Monday, June 30, 2008

Today's Forecast--Skinny And Mean

Until last year, I had never owned a bathroom scale. I never needed one. I knew how much I weighed. I had no reason for daily affirmation. If my pants ever felt too tight, I stopped eating brownies. No big deal. Now it is a big deal. Now I lose and gain the same 3.5 pounds on a weekly basis. Now I know it is 3.5 pounds because I own a bathroom scale.

The bathroom scale dictates my mood for the day. One pound lighter makes for a good day. One pound heavier indicates the start of a bad day; on days that the scale reveals a weight gain in excess of two pounds, I should really consider staying indoors safely away from co-workers and the general public, for their well being as well as my own. I know this seems extreme but it was suggested for legal reasons after a near miss with a hurled cell phone in the direction of my unsuspecting assistant.

Based on the digital announcement made by the scales of in-justice this morning, today should have been an unbelievably glorious day. According to the Bitch-O-Meter, my weight was comparable to that of a super model. I am aware that the average super model is two feet taller than I am, but so what? There still should have been a love fest in Tobiville today. Unfortunately, that was not the case. All day I have been unreasonable, unruly, and unable to concentrate. Luckily, no one was injured.

On my way home from work I realized what the problem was. I was calorie deprived. I am obviously not cut out to be a super model. Being skinny makes you mean! All this time I thought genetics was responsible for my surly disposition. I am pleased to report that this may not be the case. I am actually charming and kind, I just never knew it because of my damn bathroom scale.

I pulled in to the nearest Dickeys Bar-B-Que and ordered the Hungry Man Platter. I ate the whole thing. Then I ordered another sandwich to send to Naomi Campbell. She needs to know about this. We super model types need to stick together.



Sunday, June 29, 2008

Post Card From Camp Monotony

Sunday boring Sunday.
Rain and discontent.
Laundry and vacuuming lurking like mosquitoes and Poison Ivy.

Scary stories on white carpet.

Having a swell time.
Wish you were here.


Saturday, June 28, 2008

Where The Magic Happens


Fluorescent light cascades down through the disarray in a tract home kitchen. A pear-shaped woman wearing red overalls and a porkpie hat is sitting at the messy kitchen table
We’ll find out later that this woman’s name is TOBI.

She is in desperate need of a pedicure.

Tobi (singing)
Oh my darlin’. Oh my darlin’. Oh my darlin’

As TOBI finishes the last of her cold coffee, VIVIAN an obstinate toy poodle saunters up to the table. The poodle sits down and casually starts to lick her butt.


Don't mind me.

Tobi keeps on singing and staring at the screen saver of her laptop computer waiting for a creative idea to blog about. She ignores the obstinate poodle.

Got any cheese?

VIVIAN the poodle exits the kitchen. She comes back minutes later with a shoe and begins chewing on the heel. It gets TOBI'S attention.
She stops singing

Give me cheese, or I'll eat the shoe...

I don't have cheese, go away. I am trying to create.

Fine then, the shoe is gonna get it. Why are you wearing that stupid hat?

I am channeling Buster Keaton. He was funny. I am trying to be funny here. Go away.

I will go if you give me cheese.

There is no cheese Dammit! Leave me alone. Does Maya Angelou have to put up with this crap?

No, she has yorkies. They don't like cheese. Why are you sitting here? Let's go outside and pee in the grass. I want cheese.

I am sitting here because this is where the magic happens. I am waiting for the magic.

Magic? You are funny! Give me the cheese.

(End Scene)


Friday, June 27, 2008

A Birthday By Any Other Name

Today the Annual Countdown to Birthday Depression begins.
I am aware another Birthday is better than the alternative.
Birthdays still suck.
I do not want any presents. There is no present in the world that will make me feel better about being yet another year older.
Presents suck.
Do not try to convince me that I am getting better with age. Older and wiser blah blah blah yap yap yap- Feh
I would like to personally thank the Texas Department of Motor Vehicles for commemorating the occasion with a new picture of my one-year-older mug on the new driver’s license I am required to obtain.
Thanks Texas DMV. You suck too.
I do not want any cakes. Imagine the lung capacity required to extinguish fourteen boxes of birthday candles.
Cake sucks.
No surprise parties. The shock may stop my geriatric heart.
Parties suck.

There is only one thing I can think of that would make me feel better.

A Halloween Party!
Halloween does not suck.


Thursday, June 26, 2008

Glamour Mom

I always wanted a Glamour Mom. You know, the kind of mom that had blonde hair and gold shoes. Oh, how I admired gold shoes as a child! My heart's desire was a Mom that had pink toenails and wore leopard print. Anything leopard print--it did not matter what. I wanted a Mom that understood a nine year old girl's need for bright pink carpet. I always figured that a mom who would buy a velvet couch for the living room and actually let people sit on it would be the perfect Mom for me.

A Glamour Mom is not the Mom I got. My Mom is the practical Mom. The conservative Mom. The Mom that could convince even the most stubborn offspring of the virtues of yellow paint in a bedroom, as opposed to the shocking violet said offspring had her heart set on. Big Judes is the voice of reason. Throw caution to the wind? Do not even think about it. There would be no throwing, not in the house of perfection. Caution? Caution is good; it keeps you out of the emergency room and jail. Caution is a very good thing.

BFSK S. (Best Friend since Kindergarten) got the Glamour Mom, lucky duck that she is. S. also got the bright pink carpet and the velvet couch. The blue velvet couch, no less. BFSK came home from grade school everyday to a fashion diva decked out in leopard print and gold shoes. I am sure she was allowed throw caution to the wind and eat powdered sugar doughnuts in the living room, regardless of the tell-tale white dust that fell to the carpet.

Glamour Mom not only endorsed throwing caution to the wind, but if the legend is correct, Glamour Mom did not hesitate to throw wooden spoons and right hooks to the wind, resulting in an unanticipated trips to the emergency room to repair a dislocated shoulder. Thankfully, no time was spent in jail.

Time has a way of pointing out the obvious. BFSK and the Glamour Mom, who is in town this week on a visit from Kansas, stopped by yesterday to check out the New Digs. I greeted them in my leopard tank top. BFSK raised a skeptical eyebrow at my chosen attire. Glamour Mom complimented me on my perceptive fashion choice.

I could immediately see by the thin line of BFSK's lips that we had an issue. I tried to overlook her lack of lips. "Let me give you a tour" I said. The tour of the New Digs was a success. I had the forethought to forewarn my guests that the parade of home would be short-lived if BFSK could not control her urge to point out cobwebs in the corners. She is a perfectionist. She cannot help it.

I made sure to draw Glamour Mom's attention to the velvet duvet in the Master bedroom and Glamour Mom agreed that it is to die for. BFSK could not resist telling us that velvet is hard to keep clean, especially such a dark color. And it was in fact summer, so why did I still have velvet on the bed? S. also had good suggestions for covering the green paint in the master bedroom (that I just painted). Yellow, in her opinion, would look nice and it does go with everything. It was hard to argue with her logic.

After the tour, we retired to the living room with iced tea. S. still had thin lips. In an effort to be a good host, I asked, "What have you girls been up to today?".
S. glared at Glamour Mom. Glamour Mom smiled in response.
(UH-OH, this is not good.)
S: Go ahead Mother; tell T. where you spent your birthday.

