Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Progress at the New Digs is at a standstill. Today I realized that I haven't picked up a paintbrush in weeks. I have to say I don't miss it. I do miss the buzz from the Kilz Primer a little. Blowing technicolor snot for days after using the spray gun, I would just as soon forget. Basically, I have been sitting around like the big old Buffy Butterballbutt that I am, waiting for the spirit to move me. So far the spirit has not moved me past the freezer where the Ben and Jerry's is stored.
My office, the office that was one of the major reasons I chose the New Digs as the new T.E.A. World Headquarters, is still a blank canvas. I managed to install the "Frames" wallpaper (Which was a sight to behold) but that's it. Reality TV called and I answered. Who needs a home office anyway? I don't like to work. Work takes effort. Ice cream does not require effort. You don't even have to chew.
This is the only room that is done. Not done well, but done for now. Good enough. The best I could do considering my bad attitude and apparent vitamin deficiency.
I have decided that starting tomorrow I will stock up on Geritol. I will change my attitude. I will climb back on the ladder with a paintbrush in my hand. There may be a pint of Chunky Monkey in the other but, hey, change takes time. When the dust settles, when the technicolor snot is just a faded memory, the executive office at T.E.A World headquarters will be transformed.
With any luck it will bear some resemblance to any or all of these photos of fabulous spaces. (Which I think came from Domino but I am not sure-Sorry, Sorry, Sorry)
All of this talk about work is exhausting. I am taking an ice cream break while I watch Project Runway. On the off chance that I get off my ass and actually do something. If perhaps I can tear myself away from the television long enough to go to the Home Depot. When (If ever) there is progress. I will report back. All I need now is a little good luck and no brain freezes.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
What Can Brown Do For Me? Mind your own damn business. That is what. Is it necessary to comment on the contents of the packages you deliver to me at my office?
Do you think this is appropriate? I should have said something when you criticized my patronage of Overstock.com. Is it any business of yours where I do my Christmas shopping? I enjoy the “O” OK?
I let the tacky remark about E-Bay slide. What is this snobbery? Do all the packages delivered to you come from Neiman's?
It is none of your business what I have ordered from Amazon. I assure you it is the convenience and not the subject matter that prompted my order.
Do I say anything about your ugly shorts? No, No I do not. Have I ever mentioned the unfortunate black sock and sensible shoe combination? Who are you, Andre Leon Talley, the freight carriers fashion editor at large? For your information, Bluefly has cute accessories occasionally, but thanks for the advice. The Victoria’s Secret package was a gift. I saw that look on your face.
I am as “green” as the next girl is. I care about the polar ice caps. I believe global warming is real. I even recycle my packing peanuts for Gods sake. Your insinuation that I was buying environmentally hazardous flowers grown overseas is was unwarranted. Leave my carbon footprints and me alone. After you left, I cracked the top on a bottle of water and enjoyed every drop. If it is your desire to save the world, I suggest you join Pamela Anderson in her effort to protect chickens from the clutches of Colonel Sanders. There must be at least one KFC on your route. Right?
Today you crossed the line. Today was the last straw. For your information, just because a package is wrapped in plain brown paper with no return address does not mean what you obviously think it means! Shame on you. Is that what prompted the dinner invitation?
Oh, you will be sorry. You just wait. I paid extra for 2nd day air just so I could see you schlep the 20 cartons of legal size copy paper up the front steps to my office. The only thing sweeter will be the look on your face when you see the return authorization slip. The realization that you have to carry all 20 cartons back down the steps? The best part.
By the way, I would so go out with the Fed-EX guy.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
I hated kindergarten. I was one of the unfortunate children assigned to the "Mustard Door". The mustard and ketchup doors were the clever idea of a well meaning teacher to help stupid five year olds remember where to go after their parents abandoned them in the school parking lot. A stupid idea, because all five year olds know that ketchup is superior to mustard. If you are in the mustard class you must be retarded or something. Mustard is lame.
Mrs. Falen was my kindergarten teacher. She did not like me any better than I liked her. The first day I arrived at school (After Christmas break I was a transfer student. Lucky Mrs. Falen) I concocted a plan to convince my teacher and classmates I was deaf. I wanted them to leave me the hell alone. I smuggled my transistor radio in my coat pocket. I plugged in the earphone to simulate a hearing aid and responded only in sign language. This worked for about an hour until Mrs. F confirmed that I was not a “special needs” child and was, in fact, in the correct classroom. Bad news for both of us.
Every morning Big Judes (My Mom) would drag me kicking and screaming up the stairs of Crestview Elementary School, through the mustard door, to Kindergarten hell. She tried to abandon me in the parking lot once with strict orders to follow the other sheep to my classroom. When her big white Plymouth was out of sight, I started the two-mile walk home. I was found and returned to school. Big Judes never did that again. I would guess it is uncomfortable to explain to school administrators why your child called them "varmints" and demanded to be returned to "Granny's place in Dodge City before the last stage".
Most days I refused to participate in anything. No sing-a-longs at the piano. No dry graham crackers and apple juice. No tempera paint. Didn't these people understand I was not supposed to be here? After weeks of boring mornings with the mustard kids, Mrs. Falen announced that we were all going to make “What I Want to Be When I Grow Up” posters for the upcoming school open house. Finally! A project I could relate to. I knew exactly what I wanted to be! A Cowboy.
