Happy Howlidays

So what started as a fabulous holiday evening of raucous merriment and mirth complete with classic movie quotes done in the vocal stylings of Mr. Rogers ("say hello to my little neighbor". "Ask yourself, do i feel lucky? well do ya neighbor?" "frankly my neighbor, i don't give a damn") has deteriorated into quiet uncomfortable giggling as a senile old dog tried to drink everyone's cocktails.   We thought she was doing it because she was just seriously thirsty.... But her water dish is full.  She's just, in fact, a senile old dog trying to drink everyone's cocktails!  How do you do an intervention for a dog?

Parental Guidance

I feel obliged to impart some of my unsolicited folksy homespun wisdom from time to time.  Luckily for me I keep a filter around so that I don't impart in public.  I call this filter MyPoolBoy, because if it wasn't for him, there are times that I honestly would probably land in jail.  Or get shot.  Or both.    It is often a blessing and / or a downright miracle if I encounter situations that I consider blogworthy and can be quieted long enough to get it typed in without commenting out loud or falling in the floor in fitful snorts of laughter and a puddle of urine.  

So. 

I sat at dinner tonight and in walked two people with their kid.   Said kid had a mohawk. I have nothing against self-expression through hairstyles or even mohawks.  BUT Here's the thing, people.... Mohawks "open up" and "frame" your face.  If your little Oompa Loompa  is ugly, we do not want to see any more than we absolutely have to.  Please, please fortheloveofgawd  do us all a favor and encourage him to grow his hair long and do one of those beatnik/social outcast type hairstyles that hangs down over his eyes and covers his homeliness.  

Denied

The alternate title to this post is: Sh1t-MyPoolBoy-won't-buy-me-no-matter-how-much-I-beg-or-what-sexual-favors-I-offer.

Granted, he bought me a pulpit that I turned into a bar thereby securing my spot in H3ll, he built me a beach in the backyard, and he got me a piece of crap convertible BMW that I subsequently painted pink and covered with glitter, rendering it hopelessly undrivable by any male of the species.  But still, a girls has wants and needs....

Of course, he always tries to deflect the little thoughts I get in my head about purchasing something new with the dreaded question:  "What the h3ll would you do with a XYZ.?"  (Where XYZ is the latest pretty that my heart fancies -- did you see how I made that all algebraic and sh1t?). 

First.  A small steamroller that I saw at a pawn shop..  So it was a USED steamroller.  Plus it was a SMALL steamroller.  Like, kid-sized.  Which meant it couldn't have been very expensive.  I got "the question."  I offered the answer that I could use it for playing the home version of the game "pave the roads and sh1t."  I was promptly told NO.  

Also.  I would like to have a cannon.  Not even a BIG cannon, mind you.  And, again with "the question."  Honestly I couldn't come up with a quick snappy comeback and sheepishly shrugged my shoulders and offered up that I just think it would be cool to be able to say that I am the first person on my block to have a cannon in the yard.  I won't even put glitter on it or anything!  His reply:  "You'll put your eye out, kid!"

He is NO FUN.  

Driven to Drink

To Chunk and other teenage boys:  If you are, in fact, so desperate for Drivers' Ed that you will blindly allow your parents to sign you up online using their credit card and their merlot-dulled wits, be assured that you will NOT like he login password they select for you.  

Please also note that the acquisition of said drivers' license may give you a false sense of freedom, because you now can be considered a DD and are therefore now at my beck and call!

Written Warning to All That Cross My Path

If you don't want a "blog name" you'd better behave yourself!

Joyful Noise

You know what's worse than a van full of teenagers singing along to blaring rock music in the parking lot of Walmart?

A van full of teenagers singing along to Christian rock music in the parking lot of Walmart.

Gifted

My students have to endure much of the same relentless sarcasm and offbeat witticisms that y'all do, except they get the G rated versions. When they leave pencils and paper on the floor, I tell them that they can trash a room like rock,stars. If somebody just guesses at an answer and gets it right I tell them that even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while. And when I have to put up with the little cherubs misbehaving beyond all limits of human patience I have a phrase that is a conglomeration of Banned. Camp similes to describe the overtly hyperactive: like a band of howler monkeys hopped up on Pixie Stix and Mountain Dew. So today, for Teacher Appreciation Week I received what is hands-down the BEST FREAKIN' TEACHER GIFT I have EVER received. I laughed to the point of nearly urinating myself. Of course it is hard to tell if the almost-urination episode is truly due to the hysterics from the gift or merely your everyday middle-age incontinence, but I am pretty sure it was the gift.

