Lost

My gps on this phone is off a little.  It says i am in a totally different town than where i actually am.  If i am not in the right location it could at least give me a heads-up that i might need to be prepared to be wandering around wiping myself with leaves.

Stick Together

The Prof posted a poem on his Facebook wall about these people who were trapped in some frigid frozen tundra and each one possessed a single stick of wood, and then verse by verse the poet outlines the message how none of them would share it to build a fire because of bigotry, selfishness, blah blah blah, and then they all just did nothing and hypothermia-ed themselves to death like morons.  I didn't want to spread my Ebenezerism all over his message of love and peace and shi+ so I decided I better leave my thoughts on my blog.  Here is my critique of the poem. 

1) Why would you go somewhere that cold with only a stick of wood?

2)  Where's the verse about the bi+ch who uses her stick to beat the others in order to gain control off all the sticks of wood?

Kissin' Tale

So my prolonged illness and general feeling of malaise has continued on into the month of December.

This week it has manifested itself in my sinuses as some sort of stuffy annoying throat-irritating incarnation.  I am still very run-down feeling and can't seem to shake one thing without catching the next great thing.  I even missed the faculty Christmas party.

Yes.  I was THAT sick. 
Here is what I chose to imbibe upon that evening:

Sad.

Now that I have less definitive  symptoms, the diagnoses have  become more difficult.  In fact, they have pretty much degenerated to flat-out speculation. 
Duckit asked me if it could be mono.

This became the dinner conversation at home last night. 
I announced Duckit's query and commented, "I don't know what mono would be like." 
MyPoolBoy blurted out a surprised, "What?"
I said, "I never had mono, so I really don't know what mono would be like.".
And he said, "I got that.  I just can't believe YOU got through high school without ever catching mono."

Old Lane's Eye

So Pepita posted a message about New Year's Eve on my Facebook wall.  Now.  While I appreciate her willingness to help with the plans, I am a bit apprehensive about turning the Larva loose on my last possible day of debauchery for the year. She suggested that we go to a nightclub and she would make arrangements for a hotel

 Bless. Her. Heart.

I know how this will go:
*Meet at hotel to check in.
*Change into a nice outfit for the evening and go to a quiet dinner.
*Proceed to a respectable club with reserved seating and toast with the champagne that was included in the ticket price.
*Return to hotel.

YAWN.

Here is how "seasoned" women like QueenB and I have New Years Eve:
*First of all - keep planning minimal.  Lack of planning allows "surprises" to occur that elicit strings of cursing from the men in our lives.  
*Leave 30 minutes later than we originally planned because I had to buy some 2-for-1 cheap champagne on sale at the liquor store and then stopped by a thrift store to acquire a slightly-sluttier-than-usual blouse for the evening, complete with rhinestones AND sequins.  Note to MyPoolBoy that Pepita would HATE this outfit and purchase it even if it won't fit in my suitcase with the 4 pairs of shoes and 2 pairs of jeans and 3 sweaters and miniskirt that I have already crammed in there for an overnight trip.
*Allow MyPoolBoy to chauffeur in excess of the speed limit in an attempt to make up time lost at the liquor store purchasing the champagne that I have elected to pour into an empty Sonic cup that was rolling around in the back floorboard and consume half the bottle en route to our destination.
*Arrive at the MOtel in a pelting freezing cold rain storm, making the miniskirt I have packed a ludicrous decision.
*Note the fortunate proximity of a KwikyMart catty-corner across the street from the MOtel.  This will be important for procuring overpriced beef jerky, Twizzlers, and aspirin later. 
*Make a mad dash through the rain into the MOtel lobby and dodge the plastic leaves of a dusty fake plant that commits bodily assault on all who pass through the front door.
*Acquire room key from Bette Davis's older blue-haired sister. 
*Drive to the backside of the MOtel where a crime is most likely to go undetected and enter the room with my luggage that is now soaking wet because it was in the bed of the truck when the pelting freezing cold rain storm began.
*Carry the open half-consumed bottle of champagne in with me.   Take a swig directly from the bottle as I stand at the door waiting for MyPoolBoy to get the key to work in the door.
*Inhale the aroma of Marlboros and mildew when we open the door.  Think about asking MyPoolBoy to carry me over the threshold like a second honeymoon and then decide against it because I will need him intact for dancing.
*Place luggage on the bed that appears most likely to test positive for body-fluid-illumination under a CSI blacklight. 
*While blow-drying clothes, answer cell phone call from QueenB saying that the toilet in their room just overflowed.
*Answer door when QueenB comes in to tell us that they are moving to another room and OldCoach went to change out keys with Bette Davis's older blue-haired sister.  Offer her some champagne in one of the hermetically sealed plastic MOtel cups. 
*Discover that there are no pantyhose in the rain-soaked overpacked luggage.  Debate with MyPoolBoy about buying an overpriced pair across the street at the KwikyMart or stopping at a store on the way to dinner in town.
*Get dressed (with the exception of pantyhose) and get in car to go to dinner.
*Ride in the car that is being driven aimlessly by OldCoach due to the aforementioned lack of planning by QueenB and me.  Discuss dinner plans as you pass each restaurant with exits on the other side of the road.
*Cause heart palpitations for the men in the vehicle by screaming STOP directly in front of a Walgreens so that you can get a pair of pantyhose.  Laugh hysterically at the purple leopard print bras on display at the end of a row.  Buy one, causing more hysterical laughter. Pay for items and leave Walgreen's before getting kicked out.
*Decide to eat at Applebee's since it is only one block down from Walgreen's.  Put pantyhose on in car, hiking up dress to slide the nylon over hips at a red light next to a truck full of teenage boys.
*Laugh at the idiots in the booth behind you who couldn't find a babysitter and  brought their KIDS with them to Applebee's on New Year's Eve and actually expected the little fu*k-trophies to sit patiently and wait for an hour for their chicken nuggets on what is one of the busiest nights of the year.
*Muse out loud how wonderful it is to have grown and near-grown kids that you can leave behind at home with $40 of Taco Bell money and the simple instructions to vacuum up all the stripper glitter and stay out of the good vodka.
*Go back to bar at the MOtel.
*Find table that you reserved in advance because you are classy.
*Send MyPoolBoy to procure 4 beers.  I don't know what everyone else is drinking.
*Notice, laugh, and point at the Dolly Parton wannabe at the next table.
*Notice, laugh, and point at Almost-Dolly's date, a scrawny redneck with a raccoon penis in his hatband.
*Notice, laugh, and point at yuppies who came in, surveyed the crowd, and left without even having a drink.
*Send OldCoach for more beer.
*Set the table reservation card on fire with the candle on the table.
*Put out your personal bonfire with beer when Almost-Dolly taps her pack of Virginia Slims against the palm of her hand and starts to lean toward your table for a light.
*Scream "I love this song!" in MyPoolBoy's ear.
*Ask MyPoolBoy to dance.
*Ask QueenB to dance because MyPoolBoy either doesn't want to dance, is pretending not to know me, is partially deafened by my screaming "I love this song!" in his ear, or a combination of all three.
 *Dance with QueenB.
*Dance some more with QueenB.
*Ask QueenB, while dancing, why we even brought the boys.
*Return to table.  Drink.  Go pee.  Dance.  Return to table.  Drink.  Go pee.  Dance.  Repeat this process an unknown number of times until someone says it's almost midnight.  Chase your Bud Light with champagne.Sing Auld Lang Syne with the words "Old Lane's Eye."Continue the above procedure until someone says the bar is closing.
*Stumble to the back side of MOtel where your room is located.  Crawl up the stairs to the MOTHER-EFFING SECOND FLOOR. Notice a tomato on the stairwell.  Stop to take a fuzzy, out-of-focus picture.  Decide that it might be a red Easter egg instead of a tomato.  Look at the picture on cell phone camera.  Ask QueenB if the picture is out of focus or are WE out of focus?

 

*Fall into a time-warp-vortex-black-hole of inebriation and emerge around 10 a.m. the next morning.  Meet OldCoach and QueenB for breakfast at Denny's.  Don't mention anything when QueenB fails to take her shades off inside Denny's.  High-five OldCoach for being able to order off the Senior Menu at a discount.  

*Sleep in the truck the whole way home  

Grandma Lila's Fruitcake

Merry Christmas! This fruitcake recipe is the one our Grandma Lila used for years. It is famous/infamous enough to be mentioned in the eulogy at her funeral service.  I have "embellished" it with my own observations and experiences.

