Friday, July 30, 2010

Shameless AW Flaunt of My Semi-Middle-Class Status

I will warn you that this is a picture-heavy post and it is chock-full of confusing automotive terms that a highly-paid licensed professional auto mechanic won't even understand because I am basically making the terms up as I go along.

Just spent almost my entire extra summer school pay for the month of July on a 1993 BMW POS convertible that I can't drive.

Oh it's not that it doesn't RUN -- it runs beautifully....

I can't drive it because it is a standard and I don't know HOW to drive it. I was informed that it is a 5-speed. Which pretty much all that means to me is that it is a standard and I don't know how to drive it.

It fits my multiple personality disorder very well, because as you can see with the top up, it is a very cute little preppy-ish car.

The gear shift knob has the little "map" on it to show you where to move the knob to in order to shift gears, but it comes off sometimes. Especially if you are shifting wrong. Which for me, is actually more than sometimes.

MyPoolBoy offered to get me a new pretty little leather gear shift knob or an actual Beemer logo gear shift knob that would stay on no matter what sort of abuse it had to endure due to my ignorance, but it didn't have the "map" on it. So I am just going to have to learn how to shift without pulling the gear shift knob completely off the stick-thingy until I don't need the map anymore. Or get some superglue and glue the map one back down. Cuz if I got a Sharpie and drew my own map on a new pretty little gear shift knob, he'd probably get mad. Trust me. I KNOW him. He gets mad when I do shi+ like that.

But pretty much, since it is a convertible, I figure I don't even NEED to know how to drive it anyway because I can put MyPoolBoy in the driver's seat and I can sit on the back when the top is down and wear my tiara and be like the parade princess or homecoming queen ALL THE DAYUM TIME!

Which brings me to personality #2 - The Bimbo. This is definitely a bimbo car when the top is down.

Got it for 1/3 the original price that the guy wanted because I refuse to buy anything for full price. He was desperate. I had cash. Done deal.

Personality #3 - cheap white trash.

It is the first car I've ever had in my entire life that I got to pick out myself. So I am a bit annoying with it. EVERYONE has to see it! And I'll be the first to admit it is a POS. But it is a CONVERTIBLE POS so I don't care!!!!!!!!!!!! To me this is a HUGE step up from the mom-mobiles that I have disdainfully driven my almost-enough-for-my-own-basketball team gaggle of boys around in like an effed up locker-room-scented short-bus for the past 20-something years.

Personality #4 - midlife crisis.

The first thing we did was go get new keys made because the only key to my POS looked like this:

And you must use this key to open the passenger door, the trunk, and the gas tank.

Oh and you need it to start the car. So you must use it for the ignition too.

I don't know if you need it to open the glove compartment or not because the latch for the glove compartment is broken off so if it needs a key, I have absolutely no knowledge of that little detail.

You cannot use this key to open the driver's side door because the lock circle dealie on the driver's side is gone. The locking mechanism INSIDE still functions because you can unlock all the doors and the gas tank by turning the lock on the trunk key a certain way and you can hear the clicky noise when you turn it and the door handle does indeed refuse to open when the clicky noise is in the locked position.

So. We got new keys, which incidentally, did NOT come in pink, and the next thing we did was go pick up Felix and her ManHo. We drove around and Felix remarked that we needed it at the coast for a LucilleMobile. I agreed.

It is definitely a Thelma and Louise type of vehicle. We came to this conclusion while sitting in the back seat, enjoying the hair-tangling breezes with the top down.  The back seat upholstery had just been redone so it is very comfy (the guy was running out of money restoring this car, that's why he sold it so cheap).

Very obviously, the front seats have NOT just been redone.  Which means that I will have to buy some snazzy leopard print seat covers for the front seats.  We found some black ones with pink trim that were cute and all, but I think since the cracked dash is black and the rest of the interior is tan, the black and tan tones of leopard print will clash less. 

Felix and I then discovered that my next purchase needs to be duct tape. Because the speaker cover in the back seat came off while I was picking at it observing it.  

