I found this 1970's commercial on YouTube today. I'm almost positive someone gave me this doll for Christmas one year because I vaguely remember being terrified of it and refusing to sleep in my room until my mom got rid of it.
I don't know what scares me more...the doll or the creepy Exorcist head turns those kids are making. The only way this toy could have been worse is if they painted a clown face on it.
Oh shit.
Showing posts with label Things That Are Not Awesome. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Things That Are Not Awesome. Show all posts
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
‘Tis The Season To Be Those Relatives
If you’ve followed my blog for any length of time, you know that Captain Carl and I are pretty strapped for cash these days. I don’t care what the politicians and polls say, the economy in our world is not recovering yet. I have a good job and the Captain is doing okay with his business, but we are just barely making ends meet. So he continues to job search and I continue to kick ass at work in the hopes of getting another pay raise and a promotion. And of course we still have Huey, who basically pays the Kiddo’s allowance with his rent each month.
I’m not going to complain about having less than other people. Mainly because we used to be the “other people” and we completely fucked it up by being arrogant and dumb about jobs and money. We’ve learned our lesson and now we’re just trying to hang on until we can pad the savings account again.
But in the meantime, the Christmas season has arrived. And damn, but it came faster this year than other years for some reason. I wasn’t prepared for it like I was last year. Last year I set aside a fair amount of cash for presents early on. I had most of my shopping done by the end of October. But not this year. This year, I completely put it off and now I’m paying for it. Well, our families are paying for it actually.
See, we just don’t have enough money to buy everyone nice presents. It’s just not possible. We now live credit card free, so we must have the money up front for everything we need. It’s a hard lifestyle when you are on a budget, especially after using credit for everything under the sun like we used to do. Sometimes we have to get creative, but so far we’ve made it work and I’m pretty proud of that.
Except it leaves very little for gifts. So we had to tell our families that gifts will be small. They understood, of course, but we still feel bad. I’ve shopped sales, something I’m really good at anyway, and have managed to find something for everyone. And we are making homemade candy to supplement our paltry offerings.
It’s not about how much you spend. It’s the thought that counts. Remember the real reason for the season.
That’s what I keep telling myself. And I’ve been quite proud of us, actually. Everyone will get something nice and it will be a heartfelt gift.
But then I talk to other people and hear about all the things they’ve bought over the weekend for their relatives. A laptop, a wool coat, a flat screen tv, an iPad 2...
And I start to feel like an asshole.
My stupid little gifts…a scarf, some lotion, a book…are now super lame and sad. They scream “Merry Christmas. We can’t afford to buy you anything awesome.” And now I want to call everyone and beg them to please please please not buy us anything expensive. Not because I don’t think they can afford it, but because it will make me feel bad when I open their gifts. I don’t want anyone to spend $100 on me when I can only spend $10 on them.
But it’s hard to tell your family that. Especially when you know they’ll just say “Oh, don’t worry! It makes me feel good to buy you things!”. And there’s just no Christmas-y way to say “Well it makes me feel like shit when you do.”
We’re tired of being “those relatives”. The ones that everyone knows are broke and can’t go on trips and can’t go out to eat every weekend and can’t buy the things they really want to give their family at Christmas. Not that it really matters. Because what’s most important is that our family is healthy and happy and blah blah blah.
Whatever. Maybe next year we will get rich and buy everyone an iPad3 and a 3D tv and then we can be all “Jesus is the reason for the season, but who cares because I’m totally wearing 3D glasses!”.
I’m not going to complain about having less than other people. Mainly because we used to be the “other people” and we completely fucked it up by being arrogant and dumb about jobs and money. We’ve learned our lesson and now we’re just trying to hang on until we can pad the savings account again.
But in the meantime, the Christmas season has arrived. And damn, but it came faster this year than other years for some reason. I wasn’t prepared for it like I was last year. Last year I set aside a fair amount of cash for presents early on. I had most of my shopping done by the end of October. But not this year. This year, I completely put it off and now I’m paying for it. Well, our families are paying for it actually.
See, we just don’t have enough money to buy everyone nice presents. It’s just not possible. We now live credit card free, so we must have the money up front for everything we need. It’s a hard lifestyle when you are on a budget, especially after using credit for everything under the sun like we used to do. Sometimes we have to get creative, but so far we’ve made it work and I’m pretty proud of that.
Except it leaves very little for gifts. So we had to tell our families that gifts will be small. They understood, of course, but we still feel bad. I’ve shopped sales, something I’m really good at anyway, and have managed to find something for everyone. And we are making homemade candy to supplement our paltry offerings.
It’s not about how much you spend. It’s the thought that counts. Remember the real reason for the season.
That’s what I keep telling myself. And I’ve been quite proud of us, actually. Everyone will get something nice and it will be a heartfelt gift.
But then I talk to other people and hear about all the things they’ve bought over the weekend for their relatives. A laptop, a wool coat, a flat screen tv, an iPad 2...
And I start to feel like an asshole.
My stupid little gifts…a scarf, some lotion, a book…are now super lame and sad. They scream “Merry Christmas. We can’t afford to buy you anything awesome.” And now I want to call everyone and beg them to please please please not buy us anything expensive. Not because I don’t think they can afford it, but because it will make me feel bad when I open their gifts. I don’t want anyone to spend $100 on me when I can only spend $10 on them.
But it’s hard to tell your family that. Especially when you know they’ll just say “Oh, don’t worry! It makes me feel good to buy you things!”. And there’s just no Christmas-y way to say “Well it makes me feel like shit when you do.”
We’re tired of being “those relatives”. The ones that everyone knows are broke and can’t go on trips and can’t go out to eat every weekend and can’t buy the things they really want to give their family at Christmas. Not that it really matters. Because what’s most important is that our family is healthy and happy and blah blah blah.
Whatever. Maybe next year we will get rich and buy everyone an iPad3 and a 3D tv and then we can be all “Jesus is the reason for the season, but who cares because I’m totally wearing 3D glasses!”.
Friday, September 16, 2011
My Name Is Miss Yvonne. You Deleted My Talk Show. Prepare To Die.
Sometimes it really sucks having renters in your house. Sometimes they do really annoying and fucking stupid things. Things that 99.9% of the human population would not do. Like if you heard about someone doing those things you would be all “No way is anyone that stupid/rude/inconsiderate". And then? Your fucking renter does them and you feel the sudden urge to gouge their eyeball out with one of those tiny relish forks because it is the exact perfect size for eyeballs and that bastard totally deserves it.
Like maybe your renters buy scooters and ride them through the mud and then track the mud through the house and then leave their muddy shoes by the door and then fucking lie when you ask if they walked through your house with muddy shoes on.
Or maybe your renters decide to use your pasta strainer to clean their fish tank rocks but don’t plan on telling you they did it and thank you baby Jesus that you noticed it was missing before they returned it and you used it to strain your pasta and now you’re totally eating spaghetti ala fish poop for dinner. And then they giggle like three year olds when you ask them why they did it.
Perhaps your renter decides while you are out of town for the weekend to go out and get completely wasted and bring an equally wasted couple home from the bar with him that he has never met before in his life, then passes out in his bed while this drunk couple hang out in your house all night totally unsupervised and then your other renter gets up at 3am to pee and sees this strange couple fucking on your couch. Then you have to call your renter and yell at him and when you get home, all of your booze is missing and he “has no idea who took it”.
Oh! Here’s a good one. Your renter goes out and gets wasted AGAIN, only this time it’s during a weird Texas snowstorm, and he gets arrested for drunk driving and doesn’t come home for 3 days, so you think he must be dead in a ditch somewhere, and then he shows up and is all “Hey, I got arrested and have to go to court and can you please drive me there because they took my license away? Also, my kids are gonna come live here with me for like, 2 or 3 weeks and maybe they will stay forever. That’s cool, right?”.
Could be that your renter turns out to be a reclusive hoarder who packs the bedroom she is living in to the ceiling with junk, but you don’t really notice how much she has in there until it’s too late. Also she has a cat. Also she’s morbidly obese and orders a pizza and three sub sandwiches and keeps them in her room to eat on for two days. Also she decides to move to another country and doesn’t start packing until the night before her flight. Also after she’s gone, you realize she’s left 50 (I am not exaggerating, y’all) bags of trash, a bed, a table, an office chair and a dirty litter box in her room for you to dispose of. Also she emails you a week later to ask when you will be sending her deposit back. Also you totally flip out and write back that it will be a cold day in hell when she gets her deposit back and then spend two weeks obsessively cleaning the room while whispering “unclean…unclean…”.
And then maybe after all of those morons, you somehow get lucky and your next renter is great. He’s your son’s friend, so you worry at first that maybe this was a bad idea. But he is respectful and sweet and is sad when we are not home because “I miss you guys when you aren’t here”. He pays his rent on time. He is a little scared of making you mad, thanks to some well placed looks and comments about not pissing you off because you’re a fucking genius when it comes to intimidation. But he still says “bye family” when he leaves for work and sits down to tell us all about his day when he gets home. You know, like your own child would do if they weren’t going through a completely selfish and asshole-y phase right now. You have no complaints, things are going wonderfully.
And then?
The fucker has to go and ruin it by DELETING YOUR DVR RECORDING OF THE DR. PHIL CASEY ANTHONY PARENTS’ INTERVIEW.
Yeah.
He’s fucking terrified. He knows what he did and now he’s hiding from me. I haven’t seen him since Monday. I hope he’s prepared for when we meet again, because shit is about to go down, yo. You don’t fuck with a woman’s talk show recordings. Never. Never ever. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet. But retribution will be swift and terrible.
Like maybe your renters buy scooters and ride them through the mud and then track the mud through the house and then leave their muddy shoes by the door and then fucking lie when you ask if they walked through your house with muddy shoes on.
Or maybe your renters decide to use your pasta strainer to clean their fish tank rocks but don’t plan on telling you they did it and thank you baby Jesus that you noticed it was missing before they returned it and you used it to strain your pasta and now you’re totally eating spaghetti ala fish poop for dinner. And then they giggle like three year olds when you ask them why they did it.
Perhaps your renter decides while you are out of town for the weekend to go out and get completely wasted and bring an equally wasted couple home from the bar with him that he has never met before in his life, then passes out in his bed while this drunk couple hang out in your house all night totally unsupervised and then your other renter gets up at 3am to pee and sees this strange couple fucking on your couch. Then you have to call your renter and yell at him and when you get home, all of your booze is missing and he “has no idea who took it”.
Oh! Here’s a good one. Your renter goes out and gets wasted AGAIN, only this time it’s during a weird Texas snowstorm, and he gets arrested for drunk driving and doesn’t come home for 3 days, so you think he must be dead in a ditch somewhere, and then he shows up and is all “Hey, I got arrested and have to go to court and can you please drive me there because they took my license away? Also, my kids are gonna come live here with me for like, 2 or 3 weeks and maybe they will stay forever. That’s cool, right?”.
Could be that your renter turns out to be a reclusive hoarder who packs the bedroom she is living in to the ceiling with junk, but you don’t really notice how much she has in there until it’s too late. Also she has a cat. Also she’s morbidly obese and orders a pizza and three sub sandwiches and keeps them in her room to eat on for two days. Also she decides to move to another country and doesn’t start packing until the night before her flight. Also after she’s gone, you realize she’s left 50 (I am not exaggerating, y’all) bags of trash, a bed, a table, an office chair and a dirty litter box in her room for you to dispose of. Also she emails you a week later to ask when you will be sending her deposit back. Also you totally flip out and write back that it will be a cold day in hell when she gets her deposit back and then spend two weeks obsessively cleaning the room while whispering “unclean…unclean…”.
And then maybe after all of those morons, you somehow get lucky and your next renter is great. He’s your son’s friend, so you worry at first that maybe this was a bad idea. But he is respectful and sweet and is sad when we are not home because “I miss you guys when you aren’t here”. He pays his rent on time. He is a little scared of making you mad, thanks to some well placed looks and comments about not pissing you off because you’re a fucking genius when it comes to intimidation. But he still says “bye family” when he leaves for work and sits down to tell us all about his day when he gets home. You know, like your own child would do if they weren’t going through a completely selfish and asshole-y phase right now. You have no complaints, things are going wonderfully.
