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.