Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Puddin' On The Ritz

Stir the eggnog, lift the toddy, Happy New Year, everybody.
- Phyllis McGinley

As I prepare to celebrate the New Year hobnobbing at a swinging soiree, I am led to wonder-- Who is the genius that decided that it is a good idea to shimmy into a slinky dress after 30 consecutive days of conspicuous consumption?

All I can say is thank God for Spandex.

Not exactly Guy Lombardo, but you get the picture.

Be Safe.


Wednesday, December 24, 2008

O Tannenbaum

From my digs to yours...Happy Holidays

May the toilet paper on your tree always be two-ply.
May your poodle expel the tinsel she consumed without medical intervention.
And may the boobs in your entryway always be double D's.

( . ) ( . ) Out-T.

Bite Me Martha Stewart

Don't look now, but T. is in the kitchen at the New Digs getting her Martha Stewart on in preparation for the Christmas festivities that are about to commence.
In true trailer park fashion I give you "Corn Flake Wreath Cookies"
One stick of a substance remotely resembling butter, three cups of stale marshmallows left over from Thanksgiving, four cups of generic breakfast cereal, some Halloween candy, and copious amounts of artificial green dye are all you need to impress your family and friends.
Christmas Goose, Yule log, figgy pudding? Bite me Martha Stewart.
Break out the Vienna Weenies and let the party begin.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Dirty Old Saint Nicholas

Dirty old Saint Nicholas lean your ear this way, don't you tell a single soul what I'm going to say...

Dear Santa,

I did not send my Christmas list to you sooner because I have not been very good this year. I was really afraid I would be getting cinders in my stocking. After seeing this picture of you I decided I may have a chance after all.

I hope you can overlook the recent incident with the homeless guy and the frozen turkey. How was I to know the boy (I swear he looked about 12) in the blue Ford was a police officer. I did apologize for asking him if his mother knew he was carrying a gun after he showed me his badge. Just so you know, I gave the turkey back.

Instead of cookies and milk, if you look between the cushions of the couch at the New Digs, you will find loose change and I have generously left a full can of Colt 45 and a box of Swisher Sweets for your enjoyment.

I will leave the gift selection up to you, anything extra you may have on the sleigh will do just fine. Usually, I am much more particular, but really? There is no damn way I am sitting on your lap.

Your Friend,


Monday, December 8, 2008


One of the best things about little girls is the sparkly, glittery, leopard ear muffy, powdered sugar donutty snail trails they leave behind.


Saturday, December 6, 2008

Come On Baby Light My Fire

One of the reasons I hesitated to purchase the new digs was that it is all electric, no gas. How would I ever be able to create the gourmet cuisine I am so famous for without my 60 inch ultra premium 6 open burner, 24 inch griddle, double oven gas Viking range? What about my remote control gas fireplace? Good lord I was in the market for a home, not a campsite!

Actually, I am quite capable of incinerating perfectly good frozen pizzas no matter the fuel source and I live in Texas, the reality is no one in Texas NEEDS a fireplace, gas or otherwise. I only raised this issue to terrorize my realtor (Because I have a burning hatred of all real estate professionals—ironic, I know, considering my occupation.) Also, because I am a cheapskate and there was no way I was making a reasonable offer on this house or any other. I felt vindicated when my insulting bid was accepted.

When you have a fireplace, if you never use it, then it is just a gaping black hole in the wall taking up valuable floor space and demanding attention every holiday season. Stockings, garland, potted poinsettias-- Gah- the damn thing will not shut up!

I know that right now you are thinking, “What is up with her and those awful cell phone pictures? Enough Already! Send in the Green Stamps for a new Kodak Instamatic and put us out of our misery!” I feel your pain and I am sorry. I think I have already established that I am a cheapskate. Additionally, this portion of the post is a thinly veiled hint to Santa in hopes that he reads this blog. Moving along…

What I had was the age-old problem of how to make fire. (You thought I was going to say the age old problem of hearing voices from inanimate objects didn’t you? Shut up! I have medication for that). I think it is understood that I am not the outdoorsy type. I will admit that I do have an unnatural and some what disturbing attraction to chainsaws, however, I do not think that Mr. Rubble (My annoying neighbor) would appreciate my landscaping services under cover of darkness in order to fuel my fire.

The only way I would actually pay for wood is if it were in the form of furniture, not logs. Never logs. Besides, who would carry all of this heavy wood home, build the fire, and then clean up the sooty mess afterwards? Please do not suggest that DDHB (Doo-doo head boyfriend) is the man for the job. The terms of his parole do not allow him to be in possession of incendiary devices (There goes any chance I had of getting a camera this year).

