety of MDH's lap only to find MDH was busy cleaning too. No lap.

Turtle: What the fuck is going on around here? You people never clean.

Things peaked when MDH removed the suitcases from their usual storage spot in the guest room and put them in the basement. We travel a lot so Turtle assumes that if the suitcases are being touched he is soon to be whisked into his carrier and off to the vet for boarding. MDH said Turtle danced closely behind him all the way down to the basement with the luggage, mewling and squeaking the whole time.

The cat was concerned.

The cat hates the luggage.

Turtle: Please don't leave me again! Meow. Squeak.

MDH: We're not going anywhere buddy. Calm down. Save your strength or later. You'll need it.

I think carrying Turtle's food tray and dishes down to the basement is what finally put him over the edge. He followed me down, like he did with MDH and the luggage, mewling and squeaking. I patted his head and said some nice things in baby talk to him, but I don't think it was very reassuring. Now he seemed pissed.

Turtle: What the fuck? This belongs upstairs. Meow. Squeak.

Me: Dude, you have no idea how much worse things are about to get.

We had stopped cleaning at about 7pm so Turtle had had lots of time before our guests arrived to calm down and get used to dining arrangements in the basement (there's a kitty door cut into the basement door because that's where his litter box is located). We stayed up later than normal waiting for Dan and Steph so he also got lots of good lap time in.

Turtle: I'm so glad you've stopped cleaning, it smells funny and makes all the laps go away.

Me: Dude, you have no idea how your world is about crumble.

It snowed on Wednesday night so it took a lot longer for our friends to arrive than we originally anticipated. They finally pulled into the driveway around midnight. Dan, Steph and their dog Lupini.

Yes. A dog.

I should say right here that Lupini is one of the most sweet natured doggies ever, lest I would not have included him with the invitation to Dan and Steph to spend Thanksgiving with us. I figured I'd put Turtles food in the basement for a few days and he could use the kitty door to come and go and escape from the dog as he pleased. I thought they might even be playing with each other by Friday afternoon.

It didn't quite turn that way. I don't want to say they didn't get along, because Lupini was fine. In fact he was a perfect gentleman. Turtle was scared out of his mind and suddenly puffed up and swelled to about 10 times his normal size and made noises I've never heard him make before.

Lupini was ready to play, but understandably confused by Turtles reaction to his exuberant advances.

Lupini: Hey Lady, what's wrong with your dog?

Lupini got his ears boxed with angry kitty paws and then Turtle retreated to the basement for the rest of their visit.

Turtle had a really bad Thanksgiving.

Lupini on the other hand seemed to enjoy himself immensely. He got lots of yummy table scraps, a nice fenced yard to run around in, and there were 4 more hands petting him than normal.

When they left on Saturday I had to physically pick Turtle up and carry him upstairs to prove to him that the dog was gone. He spent the next several hours sniffing every surface the dog had touched and squeaking pathetically.

He's sitting on my lap now while I'm typing this so I assume he's forgiven us.
PS - Thanks Dan & Steph for the kitty toys. He especially likes the springy blue thing.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Me & The Guys Part 3

Personality Disorder Had a Date With a Real Live Woman

Personality Disorder was our other sales dude at the sub-contractor where I worked in the middle and late nineties, and the polar opposite of Perky Man. Although he too was a big pot head, he was perpetually depressed, short tempered and prone to brooding.

Personality Disorder was always really sweet to me though.

I heard through the grapevine that he harbored a terrible crush on me. I kind of knew it, but refused to acknowledge it in any real way. He would compliment me by telling me I smelled like rose petals or that my hair looked like satin. His mouth barely moved when he spoke and he couldn't look me in the eye when he said these things. I would usually respond by saying things like "Wow. That's really nice of you to say," and then Personality Disorder would skulk off muttering self loathing things to himself.

Don't get me wrong, I was indeed super cute and had (then and ever after) excellent grooming habits that caused me to smell very nice and have shiny hair, but I think he liked me more because I was the only woman he knew besides his mother that he could talk to and was nice to him.

After I had been working there for about a year, the moment I had been dreading arrived. Fueled by a the confidence of a recent raise, a haircut and a pep talk from Perky Man, Personality Disorder asked me out on a date. I politely refused, stating that I made it a strict policy to never date anyone that I worked with. A huge lie, but at that moment, working for that sub-contractor, the only woman among all those nasty men, it was never more true.

He was totally bummed out and skulked off muttering to himself and didn't speak to me for several weeks. He would come in and pick up his schedule in the morning before I came in.

I felt terrible. He was a really nice man, but there was no way I was going out with him. He was a fuckin' weirdo.

One afternoon my boss Laughing Boy came in from his morning appointments and asked what part of town Personality Disorder was working in that day. I grabbed the schedule and showed him and he said to get him on the phone immediately. Laughing Boy had heard on the news that a man in Personality Disorder's neighborhood was on some shooting spree was still on the loose. He fit the physical description of Personality Disorder. Laughing Boy's first thought was that Personality Disorder had finally had his inevitable freak out and was going nuts killing people.

It wasn't him, but he certainly had the potential to be that same brand of psycho.

Eventually he recovered from my refusal of his affections and we got along just fine, although he continued to scare me a in a Lenny and Curley's Wife kind of way. I would never have been alone with him in a barn or let him hold my puppies (wink).

Believe it or not, Personality Disorder had a terrific sense of humor and we had a great time making fun of our customers together. I would put little stars next to the names on his schedule of the customers whom I predicted would be nutty or asshole-ish so that Personality Disorder would know to ask me about them before going out for the sales call.

