Saturday, May 31, 2008

Call Me Reddy Kilowatt

I feel like I am in Mary Had A Little Lamp. I have two lovely light fixtures awaiting installation at the New Digs. Both are for the kitchen. I drag them with me everywhere I go. They sit by my side like loyal companions as I watch HGTV. I reassure them: "Soon, very soon my pets, you will be hanging in your proper places, and we all will live together, happily ever-after". It has been weeks and they are still in their boxes.

I am too cheap to call an electrician. DDHBF (Doo- Doo Head Boyfriend) promised to put them up, but that was before the unfortunate blow to the head ( I am making an assumption here) that caused him to lose his memory. He has no recollection of ever saying such a thing. I must be crazy...Yes, I must be crazy- for dating a guy that is a bigger girl than I am. If he were not so cute, I would drop him like a hot potato in favor of one of those hunky HGTV handy-guy types. I could adjust to using two syllable words and drinking Miller High Life. No prob-lem-o.

Since DDHBF has other talents that outweigh his lack of do-it-yourself skills, I will be keeping him around for a while. I have decided that if I cannot date Carter Oosterhouse, I will be Carter Oosterhouse.
Numero uno on today’s To-Do List: Install fabu light fixtures.
I have my pink "Do It Herself" tool kit and my metal extension ladder at the ready. All I have to do is translate the installation instructions from Spanish, or maybe it is French, to English and I am good to go.

I am not, by nature, a big risk taker. I usually avoid anything that may potentially cause serious injury or death. Electricity scares the holy schnikee's out of me. My not totally unfounded fear of death is the main reason for today’s post. You see, I cannot count on Vivian to summon help in the unlikely (or not) event that something goes terribly wrong with my plan. Poodles are fickle that way.

I have heard stories of pets that save their owners from burning houses by dialing 911 with their snouts, but I am sure Viv does not like me well enough to make the attempt. I am counting on you (both of you that read this) to report my untimely demise. If there is no new blog entry tomorrow morning, please tell BFSK S. (best friend since kindergarten) that there are two tickets to the Sex And The City movie in the front pocket of my tool belt. I will not be attending tomorrow’s matinee.

Thank you in advance,


Friday, May 30, 2008

Karma Is A Bitch

"I'm not happy about the way the Chinese are treating the Tibetans because I don't think anyone should be unkind to anyone else," Stone said. "And then this earthquake and all this stuff happened, and then I thought, is that karma? When you're not nice that the bad things happen to you?"

No Ms. Stone, the earthquake in China is an unfathomable tragedy of epic proportion.

It was not karma.

This is karma:

Dior Dumps Sharon Stone From Chinese Ads
Chinese Media Dubs Actress 'Public Enemy Of All Mankind'

Chinese Tell Sharon Stone to 'Go to Hell'

Sharon Stone Films Banned in China

Sharon Stone's 'bad karma' comment on China quake hurting career


Lizard bites Sharon Stone's husband

Sharon Stone faces Chinese boycott after "karma" remarks about Chinese earthquake

LVMH Drops Sharon Stone From Chinese Dior Ads on Quake Remark

Shanghai film fest bans Sharon Stone

Sharon Stone apologizes over "bad karma" remark, but fallout in China continues

Karma Is a Bitch.

Thursday, May 29, 2008

The Girl From Ipanema

Sunday is the first of June. It is Swimsuit Season.
I have no swimsuit. Well that's not true exactly, I have a swimsuit that I won't be caught dead in. I've been surfing around the WWW. Here's what I found at Vicki's Secret.
I am not willing to do the work it would take to even think about wearing this on the beach.
No Way!
Now I know why the girl from Ipanema was sad. Her butt was too big for her cute pink bikini.
At last count I had looked at 9,765 possible candidates for "New Swimsuit 2008"
No Winners.

To make myself feel better I went here....

I think they're perfect. One size fits all!
That got me thinking...

TA-DA! Here it is!! My new swimsuit.

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

What's In A Name?
LogoThere is
person with my name
in the U.S.A.

How many have your name?

According to the U.S. Census Bureau, there is exactly one person in the United States with my name... Me. There are rumored to be several Beagles and an Airedale or two that share my moniker, but the U.S. Government does not count dogs.

I am moderately disturbed that I am the only one in the whole country saddled with this weirdness. No one else's parents did this to them. Does that mean your mom likes you better?
I have always wondered what the hell my parent's were thinking. They were a normal, young, Midwestern couple on the day of my birth. Conservative, even. This is not a nickname, or a family name, or even the name of a movie star of the era. No, they came up with this beauty all on their own.

I can imagine the scene in the hospital, when the nurse handed them their brand new bundle of joy, all swaddled in pinkness. The picture of wrinkled newborn perfection. These two looked at each other and said: "Let's name her Toby".

Is that the way it happened? Was this Judy's idea? Did she turn to my Dad and say; "Oh, Elmer (How is Elmer for an awful name? He should have known better) Toby is perfect, I love it!" Did he then reply: "But Judy, I don't think Toby is quite strange enough for our little girl. I think we should spell it weird too. How about Tobi? That's better, don't you agree?" "Oh yes, much better. I don't think she'll mind correcting people for the rest of her life, Tobi it is!"