Actually, boys and fire scare me a little. That only leaves two choices. A faux electric fire with fancy cardboard and cellophane flames (Even I have more class than that) or the dreaded Dura-Flame log. I bet those things cause cancer in rats, or something. I am not taking any chances.

Necessity or possibly laziness as they say is the mother of invention. The solution? Good old isopropyl alcohol. Mr. Nuzum my seventh grade science teacher deserves all the credit for introducing me to the Bunsen burner all those many years ago.

One casserole dish from the Ross Dress for Less, a bag of rocks, a empty Sterno can from the last wild fondue party at the new digs (do not even ask) and a bottle of first aid antiseptic later…

Fire! Striking the first match was a little tense, I was not sure if I was going to blow the joint up. Happily, it all turned out fine. Now that the decorating is done I can turn my attention to
enhancing the lives of others with my thoughtful and decorative gift giving ideas.
Oh Yeah baby! I bet you wish you were on my Christmas list.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Mam-Merry Christmas

Do boobs make appropriate holiday decorations?
Yes, I think they do.
Nothing says Merry Christmas like plastic Ta-Tas!

Now if I could just remember these biatches are in the entryway at the new digs, I could avoid the heart attack I have every time I walk in the front door.


Monday, December 1, 2008

The Ghost and BFSK S.

Do you ever wonder what makes people do stupid crap? Not the everyday run of the mill stupid, I mean “What were they thinking?!” stupid. Like tying 200 helium balloons to your lawn chair and trying to fly, or buying a lifetime membership to a women's fitness center.

People do stupid crap because they have friends like me. That is why.

Sunday morning BFSK S. (Best friend since Kindergarten) called while I was doing laundry. Did she call to inquire as to how I would like my name to appear on the check for half of the loot from the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes she had just won, and thank me for signing her up again this year without her knowledge? Sadly, no. That was not the reason for her call.

Was she interested in hearing a play-by-play account of the Thanksgiving festivities at the new digs? Not really, the subject never came up.

BFSK S. called to tell me that The Sarge (Her boyfriend, turned husband, turned ex-husband, turned boyfriend—another post for another day) has a ghost in his new house. A ghost that smells bad, like wet gym socks or peat moss. A stinky old man ghost.

Did you tell it to leave? I asked after listening to her story.
S. Well of course!
T. No good?
S. Nope.
T. So, the previous owners left without their nasty old dead Grandpa, and now you are supposed to deal with him? That is just not right. I would not let them get away with that...
S. I should call them and tell them to come get him.
T. Seriously, you should.
S . I will call you back.

And that, my friends, is how stupid crap happens.


Thursday, November 27, 2008

Spoon Nose

In honor of Thanksgiving, I feel like I should post a recipe, offer some helpful advice, maybe pass along a few of my savvy hostess tips. Lucky for you I am working on impulse control.

I have been asked not to cook today; apparently, certain members of my family are apprehensive about having Typhoid Mary at the helm of the turkey day ship (wussies). Instead, I will be reclining in my Barcalounger at the new digs with the top button of my jeans unfastened, intermittently snoring and scratching in front of the TV.

I hope your day is swell. If you are still stuck at the kids table—better luck next year!


P.S.—In case family tradition requires you to balance a spoon on the end of your nose while humming your favorite Elvis tune in order to have first dibs on the wishbone. Fog it up first. Trust me.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

I Think I Ate a Goat

I think I ate a goat, or maybe it was a squirrel. I am not sure.
Now I have rabies, or maybe it is the flu. I am not sure.

In either case, I am convinced that I may be dead by Thursday, so…

Happy Thanksgiving.

The End


Saturday, November 22, 2008

Have It Your Way

Dear Burger King,

It has come to my attention that you have added a new item to your menu, namely the “Shroom and Swiss Burger.” This revelation leads me to wonder if you have recently recruited Cheech and Chong to head up your marketing department. Without revealing too much about the exact number of years I have been alive on this planet (I am in the market for a rich husband after all), or the long list of prosecutable offenses that I may or may not have committed in my not THAT distant past, allow me to point out that there is a distinct difference between mushrooms and “shrooms

Mushrooms are innocuous little fungi grown in the dark that often play a minor role in fairy tales. Mushrooms are available on the produce aisle of your local grocery store; they are tasty and harmless and enhance the flavor of pizza, salads and presumably hamburgers. Mushrooms should not be confused with toadstools, because if you eat them, toadstools can kill you. Definitely not a good addition to a hamburger.

Shrooms, on the other hand, are harbingers of mind-altering chemicals grown on cow poop. Regardless of the method of consumption, they are repugnant. Shrooms make you barf, without exception. If you eat shrooms, you will barf. Some people believe that this is a small price to pay for the myriad of pleasant and colorful side effects. I happen to have been one of those people.