Personality Disorder would give our customers funny nicknames like Chicken Lady (kept chickens in the house) or Crazy Legs Morton (a guy that couldn't stand still), and would always come back with a full (and I'm sure sometimes exaggerated) report of all the nuttiness witnessed in people's homes.

I mentioned before that Personality Disorder was terribly jealous of our other sales person, Perky Man's suave skills with the ladies.

Personality Disorder was a very lonely man.

He lived with his mother who relied upon him for everything and waited on him hand and foot. His dad died when he was a teenager. He desperately wanted to fall in love, get married and start a family.

I started giving him dating advice. Offering suggestions on how to meet women and how to talk to them without coming off like a total psychopath.

One day he came in from his appointments and announced that he had met someone special. I was really pleased about this until I found out that he had met her in the personals in the back of the Columbus Dispatch and had only talked to her on the phone twice. A little over eager with the "special" in my opinion, but I was excited for him and asked him describe her.

She sounded like a smaller female version of him. She was in sales, lived with her mother, was painfully shy and wanted desperately to fall in love and start a family. As it happened she went to a therapist in the same building as Personality Disorder's therapist.

Clearly it was kismet.

Personality Disorder asked me to schedule his appointments light for the day of his date. Then later he changed his mind and asked me to clear his entire schedule after 1pm thinking that he'd need some extra time to get ready.

I asked him what time his date was and he said 7:30pm.

Laughing Boy and I speculated about what exactly Personality Disorder would do to get ready for a date that required 6 and half hours. We had a lot of laughs (hence the handle Laughing Boy) tossing out possible Personality Disorder agendas of getting ready for a date:

  • 1:15PM - Bong hits
  • 1:18PM - Eat peanut butter sandwiches with crusts cut off prepared by mother
  • 1:20PM - Play Galaga
  • 5:30PM - Masturbate
  • 5:35PM - Cry
  • 5:40PM - Bong hits
  • 6:00PM - Shower
  • 6:15PM - Shave
  • 6:10PM - Anoint self with oils
  • 6:15PM - Beat self with willow branches
  • 6:20PM - Chant
  • 6:25PM - Masturbate
  • 6:30PM - Cry
  • 6:35PM - Wash hands
  • 6:45 PM - Get dressed
  • 6:46 PM - Avoid bong hits and masturbating
  • 7:00PM - Drive to date's house
  • 7:05 PM - Sit in car...
  • 7:06 PM - Masturbate
  • 7:10 PM - Cry
  • 7:25 PM - Ring date's doorbell
  • 7:26 PM - Ask where the powder room is so he can wash his hands.

and so on...

He called in sick the day after this date.

He was married to this woman within 6 months of this date.

She seemed very controlling to me because she would call the office and ask me to lighten his schedule which did nothing but piss me off. I told her that I would defer to Personality Disorder who was usually asking me to do the opposite and schedule him with more sales calls so he could potentially bring in more commissions.

He quit shortly after this. His fiance, whom Laughing Boy and I referred to secretly as Anita Man, was pregnant and didn't think he was making enough money and demanded he find a new job.

I never saw him again, but sometimes Perky Man would give me sad updates about how Personality Disorder had been brutally emasculated by Anita Man and was no longer able to do anything he enjoyed like smoke pot, play video games or hang out with the boys. Basically Personality Disorder was every bit as miserable as he was prior to having all his dreams of love, marriage and a family come true.

The dating advice I wish I'd given him: Don't marry someone who calls your work and asks them to change your schedule for you, like you're some kind of pussy-whipped bitch.

Oh, and be careful what you wish for.

Friday, November 23, 2007

Comfort Eagle (Not funny, but full bellied)

Here are some lovely snaps of the first Thanksgiving I've ever hosted (or heard of) where everyone wore pajamas. Yes, none of us bathed or changed into normal clothes all day long. I cooked, served and enjoyed the entire day in the same outfit I had worn to bed the night before, as did everyone else. I had on a sports bra, of course. I'm not a total barbarian.

That is good living.

So, fuck you Martha Stewart - I recommend that everyone someday should enjoy a holiday in loungewear and slippers.

We all agreed that no photos would be taken of any of us in our less than photogenic and unpresentable states. Well, none that will ever be published on the internet.

The Thanksgiving Spread
What a difference a day makes...
Tonight's fare, a little bit lighter just a nice salad and some Sausage & White Bean Cassoulet, which you can find the recipe for here.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Prolonging the Magic

It's Thanksgiving Eve and the trees and shrubs in our yard still have half of their leaves on them. Some of the leaves are still green. I'm almost too freaked out to enjoy it.

Who knows how long it will keep up? In all the previous years we have lived here the leaves on the shrubbery between our house and our neighbors behind are gone right after Halloween, leaving us with no protective shield between us and them. Almost the entire back of our house is huge picture windows. Theirs is the same.

In the winter time we are all up in each others business, visually.

We are clinging to our privacy for all it's worth by walking around in our underwear a little more often than we normally would do.

I can't help but wonder if our neighbors are doing the same.

My vote? Probably not.

They don't strike me as the kind of people who give a shit what the neighbors are up to as long as it doesn't involve property lines and barking dogs in the middle of the night. Certainly they are not the kind of people who create imaginary underwear wearing contests with their hermit neighbors.

They are a couple who appear to be about our same age or younger with no children and a very old black Chow-Chow that doesn't bark. We have seen the man-husband practicing his putt while sporting a jacket with a logo for a competing soft drink company than the one that MDH works for. That by itself is enough to make us avoid them.

They do seem really nice and sometimes I hear them in the warmer months in their backyard when they have parties and barbecues. Based on their 1992 Top Forty type of musical selections at these parties MDH and I have decided that other than not having children, we have nothing in common with these people and we will do everything in our power to avoid meeting them. Forever.