They may as well have just named me "Apple Dumpling with Cinnamon Sauce", "Miss Blueberry Muffin", "Little Banana Cream Pie". They are all equally sickeningly sweet!

Have you ever known a Brain Surgeon named Tobi? What about a Politician? A District Attorney maybe? No, no you have not, and do you know why? Because their moms liked them better. That's why.

I know what you are thinking: “I did know a Basset Hound named Toby one time…”. Thanks. Thanks a lot.


Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Let's Talk About Panties

My panties are in a bunch right now. I made a shocking discovery this weekend.
I hate thong panties.
As of yesterday, I hate them.
I was very unaware of the joy of panties with a butt.
This revelation has many implications. Emotionally, I am unprepared.
For now, I will put on my big girl panties (old girl panties), and deal with it.



Monday, May 26, 2008

I Hate Perfume

Some of my earliest memories are tied to smell. Play-Doh, new Crayons, Tempera paint.
My Old Granny always smelled like Doublemint gum and Roses, sometimes Jim Beam too, but that is another story. Shalimar reminds me of Big Judes (my mom), BFSK S. (best friend since kindergarten) is Patchouli, (she is an old hippie at heart.) The scent of Vicks Vap O- Rub can make me down right weepy.

All of these odors are imprinted on my brain. One whiff and I am immediately transported back to another time. It takes me to different place, an easier, nicer, safer place.

I don’t know what my “smell” is. If you asked close friends or family, what would they say? I can only hope not pot smoke and vodka. I want my legacy to be something a bit more pleasant, something a little more socially acceptable. Perhaps Eau de Poodle or Five Fire Alarm Dinner Party? I don’t know. I am searching for the perfect aroma, one that sums me up in a molecule.

The problem is I hate perfume. I have been known to verbally abuse department store clerks when they attack like Paparazzi with free samples. I do not care what anyone says, I think Bath and Body Works is a migraine headache in a box.

What’s a girl to do? Go down in history without a signature scent?
Umm- I don’t think so…
Take a look at Christopher Brosius is the nose behind the operation. He can explain what he does better (and more eloquently) than I ever could, but there are amazing scents for home and body. “Burning Leaves, In the Library, Mr. Hurlot’s Holiday” or my personal favorite "Memory of Kindness"to name a few. My virtual shopping cart overflowith'

Alas, no pot smoke and vodka, but he does have a mailing list!

Sunday, May 25, 2008

That Hoodoo That You Do So Well

I have decided what I need is a Hoochie Coochie Man...A little white magic.
More precisely the New Digs needs some protection from evil spirits. Call it superstition, or maybe I'm a little "tetched" (as my Old Granny would say) but I firmly believe that if evil spirits exist, they no doubt hang out in suburbia among the neat rows of tract homes, waiting for the opportunity to wreak a little havoc. I am not taking any chances.

I'm considering a Bottletree. The shiny glass attracts evil spirits then the bottles trap them. Perfect!

Slaves brought this tradition to the Mississippi Delta from the Congo. Since I don’t have a “real” tree I guess I have to go with a pre-fab version like one of these.

I don't know how well they work, but I can imagine it will be fun to drink all the Martini's it will take to fill the tree!

Before you draw any conclusions about the state of my mental health, let me say this...
"Feng Shui " uh-huh!


Saturday, May 24, 2008

No Man's Land

The Green Fields of France

Well, how do you do, young Willie McBride,
Do you mind if I sit down here by your graveside,
And rest for a while neath the warm summer sun,
I've been walking all day and I'm nearly done.
I see by your gravestone you were only nineteen,
When you joined the great fallen in nineteen sixteen,
I hope you died well and I hope you died clean,
Or young Willie McBride was it slow and obscene.


Did they beat the drum slowly, did they play the pipes lowly.
Did they sound the dead march as they lowered you down,
And did the band play the Last Post and chorus,
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest.

And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind?
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined ?
Although you died back in nineteen sixteen,
In that faithful heart are you forever nineteen?
Or are you a stranger without even a name?
Enclosed and forever behind the glass pane,
In an old photograph, torn and battered and stained
And faded to yellow in a brown leather frame.

The sun now it shines on the green fields of France
There's a warm summer breeze, it makes the red poppies dance.
And look how the sun shines from under the clouds
There's no gas, no barbed wire, no guns firing now.
But here in this graveyard it's still no-man's-land.
The countless white crosses stand mute in the sand,
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man,
To a whole generation that were butchered and damned.

Now young Willie McBride I can't help but wonder why
Do all those who lie here know why they died?
And did they believe when they answered "The Cause?"
Did they really believe that this war would end wars?
Well the sorrows, the suffering, the glory, the pain
The killing and dying was all done in vain.
For young Willie McBride it all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again.

-Eric Bogle



Friday, May 23, 2008

True Confessions Friday

Todays Confession:
When I was ten, my friend "Fishface" and I dressed up as midgets and tried to get in to an R- Rated movie. It seemed like a fool-proof plan at the time.

It's True! I Swear. I chick-chick-chicken swear. No take backs.


Thursday, May 22, 2008

Dead Fred

The problem is all inside your head She said to me
The answer is easy if you take it logically
I’d like to help you in your struggle to be free
There must be fifty ways to leave your lover...

Simon should have never left Garfunkel.

It is not 1975 anymore.
It is 2008.
I do not want to leave my lover.

