To all 6 of my readers and those who might stumble upon me in a midnight clear, I wish you all a:
Merry ChristmaHanuKwanzakkah!
Now pass me the eggnog, Mama's got a date with Santa. ;)
Friday, December 23, 2011
Friday, October 21, 2011
Law and Order: SCU
Porto potty's seem like a re-accuring nightmare to me, only acted out in real life by me. Some how I can come up with stories of horror easily and that have most likely happened to me inside or around or caused by these horrible germ filled, porous shit-containment-units(SCU).
If you've read a previous post of mine about a really really no god horrible bad start to day that I never finished to it's total potential like I have with many things (I'm sorry sweetie, I WILL get pictures up on the wall, I swear!) you'll know I am not a fan of the Port-o-John. I have to be close to having pee run down my leg in public and not being able to explain it away or jump into a river/lake/stream/ocean.
There is one circumstance that negates all grossness of the Willy-make-it grossfactordefcon12million though. And that my friends is alcohol. A lot of alcohol.
I went on a camping trip with my best friend, her husband and my guy friend who I thought was super cute but never hooked up with cause I was too good for that and didn't want to ruin a perfectly good decade long friendship and blah blah blah all those things girls say when they totally want to make out with someone but don't want to be rejected and feel like they have boils all over their faces when the boys laugh at them.
So we started off out little trip with a stop by the liquor store and then a bar. I shamelessly flirted with the bartender with at least 3 missing teeth all the while crossing my arms underneath my boobs to make them seem even bigger. Me and the 2 guys reaped the benefits with a ridiculous amount of free booze poured by the meth addict staring at the "girls". After some much needed video poker, unearned cash returns from said video poker and a little nourishment we head back to camp where we continue drinking!
After a couple solid hours of hydrating my liver with sugary sickly sweet alcohol that looked like motor oil mixed with honey, Shocker...I had to puke. Nothing says "sexy whoo hoo I wanna make out with you" like a puking girl in the bushes so I politely and eloquently excused myself to the facilities. (I'm sure it sounded like: be ri baccckk, don't drink allthe booooze suckass gotta peeee bye)
I stumbled off down the gravel road from our campsite to the port-o-germ factory and crawled in touching oh too much... I forgot I had to puke and plopped down on the hard plastic freezing cold seat. Now I can hover like a mo-fo...but when your center of gravity has been slightly altered by a half gallon of something called "honey Jager", the only thing that stopped me from falling INTO that hole was that the god lord above blessed me what is clinically called a ghetto booty. It acts like training wheels, so I learned, when you just can't quite get the hovering effect and plop down on the germ laden ugh fest toilet seat.
Half way through my business I then remember that I had to puke. Just then I heard foot steps crunching up the road. Holding bile in the back of my throat I finished up and turned around to expel some demons. As I made the frantic 180, my ghetto booty hit the (unlocked...doh!) door and flung it open just in time for my best buddy to see my pants around my ankles, ass hanging out of the door in full view and in mid dry heave. A site I am so sure she wants to forget but is forever ingrained in her innocent mind.
My advise to my PDRTM blog is that when in doubt, do the crouch. Find a lovely spot in the woods and take care of business. You won't fall in and you won't risk hepatitis of the ass either. Beware of poison oak though...no one wants to make out with someone who is oozing...even if you have a great rack and laugh at all of his jokes.
If you've read a previous post of mine about a really really no god horrible bad start to day that I never finished to it's total potential like I have with many things (I'm sorry sweetie, I WILL get pictures up on the wall, I swear!) you'll know I am not a fan of the Port-o-John. I have to be close to having pee run down my leg in public and not being able to explain it away or jump into a river/lake/stream/ocean.
There is one circumstance that negates all grossness of the Willy-make-it grossfactordefcon12million though. And that my friends is alcohol. A lot of alcohol.
I went on a camping trip with my best friend, her husband and my guy friend who I thought was super cute but never hooked up with cause I was too good for that and didn't want to ruin a perfectly good decade long friendship and blah blah blah all those things girls say when they totally want to make out with someone but don't want to be rejected and feel like they have boils all over their faces when the boys laugh at them.
So we started off out little trip with a stop by the liquor store and then a bar. I shamelessly flirted with the bartender with at least 3 missing teeth all the while crossing my arms underneath my boobs to make them seem even bigger. Me and the 2 guys reaped the benefits with a ridiculous amount of free booze poured by the meth addict staring at the "girls". After some much needed video poker, unearned cash returns from said video poker and a little nourishment we head back to camp where we continue drinking!
After a couple solid hours of hydrating my liver with sugary sickly sweet alcohol that looked like motor oil mixed with honey, Shocker...I had to puke. Nothing says "sexy whoo hoo I wanna make out with you" like a puking girl in the bushes so I politely and eloquently excused myself to the facilities. (I'm sure it sounded like: be ri baccckk, don't drink allthe booooze suckass gotta peeee bye)
I stumbled off down the gravel road from our campsite to the port-o-germ factory and crawled in touching oh too much... I forgot I had to puke and plopped down on the hard plastic freezing cold seat. Now I can hover like a mo-fo...but when your center of gravity has been slightly altered by a half gallon of something called "honey Jager", the only thing that stopped me from falling INTO that hole was that the god lord above blessed me what is clinically called a ghetto booty. It acts like training wheels, so I learned, when you just can't quite get the hovering effect and plop down on the germ laden ugh fest toilet seat.