(Birthday? Shit, I hope she wasn't in jail.)

S: Go ahead. Tell her.

GM: Oh, it was nothing really, S. insisted on taking me to the emergency room.

T. Your shoulder again?

GM: No, my toe. It was no big deal. Look, I can still wear my sandals.

T :( Noted the golden sandals and pink toenails, then quickly wondered if she kicks as well as boxes). She did not make you go to the hospital on your birthday! She would never!

(Glamour Mom and T. both turn to S. with scathing glares)

S: After the way she acted in the waiting room, we are lucky that we are not in jail!

This was the voice of Big Judes speaking. I recognized it from the years of being her naughty daughter. It was at that moment that the universe revealed just a glimpse of itself. The Glamour Mom and I? We would have made a dangerous pair. Too much leopard print and velvet makes for too many ER visits. Everyone needs someone in his or her life to be the voice of reason and logic. Occasionally the most reasonable and logical need a little pink toenail polish. It had all been cosmicly arranged just so.

When BFSK and Glamour Mom left I called Big Judes.



Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Hell's Kitchen

What is this you are wondering? Dinner. Before anyone rushes to Google the telephone number for the Fort Worth Health Department allow me to disclose that no children are subjected to the abuse dished up at The Little Shop of Gastronomic Horrors commonly known as the kitchen at the New Digs. The cheese stick debacle is just the latest in a long line of culinary mishaps. In my defense, not all of the failures are entirely my fault.

Can anyone explain the thinking behind wrapping cheese in a thin coating of preservative infused breadcrumbs then heating the toxic tidbits to a temperature comparable to the surface of the sun? Is it a surprise that the cheesy contents become molten lava that even in the best of circumstances would cause third degree burns to the inside of the unsuspecting consumers mouth? I suppose I am lucky that the damn things exploded. I was probably spared a trip to the emergency room.

There is a bright side. Even though I had to throw away the charred butter knife (That I cooked with the cheese sticks accidentally) and the cookie sheet (Which I assure you has never seen the likes of a cookie) I still ate the cheese sticks.

Smoky Deliciousness!


Tuesday, June 24, 2008

See, I Told You I Have Friends

I know that there are those of you that have wondered why on earth anyone would want to be my friend. I understand your dismay. I suppose you may even question if BFSK S. (Best Friend Since Kindergarten) and Sugar Daddy (The boyfriend formerly known as Doo-Doo Head) are "imaginary friends", invented to add interest to a blog that would otherwise be insomnia- inducing. Well I am happy to report that they are both very real, and additionally, there is at least one other person on the planet that thinks they would enjoy the pleasure of my company!

I was invited to a Bar B-Que today, a Mexican Bar B-Que. What is a Mexican Bar B-Que? I'm not sure, but It sounds like fun. (Not a Bar B-Que joint--I just liked the neon on the picture, Shiny!)

I have already picked out my outfit.

I won't have to eat a goat will I? I like goats, I don't want to eat one.

What do you Bring to a Mexican Bar B-Que? I thought about jumping beans, but I can't find a recipe.

I have instructed Sugar Daddy (The boyfriend formerly known as Doo-Doo Head) to practice his Tejano riffs, just in case our host has not planned any entertainment.

You have to have decor at a party, right? Well, I have that covered too.

I am brushing up on my Spanish. Which is already pretty darn good. (Bastante bueno).

If you see me on the dance floor, "retroceder, yo están consiguiendo listo para reventar un movimiento" ( loosely translated: Stand back because I'm getting ready to bust a move!)

I have left several messages for my gracious host outlining possible selections for refreshments. My calls and text messages have so far gone unanswered. I am sure it is because of network difficulty or some sort of electronic snafu.

If I can make space in my busy schedule today, I am planning on spending a little time working on the seating chart, only if I finish the press release first. Priorities!

Having friends is exhausting! I did want to let you all know that surprisingly, I am still free for the Fourth Of July.


Monday, June 23, 2008

What Does Not Kill Me--Stan The Man, The Final Chapter

For the love of God! How much can one woman be expected to endure? My hat was all out of rabbits. "Uncle." Ratchet looked confused. "Uncle" I repeated.

Hot tears of frustration filled my eyes and threatened to splatter all over the Wal-Mart courtesy desk. This was going to get ugly fast. I opened my purse for a tissue (which I never have when I need) or a gun (which I do not own, or condone the use of). I had to have one or the other ready to control the torrent of tears and snot that was about to ensue. In the absence of tissues, I grabbed the smallest, least-important looking piece of paper I could find. It was a check. I had never used a check as a substitute for a Kleenex before, but under the circumstances, it was the best I could do.

“Uncle!” I repeated for the third time. “I said Uncle, I give up! Call security, or the police, or the orderlies with their straight jackets. The card is expired! What do you want me to do?”

Ratchet hesitated, and then said slowly, as if speaking to a child or a deranged house cat. “Ma’am, we accept checks.”

“Whaaaa?…Of course you do. What was that total again?”

I was holding the check that I had started to write at ABC Tire and Battery the night before. The check I signed before I remembered that if I used my American Express Card, I would get 500 reward points toward the flat screen TV I am too cheap to buy. I finished filling out the check and presented it to Nurse Ratchet.

“I just need to see your Drivers License,” Ratchet said.

I raised one eyebrow like a deranged house cat, and spoke slowly as if I was a child. “The number is printed on the front of the check.”
Ratchet did not argue. She handed over the envelope and Hilda's keys. I skipped to the parking lot.

My elation at being out of Wal-Mart hell only lasted about three blocks. It would have ended sooner had 1cc of adrenaline not been mainlined directly to my heart by my panic-stricken brain. When the happy mist of relief dissipated, it was replaced with outrage.

Would Stan the Man ever have screamed at a businessman from across the parking lot? If I had been a man at Wal-Mart, even a man behaving like an ass, would they have replaced my tire instead of repairing it without at least telling me before they did it? No, I do not think they would have. I mean that.

The feeling of being stranded without any options, the one that punches you in the stomach like the mean girl in the bathroom, that is the feeling of helplessness and that is a horrible feeling. When there are no more rabbits? That is what hopeless must be. That feeling is the same feeling that many women in many places feel every single day. They feel it for reasons that are far more serious than forgetting a wallet.

I am able to get up every morning and get in my over priced car wearing my over priced sunglasses and drive to my over rated job because I had someone (many someones) in my life that told me I was a little bit smarter, and a little bit better,and a little bit cuter. Than everyone else? No, than I thought I was.

Not every little girl hears that. No little girl can hear it enough. The result may not have been exactly what all those someones in my life intended, but in the end, it was empowerment. I was given a spark of self-confidence that was fanned into a flame (Some would argue it was a spark that ignited a wildfire sucking up all the oxygen in its path).

I drove straight home to get my wallet and my cell phone charger. My first call? The Wal-Mart district office. Why? Because I couldn't not. Right or wrong, I'm saying it out loud. Even if "Sam" doesn't want to know, I still have to say it.

Did I learn anything from this? Yes.I did. It taught me that from now on. Every chance I get. Every little girl I know. I will tell them. I will whisper so only they can hear,“You are smart," "You are powerful," or “You are beautiful." Just in case.