I am sure you can imagine how rad I thought it was when I saw your commercial featuring those bogus Simon and Garfunkle dudes extolling the virtues of the new Shroom and Swiss burger. I rushed out to procure one in hopes of recapturing the psychedelic psilocybin infused haze of my mis-spent youth.

I am bummed to report that while the burger in question did taste terrible, nothing happened. No colors, no haze, no six hours spent behind the bi-fold doors of my bedroom closet entranced by the vision of dancing Hormel sausages replete with top hats and tiny little tap shoes. No barf.
Bogus! This is false advertising. I want my money back.
What is next? Chicken Thai sticks? Chocolate mescaline shakes?
Forget it, I am on to you. Catch my drift?
(Far) Out-T.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

For Those About to Rock

Big Judes (My mom) is a rocker. Not the AC/DC--Angus Young sort of rocker, although, if you consider Neil Diamond (The king of polyester) a rocker, then Judes might qualify. Except I think that would make her more of a groupie than a rocker. Now that you mention it (Now that I mention it), the thought of Big Judes throwing her panties on stage at a Neil Diamond concert during a rousing rendition of Sweet Caroline creeps me out.

Judes is not a rocker, or a groupie.

Let me try this again. Big Judes rocks. In a chair. A rocking chair. There has always been a rocking chair in her living room, one in the bedroom and, of course, one on the porch. You never know where you will be when you need to rock. If Judes had wheels on her rocker, she could have circled the globe.

When I was a child I was rocked to sleep, then rocked awake. Skinned knees, sore throats, bruised feelings, new library books were all good reasons to rock. I rocked with Judes long past the point of comfort and practicality. We rocked even after sharp angles, pointy elbows, and bony butts had to be arranged just so to fit in the chair. When my rat faced baby brother came along (almost eight years later) I did not relinquish my seat, we scooched closer and made room. We kept rocking.

I do not remember when we stopped rocking. I wonder if Judes does. At some point I guess I got too cool, or too busy, too independent, maybe just too grown up. Judes kept rocking. Sometime later more babies came, children of the grand kind, she rocked them too.

I am not home often, but I expect she is still rocking, covered up in kids trying to make room for all of the pointy parts. There are days like today, times like now, that I wonder if we both could still fit in Big Judes’ rocking chair.

For those about to rock,
I salute you.


Tuesday, November 18, 2008


I had a post today.
Then it disappeared-- Poof!

I did not love it,
But I liked it just fine.
This sucks.

I am going off now
To pout.
Alternatively, whine
Or stomp.

If I find it, I will be back.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Up The Country

Sometimes, what a girl needs is wind in her hair, and bugs in her teeth.

Have a great weekend.

Out- T.

Thursday, November 13, 2008


I have started to stutter. Seriously. ME! Stutter. Good God, I am the girl (Shut up, I am a girl! Sort of.) who plys her trade with words. I spend my days encouraging, persuading, convincing, cajoling. When provoked I can slice and dice you with verbal Ginsu knives, flip pieces of your dissected carcass into the air and catch them in my hat. TAA-DAA! Do not fuck with me!

I am Teflon. I am unshakable, I may not walk the walk but I can talk the talk. I could then, anyway, but that was then. This is now. Now I stutter. The words? My weapons? Stuck. Aaaa..ummm…welll…

Then there is the twitch. Did I mention the twitch? No? Well, it is new. My left eye it twitches. Are you getting the picture? Stuttering, twitching, 120 lbs. of vibrating rage…Charming, do you not agree?

The hair-- it frizzes, the jowls-- they sag, the bags? Oh, the bags of it all. Five pounds of worry and stress strategically positioned under each twitching eye. They are the size of steamer trunks these bags, stuffed to overflowing in preparation for a transcontinental cruise to the fourth circle of hell. I am ugly. Horrid. Inside and out.

I could not even get a blind date right now. If I was looking for a date, that is. Which I am not. But if I were, and if I knew any blind guys, (which I do not), they would sooner set their seeing eye dogs loose to eviscerate me than spend any time in my company, and I would not blame them. And I do not blame you for getting the hell out of here as fast as your back button can take you. Because, really? This is fixing to be what my old granny would call a wall-eyed hissy fit. I have tried to avoid it for over a week. No luck.

So, here goes…

When last I was here at this dusty blog of mine it was Election Day. We were all set to make history. That is precisely what we did. We made history. Then, because we are the self-centered hypocritical bastards that we are, we celebrated. We slapped each other on the back, high fived and sang fucking kumbaya while we pointed out to each other what open minded, color blind, righteous people we are for electing a black man to be president of the United States Of America. Hooray for us! We did it for the children! We did it for change!