Half way through my business I then remember that I had to puke. Just then I heard foot steps crunching up the road. Holding bile in the back of my throat I finished up and turned around to expel some demons. As I made the frantic 180, my ghetto booty hit the (unlocked...doh!) door and flung it open just in time for my best buddy to see my pants around my ankles, ass hanging out of the door in full view and in mid dry heave. A site I am so sure she wants to forget but is forever ingrained in her innocent mind.
My advise to my PDRTM blog is that when in doubt, do the crouch. Find a lovely spot in the woods and take care of business. You won't fall in and you won't risk hepatitis of the ass either. Beware of poison oak though...no one wants to make out with someone who is oozing...even if you have a great rack and laugh at all of his jokes.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Horse-Camp for the Believers.
When you are a kid, you spend your summers playing in the sprinklers, going to the local pool and swimming for $2.00 in urine and phermones, waiting to hear the ice cream truck tinkle by and going to awesome summer camps while their parents get drunk and have sectual relations. Not me. All I had on my mind was horses. I was THAT girl.
Looking back, it's amazing I wasn't at the top of my 8 year old social circle. I had a wicked cool perm complete with bangin' bangs, buck teeth and smelled like horse sweat and leather. Every Friday my class would have show-and-tell and everyone would groan when I would shoot up my hand lightning fast to go first. Usually I would talk about my horse or something my horse did or perhaps even something my horse didn't do but I couldn't think of anything cool that had happened that week so I just made shit up about the horse. Very occasionally I would veer away from the equestrian chat but likely would return the following Friday to recant my standing on a saddle riding in a circle while New Kids on the Block Played in the background of my stable on a tape player plugged in next to an RC cola machine. (this really did happen and was as awesome as it sound, but no one believed me!)
There was one time though that I lugged 3 garbage bags full of Care Bears the half mile to school and pulled each one out and spouted off their names and respective Care Bear power when it was my turn. I still can't believe my teacher let me do that. I am pretty sure the only reason he did allow my fodder is because I knew he was boning the music teacher, even though I really didn't what boning was until 4th grade and even then I definitely had some serious inaccuracies.
Anywho, horses.
When my mom sold my horse, there was this giant super duper sized hole missing from my heart and my Fridays were filled with other kids telling lame story's that did not include horses. Her and my dad thought that as the school year came to an end, maybe I could attend a summer camp to get my mind off of my loss.
Surprisingly in the late '80's there weren't very many summer camps that weren't for fat kids or delinquents so I ended up attending a church camp. A HORSE church camp. I didn't give two shits that my mom had to buy a bible to send with me at a garage sale (she wouldn't let me take the 15lbs gold embossed King James edition under our coffee table) and I didn't care that I was going to spend 3 hours every evening in prayer, worship and reflection. There were going to be horses, damn it!
I showed up that day with my hopes high. I my mind, it was going to be like an episode of "Hey Dude". I would make friends with the ranch hands, sneak out late at night to go ghost hunting on the ridge and teach all the lesser camper the finer techniques of riding bareback and being generally awesome at everything horse related.
That all screeched to a halt when they put a helmet on my head...
"No no no...I can understand your confusion, but my mom checked "advanced" on my application. I don't need a helmet, I have a well worn cowboy hat that I intend to wear over my bad perm." You see, in my world, you only wore a helmet if you were a beginner or mentally handicapped being trotted around the circle for therapy.
The sweet Christian lady just smiled and welcomed me to the safe way to ride where everyone feels included and no one feels like they are behind. Now god bless and if you want to put money on your commissary account you may do so right over there..." I vowed to straighten it out later with the ranch hands where I would throw some advanced lingo out there like "does this horse prefer a Martingale bridle?" and they would be so awed that an 8 year old knew so much they would let me pick the prettiest and fast horse and let me leave my helmet for one of the Downs' kids in the following week.
We walked over to the commissary and my mom wrote a check for $20.00 to put on my account. (prison much?) The 15 year old behind the swinging half door showed me all the Red Vines and Sour Patch Kids and as I drooled in anticipation of stuffing my face full of Caramellos he informed my mom that she would probably have a balance returned since the kids could only buy 1 candy item per day. What the bloody hell?!? How am I supposed to make friends if I can't bribe them with treats to come up on my top bunk and braid my hair? Ugh...