You didn’t think I was going to say it taught me to be a nicer person did you?
I didn’t think so.


Sunday, June 22, 2008

The Empress Has No Clothes-- Stan The Man Part Three

Let us review. No money. No car. No cell phone. Now what?
The computer! I will find an unsecured wireless network and e-mail BFSK S. (Best friend Since Kindergarten) for help. She would not be happy, but she would never leave me stranded in the Wal-Mart parking lot. It is official. I have a plan.

It may have been more realistic to attempt to shoplift a bicycle from inside the Wal-Mart,conceal it in the front of my pants, then ride it home to retrieve my wallet. There was no unsecured wireless network available. Of course not.

The contents of my purse yielded twelve quarters, a couple dimes and a bunch of sticky pennies. All total, $3.27. Disbelief quickly turned to panic. Options, I need options. There are no pay phones at Wal-Mart. I am certain there are no pay phones left in the civilized world. You cannot buy a cell phone charger for three bucks and change. I am a horrid bitch with very few redeeming qualities, but I am not a thief. Stealing a bicycle was out of the question.

What does this leave? Let’s see, I might have been able to afford a poster board and a Marks A-Lot to fashion a sign that said “Will Work for Tire Repair” but alongside the “No Parking in Fire Lane” signs were “No Soliciting” signs. Soliciting? Begging? Same thing. This was not a good option.

When you behave in a way that is so offensive to those who encounter you, even on a casual basis, it is then difficult to demand favors, or for that matter forgiveness and be met with anything other than loathing and disdain. That is one of the problems of being me. Being mean and being me. Clearly, there was no one at Wal-Mart that was going to come to my rescue.

How much could it cost to repair a tire? I did not have a clue, but I was sure it was more than $3.27. I looked through the laptop bag for more quarters or a stray twenty-dollar bill. I knew better, but unexpected windfalls do happen occasionally. Mostly on laundry day, but they do happen. Besides, I was desperate. Panic-stricken is more like it. I was head between your knees, breathe in to a brown paper bag, heart palpitating, aneurysm generating, anxiety attack inducing desperate. Worst of all, I was alone.

I am a total bad-ass when I have my posse with me. Kind of like High school, it is much easier to be a Mean Girl if your friends are around. My friends AMEX, Wells Fargo, Hilda and T-Mobile all split and left me alone. I was the new girl at school cornered in the bathroom by Sam Walton and his friend Stan The Man who were about to beat the snot out of me in the next ten minutes if I didn’t come up with ten bucks.

One last look in the laptop bag produced a credit card. "I have a credit card! Thank God, I am saved! I am going to pay for the tire, then go directly to Starbucks for a ten thousand-carb latte and a muffin!" " Let them eat Muffins!”

No, wait… This is one of Mr. Fussy Pant’s credit cards. Fussy thinks it is a real laugh riot to give me a credit card then go on line and put a hold on the available credit. He then monitors the account in real time waiting for me to try to use the card. This is Mortgage Company humor. I learned a long time ago only to use his credit cards at ATM machines to avoid embarrassment. I have had this card in the bottom of my bag for so long that I do not remember the pin number. SHITDAMNHELLCRAP. It is only ten bucks we are talking about here. This has to work. I estimated my odds at about 5 to 1. I am playing with capped dice.

Stan the Man came to tell me my car was done. I followed him on shaky legs to the cashier. Dead woman walking. I promised myself I would leave the Wal-Mart with my dignity intact even if that meant I left on new cute summer sandals (that would certainly rub blisters before I was out of the parking lot) , rather than at the wheel of Hilda, the miracle of German engineering.

The woman behind the register resembled Nurse Ratched (Ratchet in this case). There would be no sympathy here. She would call the orderlies with straight jackets and Demerol filled hypodermics at the slightest provocation. This had to work. Ratchet typed a series of mystery numbers in to the computer. She asked for personal information. She prepared an envelope with my name and Hilda’s description on the front. “All of this for a tire patch”? I was too weak to argue.

“That will be $111.82,” Ratchet announced. “Excuse Me?” I whimpered. “$111.82, cash or charge?” She replied.

Usually? Ordinarily? On any other day of my estrogen infused life, this would have set off a fit of outrage that would have made for tales of Urban Legend in the employee break room of Wal-Mart for weeks to come. On this day, at that moment, my response? A barely audible, “Charge.”

I reluctantly handed over the card and started to pray.

Ummm, Ma'am this card is expired” …

To be continued…


Saturday, June 21, 2008

Stan The Man--Round Two

Unfortunately, there was not enough air left in the tire to make it back to ABC Tire and Brake to lop off the heads of the Store Manager, and as many of his minions as time allowed. I was late for work.

Plan B? Wal-Mart. (Do not even get me started on the evils of Wal-Mart). There was no choice, off we go. Kthunkkthunkkthunk… You didn’t think I was going to change the tire myself did you?

On the way to the depths of retail hell, I apologized to Hilda. I took back every mean thing I had ever said about her. I promised that if she would, please, just make it to the parking lot, I would never ignore her electronic pleas for attention again. Thankfully she complied. I pulled up to the auto shop entrance, parked in the lane with the word "Tires" emblazoned over the bay door, and waited... and waited.

After over thirty seconds (which in my opinion is way more than enough time), no one was running in my direction to inquire as to what I and the miracle of German engineering that is Hilda could possibly need at Wal-mart. Hmmm...

I stepped out of my overpriced car, adjusted my overpriced sunglasses, smoothed my already smooth overpriced hair (which I recently over processed with over the counter hair color, I just had to hope no one would notice) and stood arms crossed, toe tapping, waiting for the over due attention I deserved.

I could hear shouts of "HEY LADY" from behind me. Of course, I did not turn around. “HEY LADY! HEY LADY? LADY! HEY LAAAADYYYY! "

How do you deal with a Wal-Mart employee shouting at you from the parking lot when ignoring the former carnival barker has no effect? Take a deep breath. Pivot on one foot. Lower sunglasses past bridge of nose. Affix icy stare. Say nothing. The person who talks first loses. I do not lose.

Before me stood Stan the Man. I knew it was Stan the Man because his Wal-Mart name tag said so. I swear to God. Stan the Man. Stan spoke first (Loser).

STM:"Lady, move that car you're parked in a fire lane.”

T: (Sniff) accompanied by a look to suggest you smell like ass.

STM: “Lady you have to move that car. That's a fire lane.”

T: (Audible sigh, accompanied by an uncomfortable pause) Stan, Mr. Stan. The. Man. I did not come here today to tutor you for the Texas Drivers Exam, that you obviously failed on your last, of what I am sure have been many attempts. However, I think you can clearly see that the fire lane is marked with two parallel solid red lines. The fire lane, is in fact ,the area between the two lines. The sign posted at the entrance of the auto center, which I read (because I can) before I parked here, says “No Parking In Fire Lane.” So I didn’t.

STM: You have to move Lady.

T: (after surreptitiously pressing the button to engage the car alarm, I extended the keys as if holding a dead rodent by the tail). “You Mr. Man, may move the car anywhere you see fit, as long as the end result, is that my tire is repaired in the next fifteen minutes. Repaired by someone other than you, since I shall not have any further dealings with you.”