And then?
The fucker has to go and ruin it by DELETING YOUR DVR RECORDING OF THE DR. PHIL CASEY ANTHONY PARENTS’ INTERVIEW.
Yeah.
He’s fucking terrified. He knows what he did and now he’s hiding from me. I haven’t seen him since Monday. I hope he’s prepared for when we meet again, because shit is about to go down, yo. You don’t fuck with a woman’s talk show recordings. Never. Never ever. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet. But retribution will be swift and terrible.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Goodbye To My Boo Boo
So last week was really rough. Not to get all frowny and poor me on you guys, but here’s what happened.
My dad wound up in the emergency room with a very painful colon problem.
The brakes went out in my car and I was almost killed running a red light.
We had to put my sweet old Boo kitty to sleep.
That right there is a trifecta of fucked up.
So not fair that all that happened in a 5 day period. It was so bad that on Friday at work, I laid my head down on my desk and yelled out “Jesus take the wheel!” in desperation. It got a good laugh in the office, but I kind of meant it. I mean, how much can one girl take? Way to be an asshole, universe.
It seems like animal death has been hovering near me for a year now. My in-laws lost their beloved dog last year. Then a close friend lost their dog. Then a month ago, two friends from work had to put down their pets. And every time someone lost an animal, I would get scared. Because both of my cats are old. It won’t be long before it’s your turn, my mind would say.
And then? It was my turn. Boo got sick this spring, diagnosed with diabetes and maybe cancer. He went downhill fast and we knew he wasn’t going to make it through the summer. But I don’t care how prepared you think you are…when you love someone or something, you are never ready for the end.
When it became clear that the best thing for Boo was to give him peace from his illness, I told Captain Carl that I couldn’t take him to the vet. I just couldn’t do it. He understood and told me not to worry, he could handle it just fine. He is not as attached to our pets as I am and he had been much more logical about Boo’s condition than I had been. Meaning he didn’t wail and cry and hug the cat super tight and whisper in his ear that “you are the best cat on the face of the earth and you WILL NOT DIE on me, okay?”. Like I did.
So it was a complete shock to both of us when Boo’s Friday afternoon appointment with kitty heaven arrived and the Captain completely fell apart. Luckily, my sister went with him so he wouldn’t have to be alone. Unluckily, she also fell apart. The two most solid people in my life were reduced to blubbering messes in the exam room when the moment of truth arrived. They told me that night over double vodka sours how it was better I wasn’t there. How they both wanted to tell the vet it was a mistake and take Boo back home. How Boo was sweet right up to the end. How he seemed to understand what was happening and was okay with it. How he went quickly and peacefully. And how after Boo was gone, the Captain stayed with him for 10 minutes, talking to him and rubbing his belly because he was afraid the poison hadn’t really worked and Boo would wake up and be scared.
It killed me. It killed me that I wasn’t strong enough to be there. That I instead had the luxury of saying goodbye to Boo at home, where he was comfortable and not being injected with something to make his heart stop. That because of my weakness, the Captain had to do it without me.
I lost my little buddy and I am heartbroken. But my dad is recovering slowly from a bacterial infection and the Captain is doing just fine and fixing the brakes on my car and life goes on. There are good things happening in my life. The sadness will eventually become a dull ache instead of a sharp one. And someday I’ll be able to look at Boo’s picture and not cry, but instead smile and remember how much he loved boxes and catnip, how he could catch flies in mid-air, how his back leg would scratch at the air when I rubbed his ears, how pink his nose got when he was excited, how good natured he was…how much we loved him.
And just to end all this sad stuff in a nice way, I decided to link to some old blog posts about my old Boo.
National Cat Puke Day
Captain Carl's World Of Fur
Happy Cat Dingleberry Day
Adventures In Pet Photography
Boo Sounds Like Antonio Banderas
And here's the last video I took of Boo from the night before he went to kitty heaven. Ignore my giant man hands...
Bye Bye To My Boo Boo
My dad wound up in the emergency room with a very painful colon problem.
The brakes went out in my car and I was almost killed running a red light.
We had to put my sweet old Boo kitty to sleep.
That right there is a trifecta of fucked up.
So not fair that all that happened in a 5 day period. It was so bad that on Friday at work, I laid my head down on my desk and yelled out “Jesus take the wheel!” in desperation. It got a good laugh in the office, but I kind of meant it. I mean, how much can one girl take? Way to be an asshole, universe.
It seems like animal death has been hovering near me for a year now. My in-laws lost their beloved dog last year. Then a close friend lost their dog. Then a month ago, two friends from work had to put down their pets. And every time someone lost an animal, I would get scared. Because both of my cats are old. It won’t be long before it’s your turn, my mind would say.
And then? It was my turn. Boo got sick this spring, diagnosed with diabetes and maybe cancer. He went downhill fast and we knew he wasn’t going to make it through the summer. But I don’t care how prepared you think you are…when you love someone or something, you are never ready for the end.
When it became clear that the best thing for Boo was to give him peace from his illness, I told Captain Carl that I couldn’t take him to the vet. I just couldn’t do it. He understood and told me not to worry, he could handle it just fine. He is not as attached to our pets as I am and he had been much more logical about Boo’s condition than I had been. Meaning he didn’t wail and cry and hug the cat super tight and whisper in his ear that “you are the best cat on the face of the earth and you WILL NOT DIE on me, okay?”. Like I did.
So it was a complete shock to both of us when Boo’s Friday afternoon appointment with kitty heaven arrived and the Captain completely fell apart. Luckily, my sister went with him so he wouldn’t have to be alone. Unluckily, she also fell apart. The two most solid people in my life were reduced to blubbering messes in the exam room when the moment of truth arrived. They told me that night over double vodka sours how it was better I wasn’t there. How they both wanted to tell the vet it was a mistake and take Boo back home. How Boo was sweet right up to the end. How he seemed to understand what was happening and was okay with it. How he went quickly and peacefully. And how after Boo was gone, the Captain stayed with him for 10 minutes, talking to him and rubbing his belly because he was afraid the poison hadn’t really worked and Boo would wake up and be scared.
It killed me. It killed me that I wasn’t strong enough to be there. That I instead had the luxury of saying goodbye to Boo at home, where he was comfortable and not being injected with something to make his heart stop. That because of my weakness, the Captain had to do it without me.
I lost my little buddy and I am heartbroken. But my dad is recovering slowly from a bacterial infection and the Captain is doing just fine and fixing the brakes on my car and life goes on. There are good things happening in my life. The sadness will eventually become a dull ache instead of a sharp one. And someday I’ll be able to look at Boo’s picture and not cry, but instead smile and remember how much he loved boxes and catnip, how he could catch flies in mid-air, how his back leg would scratch at the air when I rubbed his ears, how pink his nose got when he was excited, how good natured he was…how much we loved him.
And just to end all this sad stuff in a nice way, I decided to link to some old blog posts about my old Boo.
National Cat Puke Day
Captain Carl's World Of Fur
Happy Cat Dingleberry Day
Adventures In Pet Photography
Boo Sounds Like Antonio Banderas
And here's the last video I took of Boo from the night before he went to kitty heaven. Ignore my giant man hands...
Bye Bye To My Boo Boo
Love you, buddy.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Patriotism Fail. Now Updated With More Possum.
We didn't see any fireworks this weekend.
I know.
I feel pretty bad about it. When the kids were young, we used to take them every 4th of July. We brought a cooler and lawn chairs and junk food and we sat in the back of our pick up truck to watch.
And before I moved to Texas, it was watching fireworks on my parent's boat on the lake. Every summer since I was 16.
But this year? Nothing. As I type this, I can hear fireworks popping outside. And not just from the trailer park across the street. It's a big show going on somewhere. I can even see them from our backyard, just over the tops of the trees. Close enough for us to get to and be all American and shit.
But instead of doing that, we are sitting inside watching Hoarders and Pawn Stars.
Patriotism fail.
It's just so blasted hot outside, y'all. No, not hot. SWELTERING. I mean, it was 101 degrees right before the sun went down. It's a mind melting inferno here.
Fuck, I hate summer in Texas.
I hope Lady Liberty can forgive me for not sitting outside, sweating in the dark and asking Captain Carl how anyone can possibly like living here because ohmygodseriouslythisisridiculous.
Holy shit. I just realized I have only had one drink all weekend. ONE DRINK. That's a crime, right there. I'm gonna get deported out of this state if the authorities find out because I'm pretty sure it's a felony if you don't wake up with at least one hangover during the 4th of July weekend.
I promise to do better next year, y'all.
UPDATE: Captain Carl just told me he ate possum once. This has nothing to do with the 4th of July. I just wanted to tell you because seriously, who am I married to?
I know.
I feel pretty bad about it. When the kids were young, we used to take them every 4th of July. We brought a cooler and lawn chairs and junk food and we sat in the back of our pick up truck to watch.
And before I moved to Texas, it was watching fireworks on my parent's boat on the lake. Every summer since I was 16.
But this year? Nothing. As I type this, I can hear fireworks popping outside. And not just from the trailer park across the street. It's a big show going on somewhere. I can even see them from our backyard, just over the tops of the trees. Close enough for us to get to and be all American and shit.
But instead of doing that, we are sitting inside watching Hoarders and Pawn Stars.
Patriotism fail.
It's just so blasted hot outside, y'all. No, not hot. SWELTERING. I mean, it was 101 degrees right before the sun went down. It's a mind melting inferno here.
Fuck, I hate summer in Texas.
I hope Lady Liberty can forgive me for not sitting outside, sweating in the dark and asking Captain Carl how anyone can possibly like living here because ohmygodseriouslythisisridiculous.
Holy shit. I just realized I have only had one drink all weekend. ONE DRINK. That's a crime, right there. I'm gonna get deported out of this state if the authorities find out because I'm pretty sure it's a felony if you don't wake up with at least one hangover during the 4th of July weekend.
I promise to do better next year, y'all.
UPDATE: Captain Carl just told me he ate possum once. This has nothing to do with the 4th of July. I just wanted to tell you because seriously, who am I married to?
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Seems Like My Serial Killer Could Have Picked A Better Weapon
Yesterday was our 8th anniversary, but Captain Carl has been in Oklahoma all week for stupid business stuff so I totally spent the day alone. Well, I did have dinner with my sister…but after that I was by myself. You can go ahead and start feeling sorry for me now.
So I get home after dinner and I’m all feeling sorry for myself and I call the Captain and he’s all “I’m watching Dancing with the Stars.” and I’m all “What? We are apart on our anniversary and you’re watching a show you won’t ever watch with me?” and he’s all “There’s nothing else on.” and I’m all “Then you should have drove home to be with me on our anniversary.” and he’s all “But we're four hours apart and I have to work tomorrow.” and I’m all “Still. Whatever. I don’t even care.”
Not the most romantic anniversary ever. But it’s okay because he’s coming home tonight and it’s totally going to be romantic and he is totally going to rub my back for me. What? That’s romantic. He loves to do that. Especially right after a four hour drive. *shifty eyes*
So I go to bed and I’m lying there on my back and I can’t get comfortable. I decide to try sleeping on my stomach. And that’s when it happened...
My biggest fear is home invasion. I’m terrified that someone is going to get into my house and murder me. This fear is magnified by a zillion when I’m alone. I’m completely rational throughout the evening. I eat dinner, watch tv, read a book. Whatever. I’m not scared at all. And then I go to bed and blam! Petrified. I’m convinced a psycho killer has snuck into my house while I was at work and has been hiding in my closet or under my bed or in my shower the whole time I’ve been there. And now he’s waiting for me to fall asleep so he can murder me with a knife from my very own kitchen. Or with the fireplace poker from my very own fireplace. Or with the hitachi magic wand vibrator from my very own sex toy drawer. The murder weapon is always something we own. Because serial killers love irony. Apparently.
But for some reason, none of the usual fears were running through my head last night. Everything was quiet and I was in a comfortable sleeping position. Lying on stomach, one arm under the pillow…so comfy. I was almost asleep when I felt a pinch on my arm.
Ouch.
I ignore it. Until I feel it again, only more painful this time.
Damn, what is that? OMG, maybe it’s a spider!