This picture was actually taken after Felix and I nearly peed all over the back seat upholstery from laughter and then we slammed it back into place hurriedly before MyPoolBoy got a chance to turn around and look and see what we were laughing at. 

Which brings me to the next thing.....

 MyPoolBoy attempted to adjust the rear-view mirror in order to see what we were laughing at in the back seat that made us nearly pee all over the back seat upholstery, and this happened: 

So now I need some sort of special epoxy gluey crap to put the mirror back onto the windshield.

Because now there is nothing from which to hang my pink fuzzy dice. 

This also reminds me - there are no visors coming down from the windshield either, so I am not real sure how anyone expects me to put my mascara and lip gloss on in the car on the way to work every day.

Plus MyPoolBoy informed me that I have to use one of my hands to shift gears or some shi+ so I can't put makeup on while I'm driving.  How is THAT supposed to work?????????  

We drove it over so Felix's niece could see it because we needed a break because our a$$es were sweating and sticking to the leather seat and Felix's niece laughed hysterically at the fact that I bought a car that I couldn't even drive.  Then she asked me if the air conditioning worked.  I honestly don't know.  I have pretty much had the top down since we got it and I'm not gonna run the a/c with the top down.

Cosmetically, the top is in remarkable condition for a 17-year old car.  The back window will never be adorned with stickers touting ANYONE'S football position or basketball jersey number because this is NOT A MOM CAR.  

Not that I could stick anything on the back window right now anyway.  One reason is that the clear bendy plastic window stuff that goes in the back window was in the process of being replaced and the guy HAS the clear plastic bendy stuff, we just have to go pick it up and get it put in.

The tires are in good shape.  The seat belts all work.  Which is good I guess.  The only additional safety feature that I have added is this:

SPF 45 - MyPoolBoy really needs to wear a hat when driving a convertible.

Oh.  One more thing ---

This little square piece of black plastic crap is hanging off the front bumper from a little thin piece of black plastic crap  -- Does anyone know what it is??????????

Thursday, July 29, 2010

How to Mortify Your Son at a Bar

I excitedly got two of Thunderduck's friends to go out the back door of our latest hangout and check out my new-to-me car (convertible Beemer = NOT a MOMCAR & I will try to post a pic later).

On the way out the door, some dude coming back from the bathroom saw us leaving together and said "Hey, two to one - that's kind of unfair"

I shot back: "It's ok - I'm TWICE their age so it evens out."

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Another TMI Post Punctuated with Some WTHIWWY

MyPoorPoolBoy. He is enduring quite a bit of mouth-runneth-over syndrome this evening, and I'm really pretty sure it is because I have discovered this:

Deep Eddy Sweet Tea Vodka

Now, due to my effed-up precocious predisposition to developing kidney stones since the medically unrealistic age of 26, I am not supposed to have tea. So basically, I am risking my renal health to even be in the same room with this shi+.

It's iced tea with Imperial Pure Cane Sugar, so it's pretty much the mostest absolutely perfectest Texas beverage ever made.


Because someone who is obviously a freakin' genius put VODKA in it.

If that genius is a man, he can get in line to be my 3rd husband.

Anyway, here are my epiphanies for the evening -

1) While watching the Gene Simmons episode where Shannon has a taser party (basically it was about like it seems like it would be - a Tupperware party but without the trademark burping noises and more like a lot of buzzing and resulting screaming, so you know, like a dark and serious sex toy party) - I remarked that you really wouldn't want to get one of those and just toss it into your vibrator drawer.

2) I reminded him that I am more or less branded as his property with my tramp stamp because the wording includes an APOSTROPHE and an S after his name. Like a white trash luggage tag or something.

3) Then I got a horrific case of projectile diarrhea and I tried to explain the severity of the situation to MyPoolBoy by describing its force and magnitude to him with Richter scale measurements and tornadic F-force ratings. I included the comment that it was a good thing that toilet bowl sides go up kind of far (for obvious reasons) and I was reminded about a German word that I concocted at the beach - bierschitz - in honor of the 2 straight nights of Lone Star consumption and the 2 subsequent days of unfortunate bowel circumstances that I incurred.