*I want to dismember my lover.

Are there fifty ways to do that?
Would it make a good song?
I think it might...

I will cut off your leg, Greg.
Chop off your head, Ed.
Look out for the ax, Max...

Catchy, don't you think?
Only forty-seven more to to go.
What rhymes with penis?


*no inconsiderate, self-centered, totally misguided, doo-doo head boyfriends were harmed during the posting of this blog. The author does not condone physical violence unless it is necessary,or the afore mentioned doo-doo head boyfriend persists in the jack-assery that he has been warned about on numerous occasions.

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

The Jury Is In.

I am not sure how it happened. Was it bad luck? Bad karma? The whole effing universe conspiring against me? I do not know.
For whatever reason, I am officially and forever juror number seven,
Three Hundred and Fifty Second District Court, the Honorable Judge Bonnie Sudderth presiding.
5.7 million dollars rests on my opinion of the facts in evidence.

Someone has made a colossal mistake.
Are you kidding me?

Don’t these people know I agonize for weeks over small decisions, like what shade of puse to paint the Master Bathroom? The front yard of the New Digs is still treeless because I cannot commit to spending $200 on a Crepe Myrtle. What if a Bradford Pear would look better? There is not proof beyond a reasonable doubt.

There is a lesson in this. When you are called to appear at the County Courthouse for Jury Duty, wear your leggings, proudly display your bra straps, put on your plastic shoes and paint your nails blue. It is the only way to assure immediate dismissal. I was not that smart. Please refer to previous post "A Jury Of Her Peers" for evidence of my extreme stupidity.

There is a bright side. Judge Bonnie is uber cool. After spending the morning in voir dire (It sounds way sexier than it really was) with smarmy personal injury lawyers (and their equally smarmy insurance defense counterparts) each juror was presented with a commemorative coffee cup from Judge Bonnie. "Congratulations: You're screwed! Please accept this cup and eight bucks a day as a token of our appreciation" The cup includes a disclaimer “not paid for at taxpayer expense” Cool and careful. Totally re-electable. I love Judge Bonnie.
I guess I’ll stick around for a while.
Mr. Fussy Pants (my unreasonable, slightly obsessive-compulsive boss) is going to love this!


Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Baby Needs New Shoes.

It is summer in Texas.
Not officially, according to the calendar, but the thermometer says otherwise.
It was 99 degrees yesterday.
You do know what that means don't you?
New Shoes!
Lovely, Shiny, Strappy, Sexy, Stunning, New Shoes!
Sandals and Stilettos and Espadrilles. OH MY!
I'm getting emotional just thinking about it.
Pink Toe Nails (Stripper-pink in celebration of the season). I must have them today. Now!

Sorry Mr. Fussy Pants, but I won't be in today (cough, sniff). Baby Needs New Shoes!

Out (shopping)-T.

Monday, May 19, 2008

I Freakin' Love This Guy.

Over two years ago, I bought a vintage christening kimono on E-bay. No big deal, right? That's what I thought too.The Kimono was in good condition. It arrived on time. Best of all (because I am a cheap-skate) it was inexpensive. Done deal.

Several days later, I received a newsletter from the seller in Japan. Newsletter #1 the E-Mail said. It was a slow news day so I opened it. It took about forever to figure out what the sender was trying to say. I was able to ascertain that it was from Ichiro in Osaka. He started his business selling kimonos. He was now expanding to E-bay and was learning English from "Chris" who I guessed was an American living in Japan. OK, fine. I deleted the E-Mail and moved on to more pressing matters. Nigerian lotteries and bootleg Viagra.

The newsletters kept coming. I kept reading. Over time, I developed a little crush on Ichiro. I looked forward to his letters. I monitored his progress. (I am well aware that this confession speaks more to my pathetic life, than his determination to be successful in America) Ichiro is smart and funny. Cute too, I'm sure, and he has a real passion for what he is doing. What's not to love?

I have also learned a few things along the way. I have learned about Japanese culture, politics, food, and yes, kimonos. (All of this information will be beneficial when he realizes that he loves me as much as I love him.) As Ichiro's English improved, I also learned that he has a wife (sigh). I am undaunted.

I still read his newsletters. I still carry a torch. I refuse to believe that he only sends the almost daily love notes because of some stupid mailing list I signed up for two years ago. He is speaking to me. I know it. I feel it...

Here is an excerpt from a recent letter. (I see that it says "Customers & Friends" that is code for Hot American Girlfriend)

Dear Customers & Friends
Hello from Japan! This is Kimono Flea Market ICHIROYA's News Letter No.214.Recently I inquired about American vintage fabric, and I came to know American women made quilts in Civil War era(1861-1865). We know nothing about American quilt, so we moved how American women supported their husbands, sons and brothers, who had been obliged to go to war against their brother. To American customers, more description must not be needed, but for other countries' readers, we would like to write more...
Have a nice weekend!
Ichiro & -Yoka Wada
Kimono Flea Market ICHIROYA

I told you he was brilliant! Look, his English is almost perfect. He has inquired about "American Vintage Fabric" How sweet is that? What straight guy do you know that would do this? It is fate. We are destined to be together. We cannot be separated by geography or prior marital commitments. It is only a matter of time.

"Kimi o ai shiteru, Ichi" (I call him Ichi)


Sunday, May 18, 2008

One Room Down--All the Rest To Go.