I jump up and turn on the light. I turn my pillow over several times and find nothing. Then I just stare at my bed for awhile, waiting for the spider to come out. Nothing. I reach over and grab my glasses and when I turn back to the bed, I see it.
A june bug. Crawling across my bed towards me. Much screaming and flailing of arms. I am completely grossed out. A june bug was under my pillow.
How the fuck did it get under there??? OMG, I bet the serial killer totally put it there to distract me and he is totally creeping up behind me right now to strangle me with a wire hanger from my very own closet!
It's a testament to my crazy brain that I was able to turn one june bug into a murder weapon. Of course there wasn’t a serial killer behind me. But the june bug was still there. So I had to kill it with my sex toy catalog and then I switched pillows just in case the other one was infested with june bugs because duh, of course it was and then I laid in bed wide awake for an hour because I was all itchy and convinced that the june bug had laid eggs in my arm and now I was a host for millions of baby june bugs and OMG it’s totally going to be like that one guy that had a headache and he went to the doctor and the doctor found hundreds of maggots in his ear!
Yeah.
The serial killer thing isn’t nearly as scary as june bug larvae growing in my body.
p.s. I texted Captain Carl this morning to tell him about what happened and I was all “a june bug was under my pillow last night and it bit me.” and he was all “june bugs don’t bite.” and I was all “Then it pinched me. Or laid eggs in my arm. Whatever it did, it was gross.” and he was all “heh heh” and I was all “It was traumatic, shut up!” and he was all “Was it right side only june bugs?’ and then I died from loving him so much. That man is sooo my soul mate.
So I get home after dinner and I’m all feeling sorry for myself and I call the Captain and he’s all “I’m watching Dancing with the Stars.” and I’m all “What? We are apart on our anniversary and you’re watching a show you won’t ever watch with me?” and he’s all “There’s nothing else on.” and I’m all “Then you should have drove home to be with me on our anniversary.” and he’s all “But we're four hours apart and I have to work tomorrow.” and I’m all “Still. Whatever. I don’t even care.”
Not the most romantic anniversary ever. But it’s okay because he’s coming home tonight and it’s totally going to be romantic and he is totally going to rub my back for me. What? That’s romantic. He loves to do that. Especially right after a four hour drive. *shifty eyes*
So I go to bed and I’m lying there on my back and I can’t get comfortable. I decide to try sleeping on my stomach. And that’s when it happened...
My biggest fear is home invasion. I’m terrified that someone is going to get into my house and murder me. This fear is magnified by a zillion when I’m alone. I’m completely rational throughout the evening. I eat dinner, watch tv, read a book. Whatever. I’m not scared at all. And then I go to bed and blam! Petrified. I’m convinced a psycho killer has snuck into my house while I was at work and has been hiding in my closet or under my bed or in my shower the whole time I’ve been there. And now he’s waiting for me to fall asleep so he can murder me with a knife from my very own kitchen. Or with the fireplace poker from my very own fireplace. Or with the hitachi magic wand vibrator from my very own sex toy drawer. The murder weapon is always something we own. Because serial killers love irony. Apparently.
But for some reason, none of the usual fears were running through my head last night. Everything was quiet and I was in a comfortable sleeping position. Lying on stomach, one arm under the pillow…so comfy. I was almost asleep when I felt a pinch on my arm.
Ouch.
I ignore it. Until I feel it again, only more painful this time.
Damn, what is that? OMG, maybe it’s a spider!
I jump up and turn on the light. I turn my pillow over several times and find nothing. Then I just stare at my bed for awhile, waiting for the spider to come out. Nothing. I reach over and grab my glasses and when I turn back to the bed, I see it.
A june bug. Crawling across my bed towards me. Much screaming and flailing of arms. I am completely grossed out. A june bug was under my pillow.
How the fuck did it get under there??? OMG, I bet the serial killer totally put it there to distract me and he is totally creeping up behind me right now to strangle me with a wire hanger from my very own closet!
It's a testament to my crazy brain that I was able to turn one june bug into a murder weapon. Of course there wasn’t a serial killer behind me. But the june bug was still there. So I had to kill it with my sex toy catalog and then I switched pillows just in case the other one was infested with june bugs because duh, of course it was and then I laid in bed wide awake for an hour because I was all itchy and convinced that the june bug had laid eggs in my arm and now I was a host for millions of baby june bugs and OMG it’s totally going to be like that one guy that had a headache and he went to the doctor and the doctor found hundreds of maggots in his ear!
Yeah.
The serial killer thing isn’t nearly as scary as june bug larvae growing in my body.
p.s. I texted Captain Carl this morning to tell him about what happened and I was all “a june bug was under my pillow last night and it bit me.” and he was all “june bugs don’t bite.” and I was all “Then it pinched me. Or laid eggs in my arm. Whatever it did, it was gross.” and he was all “heh heh” and I was all “It was traumatic, shut up!” and he was all “Was it right side only june bugs?’ and then I died from loving him so much. That man is sooo my soul mate.
Monday, December 13, 2010
I’m Like A Walking Public Service Announcement For Drunk Morons
Saturday night was my office Christmas party. Guess what happened?
I got drunk.
You're totally shocked, right?
I got a lot of drunk.
I got a way lot of drunk. So drunk, I prompted Captain Carl to say “Wow, I haven’t seen you like this in a really long time.” And the worst part is that I can remember everything. My luck sucks, I can’t even be a blackout drunk and forget all the embarrassing parts of the night.
But I figure I can turn my office party mistakes into a helpful blog post for all of you that maybe haven’t had your office parties yet. Consider it a holiday gift from me to you. I’m like the Jesus Christ of holiday gifts, except instead of eternal life in heaven, I’m giving you tips on how to keep your shitty job that you hate but can’t afford to quit. If my mother ever reads this blog, I am in so. much. trouble. for that last sentence.
Tip #1: Think about your clothing choices carefully before leaving for the party. Are your dressy pants too big for you now and could they possible fall off while dancing later? Is your top so low cut that your boobs will probably pop out at least three times? If yes, you might consider changing.
Tip #2: When introducing your spouse to the President of your company, it is not advisable to tell him that you drank half a bottle of Boone’s Farm out of a plastic cup on the drive over because you heard his cheap-ass only allowed for two drink tickets per person.
Tip #3: When your co-worker asks you in the bathroom if she looks prettier than the wife of Sales Director, a simple “yes” will suffice. Do not elaborate your answer with “I mean, she’s more of an obvious kind of pretty and who wants to be that, right?” and “Plus, you are probably way more interesting than her anyways.” Also, do not steal the lotion from the bathroom on your way out. It is in a container as big as a wine bottle, people will notice it under your shirt.
Tip #4: Do not lick any of the serving spoons at the buffet table because you want to sample everything first. This is not considered proper buffet etiquette.
Tip #5: Whatever you do, do not sign up for the karaoke contest if you plan on drinking more than one glass of wine.
Tip #6: If you ignored tip #5, do not storm the stage when it’s your turn and yell “I say Merry, you say Christmas! Merry! What? Merry! What?” at everyone in the room.
Tip #7: Upon discovering that you have been paired up with the CFO of the company for the karaoke contest, do not tell him that you want to sing George Michael’s Faith in his honor because “Frankly sir, everyone is shocked that you brought a wife and not a life partner."
Tip #8: When the winner of the contest is announced and it is not you, do not pound your fist on the table and scream “I was fucking robbed!”.
Tip #9: Do not request that the dj play T-Pain and then insist everyone on the dance floor give your big booty a slap while you try to move your body into your version of "low" (aka, bending slightly at the waist until your calves start to burn).
Tip #10: Do not approach the door prize table and ask the office manager what you need to do to win that 42” flat screen tv while pantomiming a blow job and waggling your eyebrows at him.
So there you go, my top ten tips for office holiday parties. You're welcome.
Everyone who thinks I’m totally getting a Christmas bonus this year, raise your hand!
I got drunk.
You're totally shocked, right?
I got a lot of drunk.
I got a way lot of drunk. So drunk, I prompted Captain Carl to say “Wow, I haven’t seen you like this in a really long time.” And the worst part is that I can remember everything. My luck sucks, I can’t even be a blackout drunk and forget all the embarrassing parts of the night.
But I figure I can turn my office party mistakes into a helpful blog post for all of you that maybe haven’t had your office parties yet. Consider it a holiday gift from me to you. I’m like the Jesus Christ of holiday gifts, except instead of eternal life in heaven, I’m giving you tips on how to keep your shitty job that you hate but can’t afford to quit. If my mother ever reads this blog, I am in so. much. trouble. for that last sentence.
Tip #1: Think about your clothing choices carefully before leaving for the party. Are your dressy pants too big for you now and could they possible fall off while dancing later? Is your top so low cut that your boobs will probably pop out at least three times? If yes, you might consider changing.
Tip #2: When introducing your spouse to the President of your company, it is not advisable to tell him that you drank half a bottle of Boone’s Farm out of a plastic cup on the drive over because you heard his cheap-ass only allowed for two drink tickets per person.
Tip #3: When your co-worker asks you in the bathroom if she looks prettier than the wife of Sales Director, a simple “yes” will suffice. Do not elaborate your answer with “I mean, she’s more of an obvious kind of pretty and who wants to be that, right?” and “Plus, you are probably way more interesting than her anyways.” Also, do not steal the lotion from the bathroom on your way out. It is in a container as big as a wine bottle, people will notice it under your shirt.
Tip #4: Do not lick any of the serving spoons at the buffet table because you want to sample everything first. This is not considered proper buffet etiquette.
Tip #5: Whatever you do, do not sign up for the karaoke contest if you plan on drinking more than one glass of wine.
Tip #6: If you ignored tip #5, do not storm the stage when it’s your turn and yell “I say Merry, you say Christmas! Merry! What? Merry! What?” at everyone in the room.
Tip #7: Upon discovering that you have been paired up with the CFO of the company for the karaoke contest, do not tell him that you want to sing George Michael’s Faith in his honor because “Frankly sir, everyone is shocked that you brought a wife and not a life partner."
Tip #8: When the winner of the contest is announced and it is not you, do not pound your fist on the table and scream “I was fucking robbed!”.
Tip #9: Do not request that the dj play T-Pain and then insist everyone on the dance floor give your big booty a slap while you try to move your body into your version of "low" (aka, bending slightly at the waist until your calves start to burn).
Tip #10: Do not approach the door prize table and ask the office manager what you need to do to win that 42” flat screen tv while pantomiming a blow job and waggling your eyebrows at him.
So there you go, my top ten tips for office holiday parties. You're welcome.
Everyone who thinks I’m totally getting a Christmas bonus this year, raise your hand!
Friday, October 22, 2010
Continuing To Make A Great Impression With My Sausage Fingers
How is your job going?
I really hate that question. My parents ask it every time we talk and I hear it at least once a week from either Captain Carl or friends or my sister. I hate that question because I don’t ever know what to say. Sometimes I say “I hate it” but that’s not really true. I don’t hate my job. I don’t anything my job. It’s just there. It’s just my job. It’s what I do during the day to pay the bills each month until I can quit and become a photographer full-time. Okay, some days I really do hate it, but who wants to hear me say that? So I just say “Oh it’s fine” and move on to a different topic.
But there are days at my office that I actually enjoy. Usually it’s the days that we screw around and don’t get any real work done. Someone brings in donuts or candy and it's probably a Friday and we're all happy because we're wearing jeans and things get silly and then someone ends up emailing out a stupid and embarrassing picture of me. Because for some reason when I’m having a good time, I decide someone just has to take my picture. I’m all “Check it out! I’m totally doing this super hilarious thing! Take my picture!” and then we all laugh and I think maybe this job isn’t so bad after all. And then I go home and come back in the morning and see the picture that got emailed around and I wonder what the hell I was thinking.
So this month’s picture?
I really hate that question. My parents ask it every time we talk and I hear it at least once a week from either Captain Carl or friends or my sister. I hate that question because I don’t ever know what to say. Sometimes I say “I hate it” but that’s not really true. I don’t hate my job. I don’t anything my job. It’s just there. It’s just my job. It’s what I do during the day to pay the bills each month until I can quit and become a photographer full-time. Okay, some days I really do hate it, but who wants to hear me say that? So I just say “Oh it’s fine” and move on to a different topic.