4) Not only that but I also came back from the coast with a fever blister on my lower lip. And of course I KNOW where I got it.

Because the study of reptiles is called herpetology, y'all.

That's right.

The a$$hole beer-hostage-taking SNAKE gave me herpes.

Hisssssss-teria at the Beach House

That circled speckled brown spot next to the Solo cup is a snake. A RATTLE snake. A 2-1/2 foot long rattlesnake that was sunning himself beside the house where we were staying at the beach. Next to the only stairs that could take us down to the lower level where our beer coolers were stored. So pretty much this a$$hole snake held all our beer hostage while we were stranded on the second story deck for about an hour. So we were stranded on the second story deck for about an hour by an a$$hole 2-1/2 foot long rattlesnake that was holding our beer hostage. Do you understand this? WE HAD NO WAY TO GET TO OUR BEER!!!!!!!!!!! And really, snakes don't have thumbs to get a cold one out of the cooler and toss up to us either, if they were ever so inclined to do so. But he somehow didn't seem like a friendly neighborhood bartender variety of rattlesnake anyway.

So. After we called the property management people and waited about 30 minutes - WITHOUT BEER - I ventured out onto the deck stairs in the very fashionable wardrobe choice of a stars and stripes bikini with the hastily added safety feature of lizard-toed Nocona cowboy boots to snap this picture. And then and there realized I was on the stairs in a bikini and cowboy boots so my cheese had pretty much slid right off my Ritz, and this realization prompted me to decide that it was time to call 911.

So. Barney Fife showed up and got the bright idea to MACE the snake.

Now, if you were a snake and you got maced while you were trying to hold a bunch of middle-aged women's beer hostage, what would you do?

Get pissed and come after Barney right?


But, in his defense, Barney did get him to crawl out onto the lawn where he could mace him some more and spray him with the water hose. Which made the snake more pissed. Then, 30 minutes later, he hit upon the bright idea to get a shovel and actually KILL THE A$$HOLE BEER-HOSTAGE-TAKING SNAKE!

Finally! Crisis over. Beer saved.

Monday, July 26, 2010


After my post this past weekend about one-legged birds and safe words, MyPoolBoy expressed his usual mortification at my unusual spin on life with his usual "What The Hell Is Wrong With You?" comment. He pointed out that I can't even use my "VodkaMakesMeSayStuff" label for these sorts of posts because I am just sick enough to come up with this shi+ when I am stone-a$$ sober. So he assumes there is no explanation for why my brain is working that way other than I must have some sort of mental defect.

Therefore, I have added "WTHIWWY" to my labels for future posting, and I will be adjusting some of my former posts to include this label.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Safety First

When the Lucilles were at the beach the other day, we saw this bird skittering around kinda awkwardly. Like he was off-balance cuz he was one-legged or something. As he got closer we noticed that he was, indeed, off-balance cuz he was one-legged. Actually he was one-and-a-half-legged. One of the girls got all PETA-ish and started feeling sorry for it and wondered out loud what could have happened to the missing lower portion of its fractional leg.

There were plenty of theories: bird fight (cage match? BWAHAHAHAHAHA), run over by one of those little golf cart thingies that people drive all over the beach, bitten off by a predator, accidentally smashed with a rock, purposely smashed with a rock by an unsupervised little shi+ kid, farm-implement incident that required emergency amputation.

And my theory. He gnawed it off himself. Because he was a dirty bird who was into S&M and bondage and discipline-role-playing and he got strapped down forgot the safe word (hello? cracker? pretty bird?) and was unable to get himself free because his mate got distracted by something shiny or some tourist throwing Alka Seltzer to make the birds blow up or was dodging rocks being thrown by an unsupervised little shi+ kid.

At least he got the drumstick.

Now. This got me thinking that, although MyPoolBoy and I are not into any of that WEIRD crap to get our kicks, we do have an understanding of sorts that could be construed as a "safe word."

That word is OW.