I think that we are just not nice people.

Enjoy the picture above of me back about 35 years ago when I was a little more neighborly. That's me (squinting and dressed for a snowstorm) and and my next door neighbor Mrs. French who I thought was the most beautiful old lady ever.

She smelled like pineapples and Ben Gay and showed me how to grow my own avocado by sticking toothpicks in the pit and suspending it in a glass of water in the kitchen window. I wasn't really sure what an avocado was, but I liked the idea of turning garbage into a fruit you could eat.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

And while I'm at it...


Is Opie short for something or did Andy Griffith just hate children?

An Observation from Out of Nowhere

I think that Robert Redford should hire a new stylist as it has occurred to me recently that he looks exactly the same in every movie he has ever been in since The Way We Were. At least he cut his hair for his role as Hubbell.

I'm not even sure he's really acting anymore unless he only chooses roles where the lead character is soft spoken, has sandy, overgrown hair and wears blue workshirts and cowboy boots. He should mix it up a little and get a haircut for a film, grow a moustache. Something. Anything would be a nice change. He's been rocking the dreamy cowboy look for way too long.

Why does he even bother to give names to the characters he plays in films? He's playing himself in every one.

It's like he's the Horse Whisperer over and over and over and over...



He really bugs me.

In Response To Your Google Search Query #4

Dear Person Who Found My Blog Via The Search Query "flew when no one else was watching",

Of course you did, Sweetie.

It's a bummer that no one saw you, but isn't that always how it goes?

One minute you are changing the light bulb in the foyer chandelier, and the next thing you know the step ladder is gone and you're hovering up there all by yourself noticing how dusty the doorbell speaker has gotten. It's surely a Kodak moment, but where hell is everybody?

That's exactly why you should never mainline your heroin when you're all alone. Not only because there is safety in numbers but also because it's good to have someone ready with a camera in case you start convulsing and foaming at the mouth, and besides what's the point of flying if there's nobody around to film it and upload it to YouTube?

Of course I'm not crazy or on drugs like you, so I've never actually flown, but I can tell you I do some of my best work when no one else is watching. I usually cover up the smell with a thorough fogging of Febreeze or if I'm caught off guard I blame it on the cat.

Anyhoo... back to your problem...

If you are spending any time at all with your family for the holidays I think it's wise to hang onto your drug addiction a little while longer. Wait until after New Year's and then get yourself in to a nice 12 step treatment program as soon as possible.

If the flying persists I recommend keeping a duster with you at all times. You may as well make yourself useful while you're up there.

If it tends to happen when you are outdoors, always keep a baked potato in each pocket. They'll keep you warm for awhile. They will also help weigh you down a little and you'll have a snack handy in case you get hungry.
Can you clean out the gutters since you're going to be up there anyway? Oh, and grab that frisbee. We've been looking for that for ages.

Happy Thanksgiving & Kindest Regards!
The Lady

Monday, November 19, 2007

Post Interview Stress Syndrome: This Situation Calls for 740 Empty Calories

Of course they liked me. They always do. But you can only coast through life so far on charm and cuteness.

These people also expected me to have skills that were relevant to the position. They are looking for someone who is proficient in a couple of programming languages I'm merely vaguely familiar with. I parried that by telling them I make a mean lasagne, and although they were impressed, or maybe just hungry, it didn't seem to give me any advantage.

Speaking of hungry, in all my excitement and pre-interview preparations I forgot to eat today. So round about the time my hour of uncomfortable questioning and inane small talk was over I was lucky to have made it through the parking lot back to my car without passing out.

There was only one thing for it. A number three extra value meal, aka quarter cheese and fries. With a diet soda, of course. I'm not some kind of pig after all.

Anyhoo... Would you excuse me for a moment? I feel a stress relieving rant coming on.

HEY MCDONALD'S!

Did it ever occur to you that maybe I don't want to see the complete nutrition information on your products? Huh? Did you?

Maybe I prefer binging and trying to create a state of denial, in which case it's way better not to know.

I realize that all of your food is crappy and bad for me. I do. That is why I don't visit your establishment for several months at a stretch. I save McDonald's for those special moments where I have come back from a very stressful job interview say, and realize that I haven't eaten anthing all day. Let's just say I'm suddenly starving and needing a huge junk food fix.

It's more of a rushed and guilty shame spiral kind of scenario than it is a caring about the foodstuffs I require nourish my body, which I sometimes willfully enjoy forgetting is a temple.

Do you see where this is leading? When I want to eat at your restaurant it is precisely because I want the opposite of healthy nutrients that will fuel my body and feed my soul. I eat there because momentarily I do not care that your cheap and salty delights are derived from corn products I can't pronounce and rat poison. I'm begging you with my $3.95 to give them to me. Give them to me now. Yeah, with a diet soda. Hurry.


I'm going to jam those golden salty fries into my mouth as fast as possible. Hopefully they'll be gone before I get home so that I can hide the evidence and pop in a breath mint in case my husband has decided to come home from work early. Yeah, I said guilt and shame motherfucker.

Maybe you should put the nutrition information next to the food on the drive thru menu so that I can make an informed decision before I order instead of putting it on the bottom of the box so that I don't see it until I turn it over to throw it in the trash - AFTER I'VE ALREADY EATEN IT. I just wanted a little guilt and shame not a fuckin' suicide attempt by cholesterol.

I said binge. Not purge.

Would You Hire Me?

Hi! It's me, Lady! I'm just killing time before I have to start getting ready. I thought blogging might be better than pacing and blathering baby talk to the cat.

Thank you everyone for your well wishes!