I tried to stand out as much as possible. I wore my jeans OVER my boots so I didn't look like a (I need an 8 year old word for nOob), I tried to make conversation with the counselors. Nothing I did got me out of that helmet and into the horses and Caramellows. There were no ranch hands to shmooze. In fact it wasn't even a ranch. It was a dorm with a stable! Every night we trompted through the woods with our bibles and sat ob bleachers around a campfire and talked about the lord, and all lordly things. I couldn't really add too much here since I was kind of a heathen but then we would sing! This is where I knew I could stand out. I would sing loudly the words I knew, really loudly. " errmmmly lift ME UP AND mmrrrr man sirrrrr reJOICE!!!" I got attention that's for sure.
About the third day there we were all at breakfast when the Leader of the camp came in. This was HUGE! It was like a visit from Joseph Smith himself! We had all heard about this man, but no one had seen him. He was dressed in worn jeans and a purple camp t-shirt. Totally legit. He told us that we had been sent, each one of us to do good in this world and it starts today. He needed 25 kids to go out back behind the barn and help move some earth that was sliding into the creek and poisoning all the little fishies and crawdads. My hand shot up like it was show-and-tell Friday. SO far this camp sucks, but it all changes now....
25 of us, 4 camp counselors and the Leader walked behind the barn listening to how we are the very best youth there is. We are the future leaders of America. We make God PROUD! I was beaming like the hand of God had touched me directly and not inappropriately.
I made a vow that if someone shoveled fast, I would shovel faster. When people took breaks, I wouldn't. I would be there flinging what needed to be flung into wheel-barrels while others looked on admiring my strength and tenacity. This happened, oh yes it did. I shoveled for 4 straight hours. That evening I had to go to the nurse because I had so many blisters on my hands that my 15 year old camp counselor was grossed out by the thought of me touching anything in our room. My muscles hurt so bad I couldn't ride the next day on the Holy Trial Ride. I just layed there thinking that I made them proud, I stood out! They would remember me. I might even get my name on a plaque for how hard I worked. It was worth it not being able to get off the toilet without using the handicapped arm rails because I was the favorite!
I knew at the time that we were shoveling the manure and shavings from the barn away from the creek, not "earth" as it had been presented. And I knew that some of the kids left that afternoon because of asthma attacks because of the ammonia, but I didn't care. It wasn't until I received an award for being an outstanding student in god's light and the closing ceremony that my dad put it into perspective for me. Him and my mom were so proud of me for the special award so I told them what I had done to get it. I left out no detail including the number of blisters that had formed and been lanced. Tell me how much you love me and the best daughter on the planet, parental units!
"So you got an award for shoveling shit and horse piss for 4 hours so they wouldn't get fined for contaminating a running water source?" Well...when you put it that way, it sounds far less glamorous...I still want my plaque.
Looking back, it's amazing I wasn't at the top of my 8 year old social circle. I had a wicked cool perm complete with bangin' bangs, buck teeth and smelled like horse sweat and leather. Every Friday my class would have show-and-tell and everyone would groan when I would shoot up my hand lightning fast to go first. Usually I would talk about my horse or something my horse did or perhaps even something my horse didn't do but I couldn't think of anything cool that had happened that week so I just made shit up about the horse. Very occasionally I would veer away from the equestrian chat but likely would return the following Friday to recant my standing on a saddle riding in a circle while New Kids on the Block Played in the background of my stable on a tape player plugged in next to an RC cola machine. (this really did happen and was as awesome as it sound, but no one believed me!)
There was one time though that I lugged 3 garbage bags full of Care Bears the half mile to school and pulled each one out and spouted off their names and respective Care Bear power when it was my turn. I still can't believe my teacher let me do that. I am pretty sure the only reason he did allow my fodder is because I knew he was boning the music teacher, even though I really didn't what boning was until 4th grade and even then I definitely had some serious inaccuracies.
Anywho, horses.
When my mom sold my horse, there was this giant super duper sized hole missing from my heart and my Fridays were filled with other kids telling lame story's that did not include horses. Her and my dad thought that as the school year came to an end, maybe I could attend a summer camp to get my mind off of my loss.
Surprisingly in the late '80's there weren't very many summer camps that weren't for fat kids or delinquents so I ended up attending a church camp. A HORSE church camp. I didn't give two shits that my mom had to buy a bible to send with me at a garage sale (she wouldn't let me take the 15lbs gold embossed King James edition under our coffee table) and I didn't care that I was going to spend 3 hours every evening in prayer, worship and reflection. There were going to be horses, damn it!
I showed up that day with my hopes high. I my mind, it was going to be like an episode of "Hey Dude". I would make friends with the ranch hands, sneak out late at night to go ghost hunting on the ridge and teach all the lesser camper the finer techniques of riding bareback and being generally awesome at everything horse related.
That all screeched to a halt when they put a helmet on my head...
"No no no...I can understand your confusion, but my mom checked "advanced" on my application. I don't need a helmet, I have a well worn cowboy hat that I intend to wear over my bad perm." You see, in my world, you only wore a helmet if you were a beginner or mentally handicapped being trotted around the circle for therapy.
The sweet Christian lady just smiled and welcomed me to the safe way to ride where everyone feels included and no one feels like they are behind. Now god bless and if you want to put money on your commissary account you may do so right over there..." I vowed to straighten it out later with the ranch hands where I would throw some advanced lingo out there like "does this horse prefer a Martingale bridle?" and they would be so awed that an 8 year old knew so much they would let me pick the prettiest and fast horse and let me leave my helmet for one of the Downs' kids in the following week.
