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. 

You Tee'd Me Off

Listening to a yuppy dude (in a UT t-shirt and UT flip-flops for Gawd's sake) try to explain to a yuppy chick where and what Billy Bob's is (because nothing screams "I"m a real cowboy" like UT t-shirts and UT flip-flops).  If he is having to explain it in THAT much detail she is apparently not from Texas.

 Sadly, he is not capable of telling the truth her due to his obvious impairment: Let's face it, a yuppy-in-a-UT-t-shirt-and-UT-flip-flops-for-Gawd's-sake is overkill evidence that you A) did not actually go to UT or B) are an alumni who was a transplant from another state because we all know that UT really doesn't have anybody from Texas that ACTUALLY goes there unless they are football players.
The truth that he failed to impart is this: Billy Bob's is a great place to go for Rick Springfield concerts and to watch bull riding if you know someone who is actually riding bulls that night. Otherwise, Billy Bob's is where the yuppy dudes in UT t-shirts and UT flip-flops for Gawd's sake hang out trying to be all Texan and shi+.

And if you go in there trying to act all Texan and shi+, us real Texans will sniff you out because you are the one who gets up to go line-dance in boots that are too expensive. In the process you invariably and stupidly will leave your margarita unattended, so we'll send our drunk-a$$ sister-in-law to put a booger in it.

 I've HEARD.

Do You Want Fries With That?

So. MyPoolBoy and I go to Whataburger and I'm pretty sure that we saw a prostitution deal go down. (THAT sounds totally Harold and Kumarish doesn't it?) We sat at a table off to the side so that we could people watch because I haven't blogged in a while and I needed material. Whataburger did not disappoint. Across from us sat two women who looked like they had not yet recovered from the previous evening's festivities. Maybe even the previous week's festivities. Anyway... they started up a conversation with these guys wearing golf shirts who had arrived in a nice truck. One of the women (let's call her The Management) struck up a conversation with them that went something like this: "There's no good men in this town." (Now THAT's a pick-up line!) Translation - There's no men in the bars where we hang out that make enough money to buy their own drinks AND our drinks The Golf Shirts smiled and nodded and made the mistake of humoring her. "Well, we're not from here." Now... The Management took the social politeness as INTEREST and continued.... "That's good. We went out to the bars last night and it was just the same men as usual. Where are y'all from?" They told her. "Oh that's good." By this point, another pair of guys had arrived and seated themselves nearby. Ok. Let me rephrase that. Grizzly Adams and Barney Fife arrived and seated themselves nearby. The Management lowered her standards. "So where are y'all from?" They told her they used to be "from here" but now they lived somewhere else. "Oh that's good." This interpersonal communication proved to be more successful in that it involved more than one person in the conversation. Well "involved" beyond the point of me and MyPoolBoy listening in and muttering smart-a$$ responses to everything she spat out between bites of her Breakfast on a Bun. The gem was when she announced to both tables of men that right now she had no place to stay because her mother was about to kick her out. (Me under my breath: Why do you think that is?) The Golf Shirts left quickly in their nice new truck and she announced that she was going out to smoke and she would talk to Grizzly, Barney, and her sidekick in a little bit. The remainder of everyone else's meals continued in relieved silence and then the three got up and left at the same time. By the time that MyPoolBoy and I left, The Management had Grizzly Adams cornered at his work truck with Barney standing sheepishly at the passenger side waiting to get in. By the time we were through the double doors, The Management and her silent sidekick had started jaywalking across the highway to Walgreens. Grizzly and Barney had gotten in their truck and were pulling around to exit past the drive-thru. At this point, MyPoolBoy was receiving direct succinct orders from me to FOLLOW THEM FOLLOW THEM FOLLOW THEM! Sure enough. Grizzly's truck crossed the highway and pulled into the Walgreens parking lot. There was an exchange of words out in front of the RedBox rental machine and then the foursome entered the store. I had to continue my surveillance because of the aforementioned lack of blog material. They came out with beer and condoms. And then went to the motel across the street. Seriously. MyPoolBoy complained that all he ever got with his meal at Whataburger was heartburn.

Hey BooBoo

PSA: Yoga is infinitely more relaxing, yet completely unsuccessful when vodka is involved.

Curses! Foiled Again!

How many answers are we allowed to give?

#1 - The obvious answer: Wrap the foil around the rabbit ears antenna to get better reception because if you are old enough to know this answer, you remember when there was no such thing as cable.

#2 - The White Trash answer:  Put foil in the windows of your mobile home to keep the incoming sunlight from creating a glare on the screen while you watch your stories.

#3 - The improvisational rotten child answer: Roll the foil into a long cylinder and clamp onto the midpoint of the rabbit ear that you broke off while rough-housing in the living room of your mobile home.

#4 - The parental answer:  Use the empty cardboard roll to whoop the rotten children when they get in front of the set and block your view of the screen or if they are rough-housing and break one of the antenna off the top of the set and try to disguise it with rolled up foil.

#5 - The nutjob recluse neighbor answer:  Wrap the foil around your head, creating an unattractive yet functional beanie/hat to use while watching the television so that the messages coming in from "them" won't infiltrate your brain and make you end up like the white trash people in the mobile home next door.

Letter Rip

This is supposed to be all inspirational for planning a wedding and being romantic and whatever blah blah blah.  The bride and groom write each other a note to read before the ceremony. 