1 lb. dates (I sometimes use less)
1 lb raisins (Again, sometimes I cut back on these)
1/2 lb candied citron (I usually use more)
1/2 to 1 cup brandy, rum, or other liquor (Grandma sometimes used more.)
1 cup/2 sticks REAL butter (none of that low fat healthy soy fake good-for-you crap -- Grandma was Paula Deen before Paula Deen was Paula Deen)
1 cup packed brown sugar
5 (4) eggs (the recipe calls for 4 - Use 4.  You need 5 because by the time you are done with the brandy or rum you will drop one of the eggs and you'll only have 4 left anyway.)
1 Tbs milk (this is what makes the fruitcake healthy)
2 cups flour
1/2 tsp baking soda (the stuff you use with vinegar to make volcanoes)
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1/2 tsp cloves
1/2 tsp ginger

Step 1 Procure the unmentionables. (The way Grandma did it) A good Christian woman will send a male relative to the liquor store to buy the brandy or rum while you sit and wait in the car in the parking lot, or better still, parked around the corner, so no one sees you buying it!

Step 2 Prepare the fruit.  Soak fruit in half of the liquor overnight.  This is to "plump it up."  No other reason.  Follow the recipe.  Don't judge.

Step 3 Get ready.  Preheat oven to 250 degrees. That is not a typo - you want these to bake slow so that they are moist on their own... but then we're fixin' to pour liquor all over them to moisten them, too, so - whatever.  (I do like to think that this is roughly the temperature of an Easy-Bake Oven, thus taking me back to my childhood, when unsafe burning hazard toys like light-bulb powered cooking appliances were perfectly acceptable gifts to give to small children!)  Grease and flour loaf pans or bundt pan. Or even a sawed off cleaned out Folger's can (The way Grandma did it.) Put on an apron now that you've spilled flour all over your black holiday sweater and stupidly wiped it trying to get it off, since you just weren't thinking clearly because you were "tasting" the soaked fruit.

Step 4 Make and bake.  Cream butter and sugar in a big ol' Mixmaster. Beat in eggs and milk. Sift flour, soda, and spices and stir into fruit. Add fruit to creamed mixture. Pour into prepared pans and decorate the tops with candied cherries and pecan halves. Then bake 2 1/2 to 3 1/2 hours depending on size of pans and/or cans. This is enough time to watch "It's a Wonderful Life" or "Miracle on 34th Street" AND "Wheel of Fortune."

Step 5 Liquid Decoration.  (Optional, but it IS the way Grandma made it): Splash what might be left of the rum or brandy over fruitcake after baking and wrap in foil for a few days before serving.  Store in a dark corner of the cupboard to aid in the "moistening" process.  Hide one of them for yourself. 

Step 6 Serve.  Ignore the comments about the fumes when the foil is opened.  The family members who are under 21 will eat it anyway because they can get inebriated and no one will bat an eye because it occurred under the guise of consuming fine holiday fare....the male family members over 21 will eat it anyway because it is the only way they are going to get any of that rum that they had to buy...the female family members over 21 will eat it because, let's face it, before the advent of Prozac, Grandma Lila's fruitcake was the only way you could manage to get through the holidays with even a shred of sanity intact!

Reduce, Reuse, Ridiculous

Aside from the fact that if I were unleashed on the world with a red Bic ballpoint pen I would inevitably correct grammar and spelling mistakes on everything in sight, I cannot be loose on society with my mouth unfiltered, either.  Someone has been trying to set up a recycling effort at school.  And unfortunately, someone doesn’t have the sense of humor of a 13-year-old boy like Felix and I.  We fell over laughing in the teacher’s lounge at these priceless proclamations:

It’s that time of the month!

Put your cans here.

The gardening club wants your jugs!

Really, people.  My freakin’ blog writes itself sometimes.

Getting Purse-onal

Odd, bizarre one-sided conversation I was just forced to have with DonnyCat:  WTF? Get out of my purse!  

I look across the room and see approximately 5 pounds of your 14.6 pound baby kitten body shoved into my purse.  Seriously what on earth possesses you to think that you have the right to step your front paws and that gigantic fat head with its trapezoid ear into my belongings and rifle through all my sh1t?  No, I don't need you to dump all the contents out and scatter them to the floor below.  Please don't bite a hole in my tube of lip balm.  Don't chew and slobber on the cough drops!  And, no, I did not put that maxi-pad covered in the bright crinkly-sounding wrapper in their as a surprise cat toy for your amusement.  Get. Out. 

Strep Tease

Been home with strep for 4 days with fever and aches which turned into a sore throat and then an earache and then when the fever finally broke I ended up with a gigantic fever blister on my lower lip.  So my smiley face emoticon should look something like this right now:  

:-)*

At least if it was on my upper lip I could color it with an eyebrow pencil and pretend that it was a mole like Marilyn Monroe or something. 

Went to the doctor who took one look in my throat and proclaimed that my right tonsil was "really big and angry."  

No sh1t.  It is pushing so hard against my right ear, I have lost 2 pounds because I cannot swallow anything that has not been pre-approved by a dentureless nursing home menu planner - mashed potatoes, scrambled eggs, cream of wheat, and pudding.  

The doctor went on to explain that actually, both of my tonsils are big and angry, but the right one........  and I finished this statement for him:

The right one has taken off her earrings and kicked her pumps across the room. 

You Know What Mother Always Says…

I have become quite a barterer.  Keep in mind my 2 will-work-for-vodka transactions.  I have now negotiated for story rights – because, Felix owes me.  Felix owes me BIG TIME.  And my payment for being a dedicated, loyal, and giving friend is USUALLY vodka.  However, in this instance, my payment is permission to blog about her severe misfortune for my own sick, twisted entertainment. 

So.  Felix got another dog-bite from the killer-ear-eating dog last week – this time on her arm.  And it got infected.  It got so infected that Duckit, Hyphen, and I made her go have Nurse Ratchet take a look at it.  Nurse Ratchet deemed it to be severe enough to warrant a higher level of medical attention than the four of us standing around gawking and telling her it was gross and that she could be a zombie for Halloween.  I think the fact that I kept referring to her as “Double-Tap”  (a la “Zombieland”) did little to help deter the perception that we had some sort of gangrenous entity in our midst. 

So.  After school that day, Felix decided to go to the minor emergency clinic and see if she needed antibiotics or a lancing or better still – my personal favorite – an amputation.  By the time we all got there to check on her, I was h3ll-bent on getting to see an amputation, and I had pretty much convinced Felix to tell the nurses to write in her DNR/ directives and orders to come and get me and let me see it if they DID decide to do it.  The four of us managed to have WAY too much mirth and merriment in an exam room where people were SUPPOSED to be sick and injured and concerned and sh1t.   At this point, it had been determined that the Double-Tap status was severe enough to require HOSPITALIZATION.  So, when the doctor came in again, he asked Felix if there was anything that she needed to tell him before they made the hospital arrangements.  She snapped up with “If you have amputate, the one in pink gets to go in the operating room and watch.”  The doctor told her that would never happen because they would make me check my Black and Decker at the door. 

Private jokes that we were attempting to keep somewhat private began to fly across the exam room via text message at a disturbing rate.  At some point or other, Duckit interjected a text to Hyphen and me with the question “Is Felix wearing panties?”  Now, this may seem to be a completely heartless, inappropriate and random- @ss question to be texting to someone in an exam room with a friend in need, but Felix had shared with us recently that she had given up the wearing of knickers altogether.

The old adage / admonition that if you go to the hospital, then you should be wearing clean underwear does not become moot simply because you choose NOT TO WEAR underwear on that given day.

More simply put, if your dog-bite from a killer ear-eating dog gets infected enough to warrant medical attention, it is not a day that you should decide that unmentionables are optional. 

As soon as the doctors and nurses cleared the room again, we started devising the least horrible plan we could muster to acquire undies for Felix short of holding some sort of effed-up telethon in the waiting room.  The best plan we could think of involved MyPoolBoy bringing a pair of my most normal underwear from our house (since we live the closest to the emergency clinic).  As I dialed his number, I kept thinking of Rainman saying “I’m not wearing my underwear.”  Holding it together as best I could with Dustin Hoffman’s voice in my head, I tried to whisper to him the very specific directions of where to locate and procure a known-to-be-clean AND non-lacy pair of panties and then punctuated the conversation with the explanation that they were going to transfer Felix to the hospital.  He responded with “I don’t want to know” and then said he’d meet us with the panties in a few minutes. 

I called him back a few minutes later to tell him to just text me when he got to the waiting room and I’d come out and get them from him.  He asked if we were in the regular waiting room or the ER waiting room, and I told him “NO NO NO we are still at the emergency clinic.” 

His response was quite arguably the funniest dayum thing that I’ve heard someone try to say with a serious tone in a very long time:

“Hell, I’m already driving these panties to the hospital.” 

It's HOW You Say It

This one image alone is going to waste endless precious hours of my life as I try to decipher what song you could lip sync "Watermelon, Watermelon, Motherf*&er, Watermelon" to and still have it seem like you are singing the song. 