Stan started to protest. Then he apparently thought better of it. He reluctantly took the keys, then did exactly what I knew he would do. He lifted the door handle. Hilda came to life, horn honking, lights flashing, an absolute hilarious display of deafening protest. Hilarious to a bitch like me anyway.

Stan sat in the driver’s seat and inserted the key in an effort to make Hilda's wailing stop. The funny thing is, if Hilda feels she is being accosted, she immediately disengages her ignition switch. That car was going nowhere. She sat down like a stubborn two year old in Stan the Man's imaginary fire lane, and she was not moving. This was greatness!

Being the petty, hateful Snooty McBitchy pants that I am, I gave Stan my best "dumb girl" look. I shrugged my shoulders to indicate I could not do anything. "Sorry." "You, Stan, are The Man. You figure it out."

The novelty of Hilda's temper tantrum wore off quickly. I reset the alarm and sent Stan off to find someone else to fix the tire.
I took my purse and laptop bag, and flounced to the suspect looking faux park bench in front of the auto center doors, sat down, and did my best to look bored. Looking bored is boring.

I found my cell phone, called Mr. Fussy Pants (my boss) and tried to look important, as I explained why today, for the second day in a row, (the second day in a year actually, but this is Fussy were talking about here, no need to point that out.) I was going to be late. Over the din of Fussy’s protests I could hear my phone making a faint beeping noise. Then- Nothing-Hello?- Nothing. -Dead.- Out of batteries- Crap.

I opened my purse to put the cell phone back, so I could stop looking important, and start looking bored again. It was then I noticed, or didn't notice my wallet. No wallet! OH MY GOD! NO WALLET! It was not there. SHITDAMNHELLCRAP! NO WALLET!! No, of course not, because the wallet with all the cash, the checkbook, the debit card and all of the credit cards, was on the table in the living room, at the New Digs, where I left it when I paid for the pizza last night. SHITDAMNHELLCRAP!

To be continued...


Friday, June 20, 2008

Stan The Man

Sometimes it ain't easy being me. It takes a lot of fortitude to behave in a slightly superior, slightly smarter, slightly cuter, sort of way all of the time. My piercing glare and "You must be too stupid breathe,” looks of death were perfected years ago. Most times this is all it takes to convince the public of my self -declared eminence.

As you might imagine, there is a downside to being a Snooty Mc Bitchy pants all the time. Occasionally, I am wrong. Sometimes there is a visible chink in my "Don't You Dare Fuck with Me" armor. Once in a great while I totally show my ass, then quickly live to regret it.

Case in point: On Tuesday morning I relented to the whining of my miracle of German engineering automobile and took it to the repair shop after reading the "brake pad wear visit workshop" warning light at least a dozen times. "Fine Dammit, I will take you to the workshop. Stop the incessant complaining already." I think this car prefers the company of mechanics to mine. It seems that every month there is some new illuminated threat of mechanical apocalypse adorning the fancy LED enhanced dashboard.

I think it is important to point out that the repair shop in question is a national chain that recently mailed me a $1900 refund check for $600 of repairs that in my uneducated, but 100% committed to proving I was right opinion, were unnecessary. Why take the annoying crybaby car back to the very same place that only weeks earlier I had threatened to expose for their unfair treatment of poor, single, helpless in all things boy related, women? Because they already know, I am a bitch. They would not dare screw with me again.

$500, two new brake pads, and rotors later, the traumatized Store Manager breathed a sigh of relief as I pulled out of the driveway of his establishment.

On the way home, I rolled down the window to rid the car of the lingering odor of scared auto techs. Working in 100 degree weather. I noticed a kthunk...kthunk...kthunk sound that I chose to completely ignore.

By Wednesday morning, all memory of the prior day’s events had been erased from my more important things to think about mind. The odor of fear and axle grease persisted. Again, I rolled down the window. Again, kthunk...kthunk...kthunk. I accelerated...kthunkkthunkkthunkkthunk. SHIT!

I pulled to the side of the road walked around the car and there it was, a nail in the back tire. My first thought? "Oh, They Didn't...They Wouldn't Dare! They will pay! Those ABC Tire and Brake lackeys will rue the day they screwed with the Queen!"

To be continued...



Thursday, June 19, 2008

The Sisterhood Of The Electric Boots

Several weeks ago I was flitting around the blogosphere and I stumbled upon a seemingly innocent post by an author I cannot remember. Believe me when I tell you, I have looked for this person to kick their ass thank them for making such a lasting impression on my life.

The post was about singing in the car. I love to sing in the car. I dance at stoplights ( much to the embarrassment of my passengers). I know the words to every top forty hit from my youth. In the car, I am a Rock Star.

Since the moment I read the post, this song has been in my head. For weeks now, over and over, I hear this catchy little ditty. I hope you will enjoy it as much as I have. Consider it a gift from me, to you. A re-gifting of sorts, without last years wrinkled Christmas wrap.

I want to share the love. Let us all gather around. Fire up your Bic lighters. Link arms. Start the sway, here we go...

Oh Candy and Ronnie have you seen them yet,
Oh but they're so spaced ouuuut
B-b-b-Bennie and the Jetttts...

(All together now)

Oh but they're weird and won-der-ful,
Oh Bennie she's really keeeeen

(Here comes the good part)

She's got electric boooots, a mohair suuuuit,
you know I read it in a magazeeeeine,
oh. Oh, oh.
B-b-b-Bennie and the Jets

(Take it on home girls!)

B-b-b-Bennie and the Jets.
Ben-nie, Ben-nie, Ben-nie, Ben-nie and the Je-e-e-ts
Ben-nie, Ben-nie, Ben-nie, Ben-nie and the Je-e-e-ts
Ben-nie, Ben-nie, Ben-nie, Ben-nie, Ben-nie, Ben-nie and the Jets.

We are the Sisterhood of the Electric Boots.
United we stand, scratching our collective cognitive itch.
We were brought together by an unidentified benefactor, who planted this earworm, then disappeared into the smoke-filled 1970s pop music abyss.
This is a moment.
I feel better knowing that, now, I am not the only one.

Don't worry, after about four days you'll get used to it.


Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Curiouser And Curiouser

"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked."Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.""How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice."You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."

My cell phone sent me a text message Sunday. It wanted to thank me for upgrading my service, and inform me that $12.50 would be charged to my account.

Monday my cable television bill arrived. It announced that the recent changes to my high-speed Internet connection have increased my monthly charges by $25.

My electric company sent a very polite letter to let me know that changes to my contract will result in higher per kilowatt-hour charges.

My mortgage company sent an e-mail stating that after reviewing my escrow reserves they have determined that an additional $50 per month will be necessary to achieve the 16.6% cushion allowed by federal law.

All of this good news in only three days!
I swear I have fallen down the rabbit hole.
Is this happening to anyone else?
Do you think these companies are facing declining profits and this is an attempt to slide unnoticed charges past unsuspecting customers?

Well, I noticed.

My response to T-Mobile: ?4U: RUSOS? 12.50 IDTS! ^URS, TYVM. (Translation: I have a question for you. Are you stupid or something? $12.50 per month, I do not think so! Up yours. Thank you very much). The charge was removed.

The new Internet provider will be connecting service next month.