But there are days at my office that I actually enjoy. Usually it’s the days that we screw around and don’t get any real work done. Someone brings in donuts or candy and it's probably a Friday and we're all happy because we're wearing jeans and things get silly and then someone ends up emailing out a stupid and embarrassing picture of me. Because for some reason when I’m having a good time, I decide someone just has to take my picture. I’m all “Check it out! I’m totally doing this super hilarious thing! Take my picture!” and then we all laugh and I think maybe this job isn’t so bad after all. And then I go home and come back in the morning and see the picture that got emailed around and I wonder what the hell I was thinking.
So this month’s picture?
Yeah.
I thought it was hilarious at the time because hahaa omg this mask is sooo funny!
And then it got emailed to everyone in the office.
And then it went in the monthly newsletter. The newsletter that goes out to not only my office but also the parent company’s office. The parent company, y’all. Thanks to my stupid-ass self getting all hopped up on Halloween candy, me and my sausage fingers are now currently touring the CEO’s computer screen.
*sigh*
At least I’ll have something to tell my parents this weekend in response to their question…
How is your job going?
Great! Last week I ate five mini-Twix bars and then wore a Frankenstein mask around the office and someone took a picture of me making a stupid face with sausage finger claws and they totally put it in the company newsletter!
Is that……good?
I’ll probably get a promotion because of it. Or fired. One of the two.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Running Towards Something Besides The Buffet
So I’m running now.
I mean, I’m running for reals. For exercise. Not because someone is chasing me with a butcher knife or I’m trying to get to the buffet before that old lady with the walker gets all the red jello.
Okay so technically I’m sprinting. Which I guess is a form of running, but I’m not like, running a marathon or anything. I’m running from the tree on the furthest side of my backyard to the furthest tree on the other side of my backyard. It’s probably 15 yards. But! I’m running there and back. Six times in a row.
I know. I’m pretty amazed myself.
This shit wasn’t my idea though. It was Captain Carl's. On Friday at 4pm he called me at work and was all “Hey, when you get home we’ll kick the soccer ball around for a few minutes and then run sprints and then go for a walk” and I was all “Gah?” and he was all “This is our new exercise program…3 times a week” and I was all “Ummm, okay?” and he was all “Excellent!” and I was all “Well, fuck.”
Yep, all his idea. His brilliant Friday night sprinting idea. My idea was to sit on the couch and watch 5 episodes of Ghost Hunters while eating microwave popcorn and twizzlers. My idea was way more awesome, I think.
So I get home and I’m all “I have a headache” and he was all “Nice try” and I was all “No I really do. In my vagina.” and he was all “Shut up and put your sports bra on and get outside”. So I stomped around my bathroom getting ready for as long as I possibly could because I so did not want to exercise but apparently he doesn’t love me enough to let me do nothing and get fatter. Big jerk.
So we’re in the backyard and mosquitoes are eating me alive and I’m all *kick kick kick* with the soccer ball and he’s all “quit kicking it up towards my face!” and I’m all “It’s called strategy” and he’s all “There is no strategy, we’re just warming up” and I’m all “Oh yeah? Your mom's warming up!” because I'm pretty much the queen of soccer insults.
Then he made me sprint.
A real lot.
So there I am. Running. When I start the first sprint, it’s not as hard as I thought it was going to be. Hey, I’m moving pretty fast…not bad for a fat lady. At the halfway mark, I realize something. I’m running on grass. Ohmygod, what if I twist my ankle? By the time I finish that first sprint, I remember that my sports bra is too small for me. I look down. My left boob has popped out. I have to finish with my hand cupping my chest, much to the delight of my husband. We take a 2 minute rest, as per whatever fitness website he’s been reading that day. The mosquitoes swarm again, but I’m not breathing all that hard. I can do this…five more of these is no problem. By the third sprint, I’m praying for God to hit my husband with a freak bolt of lightning from out of nowhere. I’m panting and probably foaming at the mouth like a rabid animal. The Captain has beaten me on every sprint, even with the head start he gives me. “No fair!” I yell every time he passes me. “You don’t have boobs to hold up!” “You have more muscle than me!” “I hate you so hard right now!” And he just laughs and keeps running. At the end of the 5th sprint, my legs are shaking and I’m seriously considering punching him in the face. We are in our 2nd minute of rest before the final sprint when I decide to cheat. I yell “Go!” 30 seconds early and run like a crazy person. The Captain yells after me "It's not a race, moron!" but I don't care. My legs are pumping, my arms are swinging wildly, I’m laughing like a hyena. I’m winning this one! Yes!
And then I stepped in a rabbit hole and fell. I lay there like a slug, flat on my face, waiting for my husband to come pick me up and hold me and tell me he’s sorry and he’ll never ever make me do this ever again and then I'll be all "I could have been seriously injured, but I forgive you. Now go buy me some twizzlers" and he totally would on account of all his exercise guilt.
“Get up!” he yells from a distance. I raise my head and realize he has finished his sprint. “You left me here to die without twizzlers!” I scream at him. “Get up! Now we walk for 30 minutes!” he yells back. I roll over onto my back and stare at the sky. Mosquitoes are flying into my eyeballs. I’m sweating through my shorts and my knees are throbbing. I say nothing. He walks over and stands over me. He’s all “Come on, drama queen” and I’m all “I can’t” and he’s all “Yes you can” and I’m all “No you don’t understand!” and he’s all “I know, you’re tired and sore and don’t feel like it. But you will be so happy that you did.” and I’m all “No, it’s not that. I can’t get my boob back in my bra”.
So there we are, silent and motionless for a few minutes. He is contemplating how to get me up and moving again. I am contemplating how to fashion a shiv from blades of grass and my shoelace so I can take him down and shut him up about this exercise bullshit. He pokes me a couple times with the tip of his shoe. "Come onnnn" he whines. "No" I say and roll over onto my side away from him. He sighs and says "I'll go buy you twizzlers if you walk with me". I look over my shoulder at him and contemplate this offer. "What about my boob?" I ask. “It’s dark, no one will notice” he responds.
And that’s how I ended up walking through my neighborhood at 9pm on a Friday with a limp and my boob hanging out of my bra.
I mean, I’m running for reals. For exercise. Not because someone is chasing me with a butcher knife or I’m trying to get to the buffet before that old lady with the walker gets all the red jello.
Okay so technically I’m sprinting. Which I guess is a form of running, but I’m not like, running a marathon or anything. I’m running from the tree on the furthest side of my backyard to the furthest tree on the other side of my backyard. It’s probably 15 yards. But! I’m running there and back. Six times in a row.
I know. I’m pretty amazed myself.
This shit wasn’t my idea though. It was Captain Carl's. On Friday at 4pm he called me at work and was all “Hey, when you get home we’ll kick the soccer ball around for a few minutes and then run sprints and then go for a walk” and I was all “Gah?” and he was all “This is our new exercise program…3 times a week” and I was all “Ummm, okay?” and he was all “Excellent!” and I was all “Well, fuck.”
Yep, all his idea. His brilliant Friday night sprinting idea. My idea was to sit on the couch and watch 5 episodes of Ghost Hunters while eating microwave popcorn and twizzlers. My idea was way more awesome, I think.
So I get home and I’m all “I have a headache” and he was all “Nice try” and I was all “No I really do. In my vagina.” and he was all “Shut up and put your sports bra on and get outside”. So I stomped around my bathroom getting ready for as long as I possibly could because I so did not want to exercise but apparently he doesn’t love me enough to let me do nothing and get fatter. Big jerk.
So we’re in the backyard and mosquitoes are eating me alive and I’m all *kick kick kick* with the soccer ball and he’s all “quit kicking it up towards my face!” and I’m all “It’s called strategy” and he’s all “There is no strategy, we’re just warming up” and I’m all “Oh yeah? Your mom's warming up!” because I'm pretty much the queen of soccer insults.
Then he made me sprint.
A real lot.
So there I am. Running. When I start the first sprint, it’s not as hard as I thought it was going to be. Hey, I’m moving pretty fast…not bad for a fat lady. At the halfway mark, I realize something. I’m running on grass. Ohmygod, what if I twist my ankle? By the time I finish that first sprint, I remember that my sports bra is too small for me. I look down. My left boob has popped out. I have to finish with my hand cupping my chest, much to the delight of my husband. We take a 2 minute rest, as per whatever fitness website he’s been reading that day. The mosquitoes swarm again, but I’m not breathing all that hard. I can do this…five more of these is no problem. By the third sprint, I’m praying for God to hit my husband with a freak bolt of lightning from out of nowhere. I’m panting and probably foaming at the mouth like a rabid animal. The Captain has beaten me on every sprint, even with the head start he gives me. “No fair!” I yell every time he passes me. “You don’t have boobs to hold up!” “You have more muscle than me!” “I hate you so hard right now!” And he just laughs and keeps running. At the end of the 5th sprint, my legs are shaking and I’m seriously considering punching him in the face. We are in our 2nd minute of rest before the final sprint when I decide to cheat. I yell “Go!” 30 seconds early and run like a crazy person. The Captain yells after me "It's not a race, moron!" but I don't care. My legs are pumping, my arms are swinging wildly, I’m laughing like a hyena. I’m winning this one! Yes!
And then I stepped in a rabbit hole and fell. I lay there like a slug, flat on my face, waiting for my husband to come pick me up and hold me and tell me he’s sorry and he’ll never ever make me do this ever again and then I'll be all "I could have been seriously injured, but I forgive you. Now go buy me some twizzlers" and he totally would on account of all his exercise guilt.
“Get up!” he yells from a distance. I raise my head and realize he has finished his sprint. “You left me here to die without twizzlers!” I scream at him. “Get up! Now we walk for 30 minutes!” he yells back. I roll over onto my back and stare at the sky. Mosquitoes are flying into my eyeballs. I’m sweating through my shorts and my knees are throbbing. I say nothing. He walks over and stands over me. He’s all “Come on, drama queen” and I’m all “I can’t” and he’s all “Yes you can” and I’m all “No you don’t understand!” and he’s all “I know, you’re tired and sore and don’t feel like it. But you will be so happy that you did.” and I’m all “No, it’s not that. I can’t get my boob back in my bra”.
So there we are, silent and motionless for a few minutes. He is contemplating how to get me up and moving again. I am contemplating how to fashion a shiv from blades of grass and my shoelace so I can take him down and shut him up about this exercise bullshit. He pokes me a couple times with the tip of his shoe. "Come onnnn" he whines. "No" I say and roll over onto my side away from him. He sighs and says "I'll go buy you twizzlers if you walk with me". I look over my shoulder at him and contemplate this offer. "What about my boob?" I ask. “It’s dark, no one will notice” he responds.
And that’s how I ended up walking through my neighborhood at 9pm on a Friday with a limp and my boob hanging out of my bra.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Damn You, Banana
I know I know. I haven't been around much lately. I have my reasons.
First? Last Saturday I bit into a banana and one of my crowns came off my tooth and I swallowed it before I noticed. A fucking banana, y'all. The softest fruit on the planet ripped a dental crown that is attached with fucking cement right off the remaining nub-of-what-was-once-an-awesome-but-is-now-felled-due-to-a-hairline-fracture tooth. Yes, that sentence just happened.
So I was sitting there, all eating my banana and then I swallowed (just like your mom did last night) and I was all huh, something feels weird and then I stuck my tongue over on the side of my mouth and holy shit, my crown is gone. So of course I start frantically looking around my chair for it, like it somehow walked out of my mouth without my knowledge. Then I realized that I swallowed it (twss). So I looked over at Captain Carl with my hand over my mouth and buggy eyes and he was all "What's the matter?" and I was all *horrified stare* and he was all "What happened?" and I was all "I just swallowed my crown!" and he was all "What?" and I was all "I. JUST. SWALLOWED. MY. CROWN." and he was all "No way" and I was all "Ohmygod" and he was all "Throw up!" and I was all "No!".