Also: I am in complete awe of the person that was able to accomplish such a feat with a straight face during their performance. 

 

Toiletus Interruptus

This afternoon some of us went to happy hour at a place downtown because we had 20% off coupons for teachers so that meant really cheap beer. And for us, cheap trumps quality any day. 

Anyway, Felix went to the restroom right before we left.  This was located near the front doors so as MyPoolBoy and I were leaving, I poked my head in the restroom door and hollered "oh my gawd Felix you're in the men's room!"

She just called me.  Some poor woman was in the stall next to her and heard me.  And freaked out.  Felix said that after I said that, she and the woman got into a conversation through the stall in which the poor lady commented that A) she couldn't believe she had gone in the men's room, too and B) she didn't think she could stop peeing long enough to get her pants up and go to the other restroom!

Felix reassured her that it was just a joke and that it was better to just sit it out cuz if she had tried to change locations,  she would have left a trail, and everyone would have traced it back to her anyway!

Room to Complain

Finally got to our destination and ate lunch with Thunderduck.  When it was time to drop him back off, the discussion turned to where we were staying.  MyPoolBoy had printed off a map to our hotel with turn by turn directions and the address BUT NOT THE NAME OF THE HOTEL (this is important for later).

We followed the directions on the nameless map and could not for the life of us decipher which highway was the correct one because they all crisscrossed and merged and sh1t so THAT was a lost cause.

Then we tried putting it into the gps (which I think is shorthand for "gypsy" cuz that bi+ch had us wandering all over the dayum place).  The gypsy bi+ch took us to the correct street and informed us that our "destination is on the left." Which was bullsh1t because all that was on the left was this concrete plant place.

Please note that this is NOT a hotel. 

It became apparent that the gypsy bi+ch was having a little fun at our expense.  And it was the wrong day for me to decide that I needed to rehydrate my skin and drink more water because at this point I really needed to be at a hotel so that I could pee.

I began the arduous task of convincing MyPoolBoy that, in spite of his best efforts, his travel doctrine of "we'renotpullingoverforanythingyoucanjustholdit" was not gonna fly this time.  The persuasion included me informing him that I WOULD pee my pants in his truck, because I had a change of clothes in the suitcase so it wasn't going to bother me.  He graciously let me crawl out the passenger side door and scramble into some trees on the side of the highway to relieve myself.  So at this point I can officially say that I have peed in the bushes in Missouri. (So far this trip has been one bucket list checkmark after another.)

  By the time I got back from my little adventure, MyPoolBoy had retrieved the phone number call history from his phone and found the name of the hotel that had been left off the map.  And, of course, the gypsy b1tch couldn't find it. She found one in Illinois and one in Pennsylvania but we were in neither of those places so I declared her useless as tits on a bull and decided to use MY phone to find it. We drove up the road a piece to turn around and we passed what I have to say is the purest use of the term "strip mall" I have ever seen:

Chicken Bones sports bar next door to a lingerie shop.

Yes, that sign says "Things & Crap" (sex toy shop)

The sign for this establishment actually says: Big Louie's Mermaid Cabaret.
WTF?  Surely there are "hookers" there!

I guess they are serious about that "show me state"stuff.

I typed in the name of the hotel, and it gave me the same concrete plant address as was on the map that MyPoolBoy had printed. 

 So Thunderduck tried it from his phone. 

And it gave us a GPS map that showed nearby locations/landmarks/points of interest.  Location point A which supposedly was located directly in front of our destination was - BIG LOUIE'S.

H3ll. No.  

Of course Thunderduck's phone would think that a motel behind a strip club was perfectly acceptable.  I did not.

I began to scream at MyPoolBoy that THIS WAS NOT GOING TO HAPPEN I WOULD SLEEP IN THE TRUCK.  WITH THE DOORS LOCKED. MyPoolBoy tried to argue his way out of it by saying that it was one of the last available motel rooms in the area due to the graduation and we might lose our deposit or get charged a cancellation fee for the night.  I explained to him that he might lose his life and/or manparts, thereby making a night behind Big Louie's a moot point anyway. 

I also shot back at him that the deposit or fee on a motel room behind Big Louie's couldn't possibly cost that much since they probably CHARGED BY THE HOUR.

Luckily, MyPoolBoy deemed his life and/or man-parts to be more valuable than a motel room deposit and he got the phone number and called for actual human being directions to our actual destination that was a few blocks down and on the highway. I got to stay in a real by-the-night-not-by-the-hour hotel room.

Amazingly enough, the building behind Big Louie's turned out to be an adult video store.

Show Me the Moneymaker

On the Missouri stretch of Mostboringroadtripeverplease shootmenow. Every other sign is for churches or adult establishments.  Told MyPoolBoy that if you don't sin you won't have anything to repent at church.

Then it dawned on me that maybe these signs that say xxx girls  could just mean a fat women's store.

Which, by deduction, means ther's a Cracker Barrel restaurant around here....

AND one of the signs said ARCADE. WtF? Like throwing ping pong balls at goldfish?  I am sooooo confused!

Oklahoma is OK?

Who made THAT sh1t up?  It's been a painfully slow stretch of highway that actually began before we got out of Texas because the dayum gps lady sent us THROUGH the DFW International Airport so that I had absolutely no quirky kitchy scenery to even play the sick twisted game of try-to-snap-a-photo-of-sh1t-as-it-blazes-past-you because we are on themostboringroadtripeverpleaseshootmenow with MyPoolBoy who made an executive decision that "we'renotpullingoverforanythingyoucanjustholdit.". 

We got the great idea to speed things up by taking the toll roads so that we could drive 70 mph uninterrupted by stop signs and red lights and stupid people slowing down to take pictures of sh1t by the roadside.


No.
Not at all.

Because apparantly the brilliant rocket surgeon in charge of the OK Dept. Of Transportation thought that Labor Day weekend would be a good time to do road constructuon on one of the state's most traveled highways, thereby forcing the "safety precaution" (read: f*ck with the Texans) of lowering the effing speed limit to 45 mph.

So we got to McAlester OK around 2 am and decided to stay the night.  Here's the only picture I got from this leg of the trip - a bootscraper outside the hotel. If you look really closely maybe you'll see some of the sh1t I've put up with scraped on it.

Holding My Own

We're leaving Texas to get to Thunderduck's graduation from MP training.  Let me just tell you this: when you get into a vehicle that MyPoolBoy is driving, be prepared to remain in that vehicle until it runs out of gas or the world ends, whichever comes first, because his road trip philosophy is pretty much "we'renotpullingoverforanythingyoucanjustholdit." 


So. While trapped in the truck and being forced to listen to country music until my ears were bleeding, I saw a big gigantic plastic Yogi Bear statue.  And he tortured me further because he wouldn't let me stop to take a picture.  Also my request for him to pull off the highway so I could take a picture of the sign that said Felix Drive was pretty much ignored.  The only photographic evidence I have that the Texas leg of the journey even happened is this photo:

Yeah. They got beer. 

I got Twizzlers and a pee break in Hico, Texas. 


wow.  Cross that off my bucket list.  

Driving Instruction

Dear fellow motorists and friends:

You might as well stop honking and waving at me.

Just because you see my highly recognizable, pink glittery white-trash convertible beemer and you KNOW that it is me does not mean that I know who YOU are in your nondescript shade of whitegrayblacknavytan SUV or sedan.  I swear I think all my friends must have bought used cars from a rapper's bodyguard or a Secret Serviceman.  Not one of you has a car that I feel confident waving back to.

And then you're all pi$$ed when I don't wave back at you.  And you bi+ch to me about it later. 

Look.  First of all, the honking scares me.  It's difficult to discern friend or foe if you all have clone-cars.  I'm scared I'm being tailed by the aforementioned bodyguards/government.  You need to understand that if I am not certain of who it is, I might just as likely speed off in a panic thinking I didn't shift gears fast enough or I inadvertently cut someone off while adjusting my leopard print steering wheel cover.  Or that they found my political manifesto and its included plan to take over the post-apocalyptic leftover world and paint the White House pink. My first assumption is that the honking is the precursor to a death threat or a prison term.

Do something that makes you stand out so that I know that I am among friends.  Put some glitter on YOUR car.  Get a flamingo smiley antenna ball.  Rig up your horn to play Jessie's Girl... SOMETHING. 

Unless you ARE a friend and you are only honking because I am in your way because I didn't shift gears fast enough.
Cuz then I'll probably just wave at you with one finger. 

Education-ale

Oh, if only all tests were as easy as field sobriety tests!

CAT-astrophes

Somehow in one of those bizarre lunchtime conversations that only seem to occur when I am present (I am not sure why that happens)... the subject turned to the misfortune and ill-fate of pets.