My Old Granny would smear my face with Vaseline and rub coffee grounds on my cheeks for whiskers. I rode the range of my neighborhood with my chrome plated six shooters and jangling spurs. I had a stick horse named Ruth (After Festus’s mule on Gunsmoke). I bushwhacked girls on the sidewalk playing hopscotch. I let a whole pen of rabbits loose at the neighbor’s house so Ruth and I could practice roping and riding. The cowboy life was the life for me.
I created a stunning illustration of Ruth and me robbing a bank. (Did I mention I did not aspire to be the cowboy with a white hat?). I wrote my name in purple crayon. I could not wait to show my parents my masterpiece. They would be so proud.
When Mrs. Falen saw my poster, she looked concerned. She called me to her desk. “Tobi, please tell me about your poster. What do you want to be when you grow up?” I looked at her with concern. What was this lady's problem? “A Cowboy” I replied.
Mrs. F: “Tobi, you are a girl.”
T: (Blank stare)
Mrs. F: “Girls cannot be Cowboys. Girls can be Nurses, or Teachers. Or, Mommies. Don’t you think it would be nice to be a Mommy? Why don’t you look at what the other girls are drawing and give it another try? How does that sound?”
I did “give it another try.” I decided that if I could not be a cowboy I would be Miss Kitty at the Long Branch Saloon. Miss Kitty was a girl. Right?
If I could not be a cowboy, then I would be a childless whisky-drinking prostitute. I would dye my hair red and rouge my cheeks. I would have a secret affair with a cowboy for twenty years without benefit of marriage. Take that Mrs. Falen.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
I did manage to check out all of my favorite blogs. A violation of the rules, but enjoyable nonetheless. First, I went to Petunia Face. Susannah had not posted yet either, which made me totally happy, because now I had an excuse to waste a little more of my one hour. I probably would have felt at least a little guilty if she had already turned in another one of her hilarious essays while I was eating donuts. She had not (bless her heart). I re-read yesterday’s post, and moved on to the ever fab M21 and Decorno. After that, a décor post was out of the question, because, really? What could I say that they have not said better?
I know Karey at Mackin Ink is away on vacation but that did not stop me. The lucky LIL’ Bee is getting her buzz on in Florida. Good to know, yes? The Drunken Housewife is having a bit less fun at Martha’s Vineyard. Dad Gone Mad is back from Vegas. Are you detecting a theme here? After a little searching, I came up with this. The StarLux Hotel on the Jersey shore. This might make an interesting entry. Who wouldn’t love a humidity infused week in an Airstream trailer complete with a Bar-B Que grill and metal lawn chairs? On second thought, I wouldn't. Scratch the StarLux.
At this point, my hour was almost over. There was no need to rush. I took the opportunity to visit Bluestreak in Spain, L in Pittsburgh, Melissa in Utah and Simple Answer who is on her way to Jordan. The whirlwind trip ended with a shower but, still nothing to write.
Nothing rant worthy occurred at the office. At lunch I went to Citizen Of the Month where Neil (Who is in New York visiting his mother) has a brilliant Interview Experiment in progress. I suggest you check it out. Please do not mention Levi’s Dockers while you are there, as Neil’s hair may catch on fire and I certainly would not want to be responsible. The trip to New York made me homesick. I went to Barb’s at FosterDesignHouse in Kansas. Barb has no idea how lucky she is that I am five hundred miles away and will not be able to attend the scrap party at her house next month. Another hour had passed with no blog post.
Surprisingly the drive home from work was uneventful (No flying refrigerators). No fodder for a snarky diatribe (shit). I called BFSK S. (Best friend since kindergarten) she is always good for some inspiration. What I came away with was some enlightening information on the anal glands of Toy Poodles. Umm..Nothing exciting about anal glands. No luck there.
Mr. Fussy Pants (My OCD, ADD Boss) called six times after work with orders of wireless verbal abuse for me to carry out. It only took about ten minutes to make his newest Realtor cry and hang up on me. I had more free time to work on my blog post. I thought about crafting a humorous entry about sniveling Realtors, but, seriously? This is not newsworthy.
I had a few minutes to catch up at kirtsy before Ashley Paige Bikini Or Bust (Who I totally expected to hate but surprisingly do not). came on TLC. I am interested in the recent BlogHer event even though I would never attend. It would only reaffirm my social ineptitude, my lack of writing skills and my poor fashion choices. I must say however, that after seeing this, my wardrobe looks a little more acceptable. Anyway, this article caught my eye, which led me here, which made me laugh aloud. Then I remembered Old House Junkies gentle reminder that I had resolved to be nicer. I quickly clicked away and silently apologized for my indiscretion (After bookmarking the site). I felt compelled to see for myself how someone would react to being publicly called out by the Madonna of the blogosphere (Note, that I did not say Jesus or Santa Claus) I must say I was impressed.
(edited to add: After re-reading this, I think it sounds way bitchier than intended. The point was supposed to be that in my opinion, a conference for women, about women, should be memorable for things other than those listed above, as I am sure that it was. I just didn't see those posts. My apologies)
After Ashley Paige, I attempted to finish another chapter in the horrid summer novel (which shall remain nameless) I am struggling to finish. I have a personal rule that I must read any book I start to the end-- No matter what. This is my third poor choice of the summer. I briefly considered a post asking all of my readers (both of you) to suggest a GOOD book. I decided my fragile ego could not handle the possibility that no one would respond. Scratch the reading list post.