And then the pain kicked in. I had a raw, stub of a tooth exposed to the elements. So I cried. And Captain Carl was all "How can you feel anything? Didn't you have a root canal before they crowned it?" and I was all "No, are they supposed to do that?" and he was all "Yes" and I was all "Fucking dentist!". So I found another dentist that was open on Saturday, went to see her with greasy Saturday morning hair and banana breath and she was all "I'll do a root canal and get a temporary crown on there" and I was all "Yes please" and she was all "But not until Monday" and I was all stabbing her in the face. But then she prescribed vicodin for the pain so I totally made out with her.
All this means that sometime this week I literally flushed $500 down the toilet.
Then!
We moved the Kiddo to college and into his dorm on Sunday. He was pretty much all jumpy and clappy and excited and I was pretty much all pretend-happy but wearing-my-sunglasses-all-day-even-inside-because-my-eyes-kept-leaking. And now he's there and not here and Captain Carl was all braggy last week about how he was going to be so excited about being alone! like newlyweds! except with a renter living upstairs! And then on Monday he asked me if I'd been in the Kiddo's room yet and I was all "No, I can't go in there yet" and he was all "It looks like a hotel room with all his stuff gone" and then he burst into tears. Heh heh. Told ya.
Then!
On Monday morning, I got my root canal done but only half of it because the dentist "didn't have time to do the whole thing since it was an emergency appointment". Which means I get to go back in two weeks for a second root canal. Which is extra special awesome. And! This new dentist is good, but she doesn't use the laughing gas like my old shitty dentist did. Which means instead of laughing and peacefully drifting towards the ceiling during my root canal, I was instead sweating and trying not to cry and/or gag. And then on my way out I got to write a check for $620.
Then!
Yesterday I got a sinus infection. And a yeast infection. My body is awesome at infections. I'm oozing from almost every orifice.
And that's why I haven't been around much. Pretty much glad you asked, right?
First? Last Saturday I bit into a banana and one of my crowns came off my tooth and I swallowed it before I noticed. A fucking banana, y'all. The softest fruit on the planet ripped a dental crown that is attached with fucking cement right off the remaining nub-of-what-was-once-an-awesome-but-is-now-felled-due-to-a-hairline-fracture tooth. Yes, that sentence just happened.
So I was sitting there, all eating my banana and then I swallowed (just like your mom did last night) and I was all huh, something feels weird and then I stuck my tongue over on the side of my mouth and holy shit, my crown is gone. So of course I start frantically looking around my chair for it, like it somehow walked out of my mouth without my knowledge. Then I realized that I swallowed it (twss). So I looked over at Captain Carl with my hand over my mouth and buggy eyes and he was all "What's the matter?" and I was all *horrified stare* and he was all "What happened?" and I was all "I just swallowed my crown!" and he was all "What?" and I was all "I. JUST. SWALLOWED. MY. CROWN." and he was all "No way" and I was all "Ohmygod" and he was all "Throw up!" and I was all "No!".
And then the pain kicked in. I had a raw, stub of a tooth exposed to the elements. So I cried. And Captain Carl was all "How can you feel anything? Didn't you have a root canal before they crowned it?" and I was all "No, are they supposed to do that?" and he was all "Yes" and I was all "Fucking dentist!". So I found another dentist that was open on Saturday, went to see her with greasy Saturday morning hair and banana breath and she was all "I'll do a root canal and get a temporary crown on there" and I was all "Yes please" and she was all "But not until Monday" and I was all stabbing her in the face. But then she prescribed vicodin for the pain so I totally made out with her.
All this means that sometime this week I literally flushed $500 down the toilet.
Then!
We moved the Kiddo to college and into his dorm on Sunday. He was pretty much all jumpy and clappy and excited and I was pretty much all pretend-happy but wearing-my-sunglasses-all-day-even-inside-because-my-eyes-kept-leaking. And now he's there and not here and Captain Carl was all braggy last week about how he was going to be so excited about being alone! like newlyweds! except with a renter living upstairs! And then on Monday he asked me if I'd been in the Kiddo's room yet and I was all "No, I can't go in there yet" and he was all "It looks like a hotel room with all his stuff gone" and then he burst into tears. Heh heh. Told ya.
Then!
On Monday morning, I got my root canal done but only half of it because the dentist "didn't have time to do the whole thing since it was an emergency appointment". Which means I get to go back in two weeks for a second root canal. Which is extra special awesome. And! This new dentist is good, but she doesn't use the laughing gas like my old shitty dentist did. Which means instead of laughing and peacefully drifting towards the ceiling during my root canal, I was instead sweating and trying not to cry and/or gag. And then on my way out I got to write a check for $620.
Then!
Yesterday I got a sinus infection. And a yeast infection. My body is awesome at infections. I'm oozing from almost every orifice.
And that's why I haven't been around much. Pretty much glad you asked, right?
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
It's Like Living In Middle Earth. Except Instead Of A Ring, There's A Plunger.
When Captain Carl and I contracted to build our house, we were pretty nervous about it. It was much bigger than the place we were renting at the time and it was in a suburb on the outskirts of the metro…which meant a much longer commute to work and more distance between ourselves and our family who lived here. The only restaurants near us were McDonald’s and a donut place. There was one gas station and no shopping. Not even a Wal Mart, y'all. I mean, I thought a Wal Mart was a prerequisite for a new suburb in the south?
So one day we drove out to see how construction was coming along. The walls were almost ready to go up and we stood out in the street in front of our new house and contemplated brick color and tree selection and ohmygodwhatarewedoing???? And then I heard someone yelling behind us “Are y’all our new neighbors?”. When we turned around, I saw two teeny tiny old people walking towards us. This couple barely came up to my chest, they were that short. And gosh they were sweet! They told us their names were Fanny and Reggie and how happy they were to have a young family moving in soon and how wonderful the neighborhood was and how it was lonely with only two other houses built so far on our street. Captain Carl and I left that day feeling wonderful about our home selection. I mean, everyone wants good neighbors right? It would be so great to have such a friendly and sweet couple across the street!
And then moving day arrived. We closed on our house in August. In Texas. Because we’re geniuses. We hired movers, who could only fit ¾ of our crap into their truck. And so we spent our first day as new homeowners hauling loads of the remaining stuff from the old place to the new. We did that about five times. And then, hot and sweating and exhausted, we began unpacking the essentials for our first night. I worked on the kitchen while the Captain worked out in the garage. Our front door was propped open to allow the movers easy access. And so I didn’t notice when our neighbor lady walked in and sat down on our kitchen window seat.
Fanny: Ya’ll are getting all moved in, huh?
Me: *jumping* Uh, yes. Ummm, when did you get here?
Fanny: Oh I just came in. I figured it was okay since y’all had your front door open.
Me: Oh. Well. Actually, we have it open for the movers.
Fanny: I see you’re cleaning the refrigerator.
Me: Uh, yes I am.
Fanny: Y’all brought your old fridge from your other place then?
Me: Yes.
Fanny: *swings legs back and forth* Y’alls fridge don’t match your stove.
Me: No, we’ll probably buy a new one soon that matches.
Fanny: *kicking heels against our newly painted wall* Huh.
Me: *staring* Is there something I can help you with?
Fanny: No. Just stopping by to say hi.
Me: Oh, well okay. I’m ahhh, a little busy right now.
Fanny: *laughing* I can see that!
Me: So ummm…maybe we could get together sometime after we’re all moved in.
Fanny: Sure! *walks around the kitchen touching things*
Me: So yeah…well….
Reggie: *yelling from outside* Fanny! Where are you, woman???
Fanny: *yelling from inside* I’m in here, for goodness sake!!
Reggie: *walks into house* Well hey there! Cleaning your fridge, huh?
Me: Well, I’m trying to.
Reggie: Well, I ‘spose we ought to let her get back to it, Fanny.
Fanny: Oh you go on. We’re having girl talk.
Me: Ahhh, ha haa….well actually….
Reggie: Come on now…leave her alone. The poor girl is sweating right through her shirt. *stares at my chest*
Fanny: Fine then. I’ll come back later to visit.
Me: Ummm, okay. Well…bye.
Reggie: It’s so nice to have y’all here. Now we’re not the only white folks on the street!
Me: What?
Fanny: *stage whisper* Everyone else is black. One of ‘em is from Nigeria or Africa or something!
Me: Oh, that’s nice.
Fanny: Well sure it is. But you know, it’s nicer when you have some of your own kind around you.
Me: *open mouth stare*
And it pretty much continued from there:
____________________________________________
Reggie: *after walking across the street to watch me trim the front hedges* Doin’ yard work, huh?
Me: Yep.
Reggie: Fanny was watching you out the front window and told me she can’t believe you’re out here doing man’s work.
Me: Excuse me?
Reggie: She says yard work is a man’s job and Captain Carl should be out here.
Me: Well, I don’t mind.
Reggie: Well, you’re doing a good enough job I guess.
Me: Gee, thanks.
Reggie: Pretty hot out here, huh? *stares at my chest*
______________________________________________
Reggie: *stopping us while we are out for a walk * Hey ya’ll!
Captain: Hey Reggie….gotta keep moving, we’ll talk later!
Reggie: Yep yep, I can see y’all are exercising. Good idea, ya’ll probably need it!
Me: What?
Reggie: Well, I tell y’all what. We sure do like our neighbors here on our left side but *stage whisper* them blacks sure do things differently.
Captain: Ohmygod. Let's go. *starts walking away*
Me: Wait, what does that mean?
Reggie: Oh, I don't mean nothing by that. They just seem to do a lot of things backwards. It must be their culture or something to do things wrong.
Captain: *grabs my arm* Ha, well we really gotta go!
______________________________________________
*Doorbell rings*
Me: Not it!
Captain: Oh come on, I answered last time!
Me: I’m not talking to them!
Captain: How do you know it’s them?
Me: It’s always them!
Captain: Fine. *opens door* Hey Reggie.
Reggie: Hey there, Captain. Listen, I don’t suppose y’all have a plunger I could borrow?
Captain: Ummm, what for?
Reggie: Well see, my grandson’s over this week and I tell you what, that boy has some intestinal problems.
Captain: *horrified face* Uh huh….
Reggie: Well, he left the biggest load I’ve ever seen in our toilet and it’s all backed up. You would never believe that it came out of an 8 year old.
Captain: Well…ummm..
Me: *yelling from my hiding place* We don’t have one!
Reggie: What’s that?
Captain: Yeah, believe it or not we don’t have a plunger.
Reggie: You don’t say? Well, alright then.
Captain: This is just a thought, but maybe you could drive over to the hardware store and pick one up.
Reggie: Well I guess I might do that. Y’all need me to get you one too?
____________________________________________
*doorbell rings*
Me: Not it!
*silence*
Me: Well shit, I’m the only one home. *answers door* Hi Fanny.
Fanny: I got my grandson with me today.
Me: I see that.
Grandson: *stares at my chest*
Fanny: *walks into my house* Come on Davy.
Me: Ummm, is there something you need? Why does he have that big stick?
Fanny: Oh who knows. He just picks things up outside. One time he came home with a dead snake and a pair of ladies underpants.
Me: *stare*
Fanny: I wondered if I could have some sugar.
Me: Okay, how much?
Fanny: You got a bag I could take?
Me: A whole bag?
Grandson: *swinging giant tree limb around my kitchen*
Me: Be carefully with that please!
Fanny: Oh he’s alright. Yeah, I need a whole bag.
Me: Well, I can give you a couple cups.
Fanny: Oh nevermind, that’s not enough.
Grandson: *banging giant tree limb against my wall*
Me: Hey, stop it!
Fanny: Not to worry. That’ll touch up with a little paint.
____________________________________________
And this is why we never answer our door or walk around outside in the daylight anymore. On account of our redneck racist hobbit neighbors.
So one day we drove out to see how construction was coming along. The walls were almost ready to go up and we stood out in the street in front of our new house and contemplated brick color and tree selection and ohmygodwhatarewedoing???? And then I heard someone yelling behind us “Are y’all our new neighbors?”. When we turned around, I saw two teeny tiny old people walking towards us. This couple barely came up to my chest, they were that short. And gosh they were sweet! They told us their names were Fanny and Reggie and how happy they were to have a young family moving in soon and how wonderful the neighborhood was and how it was lonely with only two other houses built so far on our street. Captain Carl and I left that day feeling wonderful about our home selection. I mean, everyone wants good neighbors right? It would be so great to have such a friendly and sweet couple across the street!