I have drafted a list of my own changes to my electric contract, which include, but are not limited to the following: Effective 07/01/2008 customer shall henceforth be referred to as Her Majesty in all communications. Further, customer requires presents. She likes presents. Presents will be expected by the first day of each month. Any present received after the 15th day of any month will be considered past due and additional swag will be necessary.

My sofa needs new cushions, not my escrow account. Countrywide Home Loans has graciously agreed to drop the extortion attempt after the error of their ways was pointed out to them by a bitchy Mortgage Broker disguised as an uninformed victim of their predatory lending practices. They have assured me that my $372.00 refund check will promptly be processed.

All of this nonsense takes a lot of time to resolve, not to mention many infuriating calls to apathetic off shore Customer Service Representatives. Being pissed off takes a lot of energy.
Thank you, for letting me vent. I promise only happy posts for the rest of the week, so help me Pre-Dispute Arbitration Agreements.



Tuesday, June 17, 2008

The Do-It Herself Girl's Prayer

Hello God?
It's me.
I know you're busy; I'll keep this brief:

Please grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot spray paint, decoupage, faux finish, or bedazzle,
The courage to use the power tools I can,
And the wisdom to hire a professional.

Monday, June 16, 2008

** For HGTV's Rate My Space On TV

I was looking forward to the first installment of HGTV’s Rate My Space on TV. I fully realize that this admission places me in the tragically un-hip category of wanna be designer chicks. I am OK with that.

After several seasons of coma-inducing programming, I was counting on HGTV to see the error of their ways and veer from the predictable: one scary designer, one hunky carpenter, one color blind homeowner, tents in the driveway formula. They did not.

There are over thirty thousand rooms uploaded to the Rate My Space website. Homeowners from all over the country (and beyond) post pictures of their spaces, and ask other members of the community to judge them using a five star system. They ask for comments to justify the rating. One star=You Suck. Five Stars= (Will never happen, but if it did) You are a Rock Star.

If this sounds benign, I can assure you it is not. Emotions run high.This is serious business. People have their hearts and pocketbooks invested in their homes. They may ask for opinions, but what they really want (with few exceptions) is a pat on the back, "Atta' girl, Good job." What they are not looking for is honesty, unless of course honesty means, "You are a Rock Star".

There are plenty of (****) Rock Stars on RMS. Plenty of homes we want to see more of. Plenty of homeowners that find good advice amidst the barrage of Mean Girl comments at Rate My Space.

The point is, HGTV ignored the culture of their own website. They missed an opportunity to do something (anything) ground breaking, and instead, predictably, took yet another contemporary ranch home, put a tent in the driveway, and tried to turn it into a faux Tuscan Villa (yak).

Regrettably, in the process of the tragic Tuscan rifare, HGTV thought it wise to use homeowners who have high rated spaces, and make them look like ventriloquist dummies via web cam conference calls. Hello? HGTV? These are the people we want to talk to. These are the homes we want to see!

I should not have to tell you, Home and Garden Television, that it is in the DNA of every human with an interest in Homes or Gardens, to want to peek beyond the walls of other people's homes. Good or bad, we do not care. Let us see them! Enough is enough already.

I am giving Rate My Space on TV a generous ** (two Stars). There will be no consolatory "good try" comment to accompany my rating.

HGTV, until you buy Angelo S. some hair, or at least a hat, and a new on-camera personality (as well as some interesting content, and a less tired format) to accompany his scary, too-white teeth, I shall not be back.

Where is Sara Richardson or Linda Reeves when we need them?



Sunday, June 15, 2008

Father's Day

There’s something like a line of gold thread running through a man’s words when he talks to his daughter, and gradually over the years it gets to be long enough for you pick up in your hands and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself.

- John Gregory Brown

Saturday, June 14, 2008

Rain, Snow, Sleet, And Hell

The Mailman* is not my friend. When I was a kid, getting mail was exciting. People send you good stuff when you are a kid. Birthday cards, Highlights Magazine, letters from Grandma. No kid I know has ever gotten a $300 electric bill. These days getting mail means someone(everyone) wants my money. Through rain, snow, sleet and hail the Mailman never fails to deliver as promised. Damn him.

It only costs forty-two cents to ruin my day. Lately it seems that no one can resist the bargain price to compromise my mental health. Everyday there is a freshly printed stack of insanity for my consideration. The only thing worse than having the Mailman leave his politely worded threats of financial ruin outside the front door is when he rings the doorbell ...Hell, Now What?

I briefly contemplated ignoring the incessant ding-fucking-donging. I had more than enough good reasons not to let anyone see me in my current state (picture Bette Davis in Baby Jane). I decided to be brave. There was not much I could do about the hair dye-stained wife beater and the obvious lack of a bra, but I did manage to put out the cigarette, and put on my sunglasses, before I relented and opened the door. In retrospect, the sunglasses probably only reinforced my crazy cat lady appearance.

The Mailman's face only registered slight shock. I guess he is used to this sort of thing. At least that is what I tell myself. He is a professional, this is his job. He is being paid to witness such atrocities. I made a mental note to buy him a Starbucks gift card for Christmas.

I assumed the Mailman was at my door to deliver the dreaded registered letter ( in person, sign here, you are screwed.). I know this is irrational. There is no reason, anyone would really send me a registered letter with the intention of ruining my life. I am a fatalist. I cannot help it.

Imagine my surprise, when instead, he presented me with a box. A cute box. It was not ticking. I couldn' t see if it was really addressed to me, or whom it was from, because of the sunglasses. I happily accepted the proffered loot, then tried my best to sign on the appropriate line, in spite of my temporary blindness. It took immense self control to resist the urge to explain my appearance to the poor Mailman. I prevailed, closed the door, then let out a squeal of joy, that I am positive he heard from the front porch. This was better than being a kid!

Viv (The obstinate poodle) and I set to work opening the loveliness. It took a while because, of course, scissors were nowhere to be found. (Probably for the best, because in all likelihood I would have run with them, and put my eye out just like Big Judes had warned me about for all those years). We made do with a fork and a finger nail file.

Inside the box was a surprise better than I, and all my selfish girliness, could have imagined. Look, just look! All this, and a note: “Who needs cupcakes? Love, DDHBF”. Do you see? Do you see why I love him?

It seems that the boyfriend formerly known as Doo-Doo Head, saw the post on his mean girlfriend’s blog (unbeknownst to his mean girlfriend, who didn’t even know he read it, except when forced) and ordered up a whole batch of beautiful ,chocolaty deliciousness. He is worth keeping, this one.

In an effort to show my thanks, and gratitude, the boyfriend formerly known as "Doo-Doo Head" will, from this day forward, be known as “Sugar Daddy” (slightly creepy, I know). He would have preferred Rambo, but this is still my blog.


* Mail Carrier, I know. Sue me.

Friday, June 13, 2008

Never Pet A Stray

I am an Old Fart magnet. I always have been. Old Guys like me. This was much more amusing when the "Old Guys" in question were thirty. It is less so, now that the Old Guys are geezers.

Considering my advancing age, I'm quite certain some of you, (My Mother, Big Judes, in particular) are thinking that maybe, just maybe, I am being a tiny bit too choosy.
Point taken.