If I had a cute kid or a dog that was not black, (she does not show up in pictures). I could have copped out and posted a photo with a quippy caption just to get it over with, already. I envy Mommy bloggers and Naked Jen because they have cute kids and interesting pets. Me, not so much. I briefly considered a naked photo of myself but quickly scrapped the idea. I cannot do that to you.
At 11:45 PM, I gave up. Color me orange. The clock is about to strike Midnight. There will be no tales of Wicked Step-Mothers or Fairy Godmothers or Prince Hotty –Pants Charming today. I will be back sweeping cinders amongst pumpkins and mice with my crappy novel and cable TV. Thank you all, for letting me spend a day with you. I enjoyed my summer vacation.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
I like being a girl. It does irritate me that my dry cleaning, hair cuts, and deodorant cost more because of my gender, but I deal with it.
Mastering the art of walking in heels, the proper application technique for eyeliner, and remembering to keep my legs crossed when wearing dresses are issues I still struggle with, but we all have our crosses to bear.
Five minutes after I pulled out of the driveway at the New Digs, I had to pee. ( Dammit). Fifteen minutes after that, I really had to pee.
I turned to diversionary techniques. Multiplication tables. State Capitals. Leg shaking. Lamaze breathing. No good. Time to bargain with the bladder. An internal dialogue that goes something like this:
T: “You can do this! Not much farther, Keep up the good work!”
Bladder: “STOP THE CAR.”
T: “Yes! Yes, you can. Be positive. We will be there soon. I promise.”
Bladder: “STOP THE CAR.”
T: “Did you know the capital of Idaho is Boise? Do you know how I remember that? Boy’s eat Idaho potatoes. Clever, yes?”
Bladder: “STOP THE FUCKING CAR.”
T: “I cannot stop the car. We are on the freeway. We cannot pee on the freeway. SHUT UP!”
Bladder: “PEE IN A CUP. “
T: “Are you insane? I will do no such thing.”
Bladder: “PEE HERE. PEE NOW. PEE ON THE FREEWAY. PEE UP A ROPE. PEE IN YOUR PANTS. JUST PEEPEEPEEEPEE…”
T: “Calm down! I do not think I need to remind you we are a girl. We do not have the luxury of peeing any damn place we feel like it. We will never be able to feign a car problem and pee on the highway. We will not write our name with pee in the snow. We are not destined to pee in a beer bottle while driving at seventy miles an hour. We must sit down to pee! Please, I am begging, wait a few more minutes.”
Bladder: “PEE! PEE! PEE! PEE!...”
I am pleased to report I made it to the parking lot of Fussy & Bitchy Inc. I hurdled the front steps in my heels like a track star. I kept my legs tightly crossed while fumbling for the key to the door. In spite of the improperly applied eyeliner running down my cheeks (from crying the last ten blocks of the trip). I was able to open the door and punch my code into the alarm.
Wrong code (shit). Three attempts later, the alarm was blaring and the phone was ringing (shit).
Bladder: “DO NOT ANSWER THAT PHONE!”
T: “I have to. It is the police.”
T: “Hello, Fussy & Bitchy Inc.?”
Dispatcher: “We have an alarm call. What is your emergency?”
T: “I have to pee!”
Bladder: “PEE NOW! PEENOW! PEENOW! “
T: “Umm, No emergency I forgot my code. Sorry.”
Bladder: “NOW NOW NOW…”
Dispatcher: “What is the password?”
Bladder: “GOGOGOGO! PEEPEEPEEPEE!”
Dispatcher: “Without the password, I cannot cancel the police call.”
T: “The lone eagle flies at night?
Dispatcher: “Maa'm the police are on their way.”
T: “Fine, Whatever—Send the National Guard and the Dog Catcher for all I care-- I have to pee!“
Down the hall to the right, I made it. Hallejfuckinglujah!
T: (sits down to pee) “Well we're here! Pee already!”
Bladder: “You know I can’t pee with the door open!”
T: “Oh, for the love of God! You are explaining this to the police!”
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Usually, that is, until today.
Today all of the incoming lines were ringing at once. I was the only person available. The phone rang. I answered it.
Me: “Fussy and Bitchy Mortgage Associates, how may I help you?
Telemarketer: Can I speak to the person in charge of marketing?
Telemarketer: “Excuse me?”
Me: “Did you fart?”
Me: “You’re excused. You farted remember? You’re excused.”
Telemarketer: “Who is this?”
Me: “You may address me as Your Majesty”
Telemarketer: “Very funny, who is this? What is your name? Your real name!”
Me: “Elizabeth-- Elizabeth Windsor,”
Telemarketer: “Do you call yourself a professional?”
Me: “Me? No! I may be promiscuous, but I assure you I am no professional. You sir, are the solicitor, not I.”
Telemarketer: “Let me speak to your supervisor.”
Telemarketer: “I’ll call back.”
Me: “Can’t wait! Tah-Tah…”
Minutes later the phone rings, Fussy answers. I hear Mr. Pants say “Rude? Really? No, there is no one here named Elizabeth. I assure you, I will check in to it”
Fussy screams from his office “Which one of you was rude to Bob The (I Sell a Lot of Houses) Realtor when he called a few minutes ago?"