What Happens When We Die

All erroneous speculation as to my whereabouts can now cease.  I have NOT fallen off the planet, nor have I been in prison. The REAL explanation for my lengthy absence from blogdom is that I have been taking care of MonsterInLaw in hospice care for the past few months. Luckily, Blogger didn't mistake my lack of posts for disinterest or disappearance due to alien abduction and I still have an account.

MonsterInLaw was able to peacefully pass on, and in addition to the assets left to us in the will and an elderly Weimeraner, I also inherited this fabulous taxidermied armadillo to enhance my home decor.... please contain your envy and try not to covet it too intensely.  If we all had one, it would be less special.

It took us longer to get back home than expected, due to a typically unbelievable chain of events that some day will go into a book titled "Sh1t That Only Happens to Me" 

1) She passed away on Easter weekend and we were working around the holiday to make funeral arrangements.

2) The truck stop where I usually acquired my fix of the absolutely most decadent and comforting millionaire pie on the entire planet has STOPPED SELLING PIE!!!! 

3) We all got some sort of allergy attack or backwoods influenza or some sh1t and we were sick for half the week. 

4)  There is NO cell phone service and only DIAL-UP internet in the particular subdivsion of BFE where her house is. 

5) The will was not in the safe where she said it would be, thereby necessitating a sh1tstorm of overturned baskets, ransacked cabinets, and dumped out drawers which did not yield the will, but DID give MyPoolBoy the disturbing discovery that his sweet little mother kept a Smith & Wesson in her nightstand with her VIBRATOR.  (He commented that both of these items made sense since his father has been dead for over 5 years and she kept insisting that she didn't need a man..) 

6) The will WAS in her closet underneath apprximately a BILLION boxes of shoes and 3 empty cigar boxes. 

And the BEST part: 

7) Her attorney that was supposed to handle filing the will was almost as elusive as the will itself.  He was  reportedly depressed because his wife, who was some sort of counselor or therapist left him for one of her mental patients.

Somebunny Stop Me

So.  Trainwreck and BrideOfTrainwreck and the Grandsh1t are visiting this week.  Y'all know I have mercilessly tormented BrideOfTrainwreck  with the warning that my babysitting skills consist of a bottle of vodka (for me) and a rabbit hutch (for the little "angel").
Yesterday we were all hanging out in the backyard, and the Grandsh1t walked over behind the bbq area and proceeded to mess with the latch on the rabbit hutch.  The verbalizations that followed that event were one-sided, yet hysterical.

BrideOfTrainwreck:  Grandsh1t, get out of the rabbit hutch.
This followed by a brief pause where I was mustering an ear-to-ear grin in preparation for an all-out guffaw -- which was interrupted with this:
BrideOfTrainwreck: Shut up, WTP.

Intruder Alert

So  Last month we got this heads-up email from an administrator telling us that the district safety crew was going to conduct a test to see if we would let evildoing strangers into the building. The gist of it was that they were sending in a mock intruder and we were supposed to follow correct procedure and protocol.  Correct procedure and protocol is this: everyone is on red alert for a big ol' effed-up game of "Where's Waldo" except Waldo doesn't have a stripey shirt OR a visitor's badge and we were to immediately accost and then Spanish Inquisition the poor guy until he gets flustered and forgets that he was there to do whattheh3llever evil deed it was that he had originally intended to perform upon unsuspecting helpless schoolchildren.... which only proves that everyone completely underestimate the "helplessness" of the schoolchildren in my homeroom.

Anyway, I was cleaning out my inbox and ran across the email.  And I got to thinking -- hey!  No one ever said how things went.  Did they never send anyone after all?  Did they send someone and they forgot to let us know how it all went down? Was it all a big hoax just to keep us on our toes?

Or here's my REAL suspicion: Someone DID get in and NO ONE caught them and the poor sonofab+ch is still wandering aimlessly around campus.  Guess we'll find out after Spring Break.

Three Little Words

So. The Larva got married tonight.  And The Lucilles showed up and very crassly began to shove tables together so that the reception area would suit OUR needs and who-the-h3ll cares about your effing wedding ettiquette just don't run out of beer and I will sort-of behave.

Seriously,  if the matron-of-honor's speech contains the words "I had too many Jello shots" then it is really too much to ask us to pay attention to a seating chart!

In lieu of a guest book at the door, she had this photo-book that I immediately noticed bore a very close likeness to a high school yearbook.  Luckily, the night was still young and I was still sober, so I was able to contain my urge to sign it with typical yearbook quips such as "stay kewl" or "I want to be the first to sign your crack!"