I added to the already distrubing discussion by announcing that through congenital / genetic situations, two of our cats, Earl and Bob have little or no tail; DonnyCat my sweet 14.6 pound baby kitten has a trapezoidal ear on the left side due to some unknown and to-this-day unspoken incident that chopped the top triangle off; and Booger (who we sometimes find ourselves referring to as Zomb-ooger because he gets all beat up - probably by DonnyCat) only has one eye.  Just hearing myself make this declaration brought an amazing insight to me:  SisterCat is the only whole, nonmutilated, INTACT cat that we own. 

Then Hyphen told us about some lady she once knew that always got black cats because if something happened to the cat, they could slip in an exact duplicate before the kids caught on that the cat was amiss.

So what if one time the only replacement for Blackie was a kitten? I figure you just tell the kids that he probably got all smaller because "that's what happens when you forget to feed the effing cat - maybe you should start taking better care of him." 

Pubic Service

http://damnyouautocorrect.com/  Has had me in stitches.  I got to page 31 of like 700andsomething pages before I got the unmistakeable desire to blog.  Some of them are meh, and a lot of them you have to read the whole conversation to get a laugh, but I have increased my own personal vocabulary immensely with some of the words that these phones have come up with.

cli+diddle
thundercun+
saggyv@g
pukewarm
angrybits
masturbatory
pu$$y-coffin
epi-pen1s
quesodildo

And my favorite -- SHATNERED!  As a verb!

Now, here are links to some of the best of the first 40 pages of autocorrected posts (content warning - cuz the bad words are the only ones that some of these people can spell correctly):


http://damnyouautocorrect.com/11318/lovely-fragrance/
http://damnyouautocorrect.com/11248/leftovers-3/
http://damnyouautocorrect.com/11239/the-15-funniest-autocorrects-from-july-2011/
http://damnyouautocorrect.com/11157/mr-fix-it/
http://damnyouautocorrect.com/11155/allergies/
http://damnyouautocorrect.com/11141/breakdown/
http://damnyouautocorrect.com/11058/shocking-news-3/
http://damnyouautocorrect.com/11030/the-trunk-2/
http://damnyouautocorrect.com/11025/the-hunger/
http://damnyouautocorrect.com/10751/be-right-over/
http://damnyouautocorrect.com/10950/housesitting/
http://damnyouautocorrect.com/10743/animal-lover/
http://damnyouautocorrect.com/10756/fatherly-advice/
http://damnyouautocorrect.com/10904/meow-3/
http://damnyouautocorrect.com/10834/sounds-kinky-4/
http://damnyouautocorrect.com/10748/fashion-police/
http://damnyouautocorrect.com/10771/west-side-story/

Fair Warning

You know those disclaimers they put up at the beginning of a movie or tv program to warn you that there is content which might be potentially upsetting to viewers due to violence or language or nudity or "adult situations" and that viewer discretion is advised?  (Whattheh3ll do they mean by an "adult situation" anyway?  Paying the mortgage?  Voting in a bond election?) 

Well, I was thinking for the comfort and safety of MyPoolBoy (and other husbands and boyfriends across America), that they should put a disclaimer like that before broadcasting commercials of half-clad skinnier-than-me models.  Especially Victoria's Secret push-up bra commercials.  The disclaimer should go something like this:

The following advertisement contains partially-clothed models that may make some women feel inferior and overweight no matter how many times your loved ones and significant others tell you that you are perfect just the way you are.  If you are prone to cursing, throwing random objects, or smashing the cheesecake you are eating into the tv screen while screaming "eat this" at the skinny-a$$ bi+ches who strut in front of your very eyes,  please use your prescribed anti-depressant medication at least 30 minutes prior to viewing this commercial.  And it wouldn't hurt to down your meds with a margarita or six. 

Short Hand

So.  Someone posted a long spiel / quote on Facebook about how people need to accept her as she is - don't try to make her something she's not.  And all these people are lending her emotional support by reaffirming what she posted and telling her they love her, etc. 

I don't work like that.  I don't mince words.  She's still young - she'll learn. 

I told her that I could teach her to sum up her whole post with one finger.

A Sure Sign That the Romance Has Dwindled

There comes a point when you realize that you've been married long enough.  The sizzle turns to fizzle.  The spark goes dark.  The hot is not.
I just never thought I would have to realize that point in the checkout line of Walmart. 

I impulse-bought a new tank top on sale and it is all padded-bra-push-upish like a bustier and makes me really look like I have cleavage.  So I'm bee-bopping along thinking of how this newly acquired article of fashion will show off my tan.  As we were in the check out line, MyPoolBoy got his first real good look at it,  and paused for a moment.  Aha!  I thought. Either the Oreos or my tank top got his attention.  Oh, it was the tank top, all right.  And instead of commenting how sexy it was or how he would love to see me try it on he said...

You know that's against dress code, don't you?

That thud you heard was the sound of me beating my head against the conveyer belt.

Because Eye Love You

MyPoolBoy was complaining this morning that he couldn't get his contact lenses in.  He said it was because he thought he needed to trim his eyelashes.  I offered to use my eyelash curler on them to get them out of the way instead of his horrible plan of self-mutilation, but he adamantly refused.  He has some sort of over-testosteronated aversion to anything that may reside in the same vicinity as lipstick or tampons.  I TRIED to explain to him that it wouldn't make him be any more effeminate or grow boobs or anything like that, but he still declined and insisted that was not the reason... BECAUSE, he said, HE DOESN'T TRUST ME NEAR HIS EYES!!!!!!!!!!!! 

WTF? 

I told him he should totally trust me cuz I'd be all prepared and sh1t like an ocular superhero.  I think I could get a gold sparkly cape and have a big eyeball on the front of my shirt and --- AND --- I would have a utility belt like Batman and be like the Big Optical Crusader (the Big O - BWAHAHAHA) with a bottle of Visine in one holster and some contact lens cleaner solution in another holster and reading glasses and a monocle.  


And an eyelash curler. 

Frankly, My Dear...

APPARENTLY there are hot dog rules.  Weiner etiquette.  Coney guidelines.  

No lie. 

Brought to us lowly ignorant Americans by the National Hot Dog Association or some bullsh1t like that. I caught the tail end of this enlightening tidbit on some show that MyPoolBoy was watching.  (You know it is getting close to time for school to start back up because he has run out of things to do and has taken to watching Hot Dog Rules on some obscure cable show.) 

An annoyingly perky lady representing the association (how do you interview for THAT job?) revealed to me that one of the group's suggested guidelines is to eat your hot dog in large bites to be sure that you get all the tastes and flavors of the various components of the hot dog.   And so that you will undoubtedly never consume hot dogs alone so that SOMEONE will be there to Heimlich you when you begin to choke on the large bites of all the tastes and flavors and you will get to savor those tastes and flavors in reverse after the maneuver is performed on you. 

I was baffled by her declaration that Thou Shalt Not Use ketchup on your hot dog past the age of 17.   No, that's not ketchup, it's blood.... I bit my lip trying not to laugh at your stupid hot dog regulations! If they start carding for ketchup at derWeinershnitzel I will undoubtedly resort to kidnapping small children to take with me so that they can score ketchup packets for me.  


Another rule that she managed to convey to the cameras WITH A STRAIGHT FACE: put all condiments on TOP of the constructed dog.  So that not only will you be choking to death from the large bites, but you will have this sh1t all over you so that you look especially pathetic by the time EMS gets there and has to wipe sauerkraut and mustard off of your wife-beater before they can rip it open to administer CPR.  And by having the condiments on top we can readily see if one of your condiments is ketchup and then we can lift your wallet and rifle through your sh1t to check your ID while you drift in and out of consciousness because we have to see if you are authorized to have ketchup on your dog. 

How are they planning on enforcing these rules?  By keeping us confused with hot dogs in packages of 10 and buns in packages of 8 so that they can subconsciously gain control of our minds?  Show of hands if you think this weenie/bun situation has NOTHING at all to do with an ill-fated attempt at converting to the metric system and might actually be a ploy by "the association"  to keep hot dogs in the math story problem workbooks of an endless number of generations of schoolchildren?  Propaganda.    Wake up, America!  Can you not see what's really going on here?????????? 


And then this head-of-the-Hot-Dog-Nazis lady informed me that these guidelines are in place to assure that our hot dog eating is pleasurable and stress-free.  STRESS FREE.  Thank Gawd!  I was trying to determine whether to stress out over how to eat hot dogs or an IRS audit at gunpoint.  Whew!  I'm glad I don't have to worry about the hot dogs now!  

I’m Pretty Sure My Sister Has Been Abducted by Aliens

So my sister Pepita got married this past weekend. 

I THINK. 

There is very little proof. There’s like a whole “is Elvis really dead?” cloud of mystery and hush-hush and conspiracy theory over the whole thing.  It’s like it never really happened, that’s what I think. 