Me: "Don't look at me, I am not allowed to answer the phone."
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
A fish pedicure? Apparently tiny carp nibble away at the knarly toes of salon clients.
I am giving up sushi forever.
There is so much more I could say about this, but I am late for my man-of-war facial.
Monday, July 21, 2008
It has come to my attention (Due to the unfortunate placement of a full-length mirror adjacent to the shower at the New Digs) that you have not been yourself lately. You seem down. (Way down, like to my knees down) How long has this been going on? Have I just been too preoccupied to notice? It is obvious you are not your old perky self. (Old yes, perky, no).
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Until medical marijuana is approved for shopping disorders this is the only thing keeping me from being institutionalized.
God Bless You Colonel Sanders wherever you are and God Bless your secret herbs and spices.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
The lawsuit came as surprise when it was filed in 2001. "Barbie has never been the jealous or vindictive type." said Barbie's friend Midge. The Bratz girls called the lawsuit frivolous at the time, but it turns out Barbie and the Bratz do have the same Daddy. Barbie could be cashing in on her share of the family fortune as soon as July 23 when the case enters the damages phase.
Babs did not respond to repeated requests for comments yesterday (because her mouth is fused shut). It is rumored that Barbie has given notice to her employers at the Airline, NASA, Elementary School, Dental Practice, Doctors Office, Olympic Committee, and Professional Sports Teams, where she works, saying that she will be leaving and has plans to go back to her carefree lifestyle of shoe shopping and international jet setting.
Friday, Ken (Barbie’s former long time companion) told reporters He “always knew Barbie was a bitch” but no one would believe him. During their thirty plus year relationship Ken was accused of being a free loader who stayed with Barbie because she was a good cook and let him drive her Jeep. Ken went on to say "that in light of Barbie’s recent windfall," he was consulting his attorneys "about the possibility of a Palimony Suit."
The Bratz had no comment, but a representative released a statement telling the American Girls to quote, “Watch your Ass”
Friday, July 18, 2008
I must admit I was a little disappointed with his reaction to my "Dear John" announcement. Instead of the torrent of man tears and promises of large sparkling engagement rings, what I got sounded a lot like an involuntary snort followed by a snide "Let me know how that works out for you." He is putting up a brave front.
The first step on my marketing plan is a classified ad. I am using the above example as my model. With a few adjustments, I am positive I will have suitors lined up at the door of the New Digs.
If a Labrador Retriever can get a date, I should have no problems.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
The following post should be read while humming the tune of "Memories" by Barbara Streisand for maximum effect. If you are too young to remember this particular selection, or if you are old enough to remember, but have never suffered the devastating effects of a tragic curly permanent, you may have a hard time relating to this particular rant.
If, on the other hand, you can recall Babs at her finest. If, perchance, you did survive the deadly self-esteem crushing side effects of the dreaded curly perm. On the off chance that you suffered cosmetological abuse at the hands of a well intentioned mother, who enlisted the services of your otherwise loving grandmother, to tie you to a vinyl covered chrome kitchen chair with a dish towel, then proceed to wrap each of your virgin baby hairs individually in pink plastic thorn studded perm rods, after which, without ceremony, the evil duo doused your 50 lb. head with an ammonia infused concoction commonly known as the "Lilt Home Permanent" without benefit of the recommended allergy patch test. Then you, my friend, have come to the right place.
Today is the day, the anniversary of my birth. The number? Too high to speak of. Let us just say it would be a handsome sum if deposited in to a checking account. No ground pawing horse, or piano playing chicken could scratch out these digits for enthralled crowds at the carnival. If my age were an altitude, it could cause a nosebleed. If the ascent from a depth of this number were too swift, the result would be a horrid case of the bends and many painful hours spent in a hyperbaric oxygen chamber. We are talking OLD here people.
The only thing keeping me from microwaving my head today is a lovely dark chocolate, fudge truffle, birthday cake adorned with fresh strawberries. Thankfully, the pristine pastry was delivered sans those pesky little beacons of impending Alzheimer’s disease commonly known as birthday candles. There was also a family sized box of Kleenex tissues instead of the traditional “over the hill” cocktail napkins. This indeed was my saving grace. Thank you, BFSK S.(Best friend since kindergarten ) for thinking of everything. It would be inconsiderate of me to off myself before enjoying a good cry, and at least half of the 10,000-calorie consolation prize.
Did I forget to mention the beautiful (and honking big) jeweled necklace that accompanied the cake? This too is a reason for living. Not only because I fully intend to flaunt it in the face of Sugar Daddy (the boyfriend formerly known as doo-doo head) who will naturally assume it was a token of love from my “other” boyfriend, ( a notion I will not dispel until after he has changed tonight’s dinner reservation to a much more expensive locale, and perhaps even made an emergency call to the florist for at least a dozen pink roses) but also, because the addition of the blinding gem to my décolletage will detract attention from my double chins and bulldog jowls.
I have decided to allow myself two more hours to mourn the passing of my youth; I will forgive Big Judes (my Mom) for the Orphan Annie experience. I will also forgive her for laughing aloud at the tragic results of the Lilt fiasco and shearing my head into a “pixie cut” which caused total strangers to address me as Tiger, or Sport, and point me in the direction of the boy’s restroom when asked for assistance.