We walked over to the commissary and my mom wrote a check for $20.00 to put on my account. (prison much?) The 15 year old behind the swinging half door showed me all the Red Vines and Sour Patch Kids and as I drooled in anticipation of stuffing my face full of Caramellos he informed my mom that she would probably have a balance returned since the kids could only buy 1 candy item per day. What the bloody hell?!? How am I supposed to make friends if I can't bribe them with treats to come up on my top bunk and braid my hair? Ugh...
I tried to stand out as much as possible. I wore my jeans OVER my boots so I didn't look like a (I need an 8 year old word for nOob), I tried to make conversation with the counselors. Nothing I did got me out of that helmet and into the horses and Caramellows. There were no ranch hands to shmooze. In fact it wasn't even a ranch. It was a dorm with a stable! Every night we trompted through the woods with our bibles and sat ob bleachers around a campfire and talked about the lord, and all lordly things. I couldn't really add too much here since I was kind of a heathen but then we would sing! This is where I knew I could stand out. I would sing loudly the words I knew, really loudly. " errmmmly lift ME UP AND mmrrrr man sirrrrr reJOICE!!!" I got attention that's for sure.
About the third day there we were all at breakfast when the Leader of the camp came in. This was HUGE! It was like a visit from Joseph Smith himself! We had all heard about this man, but no one had seen him. He was dressed in worn jeans and a purple camp t-shirt. Totally legit. He told us that we had been sent, each one of us to do good in this world and it starts today. He needed 25 kids to go out back behind the barn and help move some earth that was sliding into the creek and poisoning all the little fishies and crawdads. My hand shot up like it was show-and-tell Friday. SO far this camp sucks, but it all changes now....
25 of us, 4 camp counselors and the Leader walked behind the barn listening to how we are the very best youth there is. We are the future leaders of America. We make God PROUD! I was beaming like the hand of God had touched me directly and not inappropriately.
I made a vow that if someone shoveled fast, I would shovel faster. When people took breaks, I wouldn't. I would be there flinging what needed to be flung into wheel-barrels while others looked on admiring my strength and tenacity. This happened, oh yes it did. I shoveled for 4 straight hours. That evening I had to go to the nurse because I had so many blisters on my hands that my 15 year old camp counselor was grossed out by the thought of me touching anything in our room. My muscles hurt so bad I couldn't ride the next day on the Holy Trial Ride. I just layed there thinking that I made them proud, I stood out! They would remember me. I might even get my name on a plaque for how hard I worked. It was worth it not being able to get off the toilet without using the handicapped arm rails because I was the favorite!
I knew at the time that we were shoveling the manure and shavings from the barn away from the creek, not "earth" as it had been presented. And I knew that some of the kids left that afternoon because of asthma attacks because of the ammonia, but I didn't care. It wasn't until I received an award for being an outstanding student in god's light and the closing ceremony that my dad put it into perspective for me. Him and my mom were so proud of me for the special award so I told them what I had done to get it. I left out no detail including the number of blisters that had formed and been lanced. Tell me how much you love me and the best daughter on the planet, parental units!
"So you got an award for shoveling shit and horse piss for 4 hours so they wouldn't get fined for contaminating a running water source?" Well...when you put it that way, it sounds far less glamorous...I still want my plaque.
Friday, September 23, 2011
This sicky ickies....
I'm a mom, so when my kids get sick I kick into maternal awesomeness and buy orange juice, vitamin C drops, cough medicine, comfort food and make sure that the kiddos have blankets, snuggies and favorite toys.
I'm a "wife", so when he gets sick I get him vitamin C drops, cough medicine, cook him his favorite comfort food and make sure he has his favorite toys and video games on hand. I stroke his head and force feed him Nyquil at 5pm.
I never get sick. But now I'm sick....and so is oyfriendbay..... My nose is running green snot, my head feels like it might be on fire and explode in a snotty mess at the same time and I can't take a breath without wheezing like an 80 year old prostitute.
Where we are usually lovey-dovey-awesome-gooshy, we are now staring daggers at each other for not going to the grocery store and comparing who's snot is grosser. Mine totally was.
Hemmingway said: In modern war... you will die like a dog for no good reason.
I say: In modern cold season...you will die like a dog if you don't turn the TV back to Grey's Anatomy and give me the fucking kleenex.
le achoooo!
I'm a "wife", so when he gets sick I get him vitamin C drops, cough medicine, cook him his favorite comfort food and make sure he has his favorite toys and video games on hand. I stroke his head and force feed him Nyquil at 5pm.
I never get sick. But now I'm sick....and so is oyfriendbay..... My nose is running green snot, my head feels like it might be on fire and explode in a snotty mess at the same time and I can't take a breath without wheezing like an 80 year old prostitute.
Where we are usually lovey-dovey-awesome-gooshy, we are now staring daggers at each other for not going to the grocery store and comparing who's snot is grosser. Mine totally was.
