Saturday, August 30, 2008

Please Don't Call Them Precious Ones

This senasative New York Mom is desparately seeking a live in nanny for her four "pain in the ass" kids, so she placed this frivilous 1000 word ad on Craigslist. Maybe I am being judgemental but I think her money may be better spent on a good Spell Check program.
Do you think she is for real, or is she looking for a book deal?

"The employer turns out to be one Rebecca Land Soodak, a 40-year-old painter and aspiring writer who is married to the owner of Union Square Wines and Spirits. The family lives in a duplex in the East 80s — they own the six-story building, which includes a studio apartment for the nanny — and in a country house in northwest Connecticut."

Live in Nanny Needed for 4 kids (Pls don't call
them "Precious Ones") (Upper East Side)
Reply to:
Date: 2008-08-19, 9:04PM EDT
My kids are a pain in the ass. Just in the past hour, i have had to tell each one to do something more
than once. oldest: can i have soda? it's just a sprite? please? can i? no, no and no.
the next one...don't even get me started. seriously.
the twin six year olds: one wanted dessert before her dinner was over, one kept wanting to know why
I wouldn't let nine year olds swing her around by her limbs. (the fear of a dislocated shoulder did
Please help me.
I can be a tad difficult to work for. I'm loud, pushy and while I used to think we paid well, i am no
longer sure. i work from home, so you get the pleasure of being hounded by me all day long. and, you
get to pretend to like me, because i am deeply sensative. (but well dressed and a know it all, a winning
combination I assure you.)
If you cannot multi task, or communicate without being passive aggressive, don't even bother
If you are the type who doesn't notice crumbs on the table, skip to the next post, because crumbs are a
deal breaker. they put me over the edge.
i have all sorts of theories on how to stack my dishwasher, and if you are judgemental about ritalin for
adhd, or think such things are caused by too much sugar, again, deal break city.
You do get a separate entrance excellent studio on the ues. you do get air conditioner and internet
connection and cable. even hbo. and showtime. you can bring your spouse, roommate or partner, but
sorry no kids. If you ask, can i bring my kid, the answer will be...anyone? anyone? No.
If you can cook, all the better. otherwise, i'll teach you all sorts of things about pasta. (Here's a freebie,
butter and parmesean, mmmmmm)
If you know anything about chess and violin i will be impressed.
We are not snobs, which is good. but then again, my kid sometimes swears to make a point. (We're
working on it, but halfheartedly, because, well the apple doesn't fall far from the fucking
tree.)Although I am told they are all very bright, they have not mastered the use of the oh so
complicated napkin. This is a napkin Junior, say it after me...Nap Kin. Good boy.
i am not looking for Super nanny, or anyone who wants this job because they will love my kids as if
they are their own. you won't. really. they are infinitely lovable, but trust me, they're mine and you
will move on when your journey with us is over, and save for some funny stories and a delightful
email every now and again, you won't grieve. Nor will we. (okay, we did all grieve a few of our past
sitters, oddly they were all named Sarah or Kate, or Nikki. And Leah. Leah was delightful, even if she
did drop my twin babies off our couch during a family gathering. Good times.
I don't want someone who has a lot of theories on the right way to raise kids, because in the end, I'm
just a woman doing my best. I'm willing to learn from you, or anyone, but not so much about how i should parent my spawn. teach me to knit. introduce me to yoga, the white stripes, russian literature or
the best place to get a burger in the village at 2Am, but do not tell me to put star stickers on a good
boy chart. stickers irritate me.
If you are fundamentally unhappy with your life, you will be more unhappy if you take this job, so do
us all a favor and get some treatment or move to the Rockies, but do not apply for employment with
us. Also, if you suspect all wealthy women are frivilous, we are not for you. I do not want to hide my
occasional bergdorf shopping bag.
If you smoke, please quit. don't apply either, but please quit. i have known too many people diagnosed
with cancer this year. Even if you are a judgemental nanny 911 wannabe, no one should have to
endure some of the things I have wittnessed.
You gotta be able to drive with a valid license, but if you've ever hit a human,move to the next post.
You won't have to drive in the city, but if we go to our weekend place together, or if you make it to the
summer and still work for us, we need you to run into town to get some pink milk, so be able to drive
a mini van.
Can you swim? Swimming is good.
If you do drugs or drink enough so that you are grumpy in the morning and grumpier at night prior to
that next cocktail, call AA, and peruse craigslist childcare positions when you have a year sober. I'll
probably be looking again, and now is the time for you to focus on yourself anyway.
I need a team player. I need someone to back me up when it comes to remembering when the library
books are due, and whether i have rsvped to that birthday party yet.
Help me dear G-d keep track of our skim milk supply and also, also, also, what should I make for
dinner tomorrow night?
the hours are 7 in the morning to 8:30 in the morning. We'd be in it together, getting the kids out with
clean faces, brushed teeth and some food in their bellies. Doesn't that sound easy? Doesn't that sound
Then come on back for a fun filled afternoon 2:15-8:15 of activities and playdates and snacks and
dinners and homework and riveting conversations about global warming, hannah montana and guitar
When you do get to go home (to that swanky studio and possibly a significant other or buddy) your
time off will be respected. If I would like you to give extra hours, i'll ask. if you say yes, you get paid
15/ hour. if you say no, I will not fire you or hate you. Except if it is a school holiday or if i have a
sick kid, then i might ask, and unless you have a final exam worth 2/3 of your grade or tix The Lion
King, you may need to help out.
Okay, if you're still reading this ad, it means:
a) i am a halfway decent writer and maybe i really will get that book deal i'm yearning for
b) you need a job desparately
c) you think this just might be destiny, and that you could be one of the few, the proud, the potential
babysitter of our dreams.
D) you want all the information about job requirements, so that you can write me emails about how I
should stay home with my kids otherwise they are going to grow up to be sociopaths. (If my pen pal is
out there, wassup? Found love yet? No? How 'bout that.)
best of luck to all of you in your search for a job. Seriously. Job searching sucks. No two ways about
Live in Nanny Needed for 4 kids (Pls don't call them "Precious...
2 of 3 8/27/08 5:59 PM
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
PostingID: 804253499