Because I am trying my best to be a “good daughter” I will call Big Judes to thank her for the check that arrived on time, as expected, as usual, because Big Judes is the “Crazy Holiday Lady” and because for reasons not entirely clear to me she chooses to count my birthday as a reason to celebrate, along with Bastille Day and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr's. birthday, in spite of my shortcomings, and I am thankful.
Then there is this:
“ Yes I am your friend!!! Remember I'm the BFSK S! It's been a long time and many miles we have traveled..good and bad but what a journey! Would not have wanted to the the journey with anyone else but YOU!”
The message I received in my inbox this morning in response to yesterdays self indulgent post entitled “That’s What Friends Are For”. I will thank S. too. I will not point out the fact that she comments privately instead of on the blog that desperately lacks comments, or that if she would ever comment publicly it would dispel the rumor that she is my “imaginary friend”. I won’t bring up the typo, because after all, who am I to criticize? I am sure her vision was clouded with emotion, besides there is no spell check necessary between friends. I know exactly what she means.
Ditto, Cabbage Head.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Before anyone jumps to the obvious conclusion that this touching and heartfelt, tribute is really a blatant attempt to extort birthday gifts with underhanded tactics. I want to reassure you. That is only partially true. I do want fabulous gifts and I have prepared a list to assist you in your selections, but I do these things for you, because you are my friends.
There are many things I would do willingly (for the most part) for each, and every one of you. If you were ever in jail, I would bail you out. I could not appear at the police station personally, (for reasons I do not care to discuss) but I would send Bubba the bail bondsman on my behalf. All I need is your Master Card number.
If you are ever sad, I will cheer you up. I will tell you funny stories about how loud you snore, or the hilarious things you talk about in your sleep. I could even show you the cell phone pictures I took of you last time you passed out on the bathroom floor.
If you are feeling fat or unattractive I will reassure you that your face is not nearly as puffy as it was a few weeks ago, and the dark circles under your eyes are hardly noticeable.
If you are having problems in your new relationship, I will remind you of all the losers you have dated in the past. You got over all of them, right?
I would give you the shirt off my back, as long as it was not my favorite shirt.
I promise next time I will recognize the international sign for choking and find someone that knows the Heimlich maneuver sooner.
There are no limits to my kindness and generosity when it comes to my friends. I am hopeful that tomorrow you will feel the same way.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Here is what happened regarding the fateful Umbrella post. On the morning in question, I found myself reading a perfectly charming and informational post by Lil Bee about the Morton Salt girl. A blatant violation of “Tobi’s attempt to make 100 posts in 100 days, even if they are crappy, rules”. Rule number one in the self-imposed guideline states: “You (Tobi) only have one hour to post something moderately interesting on this blog. Failure to produce said post in the one hour time frame will result in going to work un-showered, which is unacceptable, so do not read any other charming and informational blogs before work”. There are other rules, but they apply to things like ice cream and brownies before 9:00 AM, and are not germane to this lame explanation.
When I saw the Morton Salt girl, it immediately reminded me of Debbie Kerner. Debbie Kerner was a blonde headed, pain in the ass tattletale, who never had a wrinkle in her Blue Bird uniform or Cheetos sludge on her math homework. Debbie Kerner always had both of her mittens when it snowed, a hairbrush in her desk that was not caked with modeling clay or Elmer’s Glue, and most irritatingly, an umbrella when it rained.
I terrorized Debbie Kerner relentlessly from grades K-4. The only reason I stopped was because her mother (who is apparently a tattletale herself) called Big Judes (my Mom) and told her some far-fetched tale about a poisoned lemon drop. (For the record: glitter is not toxic, and the intent was to make her barf, not kill her). Big Judes, after hearing the exaggerated tale of attempted pre-meditated murder, threatened to give my new purple Schwinn “Lil’Chik” bicycle, with the silver banana seat, to Lithuanian orphans unless I agreed to lay off Debbie Kerner. I agreed and moved on to charging neighborhood children ten cents to ride in the clothes dryer in our garage. I covered said dryer with flowered sheets and billed the concussion-inducing ride as an “acid trip”. That is right, for the low low price of ten cents (fifteen if you wanted the door left open), you could take your first acid trip at the tender age of seven in my garage on Mission Avenue. Thankfully, Big Judes never found out about that little enterprise.
Debbie Kerner is not the only umbrella girl I have encountered in my life. There have been many. I have loathed them all equally. To be an umbrella girl you must be all the things I am not. One must be organized. I usually have trouble finding two matching shoes in the morning, let alone an umbrella. Umbrella girls must be coordinated. Maneuvering with a handbag, coffee cup, and umbrella is out of the question for me. I would put someone’s eye out. Umbrella girls are pro-active and thoughtful, having the umbrella in the right place at the right time and remembering where you put it last is impossible as far as I am concerned. Owning an umbrella would only remind me of my shortcomings, and Debbie Kerner.
As for the prozac part of the post? Thank you, for the loving reminder that there is no shame in seeking professional help. I hope this explanation helps clear up any misunderstandings about the state of my mental health but, seriously what do you want from me in twenty minutes? I really needed a shower.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Saturday, July 12, 2008
One might wonder if officers at the Lake Worth Texas Police Department were already high when Christian Philips , an 18 year old from nearby Watauga, dropped off a batch of homemade cookies for Mothers Against Drunk Driving at the police station last week. Philips was delivering the cookies for MADD to complete his required community service hours for an incident at a party in Watauga earlier in the year.