Might I suggest that if we were SO open minded and color blind we would not have had to point out the fact that the person we elected was black…Every thirty seconds…For almost two years?… How proud of ourselves should we really be? Shouldn’t it be enough to say that we elected the best person for the job, and acknowledge that is about damn time we did. Perhaps if we had noticed that the pool of white middle-aged competent male politicians was somewhat shallow eight years ago, we would be in better shape now.

When the intoxication wears off is anyone going to notice that we have made it virtually impossible for the man that we so love and admire to succeed? While we were all punch drunk, the current administration lit the fuse on a 700 billion dollar time bomb and tossed it through the window of the oval office. The current occupant checked out months ago, so the WMD sits ticking, ready to explode on or about the 20Th of January. As if that were not enough, there are the wars, not one, but two. Let us not even speak of inflation, unemployment or health care. Bring on the change! Hell yes! Nothing short of Camelot will satisfy us. We want change and we want it now, delivered post haste, as promised, along with free stuff. We like free stuff. Mortgages, insurance, cheap gas? Yes, please. We deserve it. If he fails to deliver--God help him.

What about the children? Look what we did for the kids! We are fucking brilliant. We should be proud of ourselves. We elected this president because we love our children. Well, we love most of them anyway, except the gay ones. We do not love the gay ones so much. We definitely do not want the gay ones to love each other. Let them get married, adopt children, provide safe harbor for foster kids? Good lord no! We are not THAT open minded. This is shameful, for what it is worth, I am sorry.

This post makes me sorry too. Please forgive all the ugly. I am working on it, I swear…Tomorrow ugly will be the new pretty. I will be back with a joke, or a rope trick, or at the very least I will keep my mouth shut if I do not have anything nice to say. (Big Judes will be proud).

Have you heard the one about the Rabbi and the blogger that walk into a bar?

Out T.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

They Say That Time Changes Things

They say that time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself. -Andy warhol

Friday, October 31, 2008

Jeepers Creepers!

Jeepers creepers
Where'd you get those peepers?

Jeepers creepers
Where'd you get those eyes?

Have a Happy Halloween!

Even if your mother makes you wear a plastic witch mask for the third year in a row.
Even if you have to carry a brown paper Harry’s IGA bag to collect candy.
Even if you fall and skin your knees because you cannot see out of the damn witch mask.
Even when Bobby Joe Hammett steals your candy that spills on the sidewalk because the stupid Harry’s IGA bag breaks when you fall because you cannot see out of your stupid witch mask that you have had to wear for the last three years.

Have a Happy Freakin Halloween!


Thursday, October 30, 2008

Happy Candy Corn Day

Today is National Candy Corn Day

Candy Corn has its own day. That is just wrong. Giving Candy Corn its own day is like having a national day for pimento cheese, or Braunschweiger.

Hot Tamales…now there is a candy that deserves a day.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Yes! We have no Bananas!

"Yes, we have no bananas We have-a no bananas today. Just try those coconuts Those wall-nuts and doughnuts There ain't many nuts like they. We'll sell you two kinds of red herring, Dark brown, and ball-bearing. But yes, we have no bananas We have no bananas today."

My apologies Dear Readers, it seems that lately I have no bananas. I do not have one little bit of funny, quirky, or clever to share with you. My brain is full of numbers and PPS's and due diligence, which admittedly makes for some boring ass blog posts.

I am currently worrying over a block of bond insurance shares that have been giving me ulcers for over a week now. Finally, today they have turned green. I am planning a not so graceful exit before I pull out every hair in my head. I will be back soon when I have something mildly interesting to talk about. Until then you can find me stomping around the WWW in search of bargains and opportunity.

Because I am the bloggy sort of chick that I am, I have been hanging out in chat rooms where boys who buy stock insult each other while they spit, swear, and talk about their balls. What balls have to do with purchasing stock I do not know, but from what I can gather you are not welcome in chat rooms without them, so of course I got myself a pair of imaginary marbles, adopted the moniker "Leroy brown" (The baddest man in the whole damn town), and proceeded to scratch myself, boast about my sexual prowess and talk badly about people’s mothers. I would have made an excellent caveman if I do say so myself.

I am currently wooing an insipid twit named "donna7734" who is understandably impressed with my vast knowledge, not to mention my golden balls. I am almost positive donna7734 is a man.

I will be back soon with bananas and hopefully some lettuce.
Not to worry, I will leave donna7734 and my imaginary marbles where I found them.