Hemmingway said: In modern war... you will die like a dog for no good reason.
I say: In modern cold season...you will die like a dog if you don't turn the TV back to Grey's Anatomy and give me the fucking kleenex.
le achoooo!
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Oprah's biggest gift EVER!
As long as I can remember I have always wanted to be on the Oprah show. Not any show mind you, one is particular. I'm not one for trying to look surprised when you find out that back stage is the natural birth parents you've been looking for for 30 years and some how you had never heard of GOOGLE*! Oprah's wonder-staff located them, ordered tickets from AMERICAN AIRLINES* and took them on a shopping spree at MACY'S* all the while filming these people crying over wrong leads and wanting to know where they came from!
*all asterisks are advertising deals that Oprah collects on her advertising scheme to become a bazzilionaire
Nope, the show that I wanted to be on was the holiday fantasmic production of awesomeness. Gluttony of electronics, bookings of entire cruise ships and perfect pollution free Prius's all means one thing: Oprah's favorite THHIIIIIIINNNNGGGS!
I wanted to be the one to cry when she told me to reach under my seat for the $1000 gift card for a shopping spree to her favorite bath and body store and I wanted to scream when she had her staff bring out women's Rolex's on silver tray's for the entire audience. I wanted to be the one who gets filmed fanning my face when Oprah gives away a trip to the Virgin Islands, damn it! A Prius? Eff yeah I'll drive a free prius! If you say a chicken pot pie is your favorite then dog-gone-it! It's my favorite too because I love you Oprah!!! (sob!)
Let me give you an insight to how the world works for me though. If I were to make it to the Oprah show for the "Favorite Things" show, this is how it would go:
(opening credits.....roll scenes of Oprah smiling at flattering angles with clips of Chicago in equally flattering light in 3...2...1....)
APPLAUSE and fast forward 45 minutes in...
Oprah: Now we have seen some amazing stories this year and I have worn some amazing outfits and tried to throw some ghetto slang in there so you people still think I am socially relevant. I have made another 17 zillion dollars and Stedman feels just a bit more inadequate. Yes, it's been a good year."
"We've waited long enough now for me to tell you all what my favorite thing is. Gail, could you come out and look awkward for a moment? I need your help passing out my FAVORITE thing this year. Sponsored by AMERICAN AIRLINES*, GOOGLE*, RACHEL RAY*, BORDEAUX'S BUTT PASTE* and GOD* HIMSELF! (pause) Give God* a round of applause people!"
-staff walks out with Santa hats on and hands out beautiful boxed made of faux fur and faux feathers(since we all know the big O doesn't support the killing of the furry friends for style, the only she kills is poly-blends!
Me(thinking): ooh my god oh my god oh my god.....
Oprah: This year's "favorite thing" gift is bigger than any show I have ever done. Worth more than my good friend Donald Trump. Crazier than Tom Cruise. This is bigger than me, people.
Me:(thinking): oh my goooood!
Oprah: It took a lot of people to make this happen.
Me (thinking): Whatever it is I am totally going to sell it on eBay with a copy of this episode to prove I was actually here and pay off bills and buy a new awesome car that I don't have to cut down on iced caramel non-fat mocha's for and then I am going to Aruba, no Greece, no Fiji no I'll buy my own island cause I'll be Oprah rich, bitch!
Oprah: This year, my favorite thing is......
Me: (holding breath)
Oprah: CHARITY*!!!!
Me: (Screams of joys and anticipation and cotton candy and unicorns then...) What the fuck?!!? My beautiful faux fur and peacock feathered box is empty. Yo, O. There has obviously been a mistake. There are no diamonds here. Not even a black opal AMERICAN EXPRESS. I can't buy an island with an empty box!
Her Majesty, Ms. Oprah tells us all that this year her favorite gift is giving back and leaves us with the message of hope and prayers and anoints us all to go out and find someone who needs our help and help them.
People are crying and nodding in agreement like she just spoke the words of their dead grandmother and I am standing there slack-jawed still hoping that my own private island is going to fall out of this cheap ass jewelery box. It doesn't, the show closes and I am the only person ever to be arrested for shouting "Fuck you, Oprah! I want my god damn private island!"
le sigh.
(Oprah, if you're reading this. I love you...and your chicken pot pie)
*all asterisks are advertising deals that Oprah collects on her advertising scheme to become a bazzilionaire
Nope, the show that I wanted to be on was the holiday fantasmic production of awesomeness. Gluttony of electronics, bookings of entire cruise ships and perfect pollution free Prius's all means one thing: Oprah's favorite THHIIIIIIINNNNGGGS!
I wanted to be the one to cry when she told me to reach under my seat for the $1000 gift card for a shopping spree to her favorite bath and body store and I wanted to scream when she had her staff bring out women's Rolex's on silver tray's for the entire audience. I wanted to be the one who gets filmed fanning my face when Oprah gives away a trip to the Virgin Islands, damn it! A Prius? Eff yeah I'll drive a free prius! If you say a chicken pot pie is your favorite then dog-gone-it! It's my favorite too because I love you Oprah!!! (sob!)