Work at the New Digs continues. This is the one room that I am declaring (for now) done. My prayers for the unfortunate demise of the horrid white carpet by natural causes, so as to be covered by homeowners insurance, have so far gone unanswered.

Some people rescue neglected pets from the shelter. I rescue neglected furniture from thrift stores. My latest acquisition; this semi-sturdy coffee table. It will hold your martini glass, not much else. What more could you want for ten bucks?

Wide shot: Note the controversial drapes. The b-yatches at HGTV's Rate My Space are overwhelmingly opposed to the horizontal stripes. I don't love them either but, for $1 per. yard they're worth every penny of my $12 investment. Viv thinks they'll do.

What do you do when you have an enormous white wall and nothing to put on it? Go to Hobby Lobby of course. 90% off custom frames no one claimed. No art to fill them? No problem. More cheap fabric. I am slightly fabric obsessed lately.

Dining Room table resplendent with a bust of Julius Cesar (I think, Some old dead guy anyway) again not a big hit with the RMS crowd. Oh well, maybe a rooster would be better.

There you have it. Next on the never ending to-do list. The Family Room...With any luck, I will be able to have a decent mani/pedi sometime in late 2009.

** If you have never had the pleasure of being eviscerated by swarming hoard's of rabid housewives hopped up on hormone replacement therapy drugs, I suggest you check out Rate My Space.
Wear your hard hat, and leave your ego at the door, because these girlz is craazy!

Before anyone takes this opportunity to set me and the New Digs on fire, let me say this:

(A nod to Gollum, who has more tact than I could ever hope for)


Saturday, May 17, 2008

Mea Culpa

In Friday's post I refered to my lovely mother as "Big Judes". For the record: She is not big. She is small. Petite. Down-right little. In no way did I mean to imply otherwise. It was pointed out to me that maybe, possibly, someone could get the wrong impression.

My fault! All my fault! Won't let it happen again, ever, so help me God. Amen. (Ok Mom, is this good enough?)

Out (of the dog house)- T.


Friday, May 16, 2008

True Confession Friday

When I was in the fifth grade, my girlfriends and I would lurk at the magazine stand at Falley's Market. We spent hours thumbing through the pages of Woman's Day and Family Circle. Not because we had any particular interest in how to crochet potholders or the fifty delicious ways to serve canned ham. More because it was Kansas in the middle of July, (hot as hell doesn't really cover it). We were there for the air conditioning.
When we ran out of happy homemaker rags, we moved on to Popular Mechanics, Field and Stream, The Farmers Almanac, Mad Magazine. It was right there in Falley’s Market, in July, in Kansas, that my previously sheltered kid-life changed forever.

Big Judes (My Mom- Judy, who we all called "Big Judes" behind her back for at least fifteen years before she found out) always had magazines at home: Redbook, Better Homes and Gardens, the standard Mom fare.
What she never had, what she probably had never even seen (indulge my sheltered kid fantasy here) was True Confessions Magazine. “Girls in Jail”, “The devil’s Mistress", “I Was Sold to Pirates: By Anonymous”, “Sin, Sex, Scandal, a glimpse into the forbidden”.

Did grown-ups really do this stuff? I had always known that they were stupid; this confirmed it. I was validated. Even my not fully-developed ten-year-old brain knew that falling in love with your brother-in- law was not a good idea.

We spent the rest of the summer (the hot days anyway), at Falley’s, concealing True Confessions inside Tiger Beat so the bakery ladies wouldn’t bust us with the contraband. I was hooked.
Smut was my pre-adolescent drug of choice.
Give me a root beer and some pulp fiction and I am in naughty girl heaven--still. I am also a stupid grown-up. Yes they really do this stuff, worse stuff.
In True Confessions, the protaginist always repented in the end. In real life, grown- ups usually don’t. They move on to do more stupid stuff.

In celebration of crossing the dumb ass bridge into adulthood, I am declaring fridays
“True Confession Fridays” at least until I run out of sinful, sexy, scandalous Un-fucking believable grown-up stupidity to confess.

Today’s installment:
“I Was In Love with an Evil Clown”

It’s True! I swear!
I chick-chick-chicken swear. No take backs.



Thursday, May 15, 2008

Paratrenicha Species Near Pubens

DALLAS (May 14) - In what sounds like a really low-budget horror film, voracious swarming ants that apparently arrived in Texas aboard a cargo ship are invading homes and yards across the Houston area, shorting out electrical boxes and messing up computers. By LINDA STEWART BALL,AP

"Crazy Raspberry Ants"
The good news...They eat fire ants.
The bad news...They bite humans. You can't kill them with traditional pesticides. They invade by the millions. They want to eat your computer.

Lovely, just lovely.



Wednesday, May 14, 2008

The Daring (not so) Young Girl on the Flying Trapeze

I recently finished reading Water For Elephants (which I loved, by the way). It made me think. What if my job, the one I've had for more than a hundred years; the one I go to every day and complain about every night; the job where my tyrannical boss "Mr. Fussy Pants" threatens to fire me on a weekly basis, goes the way of the traveling circus?