During the course of the evening however, I failed to restrain myself and I managed to: help DownUnder take her first shot of tequila EVER, danced the first Dollar Dance with the bride and shoved money into her cleavage.  AnD SOMeONE had the brilliant idea of leaving cards and pens for us to contribute Marriage Advice to the happy couple.

Our table(s) had some great ones:  Nothing says I Love You like clean underwear,  No women at the deer lease, There are other things you can do in the kitchen besides cook, and a gem of a quote that only proves that once I have had beer AND tequila, all implements of communication should probably be taken out of my reach:

Condoms Sometimes Fail.

Don't Sweat It

Hand To Gawd just saw a chick in the self checkout a t Walmart scan a container of deodorant, raise her shirt, and apply the deodorant to her underarms before dropping it into her bag.

This even tops the time that Hyphen had us stop at a convenience store to buy a disposable razor so she could shave her armpits in the parking lot before we went out for the evening.
Now I know that some people ARRIVE at Walmart lacking basic personal hygiene, but to have the innovation to conduct your grooming routine while others are just trying to get in, get their milk, bread, lawn chair, and Snickers bars, and get out. . . Whole new level.

Grand Delusion

So.  Felix is now among those of us privileged souls who have been blessed with the arrival of a new baby grandsh1t.    And she informed me tonight that he will be calling her Nanna because she doesn't want him calling her the same thing that everyone else is called like Meemaw or Grammy.  Bless her ever-loving heart.

What an amateur.  Does she not realize what a great opportunity she's missing out on by having him call her something normalish when she could instead have him call her something completely unique and off the wall like, oh I Don't know, Princess  or something, and then not only would no one else would be called by that name, but she can have tons of fun in the process. 

This led me to the totally great idea that I just might steal for myself is she really and truly doesn't want to use it, because it could provide HOURS (if not years) of complete and utter fall-down-wet-your-pants laughter. 

I think he should call her B1tch.

Now before you get completely upset  and freak out and tell me what a horrible person I am, I need you to see this from every possible angle, because it entirely resounds with  almost pseudo yet somewhat inebriated logic that only I can provide.  

First of all there's the aforementioned opportunity for laughter at a small child's expense.  Think of the great stories you will have when your grandchild comes home from his first  day of school and tells everyone that he was sent the office because he was asked what he did over the summer vacation, and he replied,  "I went to go see my B1tch."  Also imagine what fun it would be when you go pick him up from school, and he tells his teacher that he's riding home with "my B1tch." 

If he wants a cookie and you are raising him to be well-mannered, he will ask thusly: "B1tch, please."

And. . . no one would be able to fault the kid if he tells everyone that his daddy is a son of a B1tch. 

Finally (and this is the most important point) how often do you think you're going to be stuck babysitting the little monster if his parents don't want him to pick up any more dirty words from you? 

I call that INSURANCE.

I Survived the End of the World and All I Got Was This Lousy Head Cold

I've been stumbling around today feeling light-headed and a bit groggy.  My thoughts are all fuzzy and a couple of times when I've sat down to rest, I ended up falling asleep... like the time Felix and I passed out in the booth at Denny's.  And I'm all thinking.... WOW that's some really strong....wait a minute...  I haven't been drinking!  WTF???

Now I have to deal with the horrifying reality that I am sick instead of drunk.  I can handle the latter...I'm actually pretty adept at it.    What I want to know is which one of my little heathens at school gave me their cooties as a Christmas bonus?  Somebody's parents let them come to school while they were infectious --and as soon as I pinpoint the culprit, Santa's elf will be delivering some last minute kazoos, play dough, fingerpaints, Christmas candy, and Red Bull for your child's stocking.  I may even leave some noisemakers and confetti for New Year's Eve. 

So what do I do if all of this hahaha-I-can't-think-straight is because of illness?   Like a head cold?????????????  Or a sinus infection??????????  Or worse yet..... I can't bear  to say it -- I dare not invoke the Eff Word by name.  Look, all I'm saying is that it is a homophone for flew and flue and I will not call upon it -- it's like saying MacBeth or Beetlejuice or some bullsh1t like that. Because THEN I will be sicker than Linda Blair in The Exorcist and unless I grow antlers and hang out under a deer stand eating dried corn, no one around here is going to hold my hair for me when my head spins and I spew pea soup.  

The Hangover

My eyes were really red from allergies and exhaustion this morning.  As I was attempting to douse the bloodshotedness from them with about a half a gallon of Visine, taking care to dribble equal portions down my neck as well as into the crow's feet alongside my eyes, and therefore creating a trail of pharmaceutical tears into my ears, thereby necessitating an extra 15 seconds of "getting ready" time that was eaten up with meticulous q-tipping of the stray Visine before it penetrated my eardrums and permanently deafened me or some equally unlikely and ridiculous sh1t like that. 