Let me give you an insight to how the world works for me though. If I were to make it to the Oprah show for the "Favorite Things" show, this is how it would go:
(opening credits.....roll scenes of Oprah smiling at flattering angles with clips of Chicago in equally flattering light in 3...2...1....)
APPLAUSE and fast forward 45 minutes in...
Oprah: Now we have seen some amazing stories this year and I have worn some amazing outfits and tried to throw some ghetto slang in there so you people still think I am socially relevant. I have made another 17 zillion dollars and Stedman feels just a bit more inadequate. Yes, it's been a good year."
"We've waited long enough now for me to tell you all what my favorite thing is. Gail, could you come out and look awkward for a moment? I need your help passing out my FAVORITE thing this year. Sponsored by AMERICAN AIRLINES*, GOOGLE*, RACHEL RAY*, BORDEAUX'S BUTT PASTE* and GOD* HIMSELF! (pause) Give God* a round of applause people!"
-staff walks out with Santa hats on and hands out beautiful boxed made of faux fur and faux feathers(since we all know the big O doesn't support the killing of the furry friends for style, the only she kills is poly-blends!
Me(thinking): ooh my god oh my god oh my god.....
Oprah: This year's "favorite thing" gift is bigger than any show I have ever done. Worth more than my good friend Donald Trump. Crazier than Tom Cruise. This is bigger than me, people.
Me:(thinking): oh my goooood!
Oprah: It took a lot of people to make this happen.
Me (thinking): Whatever it is I am totally going to sell it on eBay with a copy of this episode to prove I was actually here and pay off bills and buy a new awesome car that I don't have to cut down on iced caramel non-fat mocha's for and then I am going to Aruba, no Greece, no Fiji no I'll buy my own island cause I'll be Oprah rich, bitch!
Oprah: This year, my favorite thing is......
Me: (holding breath)
Oprah: CHARITY*!!!!
Me: (Screams of joys and anticipation and cotton candy and unicorns then...) What the fuck?!!? My beautiful faux fur and peacock feathered box is empty. Yo, O. There has obviously been a mistake. There are no diamonds here. Not even a black opal AMERICAN EXPRESS. I can't buy an island with an empty box!
Her Majesty, Ms. Oprah tells us all that this year her favorite gift is giving back and leaves us with the message of hope and prayers and anoints us all to go out and find someone who needs our help and help them.
People are crying and nodding in agreement like she just spoke the words of their dead grandmother and I am standing there slack-jawed still hoping that my own private island is going to fall out of this cheap ass jewelery box. It doesn't, the show closes and I am the only person ever to be arrested for shouting "Fuck you, Oprah! I want my god damn private island!"
le sigh.
(Oprah, if you're reading this. I love you...and your chicken pot pie)
Friday, August 19, 2011
Friday - Things I hate
I have decided that with Friday being the end of the week, it deserves a blog post. Introducing the weekly "Things I f*cking hate!!!"
Today's post is brought to you by the letter "B".
Now, I live in one of the most biker friendly cities in the world. We have bike paths, bike parades, naked bike parades, bike boxes (dumbest waste of green paint EVA!) and bike maps. We have the "Oregon 10 foot rule", our Mayor rides his freaking Schwin to work and our hospital has more Bicycle Valet space than Patient Valet parking available. With all of these fabulous reasons to love bikes and their doting riders who couldn't? Me. That's who.
Let's start with the facts. You weigh 95.7 pounds on your all vegan diet and your bike weighs 20lbs.
95.7 + 20= WAY less than my 5300 lbs., gas guzzling soccer mom of a vehicle! Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. The. Way.
I am not actively looking to play "bowling for bikers", truely I am not, but for goddamnitchristssake common sense tells us...you big, me small so scatter like Wile E. mutha fuckin' Coyote with a stick of dynamite up his ass when you are blocking the ENTIRE road.
Next: Been on Hawthorne Blvd. lately? Now these bikers have balls, and for that they have my respect. This street is so small even the dreadlocks get tangled when walking by one another yet here comes this broad in a full floor length skirt, leg hair for miles and a messenger bag filled with groceries from Whole Foods and the co-op down the way. One hand maintains directionals on the bike handle bars while the other balances a beautiful pesticide free flower arrangement that she is probably going to make salad out of. Now as frusterating as this is to get stuck behind going 6 MPH, nothing is more frustrating than getting stuck behind this:
If the long leg-haired hippy can travel with her organic groceries why Why WHY is it necessary for you to look like this. There is NOTHING flattering about shoving your cock between you legs and certainly isn't needed unless you were in the movie Silence of the Lambs!
To recap...things I hate. Bikers. Stop yelling at us, stop dressing like d-bags, obey the fucking traffic laws that you spout out in a electrolyte-less fervor and get the fuck over, bitches. I've got a V8 and places to be.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Mismanaged Moments....