What if no one wants to buy a ticket?
What if I come to work one day and my services are no longer needed?
What if the services of my whole company are no longer needed?
It's not out of the question, considering the current state of our economy.
It's definitely not out of the question considering that I am a Mortgage Broker.
(I know, I know. Save the rotten tomatoes. I'm not the one who gave your dear old granny an adjustable rate mortgage with a payment that exceeded the amount of her monthly social security check.)

If I wake up tomorrow and the tents are packed, what would I do?
Where do out-of-work flying trapeze girls go when the circus leaves town?
Do they marry the lion tamer and live not-so-happily-ever-after?
Do they hop on the next circus train, and accept any job the new ring master is willing to offer?
Is it beneath a former star of the show to shovel elephant shit to pay her bills?
Will you find the washed up Lottie Aymar wanna-be in line for free food at a local church, smoking cigarette butts and reminiscing about the big top with welfare mothers and Vietnam vets?
I don't know.
If you have always flown through the air with the greatest of ease, what happens when you land on your ass? Can you survive? Will it be the fall that kills you, or the heart attack on the way down?
I don’t have any answers. I do know that if it happens, and if I survive, I’m spending my last two bucks on cotton candy because the circus may not be back again, so I'm going to enjoy it while it's here.



Tuesday, May 13, 2008


Sometimes the smallest things make this otherwise cranky girl swoon.
It happens. Not often, but it happens.
I am not prone to rapture, but occasionally I am caught unawares. Just when I least expect it someone does something nice, they say something nice, or in this case, they leave a nice comment on a blog that up until now I was quite positive that I was the only one reading.
If the particular person or persons happen to be someone you admire for their talent, well then…you swoon.
A small thing, I know, but for a talentless hack, swoon-worthy nonetheless.



Monday, May 12, 2008

Doctor Seuss Is In My Brain

I sat to type with fingers poised,
but all I hear is rhyming noise.

It’s annoying. It's insane.
Dr. Seuss is in my brain.

You say stop it, I say no.
Before I know it, off I go.

I cannot quit, although I try.
Rhyming, rhyming, 'till I cry.

If this continues, what to do?
Maybe I should try Haiku.

Five, seven, five, that’s the ticket.
Think of bunnies in the thicket.
Winter Spring Summer Fall,
Damn this Doctor, Damn them all.

Rhyming, rhyming, for hours on end
has my patience wearing thin.

Naughty rhymes about Nantucket
All the words that follow, "suck it".
I do not want this mental spam.
God, I hate you, Sam I am.

Out- (out, over, done. rhyming, rhyming is no fun.) T.

Sunday, May 11, 2008

Hello Mom? It's Me... Your Daughter

Happy Mother's Day...

This is the part where I am supposed to wax poetic about love and flowers, about your love of flowers, about how much I love you, and flowers.
Now that I think about it, I probably should have sent you flowers.
That's what a good daughter would do, isn't it?
A good daughter would have ordered flowers weeks ago.
A good daughter would have mailed a card. But you didn't get a good daughter. You got me.
As much as I would like to, I can't give you a Hallmark moment. I suspect that if I did, you wouldn't buy it anyway. We know each other too well for that.
Here's what I can say. What I want to say.

Thank You.

Thank you for not sending me to boarding school (or reform school) even when you had plenty of good reasons to.

Thank you for the horse. Every twelve-year-old girl wants a horse. I was the twelve-year-old girl who got one.

Thank you for the "Nose Picking Song". It was possibly our best composition. You may not remember the lyrics, but I do.

Thank you for all of the Birthdays, Christmases, Valentine's Days and Arbor Days that you never forgot.

Thank you for not moving and leaving no forwarding address when I left home.

Thank you for the braces, and enduring the drama of dental visits.

Thank you for insisting that I attend kindergarten even though I swore I would never go.

Thank you for letting me smoke a corncob pipe in the 7th grade. Most mothers would not have indulged that particular phase.

Thank you for letting me drive your car and bring it home with no gas.

Thank you for all of the ballet, tap, baton, and tumbling lessons, when it was painfully obvious that I had no talent.

Thank you for everything that came before, and everything that came after all of it.
Thank you for being my mom, because no one else would have wanted that job.

And just for the record: If I had it to do all over again, I would have worn that dorky pink dress on the first day of school without you having to call my father to come home from work and make me. Even when he told me I didn't have to, I would have worn it for you. Because you are my mom.



Saturday, May 10, 2008

Oh Hell To The No!

No coffee, none. How is this possible? It is Saturday morning. The most important coffee day of the week. I can live without many things. I cannot live without coffee on Saturday morning.

I am faced with an unpleasant choice.

Do I?:

A) Get dressed, wipe the smeared mascara from under my eyes, brush my teeth, fashion my lovely bed headed locks in to a lumpy pony tail, find my chucks, put on dark glasses, drive to the Albertsons, wade into the masses of cheery showered mommy's and their sticky faced toddlers to find the Starbucks Italian Roast that I forgot to buy last week.

B) Find a semi-clean hoody to cover the Drama Queen Jammie's I'm wearing. Skip the hair brushing, mascara wiping and the shoes (gross I know, but I'm desperate) put on the glasses, drive to the Starbucks, wait in the drive-thru line for twenty minutes in hopes that my "skinny, triple shot, no whip, venti vanilla latte " will be properly prepared and contain enough caffeine to sustain me for the rest of the morning.

C) Skip the coffee and make tea.