As in "OW, get off my hair" and "OW, who left the remote control on the bed" and "OW, you need to cut your toenails."

Tuesday, July 20, 2010


I was attempting to demonstrate my physical prowess to the Lucilles while we were at the beach this afternoon. So I took my empty beer can and placed it between my thighs to crush it. Which, incidentally I was able to accomplish and pass the resulting aluminum pseudo-disk over to Felix for a souvenir. Isn't that impressive?

Not as impressive as the surprisingly round and symmetrical dueling bruises that I now have on the inner area of my legs just above the kneecaps.

This is an Identifiable Party Wound.

Sunny Beaches

Day 1 of the 5th edition of Lucilles at the Coast. I have already had some fabulously brilliant vodka-induced ideas and observations. Like my beach chair, which was originally tan, but I deemed it necessary to paint pink and green and stuff because I cannot be normal. I love this chair because it has a zippered storage compartment on the back, a little pillow headrest, a cupholder and cell phone holder on the side, and a COOLER at the back.

Ok. So. Onto my brilliant ideas and observations. First - I think a bikini top that was made all boxy and weird so that it looks like the block-out bars on the tv when they don't want to show a girl's girls would be so cool.

Before we left - we saw a lady with this pvc pipe contraption that was supposed to form a hole in sand to get some sort of wildlife to come to the surface. I thought it looked like one of those p3nis pump things that they sell at adult toy parties.

We lucked into unbelievably awesome beach and weather conditions. As we were wading out into the water, drink-in-hand-tiara-on-head, I realized that my bathing suit bottoms were on inside out and I was forced to devise a plan on how to get the seams righted to the intended factory specifications. So, as I waded further into the waves, I traversed just far enough to cover myself from my newly pierced belly button down with the ocean as my camouflage. Then I handed DownUnder my drink, and asked Hyphen to hold my hair while I squatted down and turned my bikini bottom back the right side out underneath the surf - only pausing to raise my drawers above the water level enough to make sure that I was at least not putting them on BACKWARDS after going to all the trouble to get them back on correctly.

Quote of the day: DownUnder commented in her eloquent Aussie accent that it was "lovely" and that "the water is the exact temperature of pee."

Sunday, July 11, 2010


Just told MyPoolBoy that I was crazy about him.

Then I told him that actually I was just crazy, but I disguise it as being crazy about him so that it appears more socially acceptable.

On the Side

I love prescription drug commercials. More specifically, I love prescription drug commercial side effect disclaimers. Ok. Frankly what I love is making FUN OF prescription drug commercial side effect disclaimers. Like, the ones that say "serious side effects may occur, including death."

Ummmmm...Yeah. I'll take "death" for 2000, Alex. Dude are you so hurtin' to get it up that you would risk DEATH???????????? Just get some porn and a popsicle stick and yarn to make a splint. Or get a girl to deep-throat a popscicle while you watch and then you can use the popsicle stick as a splint when she's done.

Anyway - I heard a great one last night. Side effects included blurry vision, slurred speech, inability to focus, dizziness, and more frequent urination.

Really, that just sounds like Wednesday night poker to me.

Friday, July 09, 2010

Holy Impropriety, Batman

We're watching this investigative news show and the mistress of this preacher said that he seduced her by counseling with her and holding her hand and telling her that he wanted to pray with her.

MyPoolBoy said that was one way to get her on her knees.

It wouldn't work with me. I'd get down there and get sidetracked and start cleaning out from under the bed or something...

Thursday, July 08, 2010


KY has these new sensational body syrups or wtf ever advertised on tv right now - chocolate for her and strawberry for him. And it's supposed to make everything about my marital relations be more than I ever could have hoped for. Or something like that.

I told MyPoorGulliblePoolBoy that we should get some and he, being a boy, got all excited and is like "yeah, yeah, we should."

And then I told him I thought it would taste really good on ice cream.