No one I know that she knows (except QueenB) seems to have been there.  In fact one of her Facebook friends posted that she didn’t get invited to the wedding and she’s dealing with it but could Pepita at least post some pictures?  Hello???? – I’m her SISTER and I didn’t get invited.  We got told it was a “small wedding” and I put “wedding” in quotes because it is obvious that “wedding” is alien code for “abduction” and “small” is code for “no witnesses, especially that tall blond one because she gets mouthy and writes a blog.”  

QueenB posted some pictures the next morning but there were only 8 of them and honestly, they all look like the same poses.  Only of Pepita and her betrothed and one other guy who I presume is supposed to be the “minister” which is alien code for “leader.”  And I bet they were Photoshopped because there is not really any background – it’s all dark and mysterious and sh1t.  Like the lunar landing.  

Also, QueenB changed her profile pic to one of Pepita’s daughter in a flower girl dress but it looks all stiff and contrived and I am afraid that it is the BatBoy from Weekly World News in a dress and then someone Photoshopped (or worse yet, TRANSPLANTED) the little one’s head onto it to hide the evidence that she, too has been abducted. 

(BatBoy - not to scale)

So then Monday night Pepita responds to her FB friend with a message that the pictures are posted.  A whole album.  And she tagged them all.  And FB Friend responds – NO we can’t see them.  To which there is no response from Pepita.  

So yesterday, there was another FB Friend who posted that we were still waiting for pictures.  And still, no response from Pepita.  In fact, besides the minimal “I posted the pictures” claims on Facebook and her last name being changed (presumably to throw us all off the trail), she seems to have been eliminated from the planet altogether.

Before the “wedding,” she was upset because all the wives at Stepford Baptist Church were whispering about her.  What there were whispering was “You’re next.”  

Note: This is a shameless blatant ridiculous attempt to get my sister to post wedding photos.  Any relation to other characters real (BatBoy) or fictitious (Elvis) is merely “coincidental.”  Which we all know is alien code for “conspiracy.” 

Ever Get a Song Stuck in Your Head?

Ok.  So you all know that MyPoolBoy and Felix claim that I am the dumbest smart person they know.  Sometimes I unwittingly oblige their theory by doing something really dumb.  Today’s something really dumb involved cheap-a$$-5-for-a-dollar-knock-off-Superglue and pineapple Smirnoff Ice. 

I know.  That’s a blog waiting to happen. 

I was nonchalantly minding my own business cleaning the pool, doing laundry, checking Facebook, and exfoliating so that I could go tan before the tanning place closed.  I decided that in order to accomplish all my tasks for the day I needed a musical soundtrack provided by my mp3 player.  Which is really not originally my mp3 player but one that I more or less inherited after MyPoolBoy got a new phone that held/played music and I tried to “fix” my old mp3 player after it got stuck on the startup screen when I dropped it on the driveway when I was exiting the Beemer one afternoon and then when I tried to reset it with a pen and the end of the pen was too big and it cracked the case the whole dayum thing got stuck on like volume level 27 which was great in the Beemer with the top down but mass-murder on the ears with earphones.

So.  I got wired up with a good playlist and began to clean the pool.  Then I got wired up some more by cracking open a bottle of pineapple Smirnoff Ice leftover from the 4th of July.  Then I continued merrily along on my to-do list by throwing the sheets in the washer. Halfway into the bottle I get the inkling to give myself a little mini-facial with some Mary Kay mask, so I squeezed a fistful of green goop out of the tube and proceeded to slather it all over my face.  I washed my hands off and was bee-bopping on through the house because 3/4 of the way through the bottle I was freakin’ Stevie Nicks at the Edge of Seventeen with green crap on my face.  Suddenly and without warning, freakin’ Stevie Nicks at the Edge of Seventeen with green crap on my face felt an urgent need to check Facebook.  So I went to the Pink Room and sat down with my mp3 player in my back pocket and the earphone wire stretched across my back and shoulders to log on.  And I about gave myself whiplash because the earphone wire wouldn’t stretch like that and it snapped my neck backwards like I was in a head-on collision at Daytona.  

At this point it was necessary to do 2 things: 1) wash the green crap off of my face and 2) find out why my earphone wire was being so uncooperative.  As soon as my face was freshly cleansed, I used the bright lights of the bathroom to investigate the earphone wire issue.  Tangled.  Like a labyrinthal mass that even Hansel and Gretel couldn’t bread-crumb their way out of.  So I began the tedious task of unknotting the wires.  

I pulled.  I plucked.  I twisted.  I yanked.  

I shouldn’t have yanked.  

I had the wires untangled but I had managed to pull the cap-thingy off of one of the earbuds in the process.  It came off pretty cleanly,  I must say.  And BONUS!  The wires were all still attached.  This will be easy to fix!  

I took my newly untangled earphones to the craft room and sat down with a tube of cheap-a$$-5-for-a-dollar-knock-off-Superglue and the bottom of the bottle of Smirnoff Ice to begin engineering what was foreseeably going to be my greatest repair job of the summer.  After twisting the glue-encrusted top off of the little blue tube with a pair of pliers, I gained access to the magical concoction inside that held promise for me that my summer listening experience was not going to be cut short because of a mere inebriated moment of wire-yanking.  Glue applied deftly to rim of earbud, care taken not to get it on the wires that were soon to be enclosed tightly inside, I congratulated myself for being so clever and for only getting a little drop or two on my fingers.  I held the plastic pieces in place, noting how long it was taking the glue on my fingers to dry before releasing the clamp-down that I had on the earbud.  Dry!  Fixed!  Success! 

I then decided to test and make sure the wires were functioning as they should, so I put the newly repaired earbud into my left ear and heard Captain and Tenille lilting through!  Yea, me!  

However…. when I attempted to REMOVE the newly repaired earbud from my left ear it was GLUED TO MY EAR.  Apparently the instantaneous-stick-yourself-to-a-construction-beam-with-a-drop-of-glue-on-a-hardhat is only instantaneous if you are using REAL SUPERGLUE, not cheap-a$$-5-for-a-dollar-knock-off-Superglue.  Just so you know - cheap-a$$-5-for-a-dollar-knock-off-Superglue may SEEM to be dry on your fingertips, but it is, in fact, not entirely dry if you insert it into your ear canal.  

So I stripped the earbud and the upper epidermal layer from my left ear as I was being lulled with “Love Will Keep Us Together.”  

No, Toni Tenille, my dear.  I beg to differ - cheap-a$$-5-for-a-dollar-knock-off-Superglue will keep us together.

White Trash Emergency Beer Cooler

This is what happens when you need to keep your drinks cold and you are on the 3rd floor of the beach house and you don't want to go all the way downstairs to where the coolers are on the 1st floor because you are too dayum lazy (read: drunk) and besides, there is a SNAKE down there holding the beer hostage.  

Genius, albeit inebriated genius, you must admit it is genius nonetheless! 

Just so you know…..

If you have an ipod in your pocket and you run the headphone wire across the front of you with the earphone in the opposite-side ear from the pocket containing the ipod, and then you go to the restroom and leave the wire dangling in the front of you, you WILL zip the wire up in your fly when you get ready to leave the restroom causing total strangers to kindly tell you that you have your ipod wire zipped into your fly of your pants because your FRIENDS AND LOVED ONES are just laughing at you behind your back and have let you walk around like that for Gawd knows how long. 

Heat of the Moment

Due to the fabulous margarita-melting temperatures we have had around here lately (103, 104, 105) I have had occasion to hear some interesting hyperbolic similes, metaphors, and other creative figures of speech to describe the severity of the heat -

Hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk.  I have not personally tested this culinary method, though my family has been known to make “dashboard pizza” a few times. Besides, I don’t even like fried eggs.  And is there BACON??????????????

Hot enough to make you sweat like a whore in church.  My first impression of this phrase caused me to wonder if the whore was wearing a hat!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hotter than blue blazes.  This one has been uttered frequently by MyPoolBoy – I am not really sure if it means anything in particular, other than perhaps a vague reference to the blue portion of a flame that is heavily dependent on an oxygen-rich environment and low soot emissions.  And it is usually temperatures that are in the multiple-hundreds so this is inaccurate also. (Wikipedia- did you seriously think I knew that sh1t off the top of my head?)

Hotter than Hell.  This one has given me more than one moment of pause for reflection and consideration.  Hell.  Really?  Several points to this claim are flawed.   I suppose they could mean Hell, Michigan, which I generally think of when it gets really cold and folks send around pictures of the signpost with icicles hanging of of it to show that Hell froze over.




Taking into account that the typical high temperature for Hell, Michigan during the month of June  is in the 80’s according to weather.com then following THAT logic, one can, in fact, claim that it is hotter than Hell.