It occurred to me as I was squinting into the mirror that my eyes looked REALLY BLUE  when surrounded by red, inflamed ocular tissue and thus I am probably really pretty when I am hung over.

Score. 

Then I started thinking of other reasons besides the attractiveness of my eyes that make hangovers not such a bad thing.

Getting there.  Any parts of the night before that can be recalled, whether from personal memory or Facebook posts, often make the "morning after" extremely worth it.  If this is not the case, then you are partying with the wrong people. 

Shades.  Specifically, wearing them when other people are not.  This makes you look cool.  If you don't look cool, the hangover advantage is that you don't give a rat's a$$ about how you look. 

Skipping breakfast causes weight loss.  If all you are consuming during the duration of your hangover is aspirin, coffee, and nicotine from chain smoking to take the edge off until the liquor store opens back up, then you will INEVITABLY lose weight.  Atkins ain't got nothin' compared to a few good hangovers. 

A day off.  You will look and sound like h3ll.  You might even be puking.  No one will question that you are ill. 

Hair of the dog.  What other ailment can you think of that could actually be made better by exposure to liquor?

Mild Mannered

Chunk informed us at the dinner table tonight:  "I have etiquette out the a$$!" 

Show Nuff

QueenB was lamenting that Pepita's LittleOne had decided to show a pig at the livestock show this year, and that the pig was extremely uncooperative.  She further stated that cows, goats, and sheep were all easier to load, unload, and show in the arena and that next year the LittleOne would need to make a better decision about what animal she chose.  

I call Bullshi+.  And not just because it comes from cattle.  Not one of these ideas is acceptable.  I feel it is my duty as the LittleOne's aunt (because Tia is the first part of tiara), to step in and put a stop to this foolishness before they mess things up nine ways to Sunday for this poor kid.  

You would think that with the fact that QueenB has more years experience at this than I do, she would have learned all the tips and tricks and nuances of showing animals at a stock show. 

I helped a friend at a stock show ONE YEAR and with that limited experience, I figured out the most important reason why girls are in 4-H and FFA to begin with -- and that is to pick up cute boys.  

So.  The bottom line is this:  CHICKENS.  

C) "CHEEPER" to feed.  That leaves you with the problem of having too much money left over at Tractor Supply and enables you to buy fancy boots and new jeans for when you are picking up cute boys.  

H) HANDLING them is way easier.  Chickens will not put up much of a fight when they are being put into their cages for the ensuing road trip.  Your hair won't get messed up, unlike the stupid girls whose mothers and grandmothers talked them to showing pigs/cows/goats/sheep. You will look much better than them when you are picking up cute boys.  

I)  IF they don't sell, chickens are easily dealt with later.  Either let them roost and lay eggs for you, fire up the Fry Daddy, or practice voodoo.  If worse comes to worst, turn them loose in the yard and let a distracted motorist on his cell phone put a definitive end to the "Why did the chicken cross the road" debate once and for all.  No pesky mascara runs from tears because you will miss your animal or if it doesn't sell for as much as you hoped.  (Who cares?  It's a chicken.)  Your makeup will be intact for the rest of the show and you will be fresh and pretty so that you can  pick up cute boys.  

C)  CAGES for chickens are small and can be placed easily in the bed of a truck, thus eliminating the need for a trailer altogether. You will be able to park closer and get inside sooner to pick up cute boys.  

K) KFC.  Do you know of anything else pertaining to chickens that starts with K?  This is what you name your chicken.  Cute boys think naming your chicken KFC is funny. 

E) EASY to show. Showing chickens is actually a misnomer.  Chickens show themselves.  Chickens can be dropped off at the show barn, cage card and cage latch double-checked, and then you are free to roam the rest of the barns looking for cute guys.

N) NO need to enter the arena at all.  This ensures that you will not smell like livestock snot, urine, or feces.  It also protects your new boots and jeans from getting livestock snot, urine, or feces on them.  The stupid pig/cow/goat/sheep girls will be smelly and none of the cute boys will want to talk to them.  

S)  SIMPLE to bathe and get ready to show.  Bathing a chicken is less time consuming than bathing larger animals.  Some chickens actually don't mind.  Be careful not to have the water too hot.  If your chicken appears to be losing consciousness and the water smells like Campbell's soup, you should remove your chicken immediately or add noodles.  Either way, you won't be all tired out from the ordeal, and you will still have plenty of energy to pick up cute boys.  