Today I woke up feeling sound as a pound. Better than that - sound as a Euro.

I will be able to lift my arms after all and thereby fix my hair and put on make-up and hopefully wriggle into my Spanx with no issues (they are like wearing a hug).

Map & Directions?
Check.
Extra resume copies?
Check.
Napkin for spitting out gum before getting out of the car?
Check.
Collection of Sims 2 expansion packs in a stack with kleenex on top?
Check.

Hm.. I could use a little Visine.


I'm going to wear my brown pants with the pink pinstripe, bright blue RL dress shirt shirt and tan tweed jacket (of course the tweed). I'm also sporting my little sterling love knot (Tiffany!) for good luck and to remind myself that the only reason MDH started an arugument with me this morning is because he is nervous for me and not actually an economy sized asshole.

We used to argue in the car as he was driving me to the airport to leave for extra long business trips too.

That's not why I need the Visine. My eyes are super dry all winter long once we turn on the furnace every year.

Sunday, November 18, 2007

Pay No Attention To the Man Behind This Curtain

I didn't tell you this before, but I have a major job interview tomorrow.

Major.

I really want this job.

I would be happy to have any job at this point, but to get a job in my field for a large corporation where I would be performing a function that I spent the last several years of my life striving for and learning to perform well and get paid to do, in a beautiful and professionally designed building with atriums and shit, that's really more of a state of the art educational facility, well that would be really nice. Did I mention that it pays about 35% more than my last job too?

Friday night my back started to feel like it was on it's way out.

Sometimes, because my leg is so screwed up and I walk funny (my limp is either barely noticeable or my friends and loved ones are really good liars) I get these crippling back spasms. I can usually tell when they are coming on and walk on eggshells and try to do lots of stretches until the moment either passes and I recover or I spend the next 3 or 4 days flat on my back crying and braying in pain like a big jackass.

I have spent most of this weekend doing everything in my power to recover before 1pm tomorrow when I have to put on panty hose, a suit, tasteful jewelry and a big giant smile and spend 2+ hours trying to convince 3 people I have never met that I'm amazing in every way and perfectly suited to manage their web based hoozie whatsis and teach a class or two.

I'm way more convincing as a fabulous human being when I don't walk like a slow motion robot and punctuate every movement that involves lifting my arms with a horror movie scream.

MDH has been very helpful to me this weekend by picking things up and getting me stuff when I need it. A couple of times he has held my hand when I need a little support getting up from the sofa or out of bed. He even rubbed the small of my back a little without me even having to ask. He's been a real life saver, but I don't think it would be appropriate for me to bring him with me to my interview tomorrow. Maybe if I cover him up with a sheet they won't notice him.

There is no way I'm cancelling. No way.

Saturday, November 17, 2007

Dan's Corner

Dan G, who is one of my oldest and best friends, and his wife Steph, who is also one of my best friends, are coming to visit us for Thanksgiving. We don't get many house guests up here in the middle of Cold Nowhere so I'm nearly peeing in my pants with excitement. I say nearly because I wouldn't really do that unless you tickled me really hard and I already had to go. Besides I've got enough messes to clean up around here so get off me.

Anyhoo...

Dan, in addition to being one of my oldest and best friends is also one of the funniest people I have ever met and because we have known each other for so long his sense of humor has been a big part of what has formed my own sense of humor.

In short - we think the same shit is funny.

So here are a couple of things he's sent me recently that I hope you will enjoy as much as we have.

First of all he sent me this link and then Steph sent it to me again, probably not realizing that Dan had already sent it to me:
http://menwholooklikeoldlesbians.blogspot.com/

He sent me this YouTube video a long time ago and I'm just now getting around to posting it.

Little Indian Guy Dancing:

Friday, November 16, 2007

It's a Circle That Turns Round Upon Itself

I've been tagged by Chris at Radloff's Random Thoughts. I like memes and any opportunity to talk about myself at length. That's why I blog the way I do. I can go on and on about myself without having to hear my voice. It still surprises me that people come here and read my stuff. But I like it.

This meme is all about the number 8 which also happens to be my favorite number.

8 Passions in Life:

  1. My husband
  2. My friends
  3. Cooking
  4. Reading
  5. Music
  6. Movies
  7. Traveling
  8. Laughing

Do you think I'm a bad person because my family didn't make this list? I love them, but they are not a passion. Maybe someday I'll blog about why.

8 Things I'd Like to Do Before I Die

  1. Not die - I don't typically plan so far ahead. I usually have smaller short-term goals.
  2. Finally buy a couch and decorate our home for real. We live like sloppy college students. I dream of a home that is decorated and arranged and remodeled and beautiful in every way. I want a place that I'm not half ashamed for people to come and visit. Our house isn't horrible or anything, it's just not the cool, cozy shack I want it to be.
  3. Learn to speak another language like Italian or Portuguese or maybe finally master French. I know enough French to understand some subtitles and not order organs in a restaurant.*
  4. Live some place long enough to become a foster parent or possibly adopt an older child.
  5. I want to rent an apartment in Venice and immerse myself in that city.
  6. Bake a decent pie - I'm terrible with pastry and pie crusts.
  7. Learn to drive a stick shift. It's an embarrassment.
  8. See Machu Picchu.