Navels and Nasals

So. Another Felix and WTP bonding moment. Got my navel pierced today. Felix got her nose pierced. Of course we had to be together to do it because we are like middle school cheerleaders when it comes to defacing our temples (bodies) and we can't do anything by ourselves like big girls. MyPoolBoy and her niece (whose boyfriend owns a bar - this is important for later) came along with her little boy, HomeSkillet, for the free laughs. We had to lay back on a weight bench during the process (literally, it was a weight bench) and I was thinking, hmmmmm.... this is what it feels like to be a popular high school cheerleader.....

Anyway. She swung her feet while the guy was doing it - the PIERCING gutterbrains - (mostly because she is short and her feet don't reach the floor from the bench that she was laying on) so it ended up looking like someone had rolled a really cute Oompa Loompa turtle on its back and it couldn't get off its shell in order to set itself aright and resume the regularly scheduled Oompa Loompa turtle programming. And when he actually DID pierce her nose she started to tear up and there was blood and so she asked for a kleenex. And then, while the blood ran down the little canyon beside her diamond-doodad thingy, Felix took the kleenex and dried her eyes so that her mascara wouldn't run! Priorities. We have to be pretty first.

Then, she kept making me laugh and I was worried that the guy would miss and I would be all crookedly-navel-pierced or pierced in an ovary or my appendix or something and then be scarred physically and emotionally for the rest of my natural born life because of it. And there was NO VODKA so it wouldn't have even been funny at the time.

When we went to pay out we noticed the "cash-only" sign and Felix was standing there, credit card in hand and trying to devise a plan for how to obtain cash to pay for everything without risking a repossession of her new nasal embellishment or risking charges from the vice squad for questionable "business negotiations." So MyPoolBoy paid for them both and reminded us that I hadn't paid Felix for the rest of my beach trip, so we'd put the cost of the piercing towards the cost of the beach trip. And THAT transaction - trading a piercing for a vacation deposit - is a wildly white-trash moment of which I am exceedingly proud, I must say.

At this point, HomeSkillet tugged his mom's sleeve and handtogawd in front of the tattoo artist/piercing guy asked, "Mom, are we going to the bar after this?"

Fits of laughter. And just when we were thinking that it couldn't get any more white trash than getting piercings together and having the cost be bartered between friends, Felix's niece decides to join in on the fun and get a Marilyn Monroe piercing above her lip. She asked the guy what they did it with, meaning which studs did she have to choose from - but he was already sinking to our level and he told her "a rusty nail." More fits of laughter.

So she got done and left and texted Felix because she forgot what her aftercare instructions were. Felix and I completely relished the opportunity to relay this message:
1) get a soft drink with some ice in it and move the ice around by her upper lip to help reduce swelling
2) Rinse the area with Listerine after eating or drinking
3) no wine or BEER because of the yeast!!!!!!!!!!!!!! hahahahahahaha!!!!!!!!! I said that would kill her - like a castration of sorts - but h3ll, it would be better than getting a yeast infection in your upper lip, right? And I used the opportunity to clarify with the guy that I could still have all the beer and wine that I wanted.
4) the stud could be replaced with a new one in two weeks
5) No French kissing or other "oral activities" for 6 weeks HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Then Felix and me both said that would kill her boyfriend!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wednesday, July 07, 2010

Heads Up

Well. I was in bi+ch mode tonight. I know, big surprise, right? One of the more annoying poker players showed up sporting a baseball cap tonight. This was unusual and noticeable simply because he regularly shows up with an overly-coiffed Brylcreemed style of obviously fake strawberry gray atop his noggin. I wanted to prove it to myself and any other morbidly curious onlookers that the pink chia pet was not present with us for the evening and therefore by default was NOT underneath the hat. So. I concocted a brilliantly evil scheme to achieve this purpose: I sent Thunderduck to the jukebox with a single dollar bill and explicit instructions to play the National Anthem. When the "oh say can you see" started I loudly instructed the boys to take off their hats out of patriotism and respect. DapperDan lifted his hat for about a millisecond before scooting out the front door for a ciggy break. So we never actually got a good look for a confirmation of my suspicions.

But I died laughing anyway. Cuz I'm a bi+ch.