And then moving day arrived. We closed on our house in August. In Texas. Because we’re geniuses. We hired movers, who could only fit ¾ of our crap into their truck. And so we spent our first day as new homeowners hauling loads of the remaining stuff from the old place to the new. We did that about five times. And then, hot and sweating and exhausted, we began unpacking the essentials for our first night. I worked on the kitchen while the Captain worked out in the garage. Our front door was propped open to allow the movers easy access. And so I didn’t notice when our neighbor lady walked in and sat down on our kitchen window seat.
Fanny: Ya’ll are getting all moved in, huh?
Me: *jumping* Uh, yes. Ummm, when did you get here?
Fanny: Oh I just came in. I figured it was okay since y’all had your front door open.
Me: Oh. Well. Actually, we have it open for the movers.
Fanny: I see you’re cleaning the refrigerator.
Me: Uh, yes I am.
Fanny: Y’all brought your old fridge from your other place then?
Me: Yes.
Fanny: *swings legs back and forth* Y’alls fridge don’t match your stove.
Me: No, we’ll probably buy a new one soon that matches.
Fanny: *kicking heels against our newly painted wall* Huh.
Me: *staring* Is there something I can help you with?
Fanny: No. Just stopping by to say hi.
Me: Oh, well okay. I’m ahhh, a little busy right now.
Fanny: *laughing* I can see that!
Me: So ummm…maybe we could get together sometime after we’re all moved in.
Fanny: Sure! *walks around the kitchen touching things*
Me: So yeah…well….
Reggie: *yelling from outside* Fanny! Where are you, woman???
Fanny: *yelling from inside* I’m in here, for goodness sake!!
Reggie: *walks into house* Well hey there! Cleaning your fridge, huh?
Me: Well, I’m trying to.
Reggie: Well, I ‘spose we ought to let her get back to it, Fanny.
Fanny: Oh you go on. We’re having girl talk.
Me: Ahhh, ha haa….well actually….
Reggie: Come on now…leave her alone. The poor girl is sweating right through her shirt. *stares at my chest*
Fanny: Fine then. I’ll come back later to visit.
Me: Ummm, okay. Well…bye.
Reggie: It’s so nice to have y’all here. Now we’re not the only white folks on the street!
Me: What?
Fanny: *stage whisper* Everyone else is black. One of ‘em is from Nigeria or Africa or something!
Me: Oh, that’s nice.
Fanny: Well sure it is. But you know, it’s nicer when you have some of your own kind around you.
Me: *open mouth stare*
And it pretty much continued from there:
____________________________________________
Reggie: *after walking across the street to watch me trim the front hedges* Doin’ yard work, huh?
Me: Yep.
Reggie: Fanny was watching you out the front window and told me she can’t believe you’re out here doing man’s work.
Me: Excuse me?
Reggie: She says yard work is a man’s job and Captain Carl should be out here.
Me: Well, I don’t mind.
Reggie: Well, you’re doing a good enough job I guess.
Me: Gee, thanks.
Reggie: Pretty hot out here, huh? *stares at my chest*
______________________________________________
Reggie: *stopping us while we are out for a walk * Hey ya’ll!
Captain: Hey Reggie….gotta keep moving, we’ll talk later!
Reggie: Yep yep, I can see y’all are exercising. Good idea, ya’ll probably need it!
Me: What?
Reggie: Well, I tell y’all what. We sure do like our neighbors here on our left side but *stage whisper* them blacks sure do things differently.
Captain: Ohmygod. Let's go. *starts walking away*
Me: Wait, what does that mean?
Reggie: Oh, I don't mean nothing by that. They just seem to do a lot of things backwards. It must be their culture or something to do things wrong.
Captain: *grabs my arm* Ha, well we really gotta go!
______________________________________________
*Doorbell rings*
Me: Not it!
Captain: Oh come on, I answered last time!
Me: I’m not talking to them!
Captain: How do you know it’s them?
Me: It’s always them!
Captain: Fine. *opens door* Hey Reggie.
Reggie: Hey there, Captain. Listen, I don’t suppose y’all have a plunger I could borrow?
Captain: Ummm, what for?
Reggie: Well see, my grandson’s over this week and I tell you what, that boy has some intestinal problems.
Captain: *horrified face* Uh huh….
Reggie: Well, he left the biggest load I’ve ever seen in our toilet and it’s all backed up. You would never believe that it came out of an 8 year old.
Captain: Well…ummm..
Me: *yelling from my hiding place* We don’t have one!
Reggie: What’s that?
Captain: Yeah, believe it or not we don’t have a plunger.
Reggie: You don’t say? Well, alright then.
Captain: This is just a thought, but maybe you could drive over to the hardware store and pick one up.
Reggie: Well I guess I might do that. Y’all need me to get you one too?
____________________________________________
*doorbell rings*
Me: Not it!
*silence*
Me: Well shit, I’m the only one home. *answers door* Hi Fanny.
Fanny: I got my grandson with me today.
Me: I see that.
Grandson: *stares at my chest*
Fanny: *walks into my house* Come on Davy.
Me: Ummm, is there something you need? Why does he have that big stick?
Fanny: Oh who knows. He just picks things up outside. One time he came home with a dead snake and a pair of ladies underpants.
Me: *stare*
Fanny: I wondered if I could have some sugar.
Me: Okay, how much?
Fanny: You got a bag I could take?
Me: A whole bag?
Grandson: *swinging giant tree limb around my kitchen*
Me: Be carefully with that please!
Fanny: Oh he’s alright. Yeah, I need a whole bag.
Me: Well, I can give you a couple cups.
Fanny: Oh nevermind, that’s not enough.
Grandson: *banging giant tree limb against my wall*
Me: Hey, stop it!
Fanny: Not to worry. That’ll touch up with a little paint.
____________________________________________
And this is why we never answer our door or walk around outside in the daylight anymore. On account of our redneck racist hobbit neighbors.
Monday, June 14, 2010
I Wonder If This Will Give Me A Yeast Infection
I wrote a long and actually quite serious post this morning, but I decided to save that one for tomorrow in order to share this with you instead. You’re welcome.
I just went to the ladies room and all the stalls were full and I opened a new tampon and then dropped it on the floor and it rolled out under the stall and I was so panicked that I didn’t pull up my pants before I ran out there to pick it up. And then I had to use it because I only brought one with me to the bathroom. So now I have office bathroom floor in my vagina.
I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried, people.
I just went to the ladies room and all the stalls were full and I opened a new tampon and then dropped it on the floor and it rolled out under the stall and I was so panicked that I didn’t pull up my pants before I ran out there to pick it up. And then I had to use it because I only brought one with me to the bathroom. So now I have office bathroom floor in my vagina.
I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried, people.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Breaking Up Is (Kind Of Not Really) Hard To Do
Update on the teenage love drama from last week:
The Kiddo broke up with Bunny.
Two days later, he came home with three hickeys on his neck.
From a girl who is not Bunny.
We made jokes about how deeply in love he must have been to have waited a whole 48 hours before messing around with someone else.
He pretended to be offended.
Until another girl texted him.
Then he asked if he could go out for awhile to “do stuff”.
In conclusion:
My son is a slut.
I need a good resource for bulk condom orders.
The Kiddo broke up with Bunny.
Two days later, he came home with three hickeys on his neck.
From a girl who is not Bunny.
We made jokes about how deeply in love he must have been to have waited a whole 48 hours before messing around with someone else.
He pretended to be offended.
Until another girl texted him.
Then he asked if he could go out for awhile to “do stuff”.
In conclusion:
My son is a slut.
I need a good resource for bulk condom orders.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
SuperCrotch
You know how when you were a kid and you’d eat an apple and you’d recite the alphabet for each twist of the stem and then whatever letter you were saying when the stem twisted off would be the first letter of the last name of the boy you were going to marry? Remember that? Yeah, that was an awesome game. You know what other game was awesome? MASH. Remember MASH? You know…Mansion, Apartment, Shack, House? Because of those games, I was convinced I was going to marry Mark (hottt!) or Jason (to the max!) or Corey (totally bitchin!) or the other Corey (gag me!). I didn’t marry any of those suckers, but the jokes on them because guess who didn’t end up being a pig farmer’s wife like everyone thought she would???
Shit.
Y’all. I can’t come up with a decent blog post to save my life. Every day I sit here and I’m all “Okay, today’s the day! Today’s the day that you finally write that amazing blog post that will go viral and everyone will know who you are and you’ll finally have to come clean and admit to your family and friends that you are Miss Yvonne because everyone keeps talking to you about her and you can’t stand them not knowing that YOU are the genius behind the blog!”. And then I write crap like that first paragraph up there. About apple stems and MASH. Seriously. Help.
I think I’m stuck on account of all the graduation junk that has been occupying my brain for the last few weeks. The Kiddo graduates on Saturday and I’ve spent all my free time obsessing over party details. The menu, the cake, the drinks, sleeping arrangements, transportation and parking, where to hide my vibrators from my snooping mother, etc. I spent the whole weekend cleaning the house. The whole HOLIDAY weekend, y’all. I should have been at the lake…I should have been at the movies….I should have been drinking! But it’s okay because my 18 year old son did all those things for me. He’s a giver, that one.
*sigh*
I’m trying to keep the crazy at a low hum so that Captain Carl doesn’t divorce me, but it’s hard to keep a good anxiety attack down. And when I’m not freaking out, I’m blubbering like a baby over old photos of the Kiddo. I’m a mess.
The Captain has really stepped up to the plate and has been helping me a lot. I’m pretty sure it’s on account of my wacko scary eyes and random weeping. But I don’t care because my sprinklers are fixed, my floors are getting cleaned, my lawn has been edged, all my pictures have been hung and the party menu has been taken care of. I seriously love that guy. I should give him a blow job to show him my appreciation, but you know…...meh.
P.S. Renty lost his job and is now wandering around my house wearing nothing but silk Superman boxers with a big “S” over the crotch and black socks all day long. It’s about as sexy as it sounds. Help me, Baby Jesus.
Shit.
Y’all. I can’t come up with a decent blog post to save my life. Every day I sit here and I’m all “Okay, today’s the day! Today’s the day that you finally write that amazing blog post that will go viral and everyone will know who you are and you’ll finally have to come clean and admit to your family and friends that you are Miss Yvonne because everyone keeps talking to you about her and you can’t stand them not knowing that YOU are the genius behind the blog!”. And then I write crap like that first paragraph up there. About apple stems and MASH. Seriously. Help.
I think I’m stuck on account of all the graduation junk that has been occupying my brain for the last few weeks. The Kiddo graduates on Saturday and I’ve spent all my free time obsessing over party details. The menu, the cake, the drinks, sleeping arrangements, transportation and parking, where to hide my vibrators from my snooping mother, etc. I spent the whole weekend cleaning the house. The whole HOLIDAY weekend, y’all. I should have been at the lake…I should have been at the movies….I should have been drinking! But it’s okay because my 18 year old son did all those things for me. He’s a giver, that one.
*sigh*
I’m trying to keep the crazy at a low hum so that Captain Carl doesn’t divorce me, but it’s hard to keep a good anxiety attack down. And when I’m not freaking out, I’m blubbering like a baby over old photos of the Kiddo. I’m a mess.
The Captain has really stepped up to the plate and has been helping me a lot. I’m pretty sure it’s on account of my wacko scary eyes and random weeping. But I don’t care because my sprinklers are fixed, my floors are getting cleaned, my lawn has been edged, all my pictures have been hung and the party menu has been taken care of. I seriously love that guy. I should give him a blow job to show him my appreciation, but you know…...meh.
P.S. Renty lost his job and is now wandering around my house wearing nothing but silk Superman boxers with a big “S” over the crotch and black socks all day long. It’s about as sexy as it sounds. Help me, Baby Jesus.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Carpal Tunnel Here I Come
So I haven't been blogging. Because I'm super important and very busy at my new job. And also because I have to limit my typing on account of all the carpal tunnel I'm developing at the office.