8 Things I Say All the Time:

  1. Fuck you motherfuckah! (this is said in any and all circumstances)
  2. Hiiii Button! (to the cat)
  3. How's mammas Button? (also to the cat)
  4. Who's a good boy? (to the cat)
  5. Who's the kitty that loves his mamma? (yeah)
  6. Here is exactly what I want (to my husband)
  7. That's 10 minutes left in football time, but how long is that in real time? (also to my husband)
  8. OK. Hug me! (to anyone I love that I'm greeting or saying goodbye to)

8 Books I've Read Recently:

This ones easy because I never put anything away and they are all still stacked up next to the bed:

  1. I'm currently reading The Intuitionist by Colson Whitehead
  2. The Turn of the Screw & The Aspern Papers by Henry James (compiled into one tidy little paperback by Penguin Classics)
  3. You Shall Know Our Velocity by Dave Eggers
  4. First Among Sequels by Jasper Fford (I love the Thursday Next series)
  5. A Dirty Job by Christopher Moore
  6. Gentlemen and Players by Joanne Harris
  7. What Is the What by Dave Eggers
  8. The Golden Globe by John Varley (I re-read it for like the 3rd time)

8 Songs That Mean Something To Me

  1. To this day I cannot hear the theme to Merry Christmas Charlie Brown without busting out into tears. Seriously I don't watch that Christmas special when it comes on TV and make MDH watch it without me. My sister loved it and it makes me miss her too much, even after over 20 years. She played it every day through all seasons, it was kind of like her theme song.
  2. Tore Up by Sleepy LaBeef because the night that MDH passionately declared his love for me was in the parking lot at a Sleepy LaBeef show and that's the one song I remember specifically that Sleepy played. You can catch Sleepy at the Hey Hey in Columbus perty frequent-like.
  3. Weather With You by Crowded House because I sang it to MDH on our first date. I knew all the words and it was raining.
  4. The entire Cocteau Twins album (remember those?) Treasure. It's great headphone music.
  5. Hey Luciani! by The Fall - for the perky punk. I always associate this song with having a good time.
  6. Caramel by Suzanne Vega for reasons I care not to explain.
  7. What She Said by the Smiths because singing that song out loud is how I met Amy
  8. Love Will Tear Us Apart by Joy Division - because I remember swirling around in my gauzy black clothes to this song many times on the dance floor at Crazy Mama's.

8 Qualities I Look for In a Friend

  1. Funny
  2. Trustworthiness - won't spill secrets to MDH
  3. Smart
  4. Reads
  5. Doesn't mind being made fun of
  6. Likes to talk on the phone
  7. Has an eye for the ridiculous
  8. Thinks I'm funny

8 People to Tag

  1. Any
  2. body
  3. who
  4. feels
  5. like
  6. doing
  7. it
  8. too

Congratulations you've made it to the end of this meme!

Here is your reward:




* When I started writing this I had included shopping as one of the things I can do in French, but took it out because I remembered the last time we were in France and I went into a linens store to shop for some nice french linen table napkins and I'm pretty sure I asked for maxi pads. I guess you have to be careful how you refer to the gender of some items.

Oh yeah, and the time I tried to buy a t-shirt and kept asking for a chicken. Poulet - Pullover

Me & The Guys Part 2

Perky Man Goes On His Dream Vacation

Perky Man was our #1 sales dude at the subcontractor where I worked as the Office Manager from 1995 to late 1999. He was a great guy to work with because he rarely complained about anything, was always really upbeat and positive and I knew that I could rely on him to be places on time and that he would behave like a gentleman and not act like a total asshat when he was in a customer's home.

He was an attractive man, but he was a little too cute for my tastes.

He had a baby face and his features were just too precious and I could tell that he was going to look like William H. Macy as he aged. Lots of other women found him attractive though and were constantly calling looking for him or leaving messages with me at the office. Perky Man was a rather suave ladies man, and that's another reason I found him unattractive. I liked him a lot, just the same and considered him a friend.

It was nearly impossible not to like him.

I met his mother once when she was in town visiting and stopped into the office to meet Perky Man for lunch and I nearly choked because she looked exactly like him. I fussed over him and told her what a nice son she had raised. Later I told my boss, Laughing Boy, about it.

Laughing Boy: Oh, I'm sorry I missed Perky Man's mother, what was she like?

Me: Imagine Perky Man wearing knit separates from Talbot's and a curly frosted wig.

Perky Man was one of the most contented people I have ever known. He wasn't particularly ambitious and seemed perfectly cozy so long as he had enough money to cover his living expenses and had enough left over to buy pot and go to concerts. The man loved pot.

Perky Man was really cheap. He kept a pair of scissors in his car and would pull over to the side of the road and cut wildflowers to give to his girlfriends. They, of course thought this was wildly romantic. I, on the other hand was familiar with his patterns and knew that he kept scissors in his car because he did this all the time for every girl he dated and would be breaking up with them by leaving a message on their answering machines 2 weeks later.

Another fun example of his cheapness was that he refused to buy a new cell phone and walked around carrying one of these giant nightmares.

Perky Man usually went on vacation every year with our other sales dude, Personality Disorder, and many of their other hippie lettuce buddies to the Outer Banks, where they'd rent a house and lay around like a bunch of dopey slobs. Somehow Perky Man always managed to get laid on vacation, and Personality Disorder was terribly jealous of Perky's prowess with the ladies.

My boss, Laughing Boy, marshmallow that he was, allowed both of our sales dudes to go on vacation at the same time. It infuriated me because I was the one who did all the scheduling, but since Laughing Boy was the one who had to pick up the slack and do all of the sales calls while they were gone I didn't fuss about it too much.

One year Perky Man went on vacation to Jamaica. It was his ganja dream come true. Personality Disorder couldn't afford to go so Perky Man went with a different pothead friend. I was really happy for him because he'd been excited and talking about it for a long time.

When he came back he had an entire photo album of pictures of pot in various stages of growth and himself in various states of consciousness. There were many pictures of him holding giant (like 3 feet long) dried weed clusters in much the same way a fisherman has his picture taken holding up his big trophy catch.