Friday, October 24, 2008

Keep Calm And Carry On

The stock market is down 550 points ahead of the opening bell this morning. Pre-Market trading is halted. World markets are plunging. A huge drop in futures trading raises the likelihood that circuit breakers to prevent panic selling could be activated during the regular session today. -- This has not happened since 1997.

In short, there is the perception that the recovery effort is failing. Fears of a deep worldwide recession are running rampant.

It is the anniversary of the 1929 crash. There will be carnage on the street this morning. Dollars will fall from Wall Street like ticker tape. Is now the time to jump off a building?

Hell no. Buy my friends. This is an opportunity the likes of which seldom (thank goodness) happens.

If you are fully invested, go play golf.

If not? Now is the time. Today is the day. You will be happy you did.

Keep calm and carry on.


Monday, October 20, 2008

Look Ma, No Hands!

*WARNING* The post you are about to read will confirm my lack of good manners as well as my general lack of respect, concern, and compassion for others. If you are easily offended (Yes, Mother I am talking to you), skip this one and come back tomorrow. Maybe I will write something. Then you will really be sorry.

If you can get arrested for this...just imagine how much trouble this guy is going to be in.

You deserve better than this. Really, you do. Especially after the Jesus pumpkin. This is bad. It is tasteless. And honestly? It cracks me the hell up.


Friday, October 17, 2008

Pumpkin Evangelism

It is time to start thinking about Halloween at the new digs. Today while searching for a creative decor theme, I came across this, a Jesus Jack-O-Lantern! What says ancient pagan festival of the dead better than the image of Christ on a squash? I am thinking of passing out fishes and loaves to all of the Trick or Treaters.

OK, Fine, maybe I should keep thinking. Jesus looks a little angry.


Tuesday, October 14, 2008

What We Have Here Is a Failure to Communicate

It occurs to me that if someone whom you address with a title other than their birth name, except on your blog, where you embellish their given name with an adjective that is not accurate, but still conveys the largeness of their role in your life; If this certain someone is perhaps the same person that married your father, and gave birth to your rat -faced brother, a person who, in this case, shall remain nameless, because this is, after all, a public forum, and matters such as these should indeed be discussed privately, (which I know because the woman who raised me has impeccable manners. She also has a low tolerance for public embarrassment, which I cannot say I blame her for, because I am sure this was a side effect, a post-traumatic stress symptom, so to speak, of having been the unfortunate soul who was charged with the responsibility of being one of my parents. I will not say which one.) If that person has body parts surgically removed, even if said body parts are somewhat extemporaneous, insignificant parts that in the end it was probably best to be rid of; if this persons fails to mention that she is several ounces lighter due to the fact that she has one less not-so-vital organ than she did last week, and the only reason you are aware of the fact that this person, who shall remain anonymous, was the recipient of an “ectomy” is because this particular individual has siblings who have no compunction about ratting out each other when the situation demands, which in this case it did... what we have here is a failure to communicate.

I would like to know if you would be upset or would you just be relieved that the afore mentioned person was not trying to sell a kidney on e-bay?

Monday, October 13, 2008

I Feel Pretty

I feel pretty,
Oh, so pretty,
I feel pretty and witty and bright!
And I pity Any girl who isn't me tonight.

What could be causing all of these feelings of prettiness? I am not sure. I have never been a girl prone to pretty. As a child, when presented with a butterfly it would have been more likely that I would have pulled its wings off (in the name of science, of course) than admired its beauty. At the tender age of five, Yours Truly, the maladjusted borderline sociopath hell child was chosen as the muse in a Winnie the Pooh fashion show. A grand event in two parts: the first, a runway spectacular at White Lakes Mall where it was always a comfortable 72 degrees, then the Pièce de résistance, an appearance on the early news show on WIBW TV in Topeka Kansas. Big Judes (my mom) was understandably skeptical when I agreed to participate.

“You know you will have to wear the outfit they give you, even if it is a dress, or pink, you will have to wear it.” Judes warned. “You cannot change your mind at the last minute”. Translated, this means, "If you show your ass on local television and make it necessary for me to resign my position as kindergarten room mother because of your inappropriate behavior I will never forgive you". She had good reason to be cautious.

As predicted when the day of the fashion show came, I changed my mind. There was no way I was walking out in front of all of those people in a tartan plaid jumper and coordinating beret adorned with a giant green pom-pom. No amount of “Don’t you look pretty!” could convince me otherwise. I am not pretty! I hate pretty! I refuse to be pretty!
Judes was beside herself.

Judes: “Tobi, please just put it on.”
T: “No way.”
Judes: “It is pretty really, it is”
T: “No”
Judes: “Just do it for me… dammit, just… do… it…for. me...or. Else!”
T: “NO, NO, NO!”
Judes: “The shoes, have you seen the shoes? Look!”
T: “Can I keep them?”
Judes: “Yes, if you do this you can keep them.”
T: “Promise?”
Judes: “YES!”