See, the problem is my chair. Best I can tell, it's been around since bell bottoms were in style the first time. The arms are all scratched up and the seat is basically a piece of wood covered in something that probably once resembled some kind of fabric. My left butt cheek is completely numb by the time 5pm rolls around each day. One of the wheels falls off. A lot. I will be rolling one way or the other and suddenly I've got a gangsta lean and my wheel has shot across the room and into the next cubicle and the guy that sits there picks it up and is all "Lose something??" and I'm all "Hahahaa that was just as funny as the last six times you said it, Greg!" and he's all "Ahhhahhaaa, I'm hilarious right?" and I'm all "Hey Greg, adouchebagsayswhat?" and he's all "What?" and I'm all "Exactly. Now give me my goddamn wheel."
But the worst part about this chair? The height adjustment lever is broken, leaving me sitting dangerously close to the floor and typing with my elbows up by my ears. I'm pretty sure this is a direct OSHA violation. I shouldn't have to look up at a 90 degree angle to see my computer screen. And I'm pretty sure my mouth is not supposed to be at the same level as my desktop.
Dudes, seriously. This company is small, but they build expensive things. I have a Windows 7 Professional computer with a screen as large as my Taurus windshield. It's weird that I can't get a new $40 office chair. Our office is located in an upscale neighborhood where Dallas Cowboys football players live, but there are no tape dispensers or black pens anywhere in the place. We have security cameras and a glass and marble reception area with black metal folding chairs for our vendors to sit on while they wait (on camera) for their meetings.
Oh, and we can't wear jeans on Fridays and I'm not allowed to leave at the end of the day if anyone else is walking out already. I have to wait a few minutes so that I don't seem "too eager to go home". For reals, yo.
These bitches better keep up with the free Diet cokes or I am so out of there.
See, the problem is my chair. Best I can tell, it's been around since bell bottoms were in style the first time. The arms are all scratched up and the seat is basically a piece of wood covered in something that probably once resembled some kind of fabric. My left butt cheek is completely numb by the time 5pm rolls around each day. One of the wheels falls off. A lot. I will be rolling one way or the other and suddenly I've got a gangsta lean and my wheel has shot across the room and into the next cubicle and the guy that sits there picks it up and is all "Lose something??" and I'm all "Hahahaa that was just as funny as the last six times you said it, Greg!" and he's all "Ahhhahhaaa, I'm hilarious right?" and I'm all "Hey Greg, adouchebagsayswhat?" and he's all "What?" and I'm all "Exactly. Now give me my goddamn wheel."
But the worst part about this chair? The height adjustment lever is broken, leaving me sitting dangerously close to the floor and typing with my elbows up by my ears. I'm pretty sure this is a direct OSHA violation. I shouldn't have to look up at a 90 degree angle to see my computer screen. And I'm pretty sure my mouth is not supposed to be at the same level as my desktop.
Dudes, seriously. This company is small, but they build expensive things. I have a Windows 7 Professional computer with a screen as large as my Taurus windshield. It's weird that I can't get a new $40 office chair. Our office is located in an upscale neighborhood where Dallas Cowboys football players live, but there are no tape dispensers or black pens anywhere in the place. We have security cameras and a glass and marble reception area with black metal folding chairs for our vendors to sit on while they wait (on camera) for their meetings.
Oh, and we can't wear jeans on Fridays and I'm not allowed to leave at the end of the day if anyone else is walking out already. I have to wait a few minutes so that I don't seem "too eager to go home". For reals, yo.
These bitches better keep up with the free Diet cokes or I am so out of there.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
I Didn't See Anything About This Shit In My Parenting Handbook
The Scene: It's 8pm on Saturday night. We just got back from dinner out with our lovely son and his lovely girlfriend. Let's call her Bunny. Captain Carl is watching tv with Renty, the Kiddo and Bunny are upstairs in the media room and I'm in my bathroom tinkling delicately in my (of course) super clean water closet. That's what we fancy folks call a toilet, y'all.
*thump* *thump* *thump*
Hmmmm, what is that?
*thump* *thump* *thump*
Is that the wind?
*thump* *thump* *thump* *thump*
It can't be the wind. It's completely still outside.
*thump* *thump* *thump* *thump* *squeak*
Huh. The Kiddo's room is right above me, but they're on the other side of the house right now.
*thump* *thump* *squeak* *squeak* *thump*
Wait. No way...
*thump* *squeak* *squeak* *squeak* *thump* *thump* *thump*
Ohmygod. It can't be. He wouldn't dare in my house while we're downstairs....
*thump thump thump thump thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump*
OH HELLLLLLL TO THE NO!
*me stomping out into the living room*
Me: Have you checked on your son lately?
Captain Carl: Nope.
Me: I suggest that you do. Right now.
Captain Carl: It's your turn. I always check on him when Bunny is over here.
Me: You don't understand. You need to go upstairs and check. on. him. right. now.
Captain Carl: I always do it, you go.
Me: Fine!
*me running up the stairs*
Media room? Empty.
The Kiddo's room? Door closed.
*me knocking on the door with my fist* BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG!
Kiddo: Ummm, what?
Me: You know what! Open the hell up!!
*10 second pause before door opens*
Kiddo: *rumpled and guilty looking* What's up?
Me: *breathing heavily* I heard you.
Kiddo: *stare*
Me: I heard you. In my bathroom.
Kiddo: Sorry.
Me: *shaky finger point* No you're not! You're just sorry you got caught!
Bunny: *staring mortified at the ceiling from her prone position on my son's bed*
Me: *manic crazy face* You know the rules!! You are to never...NEVER!!! do that in my house! You are to keep your bedroom door open AT ALL TIMES when Bunny is here and you WILL NOT do anything involving the words BOOB, BUTT, VAGINA, PENIS, BALLS, SEX, MOUTHS OR HOLES while you are under our roof!
Kiddo: *terrified stare* I know.
Me: *eyes bulging* You know??? YOU KNOW??? *more shaky finger pointing* If you know, then explain to me why I could hear YOUR BED BANGING AGAINST THE WALL while I was peeing!! Huh?? Can you explain please??? CAN YOU????
Kiddo: No.
Me: You forgot that I can hear everything, didn't you???
Kiddo: Yes.
Me: When I told you I can hear everything, I meant that I can hear EVERYTHING. I can hear when you are up here playing video games at 2am on a school night. I can hear when you are watching porn on your computer. Oh yes, I certainly can. I can even hear when you are texting people. I'm like a goddamn bat with my freaky supersonic hearing. So I can definitely hear when you are SCREWING YOUR GIRLFRIEND AT 8PM ON A SATURDAY!
Kiddo: Yes ma'am.
Me: *shaky breath* Okay. *slams door wide open against the wall* Open. Forever. *points at Bunny* You. Go home. Now.
Kiddo: Yes ma'am.
Bunny: *crying in a ball on the bed*
*me walking downstairs*
Captain Carl: What happened?
Me: Oh not much. Just heard your son having wild monkey sex with his girlfriend while I was peeing. You know, the usual.
Captain Carl: Really??
Me: Oh yeah.
Captain Carl: The little shit.
Me: Oh yeah.
Captain Carl: You okay? You look a little upset and ummmm, Parkinson's-ish??
Me: *looks at shaking hands* I need a drink.
The End.
P.S. Now y'all know why I haven't been blogging or commenting much. You know, on account of all the time I have to spend keeping my son from humping every moment of the day.
*thump* *thump* *thump*
Hmmmm, what is that?
*thump* *thump* *thump*
Is that the wind?
*thump* *thump* *thump* *thump*
It can't be the wind. It's completely still outside.
*thump* *thump* *thump* *thump* *squeak*
Huh. The Kiddo's room is right above me, but they're on the other side of the house right now.
*thump* *thump* *squeak* *squeak* *thump*
Wait. No way...
*thump* *squeak* *squeak* *squeak* *thump* *thump* *thump*
Ohmygod. It can't be. He wouldn't dare in my house while we're downstairs....
*thump thump thump thump thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump*
OH HELLLLLLL TO THE NO!
*me stomping out into the living room*
Me: Have you checked on your son lately?
Captain Carl: Nope.
Me: I suggest that you do. Right now.
Captain Carl: It's your turn. I always check on him when Bunny is over here.
Me: You don't understand. You need to go upstairs and check. on. him. right. now.
Captain Carl: I always do it, you go.
Me: Fine!
*me running up the stairs*
Media room? Empty.
The Kiddo's room? Door closed.
*me knocking on the door with my fist* BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG!
Kiddo: Ummm, what?
Me: You know what! Open the hell up!!
*10 second pause before door opens*
Kiddo: *rumpled and guilty looking* What's up?
Me: *breathing heavily* I heard you.
Kiddo: *stare*
Me: I heard you. In my bathroom.
Kiddo: Sorry.
Me: *shaky finger point* No you're not! You're just sorry you got caught!
Bunny: *staring mortified at the ceiling from her prone position on my son's bed*
Me: *manic crazy face* You know the rules!! You are to never...NEVER!!! do that in my house! You are to keep your bedroom door open AT ALL TIMES when Bunny is here and you WILL NOT do anything involving the words BOOB, BUTT, VAGINA, PENIS, BALLS, SEX, MOUTHS OR HOLES while you are under our roof!
Kiddo: *terrified stare* I know.
Me: *eyes bulging* You know??? YOU KNOW??? *more shaky finger pointing* If you know, then explain to me why I could hear YOUR BED BANGING AGAINST THE WALL while I was peeing!! Huh?? Can you explain please??? CAN YOU????
Kiddo: No.
Me: You forgot that I can hear everything, didn't you???
Kiddo: Yes.
Me: When I told you I can hear everything, I meant that I can hear EVERYTHING. I can hear when you are up here playing video games at 2am on a school night. I can hear when you are watching porn on your computer. Oh yes, I certainly can. I can even hear when you are texting people. I'm like a goddamn bat with my freaky supersonic hearing. So I can definitely hear when you are SCREWING YOUR GIRLFRIEND AT 8PM ON A SATURDAY!
Kiddo: Yes ma'am.
Me: *shaky breath* Okay. *slams door wide open against the wall* Open. Forever. *points at Bunny* You. Go home. Now.
Kiddo: Yes ma'am.
Bunny: *crying in a ball on the bed*
*me walking downstairs*
Captain Carl: What happened?
Me: Oh not much. Just heard your son having wild monkey sex with his girlfriend while I was peeing. You know, the usual.
Captain Carl: Really??
Me: Oh yeah.
Captain Carl: The little shit.
Me: Oh yeah.
Captain Carl: You okay? You look a little upset and ummmm, Parkinson's-ish??
Me: *looks at shaking hands* I need a drink.
The End.
P.S. Now y'all know why I haven't been blogging or commenting much. You know, on account of all the time I have to spend keeping my son from humping every moment of the day.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
A Child Is In Charge Of My Pay Check
So my new boss is 29 years old. He's seven years younger than me. And he's my boss.
When I was 13 and going through puberty, my boss was in kindergarten.
When I was 18 and going off to college, my boss had no pubes and was in middle school.
When I turned 21 and got smashed drinking slippery nipples and something something apple bomb something's, he turned 14 and was probably popping his pimples and trying to hide his spontaneous erections in math class.
And now I'm 36 and he's 29 and totally the boss of me.
*sigh*
How did I get here, people? I have a degree! I was going places once! I had ambition! Goals! Purpose! Perky tits!
Blah.
My only consolation? He's prematurely balding. It's not much, but I'll take what I can get.
Stupid baldy baby boss man.
When I was 13 and going through puberty, my boss was in kindergarten.
When I was 18 and going off to college, my boss had no pubes and was in middle school.
When I turned 21 and got smashed drinking slippery nipples and something something apple bomb something's, he turned 14 and was probably popping his pimples and trying to hide his spontaneous erections in math class.
And now I'm 36 and he's 29 and totally the boss of me.
*sigh*
How did I get here, people? I have a degree! I was going places once! I had ambition! Goals! Purpose! Perky tits!
Blah.
My only consolation? He's prematurely balding. It's not much, but I'll take what I can get.
Stupid baldy baby boss man.
Monday, March 15, 2010
What The Hell, Me?
Seriously, what am I doing at work today? I photographed a wedding last night (for my second, more creative job). I'm exhausted. This is my last week of work at my old job.