Friday, August 29, 2008

Goodbye Summer

Goodbye, Summer.
I will miss you.

Goodbye, white shoes.
I hate you.


Thursday, August 28, 2008

Poodle Smoodle

Americans have elected a poodle to the White House, the American Kennel Club (AKC) said Thursday. After reports that Democratic Party candidate Barack Obama and his wife Michelle promised their young daughters that they could have a dog after the election, the AKC polled the US public to find out what kind of canine would be most suitable for the possible first family.(AFP/File/Omar Torres)

Vivian (the obstinate poodle) has graciously offered her services as first dog in the Obama White House. She says she wants to serve her country. I think she is after cheese.

Tobi to Vivian the obstinate poodle. “Hey Viv, look, the Obamas need a dog. It says here America thinks they should get a poodle. Can you believe that? What is America thinking? A rescue dog. That is what they need, not a poodle. I must warn them. I hope it is not too late."
Vivian- "I could do that job."

Tobi- "Are you joking? You hate kids. You bite them. You pee on the carpet. Can you imagine what would happen if you peed on the White House Carpet? What would Michelle think when you came into a State Dinner with her panties on your head? No, you could never be the first dog. You are a loose cannon..."

Vivian- "Have you seen that dumb-ass Barney? If he can do it, I am a shoe in."

Tobi- "Hello! Barney is George Bush’s dog."

Vivian- You have a point.



Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Three- Karat Zit

A big honking zit on your chin is not the end of the world. A make up resistant blemish the size of a three-karat diamond adorning your face is most likely not noticeable, unless, of course, you are standing closer than a football field to anyone who is not legally blind. If you are? Then people notice. Oh yes, they notice. They stare and smirk, because when you are my age a spot the size of Dallas on your face should be uncommon, out of place. Sort of like a Baptist in a liquor store. It is not natural.

Blemishes of this magnitude demand attention. I stopped at the drug store on the way to work in search of a miracle. Amongst the Oxy Wash and the Clearasil pads, I spotted a product that made my heart break a little. It was Neutrogena Anti-Wrinkle, Anti-Blemish cleanser. OH MY GOD! I could not look. It was too horrifying. The drug store is not an appropriate place for a post- birthday melt down.

I moved on in search of Sea Breeze. From the top shelf I could hear the tubes of cleanser taunting me “Hey you! Old chick with the big zit!-- You need us! Put down that greasy kid stuff. You are too O. L. D. You need the shit with wrinkle protection!” I caved. They were right... Dammit!