In my defense, I am not looking for perfection. The list of requirements for a potential mate is not that extensive anymore. Sensitivity, and Wicked Abs were crossed off long ago. Original equipment is no longer mandatory. Heaven knows, I have a few after market parts myself.

There are some things, however, that I cannot compromise on. For example, if there is glue in your toolbox, fine. Glue in your medicine cabinet is not acceptable. Any adhesive used to attach body parts is grounds for immediate disqualification.

Potential Mr.T's do not have to be eloquent communicators who are in touch with their feelings, and express themselves without reservation. The ability to hear without electronic assistance is required. I may say something fascinating and I do not want you to miss it.

If you own neckties older than your potential bride, I am sorry. I am not interested.

If your monthly prescription medication budget (performance enhancing drugs excluded, I am not totally unreasonable) exceeds my monthly shoe budget, I am sorry, I do not think we are compatible.

If you take advantage of the 10% senior citizens discount at any establishment while on a date with me, regrettably, it will be our last encounter.

It is acceptable to have teeth that are blindingly white and in perfectly straight rows. This in fact, is a bonus. If on the other hand, you store your pearly whites in a glass of water on the nightstand, well then, there will be no slumber parties with me.

Are these demands so unreasonable? I do not believe they are. In fact, after not one, but two, encounters yesterday with geriatric Don Juans at the CVS Pharmacy, I am revising the rules to include the following:

If the contents of your shopping buggy include any cream, ointment, paste, or potion, intended to be applied to the nether regions of your wrinkly old butt, this would not be an opportune time to approach a younger than you, still somewhat attractive, (in her own egotistical opinion) former Desperate Housewife at the CVS. Can you not see that she is in the throes of an agonizing decision between "Copper Penny" and "Wine with Everything" hair color? Good Lord. Is it the cut off sweat pants and fuzzy flip-flops that make you think she is approachable? She is not.

This is directed at Grandpa Bachelor #2: Do I look like someone with any knowledge of the virtues of Debbie Meyers Green Bags? It was total coincidence that we were on the "As Seen on TV" aisle at the same time. I do not buy this stuff. (Not often, anyway). I have no knowledge of Debbie Meyers, or her damn bags. Because of you, rule number 96 has been implemented. It reads: “Anyone referencing a product from an infomercial as a pick up line, will be immediately dismissed. No exceptions.”

I am concerned that after so many years of cultivating my unapproachable façade, I may have become complacent of late. In the not so distant past, only the most bold, self-confident suitors, would have dared to confront me without provocation. Now it seems they have no compunction about not only approaching, but also following me about, like lost puppies. I think I am losing my edge.

When I related my sad tale to BFSK S. (Best Friend since Kindergarten) from the parking lot of the CVS her response was swift.
“You know better than to pet strays. You should have never made eye contact. Now go home and color your hair. It looks like hell.”

Once again, good advice.
Never pet a stray. Even if they look old and harmless, they are still trouble.


Thursday, June 12, 2008

Of Mice And (Girly) Men

I am a dog person. I am not a cat person. There can only be one disinterested party in a relationship and I prefer that it be me. Besides, dogs will let you dress them in goofy clothes, cats would never stand for it.

There is a cat that lives at my office.I know that sounds strange, particularly strange, if you know anything about Mr. Fussy Pants, my O.C.D., A.D.D., pain in the A.S.S. boss. Fussy is allergic to cats. He also believes that cats are filthy, disgusting creatures that make messes and carry disease (Not at all unlike the way he feels about birds, and children under the age of six).

Shirley the cat moved in five years ago. She does the job we pay her for. She is cute. She is charming. She is, for the most part, tolerant. Clients love Shirley. She has never scratched anyone (Except Mr. Fussy Pants, but that is another story).

Col. O was in my office Saturday to refinance his house. The Col. is retired military. Tough guy. High and tight crew cut. Shiny shoes . The whole business. It was just the two of us, me and Col. O. Mr. Fussy pants was on his way to the office. It was Saturday morning: no rush.

I looked up from my computer screen to ask Col. O what the hell 28, aught 7, 54 had to do with his date of birth, when I saw Shirley sauntering down the hallway clutching a mouse between her smiling cat lips... Crap. This was not the job she was hired for. I could tell by the smug look on her face she was coming to deliver a gift....

I am not an "EEEK A MOUSE!!!" kind of girl. On the other hand, disposing of cat saliva soaked vermin first thing Saturday morning didn't hold much appeal either. I intercepted the great white hunter in the hallway and using my most powerful pet psychic skills, willed her to take a left turn into the adjacent office, after which I promptly closed the door behind her. Col. O was none the wiser.

When Fussy arrived I advised him that there was a dead rodent in need of removal in office number two. This would have normally been a task assigned to me, but since I had a client, Fussy was the man for the job.

After arming himself with rubber gloves, a can of Lysol, a spatula, a roll of paper towels, and a large cardboard box. Mr. Pants entered office number two. After several seconds he was back to report that the mouse was very much alive "just sitting there"-- Sorry, he couldn't help.

There were two problems with this. First, in my opinion, it is not a good idea to announce in front of clients that our place of business is infested with mice. Second, He is the boy! Get rid of the Damn mouse!

Before I could finish taking off my left shoe to go whack it, the mouse ran from under the office door, between Fussy's legs, across Col. O's shiny shoes and behind my trashcan.

Mr. Fussy pants and Col. O squealed like girls.
I finished taking off my left shoe...
Never hire a girly man to do a cat's job.


Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Welcome To Texas

Him: Jeet jet? Squeet, al carry ya ta suppah.
Translation: Have you eaten yet? Let's go eat. I will take you to dinner.
Me: No thank you, I had a late lunch.
Him: Smatter Cho? Ya sick?
Translation: What is the matter with you? Are you ill?
Me: No, I'm fine. Thank you anyway.
Him: Well then Missy, Aye'don see no need to git uppity. I was jes' askin. You can jest stay rat cheer then, cuz I'm fixin 'ta head over'ta the Waffle House. I cain't figure why all y'all think yer so highfalutin anyhow.
Translation: There is absolutely no reason for you to be so bitchy. I was doing you a favor by asking you out to dinner. You can just stay here, while I go to eat kindergarten paste on stale bread(biscuits and gravy). You could have joined me, if you did not believe you were too damn good to be seen in public with a blue collar stiff that lives in a trailer, on a one acre tract of land, in the middle of a former cow pasture. You must be from New York City.

Welcome to Texas.


Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Ten Random Thoughts

More evidence that a brain is a terrible thing to waste.

1. I am overjoyed that Taco Bell has stopped putting tomatoes on their Tacos. Now I don't have to pick them off. Tomatoes have no redeeming qualities. Tomatoes are poison. I know fruit. This is no fruit.

2. Wisdom teeth do not make you smarter.

3. If my computer knows what time it is after I shut it off, why doesn't my alarm clock? What about my microwave, or the stove? The cable box? What is the deal with that? My appliances have Alzheimer's.

4. If weeds are easy to grow, and grass is hard, why can't we all just agree to grow weeds?

5. Spiders are mean.

6. Bald men don't own combs.

7. I don't care if Diane Sawyer say's flip flops are dangerous, I'm wearing them anyway.

8. Has anyone ever really used duct tape on a duct? Plumbing pipes and kidnapping victims, yes. Ducts, no.

9. How did Batman con his way into the superhero category? He doesn't have any powers. Just a fancy toolbelt and a cool car.