The shoes clinched the deal. They were shiny brown loafers, the color of fresh brownies. Each one had a new penny in a slot on the front. They were pretty! I shuffled down the catwalk never taking my eyes off the shoes, enjoying each click-clack they made on the runway. Later at the television studio, I took my place at the right of Winnie. I inserted my left finger firmly in my left nostril. In spite of the frantic arm waving and mouthed admonitions from adults off camera including Big Judes, I kept it there for the duration of the broadcast. This was my silent protest, against pretty and Pooh. I am still slightly uncomfortable with pretty.

When Susannah informed me that she had nominated me for a blog award, well you had better believe I went right away to pick it up. And here it is--

“This blog invests and believes, in ‘proximity’ meaning, that blogging makes us 'close'. They are all charming blogs, and the majority of them aim to show the marvels of friendship; there are persons who are not interested when we give them a prize, and then they help to cut these bows; do we want that they are cut, or that they propagate? Then let’s try to give more attention to them! So with this prize we must deliver it to eight bloggers that in turn must make the same thing and put this text.”

Isn't it pretty? Anyone who thinks that I am not interested in a prize clearly does not know me. I would wrestle you for a prize, so I gratefully accept this pretty award, thankful that I did not have to wrestle anyone for it, and no, my finger is not in my nose.

I would like to pass it on to the following pretty bloggers.
In random order:

mackin ink

with love from pittsburgh

whale ears and other wonderings

house of beauty and culture

blue streak

lil bee

There you go, a prize as good as shiny pennies, with butterflies, in Portuguese, for believing in proximity... may you wear it well.

I feel charming, Oh, so charming It's alarming how charming I feel! And so pretty That I hardly can believe I'm real. See the pretty girl in that mirror there: Who can that attractive girl be? Such a pretty face, Such a pretty dress, Such a pretty smile...Out-T.

Saturday, October 11, 2008

This Little Piggy

this little piggy went to the stock market
this little piggy stayed calm
this little piggy ate bear balls
this little piggy had fun
this little piggy went hehehe
all the way home

After much hand -wringing and consternation I made the decision to take the plunge back into the market yesterday. I must tell you the bargains to be had were better than an end of season sale at Filene's Basement! I am not sure that we are at the bottom, nor am I suggesting that it would be a good idea to reallocate long term investments into individual stocks. Nay, this is not the time for imprudence as the Masters of the Financial Universe have clearly demonstrated.

What I am saying is that I have decided not to care. I simply cannot pass up a good deal.
My new motto?
Screw good hair-- I'm buying shares.

For the next several weeks there will be no spa treatments, new shoes, cute fall sweaters, or most distressingly, extreme home makeovers at the new digs, that money is being used to hatch a nest egg.

What do you think? Am I nuts?
Vos opinions s'il vous plaît


Thursday, October 9, 2008

Dead Chickens Do Not Cross the Road

One of the few benefits of surviving on this planet as long as I have is that eventually you learn your limitations. I have accepted the fact that I will never be Miss America. I know that I should never do my own taxes. I will never sing like Patsy Cline. I do not cook.

Despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, when the seasons change it stirs some latent delusion that I have domestic abilities within me. Usually I am able to control these autumnal impulses. Hard lessons of the hazards of homemade bread and puff pastry were learned years ago. I am a firm believer that the purchase of brewer's yeast should require a license. The combination of yeast and gluten in the wrong hands is positively frightening.

Sunday the weather at the new digs could only be described as fall like. Before you could say Julia Childs, I was at the meat counter of my neighborhood Albertson's contemplating the best combination of chicken parts for soup. For the inexperienced, the choices can be daunting. Roasters, boilers, skinless, boneless, free range, hens, breasts--overwhelming. Naturally, I chose the cheapest chicken. (A gelatinous yellow bird covered in plastic that leaked toxic waste all over my new Domino magazine). This alone should have deterred me. Unfortunately, it did not.

Eighty-two dollars later, I was on my way back to the new digs to start my gastronomic cavalcade of the poultry kind. That is when the trouble started. If one does not cook, then one does not possess cooking implements. The largest pot I own is perfect for Ramen noodles, not dead chickens. The solution seemed obvious: hack the bird into manageable pieces. Brilliant, except for the fact that I do not own a sharp knife. Lucky for me I do have a drywall saw. I set about dismembering the foul fowl.

Vivian (the obstinate toy poodle) sat at my feet and smirked. When I reminded her that because of her petite stature she would fit nicely in the Ramen pot, she stopped taunting me and went back to licking her butt. In hindsight, I should have followed her example. Butt licking would have been preferable to the carnage that followed.