If they are referring to the Hell that, as children in Vacation Bible School we learned is “down there,” then maybe Hell is in Australia.  Maybe Perth.  The record high temperature in Perth, Australia is  115 degrees.  In which case I would have to argue that it is NOT hotter than Hell if Hell is “down there.”

Variants that I have heard are hotter than Hades and hotter than the hammered-down hinges of Hades. (Or Haiti?  Maybe they said Haiti.)  This makes me think that we’re talking about a mythological “underworld” which would be located somewhere in the vicinity of, oh, the molten iron inner core of Earth.   9800 degrees. And we are NOT hotter than THAT because it would cause face-melting like the Nazi dudes in Raiders of the Lost Ark after they looked in the Ark or spontaneous human combustion or some other Ripley’s Believe or Not sh1t like that! Following this logic, we could not be hotter than the hammered down hinges of Hades because in order for a hinge to withstand such heat it would have be able to to be hotter than  9800 degrees to maintain its shape and integrity to be hammered down enough in order to keep its occupants in their rightful places.

See?  That’s the price you pay for sinning you sinful sinner!  Just look at this whole heat wave as training and conditioning for later. And go get me another margarita.

Nonaward

To all my fellow TAKS-grade teachers at our campus - I am so sorry none of us got a "fun" award at the ceremony on Friday. As the glorious certificates were passed out one by one, it became sadly apparent that we had forgotten to have "fun" these last few weeks. We all shook our heads and clucked our tongues and repeated our never-failing mantra, "We don't have time because we teach TAKS." Perhaps it was the overwhelming pressure of the test that kept us from publicly ridiculing each other. Maybe we just couldn't think of anything creative and cute because teaching in a testing grade sucks all the creativity out of you. (The Martha Stewart Award? - DEFINITELY none of us!) It could be possible that we were so busy hi-jacking the potluck luncheon with pizza delivery that we didn't really give a sh1t about receiving an award. Since we were remiss in recognizing each other for our accomplishments such as Glee Club, Verbal Abusiveness, Hasselhoff Interpretive Dance, or Hot Flashes, I have come up with one blanket award to get us all at once. *Sober up! I'm not giving you a REAL blanket, ok?*

Drum roll, please..............

All 12 of us are the lucky recipients of the...............

Jaded Apathetic Can'tthinkofanything Kindoflazy Slacker Half-a$$ed Indifferent and Tired award!

Yes!!! We are all receiving JACKSHIT!

I am happy to offer this distinguished accolade as my end-of-year gift to you all. Please feel free to share with your loved ones how you received JACKSHIT this year at school. Wake the dog! Phone the neighbors! You got JACKSHIT!

As part of your award, you may save the JACKSHIT logo below and paste to your social networking profile to let everyone on your friends list know what 175 days of teaching school could get you if you apply yourself!

You may be interested in an additional service I will provide. For the nominal fee of $9.95, I will notify the local news agencies via note-tied-around-a-brick-through-their-window that you have received the coveted award of JACKSHIT! Please note that I carry less than *let me check my purse* $6.72 in change and there will be no refunds if you are dissatisfied with my service.

Because you are now in an elite group of others who have received JACKSHIT, you are also eligible to purchase (for a nominal fee of $19.95) all sorts of JACKSHIT paraphernalia. We are happy to offer this year's JACKSHIT awardees a document file of a certificate that you may print yourself.  It is emblazoned with the illustrious JACKSHIT logo and may contain your name if I can remember it.  (Since I didn't think enough of you all to get you a real award, do you really think that I care if I get your name right?)

*** BTW: I just totally spelled paraphernalia without any mistakes popping the red line underneath from teh the spell checker***

If you insist on having an actual tangible award sent to you, then (for the nominal fee of $31.95 - the precise cost of a large bottle of Deep Eddy vodka) I will get the closest scrap of paper and a crayon or pen or eyeliner pencil or whatever and, with no regard to color, accuracy, or scale, I will scrawl the dayum circle-with-a-line-through-it picture on the paper for you. 

Now.  Go forth and enjoy your summer!

MEMO To: DonnyCat Re: Rubbing Me the Wrong Way

DonnyCat,

After numerous failed attempts to make you understand that there are moments when your 14.6 pounds of affection is misguided and unwelcome, I am submitting these new "Cat Rules" in effect immediately.

1) If I am doing yoga, DO NOT RUB AGAINST ME!
2) If I am putting lotion on my legs, DO NOT RUB AGAINST ME!
3) If I am trying to sleepily meander my way down a dark hallway at 5 a.m. to get to the kitchen for coffee, DO NOT RUB AGAINST ME!
4) If our juxtaposition is such that your tail is near my head, DO NOT RUB AGAINST ME!
5) If I am in the bathroom and I am seated on your white drinking fountain that we humans call the toilet, I would appreciate you and the dog and the other two cats staying out. I appreciate your support and concern, but I'm ok in there by myself, and I think I can handle it on my own. Really. Because, although y'all just go out in the middle of the yard without a care in the world as to who witnesses your bodily processes, I would prefer a bit of privacy and that you DO NOT RUB AGAINST ME!

Sincerely,
Your Human

The End

Ok. So there is yet another whackaloon predicting the end of the world 

I am SOOOOOOO not prepared for this. If it is truly the Rapture, then I'll be gone and I'll be worrying for nothing, but if it is merely an apocalypse I am NOT ready.

Here is my tentative to-do list for tomorrow after I go pick up Lurch.

1. Figure out what to wear. I have not one solitary thing in my closet that would be new and exciting enough to welcome the end of the world. I must go shopping.

2. Have the right shoes. After making the HUGE mistake of wearing heels to the bomb scare a few years ago, I am NOT getting caught standing around or walking anywhere, much less running from zombies and the like, in shoes that are pretty but not practical. It is difficult to find a pair of shoes that will fill both of these requisites. I must go shopping.

3. Stock up on some food. Right now the best we have to survive on is 2 cans of salmon, some spaghetti, half a box of Frosted Cheerios, 3/4 bottle of Deep Eddy vodka, 4 bananas, some pimento cheese, and a case of beer. Good Gawd, that's really sad - it's like frat house food. There are some tomatoes in the garden but they are still pretty green, and if the apocalypse has any nuclear undertones whatsoever, those tomatoes will be all radioactive and shi+ like Attack of the Killer Tomatoes or something so we can't eat them anyway! I must go shopping.

4. Make playlist on my ipod of end-of-the-world-themed songs:
Rapture - Blondie
End of the World - Skeeter Davis
It's the End of the World as We Know It - REM
All H3ll's Breaking Loose - KISS
Only the Good Die Young - Billy Joel
Jessie's Girl - Rick Springfield (because it will be the national anthem when I take over as Princess of the Leftover World.)
When It's Over - Loverboy
Freaks Come Out at Night - Whodini (in case there ARE zombies)
Dead Man's Party - Oingo Boingo and
Last Dance - Donna Summer

This is a good start, but one of my ear buds to my ipod is smashed and has wires hanging out of it precariously so that I might actually SURVIVE the apocalypse and then be accidentally electrocuted by my ipod while listening to my end-of-the-world-themed playlist. Which would suck. Cuz then I couldn't wear my cute new post-apocalyptic shoes. I must go shopping.

My other option is to wait until the world is actually in the throes of its post-apocalyptic chaos and then just go loot all the stuff I need.

Fast Times

The most Jeff Spicoli conversation I ever had with one of my children:

Chunk: We need a snack. 

Me: I know.  You know what would be good?  Bagels and cream cheese.

Chunk: That would be good.

Me: Hey my car is fixed we could take my car. 

Chunk: Yeah.

Me: But I don’t think I have any money in my purse.

Chunk: I just have a dollar. 

Me: Oh.  Well let’s just watch Kitchen Nightmares. 

I swear – we sound like a couple of stoners. 

I Would Like to Thank...

First, thanks to the student who gave me the bag of Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies for Teacher Appreciation Week this morning. They are gone. Along with this week's efforts to lose weight.

Next, thanks to MyPoolBoy for the beautiful bottle of cheap Merlot that accompanied the box of dishwashing detergent back from your trip to the store. Unlike the cookies, it is not gone yet, but I'm working on it. Perhaps this will deter any further suffering that you might incur due to my current hormonal state, including the unfortunate play-by-play I related to you this morning concerning my menstrual cycle and its surrounding conditions and/or circumstances. (Sorry 'bout that!) BTW - the wine has been opened, the Cascade has not.

Finally, thanks to a Facebook friend for sharing the link to this clip. I must say that although nothing ever leaves ME completely speechless, this little gem left me scratching my head and barely managing to muster a "wow" from an already compromised state of semi-consciousness this evening (remember - Milano cookies + Merlot + hormones).