I consider myself a smart girl. I know East from West, I know the proper order to use forks at a fancy schmancy meal, I know how to use the word "acquiesce" in a sentence, though very rarely actually acquiesce in any circumstances...(ask oyfriendbay...he'll agree!) AND I am fairly certain you know no one else who can tell you the difference between the first/third Becky on Roseanne and the second one! But I have my dumb moments. REALLY dumb moments. In fact, I am sure that the reason I have so many dumb moments is because I have no shame. I have no filter. When it comes to me screwing up, I am usually the one who does it in public....and loudly.
I have verbally walked through a house while talking on my cell phone and looking for my cell phone at the same time. I have sent private emails to multiple people by hitting the "reply to all" button and I have dropped my drawers on a main highway at rush hour (more on that later) but what make my mismanaged awesome moments okay, is that I have friends that are brave enough to have non-intelligent moments with me.
Exhibit One:
Rainbows!
MARCH 2006
Brandi and I were co-workers and then we became the bestest of friends. Bosom buddies, tweedle-dum and tweedle-dumber ( I call dum!) We were together for 8 hours a day and spent most of our free time together as we were both essentially single moms. This may sound like a sitcom on TBS, but for us, it gave us enough time to be together to witness some pretty effed up shit about each other. Because we were so cool, when we weren't working (which was rare) we were posting funny -gifs on each others MySpace page, making fun of each others ex's and planning on when we could fit more time together in between the time we were already planning to be together. We were like super-duper bff's.
Now as much as I adored the great Brandini and still do, she has provided me hours of laughs at her expense and likewise I am sure. Here is one of our greatest conversations...ever.
(See picture above for reference)
Me: Hey Brandi, we are awesome... we should hang out this weekend and hike and do things outdoorsy so we can meet cute boys or something.
Brandi: Heck yes we are! Let me check the weather!
Brandi: (deadpan effing serious) OOOOoooooh! Look! They are predicting rainbows on the 17th!
Me: ...........
Brandi: (still uber excited about the impending pretty multicolored reflections in the sky!)
Me: ............
Me: (after a proper amount of time for her to say something smart to counteract what may have just happened) Brandi....by any chance is there a pot of gold at the bottom of that rainbow?
Brandi: Yeah! Why? ...oh....
(Laugh till I peed right here, all over the place)
Love you, Brandini!
I have verbally walked through a house while talking on my cell phone and looking for my cell phone at the same time. I have sent private emails to multiple people by hitting the "reply to all" button and I have dropped my drawers on a main highway at rush hour (more on that later) but what make my mismanaged awesome moments okay, is that I have friends that are brave enough to have non-intelligent moments with me.
Exhibit One:
Rainbows!
MARCH 2006
Brandi and I were co-workers and then we became the bestest of friends. Bosom buddies, tweedle-dum and tweedle-dumber ( I call dum!) We were together for 8 hours a day and spent most of our free time together as we were both essentially single moms. This may sound like a sitcom on TBS, but for us, it gave us enough time to be together to witness some pretty effed up shit about each other. Because we were so cool, when we weren't working (which was rare) we were posting funny -gifs on each others MySpace page, making fun of each others ex's and planning on when we could fit more time together in between the time we were already planning to be together. We were like super-duper bff's.
Now as much as I adored the great Brandini and still do, she has provided me hours of laughs at her expense and likewise I am sure. Here is one of our greatest conversations...ever.
(See picture above for reference)
Me: Hey Brandi, we are awesome... we should hang out this weekend and hike and do things outdoorsy so we can meet cute boys or something.
Brandi: Heck yes we are! Let me check the weather!
Brandi: (deadpan effing serious) OOOOoooooh! Look! They are predicting rainbows on the 17th!
Me: ...........
Brandi: (still uber excited about the impending pretty multicolored reflections in the sky!)
Me: ............
Me: (after a proper amount of time for her to say something smart to counteract what may have just happened) Brandi....by any chance is there a pot of gold at the bottom of that rainbow?
Brandi: Yeah! Why? ...oh....
(Laugh till I peed right here, all over the place)
Love you, Brandini!
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Why buying a car is like getting acupuncture in your eye balls.
I have purchased new cars before and every time it's the same cycle of doom:
I look online and daydream.
I look online at my bank account and cry.
I look online at slightly less expensive cars and swear that my daily non-fat caramel mocha is costing me the difference between a brand new vehicle and a 5 year older vehicle with 7 million miles and a dead cat in the truck (ad says sold as-is!!!)
I self negotiate to one mocha a week.
I disagree with myself and decide to cut out food instead, I'll get my calories from chocolate like any other red blooded American, damn it..
This continues on until I get off the interwebs and walk into a car dealer to see for myself the best that 4 wheels can offer me. Here is where your REAL doom begins...
Car Salesmen. Sent from hell because they bug the crap out of the devil. I've written a handy pocket guide that gives you all the information you may need in your next car buying adventure.
"Mr. Shiny Shoes":
Generally wearing a trench coat, bad cologne, big moist (shudder) lips, uses big words when smaller words will do and says words like "gratifying" "nimble" "lubricated" and other words that make you want to vomit on the "supple" interior.