After careful consideration, I am going with option B, mostly because it doesn't require shoes. Option A -sounds like too much work.

Option C? Oh Hell to the No!--It's Saturday morning after all.



Friday, May 9, 2008

I Felt So Young--Until Today

Madonna is turning fifty.
Do you know what that means? It means that I'm old.
Officially, not young.

How could she do this to me? Madonna, of all people! Instead of donning pointy metallic boobs and launching a world tour, she is vacuuming on You Tube. What's next? Cover girl for A.A.R.P?

No, we are not the same age. That's not the point. Every time Madonna has a birthday, so do I.
We are marching down the assisted living facility path together. Yes, she looks great. So what? She is still F-I-F-T-Y. Why can't she lie, like the rest of Hollywood?
Madonna is not the only one who has let me down recently. Brett Michael's admitted he has hair extensions. As if that wasn't obvious! Was it necessary to shatter my youthful fantasy? Should I expect to see him pimping Viagra next? Gawd.

Don't get me started on the Sex And The City "girls". I've seen the clips from the upcoming movie. These are no longer girls. Old cougars is more like it. I love them. I swear I do, but really now.

I am now faced with my own mortality. What to do? Grow old gracefully, or fight like a UFC Champion every step of the way? There is really no choice to be made.
I'm fighting.
Sign me up for a lifetime membership at the nearest facial rejuvenation center.
Fill all the lines in my face with plastic. Botox me until my lips won't move. Slather me in lamb placenta. Zap the cellulite off my ass. Laser my eyeballs. I want it all.

A gym membership? Umm...Not yet.
There's plenty of time for that!


Thursday, May 8, 2008

The Joys of Rasterbation

This may be old news to some, but it's new to me. I found out about it quite accidentally and now I can't stop! I've been doing it all morning.

If you take a regular image and go here:
You can Rasterbate it for free.
Just crop the photo. Select the size you want.
They send you a pdf file that you can print.
It's easy. Cool too.
Check it out...

You can make gigantic daisies. Who wouldn't want one?

Wait there's more.

Blow yourself up, or your honey.
Billboard size.

I can't explain all the techy hoo-haw, but this is what a Rasterbated image looks like up close.
The New Digs will soon be covered in Rasterbated splendor.

Out-(of ink) T. mages from rasterbator(link above)

Wednesday, May 7, 2008

Please, Just Shoot Me Now

It was a sleepless night.
This morning is no better.
I can't concentrate.
I am on the edge.
I feel my sanity slipping away.
I am powerless. I can't take this anymore.
I am losing my mind...

There is a fucking cricket in the New Digs.

A ninja cricket. An elusive, stealth cricket.
This cricket is on a mission to drive me insane.
I don't know who sent it, but I have my suspicions.
The relentless, brain-frying chirping must stop. Stopstop. stopstopstopstop!
Would someone please just shoot me now?
Out (of control)-T.

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

A Handy Tip For New Homeowners

When storing open bags of frozen Geno's Pizza Rolls, it is best to carefully secure the package and place it back in the freezer in a location as far away from the automatic ice dispenser as possible.

The reasons for this may not be immediately obvious, however, if not properly attended to, the open bag may become dislodged by the actions of a pre-menstrual homeowner searching for the last pint of Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice cream ,the contents then spill into the ice storage container, where upon they are promptly covered with sparkling new cubes of the refreshment-enhancing condiment.

Weeks later the unsuspecting homeowner may then go to the kitchen in search of a tasty beverage during a commercial break of American Idol, and in her haste to return to the program without missing one second of Paula Abdul's bizarre behavior, inadvertently dispense the offending pizza roll(s) into her plastic Dickey's Bar-B-Que cup and drown it with Diet Dr. Pepper, being none the wiser.

If you are a homeowner who is prone to hysteria and/or hypochondria I don't think I need to tell you what the adverse effects of this action could be. If you're not, let me lay it out for you:
As the pizza roll thaws it floats to the top of the cup. A homeowner engrossed in her favorite T.V reality show may not immediately notice, but at some point she will pick up on a strange after taste. Upon closer inspection the floater is visible, but no longer identifiable as a Pizza Roll. It looks more like a hairless mouse, or a toe.

Having heard the horror stories of body parts found in chili, the traumatized homeowner may naturally assume that the offending object came from the Dr. Pepper bottle. After ten minutes of incoherent babbling , sobbing, and loud nose blowing, the victimized homeowner may then start a frantic search for the "Welcome To The Neighborhood" package left on the door step by the nice church ladies because the homeowner refused to answer the door when they stopped by.

She in all probability will continue to search because she is certain that there is a magnet with the poison control centers phone number in that package. The number that could save her life. If she dies, it is her own fault. She was killed by her own vanity. At the time she dismissed the magnet (and the nice church ladies) as being decidedly un-hip. Unnecessary. Not worth her attention.