I hereby solemnly vow to Felix that this fabulous ditty will be our anthem for karaoke night at the coast this year since we always sleep together and there are plenty of stories to tell about THAT - Keebler Elf dreams, kicking, clothing arguments, David Hasselhoff dreams, and presumed phone sex. Pee-peeing the bed is about the ONLY thing that hasn't happened yet!

Anyway, I tracked through the related videos on the sidebar of this one and discovered that this effed-up little VonTrapp family actually were a big hit throughout Europe in the 80s and 90s. How did I miss this? Without a doubt, Moses/Gandalf/Father Time as your back-up singer is a pretty big score!

So, clicking on the sidebar videos led me to a fabulous video of a song of theirs called "One More Freaking Dollar." Which I hereby declare my undying, unadulterated, unabashed, and unsober (Merlot, remember?) love for. And the lead singer on the video is a cutie. Except at that point of his life he was also JAILBAIT and that would make me a sinner of some sort.

Upon further clicking I discovered that he cut off the Sebastian Bach hairstyle and grew into a legal-sized man and was still a cutie. And a monk. Like, a monk in a monastery, not the TV detective. That FOR SURE makes me a sinner.

Spin It to Win It

Well, we were discussing gynecologists at our  poker table – because we love to gross out the men and make them all uncomfortable and distracted so that they can’t concentrate and we can beat them.  Especially if we are too drunk and/or ADD to know what is in our hand. 

One of the girls was talking about how an ob/gyn she went to was rude and she finally had to switch doctors.  I told her that I hoped she ate some beans and cabbage and then went to one last appointment with him before she switched. 

Our discussion included a story of a doctor misdiagnosing the flu as endometriosis, and I said that it was just a FLUke.  Cuz I’m funny.  And/or drunk.  And then I was told “thank God you’re not a doctor.”

At this point I pondered how one could make such a haphazard, random, guess at the ailments of some poor unsuspecting soul.  This is what we came up with.  In my “Thank God You’re Not a Doctor”s office I could construct a “wheel o’diseases” where the patient could cut down their waiting room time by simply spinning a big roulette wheel or one of those giant wheels like on Wheel of Fortune or The Price Is Right, and what you get is what you’ve got. 

Except I’d have to have a game show host on my payroll and that would look a tad unprofessional. 

A more simple solution would be if you could pay your office visit fee directly into a slot machine and pull the arm:  Common Cold, Common Cold, Gonorrhea! 

Oh, so close!!!!!!!!!!!!  Pick up your prescription on the way out. 

Chunk – You Are a Moron

1:45 a.m. REALLY??????????????????????????? 

You know, there is one rule, and the rule is very simple:  Be home by the designated previously-agreed-upon-ETA, or you may alternatively elect to contact one of your two original biological parental figures via email, text, or an actual live voice phone conversation.  You did none of these. NONE. 

And then you go and stay out too late and make me imagine that you are dead and/or horrifically mutilated in the proverbial ditch and not only are you dead and/or horrifically mutilated in said ditch, but you took your friend WITH you to be dead and/or horrifically mutilated in the ditch.   And your little friend that was spending the night? Well, he DID text his parents to tell them where he was.  In the meantime, I was worrying about TWO kids and not just one.  Why the h3ll do you think I’ve been so freakin’ happy about your older brothers moving out?  It is because I don’t have so dayum many offspring to keep track of now.  I know for a scientific empirically observed fact that some animals eat their young.  And it is just because the mothers don’t want to keep track of a whole litter of puppies or kittens or baby rabbits (whatthehellever you call a baby rabbit).

And just so you know, if you ever ARE dead in a ditch, I expect you to contact me via Ouija board to let me know that you are dead in a ditch so that I don’t stay up half the night waiting for you. 

So, there you have it.  You are officially grounded.  Yes, my little friend, you are grounded.  Ground-dead.  I know your poor sleep-deprived father who had to go drag your stupid butt home told you that you would be grounded until you were old enough to drive at age 16, but I will settle for just until you are 15 – which is in a week or so.  Because all kinds of child psychologists tell you to never threaten a punishment that is so long or harsh that you will not be able to follow through with it. 

But actually I think I can manage to top the “you are grounded until you can drive threat.” 

Therefore, as an ADDTIONAL punishment which will assuredly last a lifetime with no further involvement from me, I would like to leave you with the sordid, mind-scrambling, childhood-ruining information that I still have sex with your father.  

Now it’s YOUR turn to be sleepless.

Under Construction

So -- my adorable little pink beemer convertible had its fuel pump go out this week. $200 and 45 minutes of labor later, it is thankfully up and running again. To "make do" until the part we needed came in, I was able to trick the engine into thinking it had a regular normal working fuel pump by lifting up the back seat and banging on the top of the fuel pump with the butt-end of a flat-head screwdriver before turning the key in the ignition. This made Duckit pretty much wet her pants laughing.

See - to me there are three basic rules to any home improvement or car maintenance project:

1) Home Depot should offer marriage counseling services.
2) You repair things with tools; you FIX things with a hammer.
3) This is the one that MyPoolBoy hates the worst - All tools have the potential to BE a hammer - such as the butt-end of the flat-head screwdriver that I needed to use to get the fuel pump underneath the back seat of my car to jiggle enough to send gas to the engine.

Rolling Along

Thunderdrunk, I mean, Thunderduck stumbled in sometime late last night/early this morning after a day out on the lake with his buddies. When he came in he greeted the PetBull and then retreated with her to his room.

Whereupon he began to sing Army songs.

And tried unsuccessfully to get the poor dog to join in.

So of course he's hung over, and he came in and asked me if I had any Tylenol or aspirin. I handed him the last 2 Tylenol that I had, but I swear to GAWD I wish I was on some sort of freakish female hormone prescription or the pill - cuz I SOOOOOO would have given him that instead as payback for the Canine Army Choir.

Oh H3ll, Alma Mater

 A BannedCamper posted a lament that she was tired of her university calling and asking for donations from her for the alumni fund. Really.  I mean we’ve already paid THOUSANDS of dollars to them in tuition, and now they want MORE?

First of all, they need to look and see what your major was before they call.  Liberal arts or education majors have VERY LITTLE MONEY.  Worse still, liberal arts AND education majors (like me) have NO MONEY.  Blood.  Turnip.  Get it?

Other gals offered some seemingly practical advice such as:
“Put them on the blocked list.”
“Look at the caller ID before you answer.”

No. No. No. No.

These call banks are manned by undergrads on work-study programs who A) just need to make a quota of contacts by the end of their shift and B) are probably still hung over from the kegger at Zeta house the night before in addition to being hopped up on Folgers Crystals, Red Bull, and NoDoze from studying for mid-terms after the kegger before they had to show up for their appointed duties.

Here’s my advice.  Talk to them. Start off with, "Thank GAWD you called. I sat next to this dreamy guy in my sophomore statistics class and fell hopelessly in love with him, so I signed up for every class he had the next 4 semesters. I was able to find out where he worked, and I would drive past it every day.  However, by the time we graduated he had a restraining order on me, but I think it has expired by now, and I would LOVE to get back in touch with him because I have been thinking about him all these years. I still have pictures of him all over my house.  Do you think you can help me find him?"

This Post is in Need of Emily Post

What is the etiquette or hygiene guideline for taking a drink into the bathroom with you?   You can't leave it on a table or someone will slip a date-rape drug into it and then you have to do the whole "but you drugged me and brought me home and now you're saying that I'm annoying and you've changed your mind" routine, and that never turns out well.  Or, worse still, you can leave it on the bar and the bartender will think you are finished (ha! Me leave a drink unfinished?) and clear your glass from the bar before you return.

I surmise that since the beverage in question is an alcoholic beverage, the alcohol would theoretically kill the germs that might come into contact with it in the restroom. Hmmmm..... GHB or CDC? Decisions, decisions.  So, where does one SET your drink once you have entered the facilities?  I ended up setting my Long Island Iced Tea on the little soap dish dippy area on the sink while I peed like a racehorse several times this evening (vodka = lack of bladder control + diminished sense of personal well-being).

You know, you learn all these flippin’ rules about hygiene when you are little.  Rules like: cover your mouth and nose when you sneeze, don’t eat the yellow snow, wipe from front to back, etc. etc.  No one in a Baptist family ever talks about “drink in the bathroom” rules, nor was this topic covered in my high school health class (they were all so worried about us getting knocked up during some drunken moment of misguided teen angst and lust that we didn't get any PRACTICAL health advice that pertains to imbibing!).

Here’s a great idea.  I’m gonna invent something with a drink-holder that attaches to you somehow… specifically designed to hold your drink while you make a potty run.

Oh wait.  I’m too late.  That invention has already been created.  It is called a BOYFRIEND.  There is a slightly less reliable and more expensive version of this invention called a HUSBAND.  The latter of which I have.