"No good deed goes unpunished" is apparently the motto at the Lake Worth P.D. Philips was arrested, charged with tampering with a consumer product and held on a 75 thousand dollar bond. Aside from being in jail, the teenagers face was flashed across media outlets around the country in what was clearly a rush to judgment. As it turns out the cookies did not contain drugs of any kind, only chocolate chips.
Approximately three days later Philips was released from jail with the apologies of the Lake Worth Police Department. Further evidence that you "Don't Mess With Texas"
Friday, July 11, 2008
Apparently, Miss. Muffet and I have something in common. An affinity for curds and whey, you wonder? No (What the hell is curds and whey, anywhey?). Never mind. That is not the bond we share. Spiders. Spiders like us. They sit down beside us. And, in my case, they bite.
The side effects of spider bites are unpleasant at best. I will spare you the gory details of the half-dollar-sized, oozing, blistered, necrotic lesion in the middle of my stomach. Although it is pretty, it is the headache, nausea, and dizziness that make the whole experience an event to remember.
I swear I must have been bitten by a tarantula. If I did not feel so utterly horrible, I would be spraying the New Digs from top to bottom with caustic chemicals to rid the place of all eight legged creatures-- both real and imagined.
I felt like a weenie when I called Dr. Feelgood, (my family doctor) for an appointment. Who has to go to the doctor for an insect bite? The sarcastic receptionist confirmed my three o’clock reservation (And my assumption that I am a weenie) to “have the doctor take a look at my boo-boo.” As if most appointments she books are for heart transplants? I was too weak to fight back.
One and one half hours of outdated Time magazine articles in a retro 70’s style waiting room full of stinky old people later, it was finally my turn to see the good doctor. The nurse who took me back to the exam room suggested we stop at the scale for a weigh in, which I weakly, but politely declined.
“I feel bad enough already. My obesity has nothing to do with my misfortune”.
Once we established that throwing away my bathroom scale had been, in fact, a bad idea, she left me alone in the exam room.
I sat on the exam table feverish and miserable swatting away invisible spiders for another thirty minutes. Dr. FG entered the exam room and asked a few routine questions. I was pleased with myself for answering every one correctly and coherently. “I passed the test-- now give me drugs before I die!” It seems the doctor had other plans.
Dr. FG- “Ok, Let’s see it.”
T. - “It?”
Dr. FG- “I need to see the bite.”
T. – “Sorry, I can’t do that. I just need a prescription.”
DR FG- “I can’t treat you unless you show me the problem.”
T. – “But, I already told you it was gross. What else do you need to know?”
Dr. FG- “Why don’t you want me to look at it?”
T.-“Because it is ugly and because it is July and I have been eating Ben and Jerry’s Ice cream all summer and I have not once exposed the dimpled flesh of my abdomen to the sun so it is the color of uncooked chicken and my birthday is next week and I am a little insecure about getting older and if your face registers even the slightest hint of revulsion I seriously believe that I may have to be hospitalized for anxiety, so really it would be best if you just handed over the drugs before my head explodes, don’t you think? “
Dr. FG- “Show it to me.”
T. – “Fine dammit.” (I averted my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see the look on his face).
Dr. FG- “Well it does look like a spider bite, without pathology there is really no way to know for sure. There is another possibility…
T. - Possibility? What possibility? Oh, my God Possibility. Of. What!?” (I think I have mentioned my propensity for hypochondria before).
Dr. FG- “Because of the location, it makes me wonder if you have shingles. If this spreads to the lower quadrant then we will know that it is not a spider.
Seriously? After the good doctor informed me that shingles were most common “in patients over sixty,” I think I blacked out. And the "lower quadrant?" -- Surely, he was not suggesting!
Dr. FG- "Are you under stress? Stress can cause shingles"
T.- Under stress? Let's see, I have a gaping wound on my aging body that could spread to my lower quadrant. I am apparently overweight. My house is infested with spiders. I have been swatting at imaginary insects for three days. I have a fever, my head hurts and I may have a disease that usually afflicts people(almost) twice my age. To top it all off my birthday is next week. You tell me!
Dr. FG- Happy Birthday.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Do not adjust your monitors Dear Readers your eyes do not deceive you. This is in fact the very same loveliness featured on the hallowed pages of Maison 21. If you are skeptical, have a little look-see for yourself. I will be more than happy to wait for your return.
Now then, it seems M21 (I hope he does not mind the term of endearment, he is after all my "My design blog idol "as I am sure you are by now all aware). Anyway, it seems he had mixed feelings about his attraction to the vidalia-adorned monstrosity.
I however had no such reservations. I was in love from the moment I laid eyes. The shiny glitz of it all was almost more than I could bear. I SO wanted to be the first to voice my whole hearted approval in the comments section of his blog, however I am trying my best not to stalk, so I refrained. In addition, I do find the dandy chandy the tiniest bit phallic (Am I the only one?) so I thought saying I wanted to lick it may have been in poor taste.
As if one post about the "Moscow Mafioso" were not enough, imagine my delight when I saw this yesterday. Well now as you can see not only did the esteemed House Of Beauty And Culture fashion a stunning cyber space using the object of my desire, but M himself whipped up a little Moscow marvelousness.