Proud and confident, only instead of a fish he was holding giant dried stalks of cannabis and wearing a hooded, red-eyed, bleary smirk.

He lovingly reminisced over the pictures in the album with everyone at the office in much the same way that anyone would who has returned from their dream vacation (back in the days before everyone had a digital camera the photos were tangible kids!) as if the pictures were of things other than pot and of him by himself, smirking and stoned.

Did I mention that Perky Man was one of our best and most reliable employees?

Well, yes he was.

The next time you have work done in your home take a good long look at the sales rep who comes out to take measurements and the workmen who eventually come out to complete the job.

Take a good long look at them.

Don't ever leave these people in your home unattended and don't ever ask them any personal questions.

Unless you're looking to score a dime bag, then you're golden.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Me & The Guys Part 1

Junebug & The Most Ridiculous Phone Message I Have Ever Taken

At first I refused to take it.

The foremost part of my job at this place was to answer the phones and a great deal of that involved taking messages. Most of the messages were for my boss, Laughing Boy, the manager of the sub-contractor where I worked as the Office Manager from 1995 to late 1999. But some of the messages were for the men in the work crews. During this time hardly anyone had a cell phone, but most of our crew leaders had pagers.

Over time I had developed pretty good relationships with most of the guys wives and girlfriends. They would call during the work day and leave messages with me for the guys, knowing that I would see them when they called in or stopped back into the shop between jobs.

The wives and girlfriends also knew that I was the one who made the schedule and that I knew exactly where the men were (or were supposed to be) at any given point during the day.

I had a strict policy about this.

I did not give out exact locations.

After the person who called was confirmed by the crewman to indeed be a legit wife or girlfriend and he also confirmed that it was OK for this woman to know his business if she asked, I would reveal only what area the man was working in and when I expected them to be finished for the day. After that I would take whatever message they had. If it was an emergency I would page the crew leader.

I never lied or covered up for them.

If I knew I wouldn't be able to contact them I would tape their phone messages to the mailboxes I set up for them by the back door where they parked their trucks for the night before going home.

The Most Ridiculous Phone Message I Have Ever Taken was for a gentleman named Junebug.

I don't know why Junebug was allowed to continue his employment with the company and my best guess is the sum of 2 reasons.

1) Laughing Boy was a marshmallow

2) We were desperate for workmen and couldn't afford to pay very much so everyone with a strong back and a pulse was given a shot. Laughing Boy was over the moon if you had your own tools.

Laughing Boy shared with me this tid-bit from Junebug's interview:

Laughing Boy: Where do you see yourself in 5 years?

Junebug: Well I'm hopin' to be off the sauce and get my drivin' license back.

Laughing Boy: Are you drunk right now?

Junebug: No sir. But I smoked a little weed in the car on my way here to take the edge off, 'cause I was feelin' kind of nervous.

I reminded Laughing Boy that we would have to send Junebug to work in people's homes and that people would see (and smell) him wearing clothing with our company logo on them. But Laughing Boy felt sorry for him and admired his honesty and hired him anyway, but with very low expectations.

Junebug didn't disappoint us.




On his first day of work Junebug showed up on time but made 4 enormous mistakes.

His first, second and third mistakes were these:

He strutted through the door, walked over to where I was sitting, put both his hands on my shoulders and said at top volume, something to the effect of, "Damn girl, you lookin' fine today. OOoo-Whee! Can you go and get me a cup of coffee?"

His fourth mistake was this:

H
e did these things while I was on the phone with a customer.

I ignored Junebug who began to speak to me again in the same vein, until I turned around and he saw my face.

He stopped bugging me and skulked off.

When I got off the phone I informed him that my name was Lady and that is how he may refer to me from now on. I informed him that he may keep his hands and his opinion of my looks to himself, forever, no matter how fine I may be looking, and that the next time it happened he would be introduced to the company's sexual harassment policies which included firing or suspension without pay.

I further informed him that I was usually pretty busy doing my job and would never, ever have enough time to get him a cup of coffee, but that there was always a fresh pot in the break room and he may help himself whenever it should please him. Lastly I let him know that he was never, ever, under any circumstances to speak to me and expect an answer while I was on the phone.

After we understood each other, Junebug was kinda sweet, and as much of a gentleman to me as he knew how to be. He even attempted a little extra formality and added the word Miss to my name. Miss Lady.

Unfortunately Junebug could never be relied upon to show up for any Saturday shifts and would often disappear after I handed out the paychecks on Friday, leaving the crew leaders stranded with no helper for the rest of the day. No crew leaders wanted to have Junebug on their team and would often choose to work alone rather than have him along.

One Saturday morning he came in drunk and Laughing Boy had to send him home. It happened before I came in, but Laughing Boy said that it also appeared that Junebug had pissed himself.

It surprised me to find out that Junebug had a lady friend. A pretty serious one.

Here is how I found out:

One afternoon when I answered the phone a really wasted sounding woman politely asked for Junebug in a barely comprehensible slur. I said that he didn't really work in the office, but out in the field and that I'd be happy to leave him a message. She said no, that it was OK and she'd just get in touch with him later.

The same woman called back a few minutes later. Apparently she had changed her mind and decided to leave a message after all. It was the Most Ridiculous Phone Message I Have Ever Taken and after she gave me her name it went exactly like this:

"You tell Junebug that I DO love him and that I WILL marry him!!"

Allrighty. Yes.

I thought to myself, "I can't believe I am writing this down."

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Remember These Guys?

When I was mopping the kitchen floor this afternoon the King Missile song "Hamsters" popped up on the good ole iPod. I tried to find a video of "Hamsters" to post here today, but I couldn't find one. So I'm posting these three videos for other King Missile songs that I always liked too. I didn't have cable at the time that I was into this band so I've never seen the videos.