Wings are easily amputated. Legs pose more of a problem. After extreme effort, all four extremities were severed. The final challenge was dissecting the body cavity. After much determined hacking, I broke through the rib cage and pried the dearly departed open with gloved hands. "OHGROSSOHCRAPIMAYBARF, Sweet mother of God I have murdered a pregnant hen!” ...Wait... those are not baby chickens they are conveniently packaged guts. That was it! A pop tart sounded like a better idea.

All of the gore was deposited in the trash, where it stayed for two days. Until the stench that filled the garage was so vile that it had to be removed. All evening I kept an eye on the trash cart at the curb. All evening it stayed upright. I said a prayer before I went to bed.

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray the lord my reeking secret to keep

If in the dumpster cats should dive

I hope they all get sick and die


My first look out the window in the morning revealed the entire contents of the trashcan scattered across the lawn of the new digs. OHGOODGODNOOOOO…. Having the discarded shards of your private life strewn hither, and yon like some crazy art installation on public view is traumatizing to say the least. Oh, the tampon applicators of it all!

Some women look presentable at 7am. I am not one of those women. As the sun was rising, I was running like a chicken with my head cut off (sorry, I could not help it) stuffing all forms of grossness in to a new trash bag. Thankfully, I only had to chase the trash truck three doors down the street, barefoot, in boxer shorts, and a wife beater Screaming "Alto! Alto, por favor!" at the top of my lungs.

The bag was deposited in the truck. I limped back to the new digs. That is when I got the pullet surprise. The dismembered body of the stinky chicken was scattered on the sidewalk of the house across the street. Did I pick it up? No, no I did not. There is no way in hell I was admitting that rotting carcass belonged to me. I do not think they will suspect a thing. After all, there is no way a dead chicken could have crossed the road.

Out T.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Strange Brew

Here is the dish. Some of my week in review.

Sugar Daddy (the boyfriend formerly known as Doo-Doo head) to Tobi:
SD: Why are you always... such a …such a …?
T: Bitch?
SD: Well, I was going to say democrat, but yeah, that too.
T: I am NOT a fucking democrat!

Tobi screaming at the television to Lauren on The Hills Monday Night:
ENOUGH OF THE DAMN MOUSTACHE! Waxgoddammit or stop drinking the grape Kool-Aid!

Mr. Fussy Pants (the a.d.d-- o.c.d. boss) to Tobi:
F: Just answer the damn question! Why do you keep calling me Joe? What the hell is in your eye?
T: It worked for Sarah Palin

Tobi to customer on phone:
T: Did you receive any kind of vocational training while you were in prison?
Customer: I wasn’t there long enough.
Tobi: Would they let you go back?
Customer: I won’t know until the twenty- fifth of next month.

Vice President of PTA to Tobi:
VP:Before you can attend a board meeting, I will need you to sign a confidentiality agreement. We do not want anyone to air our dirty laundry.
Tobi: Reeeeallly??
VP: Will you?
Tobi: Yes, yes I will.
VP: Do you need a pen?
Tobi: For what?
VP: To sign the confidentiality agreement.
Tobi: I’m not going to sign the agreement. I am just going to air your dirty laundry. Do you spell Muffy with a y or ie?

Office supply Salesman at Fussy & Bitchy Mortgage Inc. after seeing Shirley (the office cat) at the front door.
Salesman: Is this your attack cat?
T: Yes, don’t touch her she bites!
Salesman: Well, she looks ferocious. I was almost afraid to come in.
T: Well, then she almost did her job.

The great part is that it is only Wednesday.
I wonder how many people I can piss off by Friday.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Nip Tuck

I think I have officially crossed the line between quirky and crazy. Friday and Saturday while I was enduring the excruciating fifteen hours required to renew my mortgage license I gave this blog a little nip tuck, a face-lift, so to speak. I cannot take credit for the template; someone much smarter than I am did that. All I did was find it and install it, which is good because I am a total idiot when it comes to all things computer, so just the fact that I still have a blog makes me happy. I think it looks better. I like it. I am glad I did it.

So why has it been four days since the last post? The last post was on the old blog. Now, I feel like I am wearing a new pair of linen pants. They look great until the first time you sit down, and then, well, and then they look as if you slept in them. I am afraid to mess up all the new pretty with crappy.

Usually, I have no reservations about crap. This blog is nothing short of craptastic (as I am sure, you are aware if you have ever been here before). Most days, the letters fly off my two typing fingers and hit the screen like alphabet soup. All crap, all the time.