Clearly I'm an idiot. Because my old job doesn't give enough of a shit about me and my teeny tiny paycheck to give me more money to stay, and yet? I'm still here. Actually working after giving my two week notice. I mean, does anyone actually do that?
I should have taken this week as vacation. But no, Miss Responsible has decided to be here every day this week so that she can train the girl taking over for her. And then start her new job next Monday. Giving herself no time off in between. And? No earned vacation for several months at the new job, which means no time off for a long time to come.
I could just smack myself. I could totally karate chop my stupid self in my stupid face.
I told my boss this morning that I'm probably not going to show up on Thursday because I really need a day off and I don't want it to be Friday because that's when everyone here is throwing me a going-away happy hour. I'm not missing that shit. And when I told him, he just stared at me and I could practically hear his thoughts... "She has to train the new girl, she cannot take a day off."
Well fuck that shit, asshole. I have two weeks of vacation built up here and deserve at least one day. Even though it means one less day of training my replacement. Bitch can figure it out her damn self. You people treated me like crap and refused to give me pay raises for over four years now. I hope my replacement sucks. So there.
*sticks tongue out*
*raises fists to the sky*
*screams*
Wolverines!!!!!
*sigh*
Damn, I'm tired.
Clearly I'm an idiot. Because my old job doesn't give enough of a shit about me and my teeny tiny paycheck to give me more money to stay, and yet? I'm still here. Actually working after giving my two week notice. I mean, does anyone actually do that?
I should have taken this week as vacation. But no, Miss Responsible has decided to be here every day this week so that she can train the girl taking over for her. And then start her new job next Monday. Giving herself no time off in between. And? No earned vacation for several months at the new job, which means no time off for a long time to come.
I could just smack myself. I could totally karate chop my stupid self in my stupid face.
I told my boss this morning that I'm probably not going to show up on Thursday because I really need a day off and I don't want it to be Friday because that's when everyone here is throwing me a going-away happy hour. I'm not missing that shit. And when I told him, he just stared at me and I could practically hear his thoughts... "She has to train the new girl, she cannot take a day off."
Well fuck that shit, asshole. I have two weeks of vacation built up here and deserve at least one day. Even though it means one less day of training my replacement. Bitch can figure it out her damn self. You people treated me like crap and refused to give me pay raises for over four years now. I hope my replacement sucks. So there.
*sticks tongue out*
*raises fists to the sky*
*screams*
Wolverines!!!!!
*sigh*
Damn, I'm tired.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Dear Grandpa: You're Awesome. And Old. And Kind Of An Asshole.
Dear Grandpa,
Hi, remember me? Miss Yvonne? Your youngest grandchild, the one who came to visit you and Grandma in town after you moved off the farm because I was born so much later than all the other grandkids and never got to experience the joy of farm life like they did? Also, I wore leotards and legwarmers a lot and drank all your off-brand root beer but would never admit to it?
So Dad (your oldest son, remember him?) reminded me that your 100th birthday is on Saturday. I just wanted to write you a little letter to tell you how very excited and happy I am for you! I know you've been looking forward to this big day for awhile. I wish I could fly home to Minnesota to be there for your big birthday party. Even though the last time I visited you at the nursing home, you confused me with my Aunt Margie and you kept calling my dad by my uncle's name. But whatevs. It's all good, Grandpa. I mean, so you forget who people are sometimes! Big deal! You're 99 years old!
And so what if you yell at all the nurses in the home when they make you put on clean clothes every day? Seriously, a few grease stains and a little body odor doesn't hurt anyone. You're just doing your part for the environment by saving energy on laundry. Plus, those nurses deserve it for taking your Tums away from you. How do they know that antacids don't cure headaches and gout? They're just a gaggle of know-nothing women. It's not like they're doctors or anything, right Grandpa? Up top!
And I'm sorry, but that guy in the room across from you totally had it coming when you tried to trip him last month. Everyone knows his room was supposed to be YOUR room! Even though no one ever told you that. It was implied. Duh.
You know what's great about you, Grandpa? How you always manage to steer the conversation back to yourself no matter what the subject. Like that one time...oh man, it was so hilarious...when I was trying to tell you about how my son is doing in school and you grabbed my arm and yelled "I keep telling them to take me off those damn hormone pills and they won't listen to me! I don't need 'em, they give me hot flashes!". Yeah, that was great. Good times, Grandpa. Good times.
I'm always learning new things from you. Because I had no idea that doctors prescribe estrogen for prostate cancer when you are too old for surgery. I love hearing about your bodily functions too. Who knew one person could urinate so much in a day??? It's fascinating, really.
Hey, remember the time you told my mom that my sisters and I weren't really true family members because we are female and therefore can't carry on the family name? Gosh Grandpa, thank you so much for shedding light on this issue! I never really thought about it that way, but it makes total and complete sense. Thank goodness I got married and changed my name so that I don't embarrass you in front of God when you go to heaven. This way, when I get up there you can be all "Oh her? Psssh, she's just my granddaughter. But go ahead and let her in anyway. She got married, so it's all good. Even though she kept her maiden name as part of her middle name. If I can forgive her, I'm sure you can too God." Because I'm sure you'll be God's left-hand man (not right-hand because the Big J is already on that side) when you go to heaven on account of you being so devout and republican.
Next time I come for a visit could you maybe tell me more about how the Democrats are ruining this country? I promise to bring you another large print book about George W Bush in exchange. Or maybe this time you'd prefer one about Rush Limbaugh? I know you told me that you voted Democrat once when you were young and didn't know any better, but I promise not to tell Jesus about that at your funeral. It'll be our little secret.
Happy 100th Birthday, Grandpa! Be sure to hug Aunt Margie/me at your party.
Love always,Miss Yvonne
Hi, remember me? Miss Yvonne? Your youngest grandchild, the one who came to visit you and Grandma in town after you moved off the farm because I was born so much later than all the other grandkids and never got to experience the joy of farm life like they did? Also, I wore leotards and legwarmers a lot and drank all your off-brand root beer but would never admit to it?
So Dad (your oldest son, remember him?) reminded me that your 100th birthday is on Saturday. I just wanted to write you a little letter to tell you how very excited and happy I am for you! I know you've been looking forward to this big day for awhile. I wish I could fly home to Minnesota to be there for your big birthday party. Even though the last time I visited you at the nursing home, you confused me with my Aunt Margie and you kept calling my dad by my uncle's name. But whatevs. It's all good, Grandpa. I mean, so you forget who people are sometimes! Big deal! You're 99 years old!
And so what if you yell at all the nurses in the home when they make you put on clean clothes every day? Seriously, a few grease stains and a little body odor doesn't hurt anyone. You're just doing your part for the environment by saving energy on laundry. Plus, those nurses deserve it for taking your Tums away from you. How do they know that antacids don't cure headaches and gout? They're just a gaggle of know-nothing women. It's not like they're doctors or anything, right Grandpa? Up top!
And I'm sorry, but that guy in the room across from you totally had it coming when you tried to trip him last month. Everyone knows his room was supposed to be YOUR room! Even though no one ever told you that. It was implied. Duh.
You know what's great about you, Grandpa? How you always manage to steer the conversation back to yourself no matter what the subject. Like that one time...oh man, it was so hilarious...when I was trying to tell you about how my son is doing in school and you grabbed my arm and yelled "I keep telling them to take me off those damn hormone pills and they won't listen to me! I don't need 'em, they give me hot flashes!". Yeah, that was great. Good times, Grandpa. Good times.
I'm always learning new things from you. Because I had no idea that doctors prescribe estrogen for prostate cancer when you are too old for surgery. I love hearing about your bodily functions too. Who knew one person could urinate so much in a day??? It's fascinating, really.
Hey, remember the time you told my mom that my sisters and I weren't really true family members because we are female and therefore can't carry on the family name? Gosh Grandpa, thank you so much for shedding light on this issue! I never really thought about it that way, but it makes total and complete sense. Thank goodness I got married and changed my name so that I don't embarrass you in front of God when you go to heaven. This way, when I get up there you can be all "Oh her? Psssh, she's just my granddaughter. But go ahead and let her in anyway. She got married, so it's all good. Even though she kept her maiden name as part of her middle name. If I can forgive her, I'm sure you can too God." Because I'm sure you'll be God's left-hand man (not right-hand because the Big J is already on that side) when you go to heaven on account of you being so devout and republican.
Next time I come for a visit could you maybe tell me more about how the Democrats are ruining this country? I promise to bring you another large print book about George W Bush in exchange. Or maybe this time you'd prefer one about Rush Limbaugh? I know you told me that you voted Democrat once when you were young and didn't know any better, but I promise not to tell Jesus about that at your funeral. It'll be our little secret.
Happy 100th Birthday, Grandpa! Be sure to hug Aunt Margie/me at your party.
Love always,Miss Yvonne
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
It's Not Gay If No One's On Top
This post has nothing to do with the title. Someone said that me yesterday and I thought it was too awesome not to use as a blog post title so there you go. And by "someone" I mean "crazy person stalking me named Tristachio". I once had a blog style duel to the death with her over who was more awesome. I won. She lost. She's never gotten over it. Now she IM's me every time I'm online and keeps saying things about my giant man hands and how she's my hypothetical love child and how our birthdays are one day apart and something something dutch rudder. Seriously, all those things have come up in our conversations. She's not right in the head, people.
So Captain Carl went to a whiskey tasting at an Irish pub with his brother, Mailman Mike, last night. He was all "I'll be home early, we're going with his girlfriend's dad blah blah blah". Four hours later he calls me and is all "Sorry, we had to stay for awhile and sober up and omg we got 8 shots of whiskey and omg it was amazing and omg blah blah blah" and I was all "Yeah, I did your kid's laundry all night and cleaned the kitchen, so that was probably just as awesome" and he was all "What? Wait, am I in trouble?" and I was all "No, I'm just sharing the awesomeness that was my evening with your drunk ass" and he was all "You told me to go!" and I was all "I'm not mad at you" and he was all "That means you are mad at me" and I was all "I'd like to stay on the phone and argue with you some more, but your kid's socks are ready to go in the dryer" and he was all "I love you?" and I was all "click". Then he came home and I was all "fold fold fold" and he was all "I'm totally not drunk oops I just tripped over nothing hee hee heeee!". Seriously though, I wasn't mad at him. Much.
I really need new underwear. Almost everything I have left to wear to work is getting worn out and also they're all granny panties. The last time I mentioned that I wear granny panties on this blog, I think it was The Peach Tart who left a comment like "Oh honey, noooo. Not granny panties". Yeah. Yet I can't bring myself to buy some new, sexy underwear because it seems like too much of a luxury. This is seriously the life I am leading right now. Where panties are a luxury.
Oh, and we're getting a new renter. She's 40 and bald. True story.
So Captain Carl went to a whiskey tasting at an Irish pub with his brother, Mailman Mike, last night. He was all "I'll be home early, we're going with his girlfriend's dad blah blah blah". Four hours later he calls me and is all "Sorry, we had to stay for awhile and sober up and omg we got 8 shots of whiskey and omg it was amazing and omg blah blah blah" and I was all "Yeah, I did your kid's laundry all night and cleaned the kitchen, so that was probably just as awesome" and he was all "What? Wait, am I in trouble?" and I was all "No, I'm just sharing the awesomeness that was my evening with your drunk ass" and he was all "You told me to go!" and I was all "I'm not mad at you" and he was all "That means you are mad at me" and I was all "I'd like to stay on the phone and argue with you some more, but your kid's socks are ready to go in the dryer" and he was all "I love you?" and I was all "click". Then he came home and I was all "fold fold fold" and he was all "I'm totally not drunk oops I just tripped over nothing hee hee heeee!". Seriously though, I wasn't mad at him. Much.
I really need new underwear. Almost everything I have left to wear to work is getting worn out and also they're all granny panties. The last time I mentioned that I wear granny panties on this blog, I think it was The Peach Tart who left a comment like "Oh honey, noooo. Not granny panties". Yeah. Yet I can't bring myself to buy some new, sexy underwear because it seems like too much of a luxury. This is seriously the life I am leading right now. Where panties are a luxury.
Oh, and we're getting a new renter. She's 40 and bald. True story.
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