I went to see them play once at a place in Columbus called the Alrosa Villa with my friend Bob. We were both really broke and only had enough money to split one pitcher of beer between us. We decided to drink it as fast as possible to help us along with our buzz and each chugged 2 glasses very quickly and left the rest for later.

The Alrosas was the kind of place that bands with names like Whitesmoke, Deesel Fuel or Gun N Roses tribute bands would play and we almost didn't go to see King Missile when we found what club we'd have to go to. We had been there before but only because we had to, like when one of us was dating a musician because the Alrosa always hosted our local Battle of the Bands. Most of the guys that hung out at the Alrosa looked like this:

I went to the bathroom and when I got back Bob had vomited in our pitcher of beer.

She has always been a really sweet natured person and it is the only time I can ever remember being angry or disgusted with her.

Detachable Penis






My Heart Is A Flower







Here is a homemade one by some dude lip syncing that's pretty good too...

Cheesecake Truck




Nobody In Their Right Mind Would Need This #11A Bonus Velvet Edition

Fuck it. This blog and this post in particular is X-Rated.

OK, I'm posting this.

I've been holding onto it for some time now and can't seem to let it go. It's a little more on the risque side than my normal "Nobody Needs This" post, so I've put the picture of the item down closer to the bottom in case you don't want to see it, you'll have time to click off of my blog. Here is a nice blog about knitting you can click on instead.

Today I release to you:

The Wonderous Vulva Puppet
This item sells for $600. That's American dollars. This price doesn't include $30 to ship inside the continental US. I'm at a complete loss for words. Well, not really.

The website where I found this thing describes it as a tool for educators, healers and lovers. I totally get the educators and healers part. That makes sense. But if it's a tool for educators and healers why does it have to be velvet and cost 600 bucks? If it's a tool for lovers - get the fuck away from me.

Seriously, if you require a velvet vulva puppet to explain to your man all the things he's doing wrong you've probably got more problems outside of the boudoir and should break up with this dude.

Or worse yet can you imagine your mother coming after you with this thing to teach you about the birds and the bees?


This is kinda gross, right?

Or am I just bad at womanhood. No don't want to use the word hood...

Anyhoo...

Now, all that being said they are kinda pretty and I can't help but like this product and the fact that someone goes out and buys fabric and sews them together.

Wait. No. That didn't come out right.
Buys fabric and stitches...

Nope. That doesn't work either.

Nobody In Their Right Mind Would Need This #11 Special Fashion Edition

Muffin Top
Don't you like yourself? Don't you like the rest of us? Aren't you terribly uncomfortable? Don't you have a full length mirror? Doesn't anyone among your family and friends love you enough to tell you you look as if your jeans are cutting off all circulation to your liver and kidneys? This seems dangerous to me.

Not that I don't have some pants in my wardrobe that are a bit tight in the waist. I choose, however, to wear shirts that are long enough to cover up my big fat gut rather than short shirts that highlight my big fat gut.

I'm a people person.



Baggy Muscle Pants and Whatever You Call This Top
We get it dude, you're all muscle-y and shit. We get it. You work out 6 hours a day and eat raw eggs and hormones and have shelves full of giant containers of powdered protein on display for all to see in the finished basement bedroom of your mom's house. We get it, you enjoy showing us your giant arms and pink, taut nipples.

We get it.

You're a manly mass of buffness.

You're creeping everyone out.

By the way, when you dress like this everyone around you assumes you are a stupid meat head. I'm not saying body building is wrong or that you are a stupid meat head. I'm just saying keep it to yourself meat head and save this outfit for the gym.

Cover up.

Nobody wants to see your nips.

Teeshirts & Sweatshirts with Airbrushed Animals and/or Gothic/Sci-Fi Scenes

It's OK to have a passion for unicorns, kittens, wolves, eagles, tigers, scantily clad women wearing fur bikinis and carrying swords.

Whatever it is you're into it's totally fine.

But if you wear these types of shirts and wonder why you can't get laid it's because you are wearing these types of shirts and all the people you may like to have sex with think you are an enormous douche.

Fashion Disclaimer:
The views and opinions expressed in this post reflect the views and opinions of one middle aged, overweight, bitter and shoddily clad lady, currently writing this post in black sweatpants with a green stripe down the side and a safety orange, long sleeved LL Bean t-shirt that she has been wearing for 2 days straight.* The fashion views and opinions expressed in the blog are completely without merit as the middle aged, overweight slobbo writing it does not as yet, have her own column in Vogue or W Magazine and is not likely to ever have such any time soon or ever. The lady writing this blog does not claim to be an expert on fashion by any stretch of the imagination. Not at all. She merely states (in her personal opinion) the obvious for the purposes of humor and can only hope that those of you out there who may be reading the blog share her often condescending and imperialist viewpoint and sense of humor. If you hold a differing view to the ridiculous pieces of shit clothing choices above please feel free to offer up your opposing view in the comments.

*Please note the slovenly lady in question would never leave the house in the outfit described due to the magnetic attraction between her full length mirror and the giant stick up her ass.

Monday, November 12, 2007

In Response To Your Google Search Query #3

Dear Person Who Found My Blog Via The Search Query "my husband get irritated in the evening",

Aw honey, don't they all?

My husband get irritated in the morning, afternoon and evening too. He's irritated all ding dong day and frankly there's no solution that doesn't involve sore knees and personal lubricant. So either file for divorce or learn to live with it.

Just kidding!