When our talented host at Maison 21 invited bloggers to design their own bordello Ala liberacesque vignettes, how could I not? Besides, I have no shame. So without further ado (or ass kissing). I present to you "Moscow on the Trinity" my dream space, if the New Digs were in St. Petersburg, I was an old hooker and money were no object.
Before we start, do your best to picture me in the middle of all the fabulousness that is to come in my mink and cashmere robe from Bergdorf Goodman. A mere pittance at $6,500. I am aware that price dropping is tacky, but this is my fantasy.
Now for the tour:
Let us start at the top. Beautifully embellished ceilings. Custom painted murals replete with angels or cherubs or some such. The perfect backdrop, no?
The floors? Marble mosaic of course.
Look who it is! Arielle. Mermaids are always in vogue aren't they?
The settee is french, savvy designer types may question my choice, but once again it is my fantasy.
It just keeps getting better. What is this you ask? Quite simply, the mother of all bathtubs Available on E-Bay of all places. Who knew?
But wait, where else would a commode like this be more appropriate? No place, that is where. (Thank you, Kirtsy for the inspiration)
Finally (I'm sure you are relieved) the accessories vodka and caviar.
There you have it. Moscow On The Trinity. Sadly, I have no designer pedigree attached to my name so my services are not available to the Liberace loving public, but I am almost certain I can hold my own with the pros.
If all goes well very soon this over sized gilt framed wedding portrait of yours truly (It is not really me but she does look a little Ivanaish don't you think?) and my Russian mail order groom Boris, will make the perfect finishing touch.
So how did I do?
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Thank you for your time and attention,
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Yesterday a client brought her child with her to an appointment at my office. Usually, children and mortgage applications are a recipe for hell. I swore silently when I saw them. I will admit that my tolerance for naughty children is low. My tolerance for people in general is low, so please do not assume I am a child hater. I just do not like them at my office.
When my client (We will call her Mrs. Laleche League) walked through the door with her daughter, I swear I heard trumpets sound. This child was an angel. Angelina Laleche looked to be around seven years old. She was charming, and well mannered, as well as gorgeous.
Angelina used all the proper please's and thank- you's, the yes Sir's and no maam's like a pro. I was impressed. Within minutes of her arrival, Angelina had attracted a crowd. Even Mr. Fussy Pants (my ADD, OCD boss) was smitten. She was offered candy and soda, which she politely declined. She handled the inane attempts of adults to make kid conversation with aplomb.
For over an hour Angelina sat quietly drawing pictures. (That I must say showed a flair for the artistic). Not once did she whine or complain. Angelina's behavior made me rethink my opinions of parents who bring children under ten to public places.
At the end of our appointment, I excused myself to prepare copies of the paperwork for Mrs. Laleche League. I smiled at Angelina as I left the office. She returned the smile with a 100-watt grin of her own. "I love this kid" I thought to myself.
As I left the office, I heard Angelina say "Mommy?" Mrs. Laleche League responded, "Yes Honey?" Angelina then replied, "I can't wait to get out of this dump!"
Monday, July 7, 2008
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
Now I am not so cool. The cool bus left the station without me. When you have to tell people that you were cool, that means you are not cool anymore. Now I am more quirky than cool. My eccentricities are not as trendsetting as they once were. There are days that I could blend seamlessly into a crowd of soccer moms (Or mental patients on a day pass, depending on my mood).
The truth is I have always been a dork. My cool chick persona was crafted to cover my dork-like tendencies. At thirteen, I was reading Sylvia Plath and writing angst-filled poetry in my diary. I even called it a diary and addressed each entry as such. Dorky.
The cassette player in my VW blasted Mötley Crüe at ear piercing decibels, but at home, I preferred Broadway musical soundtracks. I listened to NPR and watched Jeopardy after school. Really dorky.
Now that I am old and exhausted I have decided to give up the cool facade altogether. As of today, I am letting my dork flag fly. I am publicly admitting that I look for comfort before beauty when it comes to all things fashion. I own hair scrunchies and I do not remove them after I wash my face. I still sing show tunes (usually only in the kitchen after several cocktails, but still) the number one station programmed into my car radio is NPR. I do not own an I-pod. I do not have a Myspace or Facebook page. I do have a profile on twitter but I am not sure what the hell it is for. Who cares what I am doing right now? I am a dork.
When naps and houndstooth are in style I will be cool again.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Who's always smiling, never sad? It's Whizzo! Who makes the boys and girls so glad, Whizzo.
He's a merry fellow with a big red shiny nose, Dressed in crazy mixed up clothes From his head down to his toes...
I am quite certain that no one sets out to raise an ax murderer. Sometimes it just works out that way. Sometimes the most loving, well-intentioned parents produce sociopaths despite their best efforts. Society holds mothers completely responsible for everything from stuttering to nuclear holocaust.
There is no way to predict which memories will imprint on the Pla-Doh brains of small children. We hope that it will be the images of unicorns, glitter, and homemade cookies that fill the Samsonite luggage that kids carry into adulthood. Unfortunately, there is no way to know until much later.
Dora the Explorer may seem like a positive role model now, but I guarantee twenty years from now their will be a nutty-as-squirrel-shit guy somewhere blaming his attraction to monkeys on his poor mother for making him watch Dora. She thought he was learning Spanish. He had monkeys on his mind. How was she to know?