His choice victim? 40-50 year old women who are desperate for compliments and attention that their husbands aren't giving them.
Cryptonite? Lesbians. Can break 'em.
"The young buck"
Has. no. effing. clue.
This kid got his license 3 days ago but pretends to know exactly what you need and makes shit up as he goes. Caught saying phases like "it's motor trend is in peak condition".
His choice victim? Girls. All of them. No discrimination. He just wants to become a man before his first commission check clears. Likely not gonna happen until that acne clears.
Cryptonite? Any one who has done ANY research online or knows more about a car than can reasonably be obtained from actually driving one.
"The manager"
Usually used in the phase "I have to get that approved through my manager". Here is where the good cop/bad cop comes into play. You offer, the salesman pats you on the shoulder like you are old sorority sisters, looks into your eyes and says "Oh heck yes, I see you in this vehicle tonight! You'll look like a mix between Farrah Faucett, Lucy Lui, Ginnifer Goodwin and The Progressive girl, Flo! I see nothing wrong with offering 20 thousand dollars below sticker price! You want me to pay for it? Sure! We're buddies! Pals! Hombres! Can I braid your hair? I just have to get that approved through my manager..." Cue: the suit. Actually it's not even a suit. It's pleated pants that make it look like his junk is protected by 4 rolls of toilet paper. Seriously guys? Ever heard of boxer briefs? I digress. He comes at you like a spider money while your best buddy sits there looking like he was just whipped by Micheal Vick.
What is that illness that kidnapped kids get where they feel all sorry for the kidnapper and now have sympathy for them? Stolkholm Syndrome! You now feel remorse for playing hardball with the sales guy. Look at him sitting there all sad, not being able to do a god damned thing while his jerkwad of a "manager" is laying out in terrible upside down drawings of how he's not going to make any money in the deal and oh my god if I have to hear the word "recession" one more time...! Poor guy.
You now have two options. Walk away and blame it on the recession or buy the damn car and cut down you non-fat caramel mocha to only 10 a week.
Le. sigh.
I look online and daydream.
I look online at my bank account and cry.
I look online at slightly less expensive cars and swear that my daily non-fat caramel mocha is costing me the difference between a brand new vehicle and a 5 year older vehicle with 7 million miles and a dead cat in the truck (ad says sold as-is!!!)
I self negotiate to one mocha a week.
I disagree with myself and decide to cut out food instead, I'll get my calories from chocolate like any other red blooded American, damn it..
This continues on until I get off the interwebs and walk into a car dealer to see for myself the best that 4 wheels can offer me. Here is where your REAL doom begins...
Car Salesmen. Sent from hell because they bug the crap out of the devil. I've written a handy pocket guide that gives you all the information you may need in your next car buying adventure.
"Mr. Shiny Shoes":
Generally wearing a trench coat, bad cologne, big moist (shudder) lips, uses big words when smaller words will do and says words like "gratifying" "nimble" "lubricated" and other words that make you want to vomit on the "supple" interior.
His choice victim? 40-50 year old women who are desperate for compliments and attention that their husbands aren't giving them.
Cryptonite? Lesbians. Can break 'em.
"The young buck"
Has. no. effing. clue.
This kid got his license 3 days ago but pretends to know exactly what you need and makes shit up as he goes. Caught saying phases like "it's motor trend is in peak condition".
His choice victim? Girls. All of them. No discrimination. He just wants to become a man before his first commission check clears. Likely not gonna happen until that acne clears.
Cryptonite? Any one who has done ANY research online or knows more about a car than can reasonably be obtained from actually driving one.
"The manager"
Usually used in the phase "I have to get that approved through my manager". Here is where the good cop/bad cop comes into play. You offer, the salesman pats you on the shoulder like you are old sorority sisters, looks into your eyes and says "Oh heck yes, I see you in this vehicle tonight! You'll look like a mix between Farrah Faucett, Lucy Lui, Ginnifer Goodwin and The Progressive girl, Flo! I see nothing wrong with offering 20 thousand dollars below sticker price! You want me to pay for it? Sure! We're buddies! Pals! Hombres! Can I braid your hair? I just have to get that approved through my manager..." Cue: the suit. Actually it's not even a suit. It's pleated pants that make it look like his junk is protected by 4 rolls of toilet paper. Seriously guys? Ever heard of boxer briefs? I digress. He comes at you like a spider money while your best buddy sits there looking like he was just whipped by Micheal Vick.
What is that illness that kidnapped kids get where they feel all sorry for the kidnapper and now have sympathy for them? Stolkholm Syndrome! You now feel remorse for playing hardball with the sales guy. Look at him sitting there all sad, not being able to do a god damned thing while his jerkwad of a "manager" is laying out in terrible upside down drawings of how he's not going to make any money in the deal and oh my god if I have to hear the word "recession" one more time...! Poor guy.
You now have two options. Walk away and blame it on the recession or buy the damn car and cut down you non-fat caramel mocha to only 10 a week.
Le. sigh.
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