Just as all hope is lost it is possible that the new homeowner will have a moment of clarity and say to herself: "The phone, find the phone. Call B.F.S.K. (best friend since kindergarten) S.- She's a nurse."
The call would then transpire as follows:
T: (insert hic-cups and snot) Hi, It's me. I love you and I'm sorry. Will you take care of Vivian after I'm gone? I know she's a pain in the ass, but there's really no one else I trust.
Please make sure that my last outfit is cute, something low cut, I paid a lot of money for the twins and I want them to go out in style.
T: Are you there?
T: S.?
S: What is it now?
T: I've accidentally ingested a carbonated mouse, or maybe it was a toe, but either way, I've seen cases like this on Dr. G-Medical examiner and I'm fairly certain I'm a goner.
S: A toe? You swallowed a toe? One of yours, or someone else's?
T: It was either a toe or a mouse. I didn't swallow it. I drank the Dr. Pepper it was soaking in.
S: So you still have the the toe?
T: Yes, It's in the Dickeys' Bar-B Que cup by the sofa. Should I save it for the pathologist?
S: No, You idiot take the cup to the sink and see what's in it.
T: Oh My God! I don't know what this is, but it has guts. Gross! I'm dead for sure.
S: Go get the ice container from the freezer and dump it out in the sink.
T: Oh, Dear God there's more, a whole family of mice...or toes...Wait, no, they're not. I don't know what they are. They look like pizza rolls!
S: How many times have I told you to close shit properly before you put it back in the freezer? Now turn off the T.V. and go to bed.
T: Yea, OK, ha ha sorry...Do you think the pizza rolls are still good?

I would appreciate it if someone could fill me in on what happened on American Idol last night.
S. is not speaking to me.


Monday, May 5, 2008

A Jury Of Her Peers?

Maybe--if I had been arrested by the fashion police.

Oh, the humanity! Jury duty is not pretty. I learned this first-hand recently. I survived the trip to the courthouse, the shake down by security, and the maze of confusing halls and corridors that is the County Court House. I arrived at the jury intake office only slightly past my appointed call time. Not bad, considering.

The intake office is directly across from the dismissal office, which is coincidentally adjacent to the county jail. It is my firm belief that inmates are offered early release if they agree to be part of the county jury pool.

Fill out the Jury Summons, pick up a plastic badge, sit, and wait. That's the drill. I spent the first thirty minutes reading last month's copy of Domino. The next thirty minutes drug on while I gave Drew Barrymore a blue beard and mustache. I also colored her finger nails blue, as this seems to be a popular color (for fingers, as well as toes) with potential jurors.

My observations lead me to wonder; When did it become acceptable for overweight middle aged men to wear sweatpants in public? This should be an arrestable offense.
How about deodorant? Is that really too much to ask?
P.S.-The Cowboys haven't won a Super Bowl since 1994, when you were thirty pounds lighter. Get a new T-shirt.

I have some advice for the women as well: Leggings are heinous. Bra straps are not a fashion accessory. In most drug stores nail polish remover is conveniently located near the nail polish.
Plastic shoes are only cute on girls under five years of age, even if they are adorned with large pink chrysanthemums.

If squeezing into your pants requires the velocity of jumping off the roof of your doublewide--they are too tight. Not that I have anything against doublewides, I'm just saying.

I shudder to think that twelve of these people could be trusted with the responsibility of deciding my future if I was unfortunate enough to require their services, unless of course I was arrested by the fashion police. In which case, I would get off scott free.


image: daniela

Sunday, May 4, 2008

My Apologies...

I learned this morning that the filly Eight Belles who finished second in the Kentucky Derby Saturday was euthanized on the track at Churchill Downs after breaking both of her front ankles.
I apologize for not being more aware of the potential for tragedy before the event.
My post on Saturday seems inappropriate today.
I am left wondering:
Is horse racing the sport of kings or the sport of greed?

Good Lord, I Think I Have Polygamist Hair

On a recent trip to the over-priced hair salon that I am privileged enough to be a client of, I mentioned to my snarky stylist (We'll call her E. Scissorhands), that I was considering bangs.

"Bangs?" (It was more like, "baaangs?").
E. Scissorhands sneered, followed by a long-suffering sigh. I can't swear to it, but I think she rolled her eyes too.

I immediately launched into a long explanation, which in retrospect, was totally unnecessary, considering I am the one paying the outrageous bill. I waited over a week for an appointment, which by the way, was at a totally inconvenient time of day. I am a full-grown woman, capable of making my own hair decisions. What's so bad about bangs anyway, Dammit?

What I said was:
"Do you ever watch The L. Word?
I love The L. Word.
Not that I'm a lesbian or anything, because I'm not.
Don't get me wrong--
I don't have anything against lesbians. I think lesbians are great.
I watch the Ellen show every chance I get, which isn't often, but I do watch it.
I watch Oprah too.
I'm not saying Oprah's a lesbian, although I have wondered about her and Gayle, and the whole thing with Stedman.
I mean, he could be Oprah's beard, right?
It has been twenty years, after all.
Do lesbians have beards, or is that a guy thing?
I like guys, not gay guys of course, because they wouldn't like me.
Not that straight guys like me, per se, but at least I have a better chance with straight guys.
Do you like guys?
Oh Jeez, you're not a lesbian are you?
Not that I have anything against lesbians, I think they're great.
I watch The L. Word all the time and Jenny is my favorite character and she has bangs and they look so great that I was considering bangs. But if you don't think it's a good idea, then I totally understand.
It's no big deal. We don't have to do bangs if you don't want to.
They won't make me look like a lesbian, will they?
Not that I have anything against lesbians. I think lesbians are great.
So, what do you think?
About bangs, I mean, not lesbians."

To which E. Scissorhands replied,
"I'll do it, but you'll hate it."