How was Big Judes (My Mom) to know about Whizzo? There was no way she could have. Whizzo was a clown that had his own show Saturday mornings on WIBW Channel 13 in Topeka Kansas. Moms loved Whizzo. Whizzo was good. Whizzo entertained kids on Saturday morning so mommies could vacuum and dust without interruption. If you were a “lucky” kid, you could celebrate your birthday on TV with Whizzo. What could be bad about a clown, right? Wrong.
Whizzo was not a "merry fellow". Whizzo was a creepy, child-hating, whiskery old man who dressed as a clown and terrorized small children on Saturday mornings for more than thirty years.
Whizzo had a “big red shiny nose” because he was a drunk. There was nothing funny about Whizzo. He did not have big clown shoes. He had big clown feet! Nasty, ugly, two foot long feet with horrible blue toes.
Whizzo had a red and white umbrella that he would spin at the camera in an effort to hypnotize his preschool audience. I suspect he then got his kicks by making a bunch of five year olds cluck like chickens and bark like dogs while they were entranced. I do not know for sure because I hid my head in the couch cushions. There was no way I was looking at that damn umbrella. I was too smart for Whizzo.
Whizzo made more kids cry than the dentist. Many times, they would cry right on TV. He would pull a volunteer from the audience then ask impossible questions. Ignoring the unwritten rules of personal space, he would lean into their faces with his make-up caked wrinkles and breathe whisky and stale cigarettes on them. Those unfortunate children are probably still in therapy. I should probably be in therapy. I bet you could trace many of my issues straight back to Whizzo. I owe Big Judes a huge apology. Whizzo did this to me, Damn Him!
I Hate You Whizzo!
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Please accept my apologies. When I gave you the finger and shook my fist at you yesterday, I may have overreacted. I am grateful you could not hear me when I called you a stupid fucking ass-hat jerk. I tend to swear when I am under stress. My outburst had nothing to do with you personally. I know I hurt you with my anger and reactivity. I am truly sorry for the pain I caused you. Thank you very much for not shooting me.
I hope that I am not over stepping my bounds by politely suggesting that next time you attempt to transport a large kitchen appliance (namely a side-by-side 24 cubic foot frost free refrigerator with ice and water in the door) that you secure it properly before speeding down the highway at 70 miles per hour.
Please pardon my assumption that I was going to die. I may have jumped to conclusions when the Frigidaire was flying toward me through the air. I reacted unfairly toward you, and you did not deserve that. Please forgive me.
In conclusion, I would like to say that it is my relief at surviving this near death experience that has prompted me to apologize to you. I’d like to enter therapy and understand why I react with so much anger. In the meantime, I cannot commit to communicating with you without reactivity or blame. I would truly like to be more effective, friendly and trusting, but I am not.
Furthermore, what the hell kind of obituary would that have made? Imagine the eternal embarrassment (not to mention the irony, in my case) of being killed by a kitchen appliance.
Friday, July 4, 2008
I am thrilled that there is no indication that I will blow off my left ring finger today while attempting to light bootleg Mexican fireworks. I would be devastated if I ruined my future chances of sporting the three-karat diamond engagement ring that I am expecting on or around the day of my birth. (Never mind that I have been expecting that very same gift for more birthday's than I can count).
I see nothing that implies I will drink too many Bomb-Pop Martinis and embarrass myself by dancing naked in the front yard at the New Digs. A bad habit that I am proud to say I have worked hard to overcome.
Finally, there is no portent suggesting that my lifeless body will be dredged from the bottom of the lake after a hideous air mattress accident. This one was never really a big concern because I would never ever be caught dead in lake water.
Overall, it looks like it is shaping up to be a great day. Just in case you care to join me in the debauchery, here is the recipe for Bomb-Pop Martinis:
Bomb Pop Martini
1oz Dekuyper Island Blue
2oz Bacardi Razz
splash Sweet & Sour
1/2 sink grenadine
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Me to Sugar Daddy (The boyfriend formerly known as Doo-Doo Head): "Your girlfriend is having a birthday this month, you should shop early for best selection!" Sugar Daddy to Me: "My girlfriend's birthday is not until November."
Customer to me in office: "That was no repo! I told them to come pick that car up."
Me to Mr. Fussy Pants (My OCD, ADD Boss): "Just eat the damn cheeseburger! I am positive that no one touched it."
BFSK S. (Best friend since kindergarten) to me on phone: "Do you think it is abusive to beat a teenager with a shoe?" Me to BFSK: "Only if it's an ugly shoe"
Me to Vivian (The obstinate poodle) :If you pee on my carpet one more time, I swear I will send you to the glue factory!" Vivian to me: Blink..Blink.
Me To Clerk At Convenience Store: " What do you mean you only card people under forty? Fuck you!"
Me To ATM Machine: "Dollar Yo, Lay the ten, Come to mama, Baby needs a new pair of shoes!"
Man To Me On The Phone: "My previous address? Well, for most of the last three years I have lived under a bridge. Me To Man: " Ha-Ha" Man To Me: " You got something against homeless people, lady?" Me To Man: "Yes."
Me To Jesus: "Sorry about the Jesus comment today, but 7% really is the best interest rate that woman's going to get. You know that, Right? Would you mind telling her?"