This sounds crazy-- I know, a bit like a soap opera. Therefore, as Jill Foster-Reynolds-Chancelor-Thurston-Brooks-Sterling-Abbott-Abbot would say, "I am going upstairs to sort out my feelings and turn my life around." (Classic over used dialogue from The Young and the Restless). I will return shortly to wrinkle my new pants with more crap (so to speak).


Saturday, October 4, 2008

Monkey Business

After spending fifteen agonizing hours A.S.S. deep in acronyms I am pleased to report that yours truly has been licensed to do business as a mortgage professional in the great state of Texas for another two years.

In other words, I live to die another day.
The irony of it all.

If someone would kindly explain to me what any of this:

- Virgin Island and Puerto Rican Rum (Section 308)
- American Samoa (Sec. 309)
- Mine Rescue Teams (Sec. 310)
- Mine Safety Equipment (Sec. 311)
- Domestic Production Activities in Puerto Rico (Sec. 312)
- Indian Tribes (Sec. 314, 315)
- Railroads (Sec. 316)
- Auto Racing Tracks (317)
- District of Columbia (Sec. 322)
- Wool Research (Sec. 325)

Has to do with preventing a financial markets meltdown, I would appreciate it.

I can imagine that Sock monkeys around the country breathed a collective sigh of relief when their wool research earmark was approved. The arrogant little bastards.


image: ,

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

Oh Jeez, I Said Vagina

That sound you hear is Big Judes (my mom) tapping out a cease and desist order that will arrive in my inbox momentarily. "Tobi Renae, you are embarrassing your family! Do you have to use the V word?"

Relax Judes; this is a family oriented post.

Have you heard of the Duggers? They are a crazy Quiverfull following fine God-fearing family from Arkansas with seventeen children and one on the way. All of the Dugger children have first names beginning with the letter J. Obviously, after seventeen children naming number eighteen can prove challenging. The Duggers need our help people! What do you think Michelle and Jim Bob (Listen, I already told you they were from Arkansas, Stop that!) should name the newest little Duggette?
I think we can probably cross Jezebel off the list. My friend B of the A from Kansas offers the following suggestions:

Justin Sane
Juanita Condom

To which I added:

Jim Bob Musta Dugger
Jesus Getahobby Dugger

Your Turn.



Tuesday, September 30, 2008

People For the Ethical Treatment of Furniture (PETF)

You know my office? The one I will not shut the hell up about? Yes, that is the one. Well, it is STILL not done (big surprise right?). Progress is sloooow . I realize that some of you designer types (who I stalk love and admire ) would probably advise me to let someone with better taste handle this assignment. I see your point. Please humor me.

This is the vibe I am after. I realize that if anyone had doubts about whether or not I am a dork, my use of the word "vibe" just confirmed it.

I am smitten with the use of neutrals infused with pops of color. This is obviously not an office, but I think you get the idea. This leads me to my question. Yes, finally, there is a question.

I am getting to the question. Really, I am. I think it is important to note that the quivering toy poodle cowering under this charming chest acquired by yours truly at my used to be favorite haunt the Haltom City Rescue Mission Resale Store (may they rest in peace) is a cunning devil. Do not fall for the abused puppy act. It is impossible to take a picture at the new digs without Viv inserting herself and striking her best feel sorry for me pose. She is after cheese. Please do your best to ignore her ploy and focus on the matter at hand, which is this charming chest and the drafting table below. Would it be horrible to paint these items to achieve my dream?

I cannot decide. They certainly are not stunning examples of superior craftsmanship. Anyone who knows me knows that they were acquired for a song. However, I feel the tiniest bit guilty whipping out the Rustoleum on them when they have survived this long unaltered. There is also the possibility that I will paint them and then hate them. It is a conundrum.

The alternative is to change the design plan (as if there was one) and incorporate the two lovelies as is. So, please tell me what you think.

To paint or not to paint? That is the question.


* The drafting table pictured above is not the exact table I own, mine looks the same, but larger I swiped used the image to spare you another horrible cell phone picture. I try to be diligent about crediting images, but unfortunately these were intended for personal inspiration. I do not have all of the links. Another example of why I suck at these decor posts.

** I DO intend to dust the charming chest before I paint it. (In case you were wondering). How embarrassing is that??


Monday, September 29, 2008

Boys Are Dumb

I love boys. Really, I do. Sometimes the boys here at Fussy & Bitchy Inc. (my place of employment) make me want to pinch their heads off. All day I have been thinking of things I would rather be doing than than working (with dumb boys).

I have decided that today would be the perfect day to jump on the bed,

and wear designer red Dorothy shoes,

with my sweat pants.

or maybe just relax in the tub.

Cheetos take me away!