CAR-ma

I was unable to fulfill my regular football game parking lot duties tonight because it was just too crazy and they needed us to "spread out."  Being unable to fulfill your regular duties means that the first-runner up receives the crown.  Which means that I have "my people" in the Reserved Parking Area so well-trained that a man could handle it and so my parking lot duties fell to MyPoolBoy this evening and I had to go take over directing traffic on a corner.  Not that I am not fully comfortable working a corner, it just a deviation from the norm that was somewhat noteworthy to me.

I was fully prepared for the task, wearing my specially-designed parking lot duty shirt that has the word PARKING emblazoned across the chest with sparkly silver letters and a rhinestone tiara ironed on underneath.  This attire is not only pretty, but also functional, so that people will realize that I am, in fact, sober and SUPPOSED to be out there and not just on a Friday night bender with a sudden reckless whim to stand in a high school parking lot and direct traffic at the football game.  

I was waving and smiling and helping people avoid the moral depravity of parking in handicapped spaces when this woman pulled her car up to my post and wanted to drop her daughter off right there in the middle of the flow of traffic and turn around in the middle of the flow of traffic so that she could go back out the way she came and avoid going on a rocky bumpy dirt road.  I asked nicely - politely - professionally for her to please pull into the parking lot by the band hall and let the ladies in that parking lot help her turn around.  She didn't like that answer either.  She started yelling at me that she didn't want to tear up her car on the rocky bumpy dirt road.  I tried to explain to her that if she would follow the flow of traffic, she could turn around before the road and not block traffic.  Then her kid just says "just let me out here, Mom" and bangs me in the leg with her door as she jumped out of the car.  The mom took off, brushing the back flank of her vehicle against the very same leg her kid had just tried to maim, and pulled into the-very-same-parking-lot-I-had-just-asked-her-to-go-to-only-moments-prior. So I guess basically I was hit (albeit lightly) by a car tonight.  Once she was able to turn back around against the flow of traffic she gassed it back past me so that I would get the message that she was pi$$ed off at me for trying to make her drive her precious car down that rocky bumpy dirt road.  

Approximately 40 yards later, I heard the lilting sounds of metal scraping asphalt as she bottomed out while going too fast over a speed bump.  

Dear Karma, 

Thank you for being a bigger bi+ch than me tonight and allowing me be there to witness it.
Sincerely,
WTP  

There She Is

So.  This morning I informed TheLongestOneNightStandEver that I had the horrific thought run through my mind that as of this past Sunday, she is no longer eligible for MISS America due to her so-newly-acquired-marital-status-that-she-hasn't-updated-her-Facebook-profile.  Then I got depressed.  Because then it dawned on me that I can't be Miss America, either.  It's not just marital status, but also age.

But then I cheered up again.  Because that probably wouldn't be the grounds for disqualification in my case anyway.

I'm pretty sure I've broken most of the pageant's morals clauses.

An Open Letter of Pre-Apology

So. Thunderduck springs on us last night that he and TheLongestOneNightStandEver are getting married. 

In less than 24 hours. 

And they don't even have to. 

Imagine my surprise and heartfelt disappointment that there was no time to plan a decent bachelorette party.  I am taking this opportunity to publicly apologize to the Lucilles who have been cheated out of an excuse to raise h3ll. AND I can't even go shopping for a new dress or anything because all the good thrift stores don't open until later on Sunday.  Did they think of that?   No.  They are "in love" and are all happy and crap and are under the starstruck misguided effing impression that this is about THEM. 

Also.  Not sure how I am feeling about letting an AGGIE into the family since we are still adjusting to the fact that BrideOfTrainwreck is a Yankee.  But there is some consolation in the fact that she is cute enough to potentially produce acceptable-looking offspring for my wallet.  Because if Trainwreck's baby had been ugly I was just gonna keep the picture off of a jar of Gerber baby food and tell everyone it was just an amazing coincidence that he looked like that.  

Also to her credit was her remarkable ability to almost keep up with me last night after 3 bottles of wine.  Our evening almost ended prematurely when Thunderduck mistakenly thought she had fallen asleep in the truck on the way back to our house.  I made sure that THAT was not the case by hauling her out of the truck and into the house where we commenced to trying on our dresses and tiaras and made the menfolk build us a fire so we could finish off a box of wine and play Bride while they looked on helplessly just praying that they wouldn't have to call the fire department with us sprawled out in lawn chairs looking all wedding-ish and sh1t.

So there. She can't back out now because I have already blogged about her.