I was drawn to the changes of the expression on the bride's face (joyful, pensive, then touched -or heartbroken cuz he decided to end the letter with an "it's not you it's me and I can't go through with the wedding).  In contrast, check out the expression on HIS face - it never changes. 

I think it is because he is still trying to sound out the words!

Games People Play

OMG.  I just participated in the most exhausting game of Fetch ever known to mankind.  DammitDog, Killer, and Spazz would dutifully run after the ball I threw, but the little one couldn't get his mouth around the ball to bring it back and ended up just jumping around and barking like a fool. 

The 2 big dogs chased the ball, but by the time they crossed the yard to get to it, they apparently forgot why they were running and got all sidetracked into some sort of ADHD version of Tag and neglected to follow through with their end of the game, too.

In the meantime, DonnyCat began to feel left out of the frolicking and proceeded to start his own game of "Attempted Murder" by weaving in and out of my legs each time I went to "fetch" the dogs' effing ball for them. 

The V Word - And It's Not VODKA

If you are getting your dander up and even remotely thinking I am going to be all political with this post you are way off, so you can pick your beer back up and put your earrings back on.

Look, the only party I will say I totally support is a cocktail party.  Or a keg party.  Because, honestly, people, I am too busy trying to mess up my own life to give too much of sh1t about politics messing it up.  Now don't get me wrong... the government is important, and the news is important, but I am the parent of two sons in the military and, pretty much all I care about is that no one shoots at them.

Ok, ok, I don't want anyone shooting at the 2 sons who are NOT in the military, either.

Here's the issue - I am linking to a video to describe what I am talking about in case you, like me, get your news from Google newsfeeds, gossip at the taco stand, and the Daily Show. (Jon Stewart: The Vagina Idealogues)

Why is everyone so shocked that using the "V" word got this woman in trouble?

H3ll, using my V-word got me "in trouble" FOUR TIMES!

As Young As You Feel

So. Queen B posted a Facebook "game" with instructions that indicate participants are supposed to reply to her post with a single word response that conveys how and/or where we met her. Then we are supposed to copy and repost the same "game" on our own Facebook status so that she can do the same.

Basically, I'm just too freakin' lazy.  However - I will never pass up the opportunity to give someone, especially a family member, a hard time.  Queen B is only 8 years older than I am.   I have all kinds of things I could say about THAT.

Furthermore, I  have a complete and total lack of ability to follow instructions.  So my first thought was to respond with TWO words - tennis balls.  Because in order to meet his bride, my father used the completely unorthodox date-pick-up method of whacking tennis balls over the chainlink enclosure of a tennis court and literally "hitting on" Queen B.

I then decided that I WILL respond with a single word (which incidentally MyPoolBoy is disputing its actual lexicographical existence because spell-check is putting that annoying effing red squiggly line under it).  Also, I will not post the the "game" on my own Facebook  (refer to the aforementioned lack of ability to follow instructions).

Anyway.  The word I have chosen is  CRADLEROBBERY.   I am going to post now and watch the merriment commence!

Say Cheese

I didn't take a lunch to school today, so I took the very adult problem-solving action of cutting in the cafeteria line in front of my students.  As I was attempting to communicate to the sweet lady behind the serving line that I wanted a quesadilla, one of my boys kept saying my name over and over. "Mrs. WTP."
I ignored him.  Again..."Mrs. WTP."
Ignore. Yet again... "Mrs. WTP."
I finally got my tray of food and turned to address his incessant beckoning..."What do you need?"
"Well, I was trying to save you.  Those quesadillas are really gross!"

Cup of Prevention

After multiple days of feeling under the weather, my housekeeping skills have gone from "lacking" to "nonexistent."  So it was not entirely surprising to me this morning when MyPoolBoy's boot became entangled in the straps of a bra that I had carelessly (as in, I could care less) left at the foot of the bed.  As he propelled forward and unsuccessfully attempted to regain his balance before falling into the door frame in a display of Three-Stooges-like physical comedy, I punctuated his unfortunate ordeal with the hilarious-to-me commentary:  "Booby trap."

I think I may have unintentionally found a way to save money on security systems.  My new enterprise will be called "Second Base Security," and we will keep you ABREAST of your home's safety with 24 hour SUPPORT!

Quick Quips

At the faculty meeting this afternoon, I was delighted to discover that my colleagues had provided mini-Snickers and mini-Butterfingers AND THREE different kinds of brownies. As I made my way down the line with my plate, someone questioned what the topic of the meeting was to be. The response: information from a curriculum audit of our campus.

 To which one of my co-workers interjected this ABSOLUTE PEARL of wisdom -- "Audit." That's not really a party word, is it?

 BWAHAHAHAHA!

 Now that I am home, DonnyCat and I have come to the happy realization that it's just us here, and that we have first dibs on leftovers for dinner.

Important Video Message

You should go HERE for an important video message about my blog.

Hot Tub Time Machine

So.  I am the proud new owner of a $50 hot tub.  It is straight out of the late 70s or early 80s and after moving it, we NEED it! 

I had to clean the heating element with vinegar to remove the lime scale while we were dong some maintenance on it.  Now the whole back porch smells like Easter egg dye.  Or douche.  

It is big and ugly.  Ivory fiberglass with dark brown Spanish tile trim.  I fully expect to lift the cover and find Ron Jeremy sitting in it.  And probably the only way we  can emulate the time machine experience is to  drink heavily and then hit replay on our mp3 player and zap us back a whopping 2 minutes and 39 seconds in time.  Deja vu all over again.