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.