"OK," I said.

So she did it, and I hate it.

And instead o
f looking like this:

I look more like this:

Not that I have anything against polygamists. I think polygamists are great.

Out-(of style, not the closet) T.

image : mid mad /rockhandsome

Saturday, May 3, 2008

The First Saturday Of May

It's ten hours and twenty eight minutes to post time for the running of the Kentucky Derby.
The run for the roses. The sport of kings. (OK, that's all I got.)
Who's running? I'm not sure.
What are the odds? I don't know.
Who won last year? I couldn't tell you.

What I do know is that today, in honor of the 134Th Kentucky Derby, I will be on the porch at the "New Digs", sipping a Mint Julep, sporting a fabulous chapeau, and humming "My Old Kentucky Home". No, I'm not from Kentucky; I'm from Kansas. Save the Dorothy jokes, I've heard them all.


So what if I live in Texas? I can't think of a better excuse to postpone repainting the living room "accent wall gone wrong" for the third effing time.
Besides, I think horses smell bad, and I love fancy hats.
Care to join me?

I cannot believe I am posting a recipe,
but here you go:

The Back of the Spoon Mint Julep
6 fresh mint leaves plus 1 mint sprig for garnish
1 teaspoon superfine sugar, or to taste
2 teaspoons water
crushed ice
1 1/2 ounces (1 jigger) bourbon
In a silver julep cup or 10-ounce glass crush together with the back of a spoon the mint leaves, the sugar, and the water until the sugar is dissolved and fill the cup with the ice. Add the bourbon, stir the julep well, and garnish it with the mint sprig.
Makes 1 drink.

Out-(on the porch) T.

Friday, May 2, 2008

Vivian's New Do

I don’t think I’ve mentioned it before, (Who am I kidding? This is only my eighth post; I know I haven’t mentioned it.) but I am not the only Diva in residence at the New Digs.

I share my space with Vivian. More accurately, she kindly shares her space with me. I am just the one who makes the mortgage payments.
I also do the housekeeping, the laundry, the grocery shopping, I pay the utility bills. I tend the lawn, I cook the meals. In short, I do everything. If I was married to Vivian, I would divorce her.

What does Vivian do? Nothing. She lounges. She enjoys afternoon naps. She has her meals served on fancy china. She has an amazing wardrobe. Vivian lives a privileged life; The life I want to lead.

It’s not all wine and roses with Miss. Vivian. She is whiny and demanding. When she doesn’t get her way, she bites. Worse, when no one is looking (and occasionally when they are), she licks her butt.

Vivian is four pounds of fur, fangs, and fury. She is the bitch of all bitches.
Miss. Vivian is what’s known as the dreaded teacup poodle. Her sweet looks are deceptive, she is coy and demur, but come within six feet of her with any grooming implement and, without hesitation, she will chew your face off, then bite your leg just for good measure.
It is for that reason and that reason alone that the mere thought of Vivian’s impending trip to the beauty parlor strikes fear in my very soul.

The ride in the car is not pleasant.
She starts with a mewling whine.
Six blocks later the whine turns into a pleading cry.
By the time we arrive at the salon she has worked herself into an eardrum-shattering frenzy. There is no eighties hair band played at any decibel level loud enough to drown out her wails of protest. I don’t even try anymore.

This (dare I say) d.o.g. is a genius. Her brain may be the size of a peanut, but she’s a clever one, this Vivian. She has managed to do what no man could achieve. Vivian has trained me. She has taken control. Vivian calls the shots.
It is my fear of her disapproval that causes me to delay the inevitable.

I wait to schedule her hair appointment until her appearance is so disheveled that my fear of a visit from the S.P.C.A. overrides my fear of her wrath.
The time has come. I am counting down the hours with dread.
There is no way around it.
She is going.
I am taking her.
I am spending the sixty five dollars that I would rather spend on my own sassy summer coif on Vivian.
Not because she deserves it or that she will appreciate it. Because she won’t.
I am doing it because I have to.
Because I am more afraid of the S.P.C.A. and the disapproving looks of the new neighbors than I am of bloodshed.

I can only hope if blood is shed, that it won’t be mine.

photo by antique dog photos @flickr

Thursday, May 1, 2008

Hoffman's Bicycle

Albert Hoffman Jan 11, 1906 - Apr 29, 2008

Albert Hoffman embarked on what will presumably be his last “trip” yesterday at his home in Sweden. Mr. Hoffman was 102.

Timothy Leary was unavailable for comment. (Because he croaked in 1996) but one could imagine that his reaction would have been something to the effect of “Bummer”

Who exactly is (or was) Albert Hoffman? Let me just say Lysergic acid diethylamide.
Yep, you guessed it. L.S.D.

In April of 1943 Mr. Hoffman became the first guy to drop acid. He didn’t drop acid exactly. It was accidently absorbed through his skin while he was working in his laboratory.
Three days later after he intentionally ingested a small dose of the wonder drug, he enlisted the help of a co-worker to be the designated driver of his bicycle so he could get his blotto ass home.

This became known as Hoffman’s bicycle ride. Kind of like Mr. Toad’s wild ride, but different.

Let us pause to remember Albert Hoffman, without whom thousands of 1960s adventurous adolescents would have undoubtedly completed their college educations.

Party on Mr. Hoffman.