10. Shouldn't the word "fetal" have something to do with feet?


Home Sweet Yurt

I could do this. I could totally do this.


Monday, June 9, 2008

¡Retroceder, Hermana!

Light fixture "numero tres" is awaiting installation at the New Digs. I am sorry about the poor quality of the cell phone camera photo, but I think you will agree it is "muy bastante" even when shown under less than perfect conditions.

Yours truly was successful in defeating the Spanish-speaking interloper who spied the loveliness at exactly the same time as mi. A footrace then ensued. I sprinted through the treacherous aisles of the Haltom City Rescue Mission Re-Sale Store with record-setting speed.

Thanks to a long history of out running pissed off girl friends, (My own, and those of others), I was able to hurdle a table of outdated computer equipment, shimmy under two racks of grandma's discarded housedresses, then snatch the object of my desire like a NFL pass reciever in the end zone from the clutches of my opponent before she could say "el gato sea ágil".

She did not give up easily. After several minutes of shouting in English as well as Spanish, hair pulling , toe stomping and really hard pinching (Fine, maybe not, but I did give her my best dirty look). I emerged victorious.

I do realize that there may be some of you who think that winning a three foot tall, brass plated monstrosity, replete with 207 plastic "grape cluster” crystals is not much of a victory. I am sure if my design idol MAISON 21 saw this, he would run from this computer screen in search of Visine to soothe his burning retinas. (However, I did see Arielle the Slutty Mermaid on his site recently, so maybe not). Please do not be too quick to judge. All of this splendor came with a $15 price tag, and it is not missing one single plastic crystal. It is perfection.

Now, on the other hand, if you are looking at my new acquisition with lust in your eyes. I am telling you right now: ¡Retroceder, Hermana. Es Mio! Back off sister. It is mine.


Saturday, June 7, 2008

I've been TAGGED, Or Tattooed...Something Like That

I was TAGGED by Barb at FosterDesignHouse. Here are my answers. I have never been TAGGED before. Barb, I hope I am doing this right...

The "rules" of the game: Each player answers the questions about themselves. At the end of the post, the player then tags 5-6 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read your blog. Let the person who tagged you know when you’ve posted your answer.

Ten years ago:
I did not appreciate my perky butt nearly enough.
Shabby Chic was my design style of choice. I was oh-so Shabby. Not so Chic.
BFSK (Best Friend since Kindergarten) S. had just arrived in Texas with an overflowing U-Haul, piloted 500 miles by a random “dumb boy” we recruited with our "girlish charm". We promptly sent him back to Kansas, as soon as he finished unloading said U-Haul (evil grin).
Ten years ago this month Mr. Fussy Pants hired me to be his Regional Sales Manager (read: Girl Friday).
Ten years ago seems like about ten minutes ago, or ten lifetimes ago, depending on my mood.

Five things in today’s to do list:
1. Work, Another Open House, another Realtor, another opportunity to test the limits of my patience.
2. Grocery shopping- I have made a solemn oath only to put consumable items in the buggy. No decor mags. No scented candles. No strawberry lip gloss.
3. Steam clean the horrid white carpet at the New Digs. (Always on the list. Seldom accomplished).
4. Repair wind damaged backyard fence, or at least whine incessantly until DDHBF (Doo-Doo Head Boyfriend) or Mr. Rubble (Next Door Neighbor) repairs it for me. This works with flat tires. We shall see about fences.
5. Shave Legs. (This should be numero-uno according to some people). Whatev…
6. George Clooney. (Again, always on the list. Never accomplished)

Snacks I enjoy:
I enjoy them all. Those that I do not enjoy, I can at least tolerate.

Things I would do if I were a millionaire:
I would promptly go to the charming little falling-down Lake Cottage made of stone that I was too chicken to buy when I was looking for the New Digs.

I would throw myself down on the neglected front porch and pitch a F.I.T. until the new owner called the police, or gave me another chance to purchase my dream home. Since I am a millionaire, I can now afford to risk arrest. I would have done it sooner, but I wouldn’t have been able to make bail.
I would then spend my days replicating the images that are still stuck in my head, months after I first laid eyes on the place (sniff).

Not because I am particularly philanthropic, but because I am afraid of acquiring any more hell points for selfishness, (also because recently I have given Sharon Stone a rash of sh#@ for her karma comments), and since I do not want to screw up my karma, I will give some dough to charity. I hear Ed McMahon could use a few bucks.

Places I have lived:
Topeka, KS.
Dallas, TX.
Haltom City, TX. (Think Mayberry, only scarier)
Fort Worth, TX.

I will now tag:
Tururu- from Deco-Inspiración. I can't read a word of her blog, but I like the pictures.
Kim - from Stampin' Kim, because fate led me to her page via Blogger's "next Blog" button.
- another happy accident. A blog about squirrels, and the people who love them.

Alright, I only have three unsuspecting victims to tag. I know you are supposed to tag friends, but I don't have any.

I have to admit that these poor bloggers have no idea who in the world I am. They have never seen this blog. I’m sure that they think that I am an internet stalker or a pathetic mu-mu wearing wretch, hunched over my Mac, dropping cigarette ashes on the keyboard, drinking Two Buck Chuck while posing as a wealthy Nigerian in need of financial assistance from gullible Americans.
I have no shame.

If there happen to be two other bloggers reading this, I am TAGGING you. Let me know when you post your answers.



Friday, June 6, 2008

Miss. Princess Pants And The Eggs

Mr. Fussy Pants (my boss) came to work in a particularly "fowl" mood last Tuesday. It seems that he and Mrs. Pants, had planned a Memorial Day Celebration poolside, at Southfork Ranch. Not the Southfork of "Dallas" fame, but his own Southfork.( the estate he financed with the sweat from my brow). Apparently, the soirée was to include down home Bar-B-Que lovingly prepared by Fussy for his guests.

In preparation for the big event, Mr. Fussy Pants was disinfecting the pool deck, and sterilizing the outdoor kitchen area, (I think I have mentioned his little germ phobia before) when he discovered that a pair of freeloading Robins had taken up residence inside his state of the art; spare no expense; give me all the bells and whistles; if it doesn't cost a fortune I don't want it; Bar-B-Que grill. Not only had they feathered their nest inside the holy grill, they had been engaging in hot, wild, red breasted, birds and bees type activities that produced four trademark Robin Blue Eggs.

Fussy is not prone to sentiment. In his opinion, everyone should know that birds are dirty, disgusting creatures, that make messes, and carry disease. Without hesitation, he reached for the Weber lighter fluid, with the intention of incinerating the nest, and its lovely blue occupants.

Mr. Pants did not account for two things. One, was the mother bird, who upon seeing Fussy in the vicinity of her soon to be offspring, dive-bombed him like a kamikaze on a suicide mission. The second, was the arrival on the scene of Miss. Princess Pants, Fussy's eight-year-old daughter. One look at the enchanting blue orbs, and Miss. P was in love. Fussy is a tough guy, but this bird and her four blue eggs took him down... with a little help from a Princess.