But I think mine is an older model that doesn’t come with the drink-holder attachment.

Facelift Complete

I am now the owner of a PINK CONVERTIBLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

Oh Boy Oh Boy

I have watched this about 14 times today and I CANNOT stop laughing!!!!!!!!!!! Animal is the best part.

What Are The Odds That This Is My SECOND Post About Raccoon Sex?

So.  We were making fun of MyPoolBoy’s annoying poker friend from a while back cuz I saw him on a news clip about the county next to Mullet County.  And they interview HIM as a representative citizen of the community.  Which caused us to start discussing the “Deliverance-y” way of life that is rumored to exist in that neck o’ the woods.  Thunderduck and his crew began to elaborate upon the range of amorous combinations that exist over there.  Typical goat and sheep jokes – you know the drill.  Then I made reference to the raccoon sex blog I posted way back when, and that was enough for him to launch a reenactment of what he deemed to be the way it happens. 

It went something like this: “That might be a goat, but he’s kinda little and he ain’t got no horns. And he was wearing a mask.  He was my masked stranger of the night.  I waited up all night for the masked stranger.  I got some deer corn outta the deer feeder on the lease and sprinkled it on my windersill and then made a little trail like in Hansel and Gretel into my room so he had to come on into the room.  Then I got a box…. and I waited fer him…..”  
This brilliant entrapment mastermind is the second of my offspring who has enlisted in the armed services to serve and protect our nation.  I swear if I catch wind of him trying to trap “insurgents” with deer corn and a box I’m defecting to somewhere else until 2012 when I finally take over as Princess of the Post-Apocalyptic Leftover World.

Check It Out

MonsterInLaw sent me some birthday money in the form of a check.  I hadn't gotten around to spending it until just this week, but I was thinking that I SHOULD have messed with her in the process of enjoying my little spending spree. (BTW, I got some new clothes and an old-timey laundry/washer/plunger thing for the laundry room - so, thank you again MIL!). 

Because she lives in TheMiddleOfNowhere, which is a suburb of BFE (Bum F*ck Egypt) in the county of Podunk, she banks at a local bank where EVERYONE knows yo' bidness.  I have decided that NEXT year, if she sends me a check I will write in the memo line to express my gratitude AND create a stir.  It will be something that will cause her to get razzed by every teller at her bank (all 2 of them), and perhaps get a few strange looks in the grocery store.  Like:

For  Services Rendered 
For   Sex Change Operation  
For   Bail Money  
For   New Tattoo  
For   Exorcism  
For   Lip Piercing   
For    Blackmail Payment 
For   STD Antibiotics   
For   Pole Dancing Lessons 


Her only real chance of escaping me was 24 years ago when the preacher said "If there is anyone here who can show just cause...."

Yea Team Go School

For all the Lucilles on college t-shirt day 

Or for QueenB (just because it is her favorite saying) 

Can't. Breathe

I am laughing so hard. Mascara running down my face.

School Is a Social Disease

So.  Last week I got really wiped out on Thursday and ended up not feeling well enough to go to school on Friday.  Then Duckit got sick today and ended up getting having to stay home with strep for TWO days.  I told her strep just stood for Sick & Tired of Redundant Education Policies and that she wasn’t really sick but she should stay home anyway cuz at least STREP would look good as an excuse.

So then Bi+chslap and I started coming up with some REALLY good acronyms for excuses which can cause me to call in sick to my job.  Excuses related to venereal-type ailments.  Afflictions that no one would question if you called in and claimed them.

STD – Sick & Tired, Dammit

CLAP – Completely Losing All Patience

CRABS – Children Really Acting Bad & Stupid

WARTS – Worrying About RTI Totally Sucks

HERPES – Had Enough of Ridiculous Public Education Sh1t

AIDS – Attitude In Downward Spiral

CHLAMYDIA – Children Having a Lack of Appropriate Meds Yielding Distress In Adults

SYPHILLIS – Stupid Yelling Parents Hysterically Insisting Little Lucifer Is a Saint

GONORRHEA – Getting Overwhelmed by Nonsensical Orders, Redundant Requests, & Hot-air from Educational Administrators

I decided the only cure is a dose of vitamin B.
Plus an accompanying dose of vitamin E.
Then an additional dose of vitamin E. 
And top it off with a small dose of vitamin R.

Off Like a Cheap Prom Dress

How to Be Stuck At Home

An instructional resource for your entertainment by WTP

Roll over and ask MyPoolBoy to turn the heated mattress pad back on for me.  Lay in bed while the sun rises.  Remark to the 2 dogs and cat who are hogging the lower portion of the bed that I never even get to see the sun rise on weekdays because I am usually inside the school building.  Stretch left leg when Littledog  jumps up to run to see Chunk leave for school.  Push Bigdog with right foot in order to gain enough space to stretch right leg to evenly distribute the stretchy sensation to both of my lower limbs.  Shove Cat over to MyPoolBoy's side of the bed and proceed to fashion a recliner-like fortress of ALL the pillows to make my own comfort a priority.  Close eyes and contemplate going back to sleep. 

Go ahead and get up because Bigdog has decided she wants to go outside to potty.  Open the back door and leave it open so she can let herself back in while I make a pot of coffee.  Close back door when Bigdog reenters the house.  Acquire a cup from the cabinet.  Shake half a package of Splenda into the cup.  Check fridge for milk.  Ignore the surprising presence of a nearly-full gallon of milk in the door of the fridge and get out the Bailey's instead. (I'm not going anywhere today.)   Add the precise standard measurement of a "smidge" to the cup.  Pull coffee pot off of hotplatethingy of the coffeemaker and pour coffee in cup.  Think to yourself: the h3ll with waiting.  Clean up mess that results from taking the coffeepot off of the hotplatethingy before it was finished brewing. 

Set coffee down on nightstand.  Go pee.  Look down and check out belly button piercing.  Promise self to change over to the cute rhinestone dangly instead of the plain silver ball.  Finish peeing.  Strip off all pajamas and get on scale in nothing but panties.  Mentally note the 0.2 pound weight loss.  Muse that this could be a sign from the universe to restart my diet and drink a protein shake for breakfast.  Go back to kitchen.  Notice the big box of Frosted Flakes.  Notice that I notice because it is calling my name.  Wonder where the saying "calling my name" comes from.  Think that I should Google it later.  Pour a heaping bowl of Frosted Flakes and procure the milk that I ignored earlier.  Go back to bed to eat cereal.  Eat a bite.  Shove Cat off of lap.  Eat another bite, using left elbow to persuade Cat back off of lap.  Eat another bite.  Invite Cat to the floor.  Insist Cat stay on floor.  Move Cat to hall against his will.  Shut door and tell Cat to shut up when he meows and interrupts your breakfast.

Take leftover milk in bowl to kitchen sink.  Tell Cat that NOW he can snoop in the bowl and give himself diarrhea by drinking all the leftovers if really wants it.  Go back to bed.  Drink coffee and channel surf.  Flip past news programs.  Flip past meaningful self-help infomercials.  Flip past gardening show.  Watch weight loss success story reality show.  Think I should have a protein shake for lunch.

Decide to check out an old sappy Hallmark frog prince Valentine movie that I had recorded a few weeks ago.  Click SELECT.  Fast forward past all commercials.  Drink more coffee.  Start thinking bizarre thoughts about the movie:  Roll eyes at the cliche scene when little girl decides to set frog free rather than euthanize it in the name of science for her dissection project.  Think about writing an obituary for a frog when he CROAKS.  HAHAHAHAHA!   Think about writing a blog post about frog obituaries.  Finish watching movie.

Nap about 30 minutes. Continue dishonesty-with-self policy by justifying that over one hour is ABOUT 30 minutes.

Wake up hungry.  Reheat leftover eggplant parmesan and spaghetti for an early lunch.  Repeat Cat shove, Cat elbow, Cat floor, Cat exile process through placing bowl in sink step.  Make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dessert.  Use too much jelly.  Wipe excess jelly off of bread onto a saucer.

Check email while eating PBJ.  Think about blogging.  Answer phone when MyPoolBoy calls.  Get pissed when he doesn't say anything at the other end.  Decide to hang up.  Look at screen to disconnect the call and notice that it is a text message, not a real live phone call.  Reply to text message.  Notice tips of nails need a touch up because I neglected to put a topcoat on them last time I painted them.  Think about redoing nails.  Set down computer and roll back over to watch Supernanny.  Yell at tv screen to bust those kids' butts.  Startle Littledog when I yell.     Have fleeting thought about getting up.  Ignore that thought.  See a commercial for Clean House.  Have fleeting thought about cleaning house.  Ignore this thought, also.

Blog about what I've done all morning instead.