Seriously darlin' if your husband gets irritated in the evening perhaps you should consider changing your routine. I've been happily married for 5 years and firmly believe much of our marital success is due to this one factor:

When my husband comes home in the evening I leave him the hell alone for 20 minutes.

It wasn't always this way. When we were newly shacked up I typically came home from work before him and having had my own down time, would greet him at the door with nonstop chatter, never realizing that my darling needed some down time too.

These days it's a kiss hello and then immediately goodbye. A scant 20 minutes. Try it.

If that doesn't work you can always greet him at the door wearing nothing but a wristwatch and a smile.

And finally a man's good humor can always be brought back to life with a glass of red wine and some fine chow. If you double that non-yammer time to 40 minutes you can make him this healthful and very easy recipe, guaranteed (not really, although it is delightful) to bring a smile to your grumpy husband's face and subsequently your face too.


Sausage & White Bean "Cassoulet"
(Altered slightly from a recipe in Gourmet Magazine)

Ingredients:

4 Sweet Italian sausage links (about 10 ounces total)*
1 teaspoon olive oil
2 medium sweet onions, halved and sliced thin lengthwise
2 garlic cloves, chopped fine
1 1/2 teaspoons mixed chopped fresh herbs like rosemary, thyme and/or sage or 3/4 teaspoon mixed dried herbs such as Herbs de Provence.
1 bay leaf
1/2 cup chopped scallion greens or fresh parsley leaves
1 (14.5 oz.) can diced tomatoes including juice
1 (19 oz.) can white beans such as cannellini, navy or Great Northern, drained and rinsed

For Topping (optional):
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 slices firm white sandwich bread, crusts discarded, cut into 1/4 inch cubes
1 small garlic clove, chopped fine
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh parsley leaves

In a medium skillet, cook sausages in oil over moderate heat, turning them until browned on all sides and cooked through, about 8 minutes, and transfer to paper towels to drain.
In fat remaining in skillet, cook onions until soft and transparent, add garlic and stir until golden or caramelized. Stir in herbs including bay leaf, scallions or parsley, tomatoes with juice, and salt and pepper to taste. Boil the mixture 5 minutes. Cut sausages into 1/4 inch think slices. Add sausage and beans to tomato mixture and cook, stirring, until heated through. Discard bay leaf and keep "cassoulet" warm, covered.

Make topping:
In a small skillet heat oil over moderately high heat until hot but not smoking and saute bread until pale golden. Stir in garlic, parsley and salt and pepper to taste and saute, stirring 1 minute.
Transfer "cassoulet" to a 1-quart serving dish and cover evenly with topping.

*I substitute with sweet Italian turkey sausage because it's lower in fat and cholesterol and every bit as tasty.


If you've stopped yammering at him for 20 minutes, served him this beautiful meal and done the thing with the knees and the lube and he's still irritated the man is a total asshole and you should probably change the locks and call your attorney.

I mean at that point isn't he the one who's irritating you?

Fuck that shit.

Best Wishes & Kindest Regards!
The Lady

Miss Lady Regrets

Saturday night MDH and I went to see the local Pops Symphony with a guest singer doing the songs of Ella Fitzgerald. It was very romantic. Also now I have all of those beautiful old standards swirling around through my head instead of the Menard's jingle for a change. Do you know that I refuse to ever shop there because of that stupid ass jingle. I'd rather kill myself than save big money at Menard's.

Anyhoo...

When we got home there was a message from my best friend Amy. I hadn't talked to her since before we went to Boston last Thursday and she sounded kinda down. The message said that she had some interesting information to share with me about her ex husband Assface, but that she may not be able to talk about it because it was her weekend with her daughter LBL, and she never spills about Assface in front of LBL (unlike Assface who says nasty shit about Amy to LBL all the time).

I called her and LBL was right there so there was no spilling, but we caught up on everything else and she'll probably call me tomorrow with the Assface report. Meanwhile I asked her if she'd had a chance to finally read my blog and was thrilled to find that she did! She read the Ass Fatties one that is really about her and her husband Ted and said she'd read a couple of others and really enjoyed them. I was thrilled.

Her opinion is really important to me, but she's way too busy most of the time to even sit down and watch a TV show, let alone read all my hot air.

Amy: You should write about the time that you set yourself on fire in McDonald's.

Me: That is uncanny! I did, a couple of posts ago.

Amy: Oh! Then you should write about the time that you tossed cat food into the air conditioner.

Me: Weird! I did! I just posted it today. Wait. What? I didn't toss it so much as I fell down. It was an accident.

Amy: Then you should write about the time that you threw the frozen turkey at Assface.

Me: Yeah, that might be funny...

Amy: or the time that you threw the frozen chicken in Kroger.

Me: What? I don't remember doing that... why would I do that?

Amy: or the time that your cigarette fell into the mailbox on James Road and you got all the mail back in a plastic bag a week later and the letter that said they were looking for the vandal that destroyed your mail.

Me: oh yeah, and then my boss went around telling everyone that I threw the cigarette into the mailbox as if I did it on purpose. It was an accident.

Amy: or the time that you dog sat for Assface and me and the dogs ate open the trash bag and your panty shields were all over the back yard when the insurance guy came over.

Me: It looked like really big confetti. I didn't think they would dig them out of the trash like that. That was an accident. Besides if the insurance guy had come to the front door like a normal person he wouldn't ever have seen them. What's wrong with people?

Amy: or the time that you were stuck behind a bus in traffic and honked your horn at it and then saw the lady in the wheelchair getting off the bus.

Me: Listen. It was taking a really long time and I had to pee.

Amy: or that one time that you...

This wasn't the exact conversation, but it's not too far removed.

She could have gone on like that all night.

She has so much good dirt on me.