By my calculations, the grill should be available for use sometime after the Fourth of July. Just in time for Martin nesting season.


Brownies Are The New Cupcake

Enough about cupcakes already!
For me, it's all about the brownie. Preferable for oh-so many reasons. Just look...

Brownie Truffles. Heaven.

Fish Brownies=Love.
Cupcakes are so last week.

Thursday, June 5, 2008

Hi, I'm Your New Neighbor, Mrs.Kravitz

There is something going on at the New Digs. The previously vacant house across the street is showing signs of life. I made the first sighting last week. Open windows and a car in the driveway. No people. I peeked through the blinds (my blinds, not theirs) several times (casually, of course) in hopes of getting a glimpse of my new neighbors. I didn't see a thing... Rats.

Monday the electric company came to connect the power. I know this because I saw the truck at eight A.M. when I went to check the mail. I forgot the mailman (person) doesn't come until afternoon. I didn't see a thing...Rats.

Tuesday is trash day. There were new cans across the street. I know this because I saw them when I went outside to make sure random imaginary cats had not disturbed my own trash. I didn't see a thing...Rats.

Wednesday there was new carpet being installed. I know this because I saw the carpet van across the street when I went outside to water the dead petunias. I didn't see a thing...Rats

This morning, Vivian insisted on peeing in the front yard. (mainly because I wouldn't open the back door). I didn't see a thing...Rats

What is the deal with these people? Are they in the witness protection program? Was that really carpet being installed or was it grow lights for an illegal marijuana operation? Why do they drive a nondescript black sedan? Is this some sugar daddy setting up a love shack for his mistress? Are they on the lam? Why are they hiding from me?

*I swear if I find out they have a kid named Tabitha...


*Reruns, Thank you very much

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

The High Price Of Boredom

My recently self-imposed fiscal austerity plan is starting to have unexpected consequences. I blame SJP,and the Sex and the City movie for my problems. To be fair, I am not blaming the girls for all of my issues. There is still George Bush, Big Judes (everyone blames their mothers, don't they?) my third grade teacher, several ex-boyfriends, oh, lest I forget, Mr. Fussy Pants to share the responsibility for fucking up my other wise perfect life.

The point is (there is a point...I think) I have no eyebrows. I also have no new summer clothes, no spiffy new couch, no West Elm desk for my office, very few pairs of new shoes, no upcoming appointments with my Hair Stylist, Dermatologist, Personal Trainer, Day Spa, or Psychic. I am living with white carpet that, in the good old days, would have been curbside before I set one perfectly pedicured toe in the New Digs.

My life is barely worth living. (A dramatic overstatement I know, but drama is part of my DNA). I started blogging to avoid shopping. Blogging is cheaper. I have tried with all my might to overcome my shallow, materialistic, self-centered, environmentally irresponsible tendencies. It is no use. I am shallow and materialistic. I need "stuff”, lots of stuff, now Dammit!

Boredom has a high price. Without unrestricted access to the AMEX card, I am left to my own devices. I have attempted arts and crafts to fill my empty hours. I have watched endless episodes of reality TV. I have purged the closets and steamed the carpets. I have painted walls. I have installed wallpaper. I am over it. I am considering prank calls and ding-dong-ditching to amuse myself. I will not, under any circumstances, be plucking my own eyebrows again. The tweezers did fill an hour of idle time, but the results were disastrous. Now I have to go buy an eyebrow pencil to fill in the space where my eyebrows used to be. If you add up all the money I have had to spend in an effort not to spend money I could have easily financed at least a few of the many things that make me happy.

Here is the new plan: I am disconnecting the cable, living with white walls and dirty carpet, giving up stenciling and faux painting forever. I will never buy another storage container. Forget the eyebrow pencil; I do not mind looking startled until my eyebrows grow back. I am reallocating these funds to the shopping budget. Brilliant! I should run for office.

What does SJP have to do with all this? Carrie went and re-decorated her apartment, that's what.
Years of interior mediocrity and now this!


Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Don't Try This At Home

On my way to an appointment with a client yesterday, I passed a small cemetery with a hand written sign that said: "Internment is not allowed without prior permission".

What does this mean, exactly?
If Aunt Dotty tips over dead at Sunday brunch, you cannot bury her yourself?
Does someone really need to tell us these things?
Do we not already know we are unqualified? More importantly, why does this not stop us?
Why do we believe that we can be our own Attorneys, General Contractors, Beauticians, and even, apparently, Undertakers?
Some things are best left to professionals.
Take Microwave Hot Wax for instance.
Do not try this at home!



Monday, June 2, 2008

Google Error 505

My computer skills are on par with my cooking skills. Anyone who has had the pleasure of attending a dinner party at the New Digs can attest that the dessert of choice at my house is Vanilla Ice Cream with Pepto-Bismol sauce.

I think that this is a brilliant solution for two potential problems. First, a little Pepto can prevent the heartburn that will almost certainly accompany any main course on my menu. Second, Pepto is a sure cure for a hangover. I am nothing if not resourceful.

After spending the better part of an hour trying to compose another serving of deep fried literary drek for your consumption, I am giving up and ordering pizza. Domino's to be more precise. I am shutting down the laptop and spending the next hour with this month’s double issue of Domino Magazine and a bottle of Pepto Bismol.
I think it might make a good coffee creamer.

I swear if I see "Google Error 505" one more time, I will flambé this blog .
I would like to R.S.V.P. for tomorrow.


Sunday, June 1, 2008

I Am Sorry I Called You A Doo-Doo Head

It seems that lately I am apologizing a lot. I don't know if that is because I am doing or saying more things that need apologizing for, or because the people I hang out with are big whiny babies who get their "yittle feewengs" hurt too easily. Either way, I keep apologizing.

I have two great regrets in life. (Two that I want to mention, anyway). The first one is: I can't sing. I would give almost anything to be able to sing like Patsy Cline. If the devil would offer me the Robert Johnson deal, I would take it in a minute. Where do I sign?

My second regret is that I am not nice. I am practical. I am logical. If you need a plan, I am the person to call. If you are looking for sympathy or tenderness, you have the wrong number. I do have moments of kindness, but I am not nice. I admire nice people. I wish I could be nice.
I want to be nice, Dammit!

I want to be the girl that other girls want to dish with. I have never been that girl. I am the girl you don't want to piss off. I am the girl that will tell you your boyfriend is a louse and you are better off without him. I will offer to help you plot your revenge. I will mix you a strong cocktail, then tell you to get over it. I don't have it in me to say "I know how you feel", or "Everything happens for a reason" and mean it. Meaning it is the hard part. I have no interest in faux nice. I want to be genuinely nice.

Today is June first. The half way point for 2008. Six months ago I made a New Year's Resolution: "I will be nice, no matter what". It lasted two days. I was doing just fine. I was avoiding conflict. I was the poster girl for anger management, then some dumb ass pissed me off -and that was that.
I have decided to try again. This time I am setting the bar slightly lower. The year is half over. (I guess in the spirit of optimism I should say, "I still have half the year to go"). My new resolution is: "I will be half way nice, no matter what". Starting now...

I am sorry I called you a Doo-Doo Head. I understand why being called a Doo-Doo Head might upset you.

By the way, I love your shoes. I had some just like that two years ago.

I only committed to half nice.