Who has wrinkles and pimples at the same time? What do you call this condition, pinkles? Is it too much to ask to move forward from the acne filled days of prolonged adolescence into some sort of big girl complexion normalcy before I am forced to contemplate the best way to combat crow’s feet? In the coming months will I be found wandering the aisles of CVS Pharmacy in search of thong back Depends undergarments and cartoon shaped Geritol tablets?

What happened to midlife? I did not even get to have a good crisis. One day I was young and cute. The next, oily and wrinkled. I have heard of combination skin but this is ridiculous.

Zits and wrinkles -- Fasten your seat belts as the Sunny Acres Retirement train prepares to leave the station. Next stop embalming fluid.
I think now may be the perfect time for a post-birthday melt down.

Please pass the chocolate.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Gummy Worms and Dry Erase Markers

There are no black dry erase markers in Fort Worth Texas. If your OCD boss asks you to “Pick up a couple black dry erase markers” it is a trick. Just say no. You will not find them anywhere. Trust me.

Why? Because, school started yesterday. Every child in the surrounding area had a supply list that included two black dry erase markers. Let us think about this for a moment. There are twenty- two children in each elementary class. Each child brings two dry erase markers. That is forty- four dry erase markers per class. There are 180 days of school required by the state of Texas. That means that each teacher gets a new black dry erase marker every four days. What do they do with all of these markers?

Seriously, I need to know. Do teachers write on bathroom walls then feel guilty and erase the offending comments? Do they trade them in the Teachers lounge for Little Debbie snack cakes? Is there a black market for black dry erase markers, or do they wait until nap- time then draw handlebar mustaches on sleeping kindergarteners? You could transcribe the complete volume of War and Peace and only use one marker. This is insanity.

I made seven stops on my quest. I thought about hanging out in the school parking lot and bribing first graders with Gummy Worms to give up their markers. I decided against it. Teachers are probably wise to that ploy.

In the end blue was the best I could do. My head hangs in shame. I will be forced to admit to Mr. Fussy Pants (My ADD, OCD boss) that I have failed at my appointed task. I will also be forced to admit that there are sixty dollars of pending charges on my company credit card. Who knew that there were such good sales for back to school? I hope he likes his new Hannah Montana pencil holder.

What ever happened to chalk anyway?


Friday, August 22, 2008

The Mod Squad Episode 31: To Linc-- With Love

Linc falls for a fetching woman with a young daughter and a secret that may doom their relationship--10/24/1969

A long, long time ago...
I can still remember
How that music used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And, maybe, theyd be happy for a while…

So bye-bye Miss. American Pie. It was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, Woodstock, and the summer of love, mini skirts and bell-bottoms. On TV, the Beaver and Wally were out. Pete, Julie and Linc --The Mod Squad were in. (Or so I am told. I am much too young to remember myself).

In episode 31 Linc was in a relationship with a secretive woman. The affair seemed doomed from the start. The fetching woman had a young child. This leads me to believe that she may have been a mommy blogger except that mommy bloggers have no secrets and it was 1969, so probably not.

What does this have to do with today’s post? Nothing really, except for the Linc part. If Linc were Link then this would be totally relevant and you would immediately understand what I am saying. As for the Don Mclean lyrics? Well, that is because I like pie and Miss America...Today's post is about links, pie, and Miss America. Make sense now?

I love links and fetching women. In that spirit, here are links to some posts I have recently read and loved. Any one of these chicks could have been Julie on The Mod Squad. They are just that cool.

1. SGM
3.mackin ink
4.the bloggess
5.desire to inspire

*If you are reading my list of links and saying to yourself "What the hell is wrong with her? These people are A list bloggers and everyone knows who they are. I saw these posts days ago...GAH!" I would like to say that I am not cool enough to be Julie, they are. Additionally I only discovered Google reader a couple of weeks ago (seriously). May I politely ask why you are holding out on me? If there are, blogs that you love please share.

Debra Barnes

Miss. America 1968

She was from Kansas-- She was also the first Miss. America to get her ass kicked by pissed off feminists (figuratively of course).

Alas, I have given up my dream of being Miss. America. I was never really cut out for the job. My measurements are all wrong. The talent portion of the competition would have been a problem. Then there is the whole "nice" thing. I think I would have made a better protester. Maybe it is not too late for that.

I do have my Miss. America wave perfected. I also have a killer Queen of England and Empress of Japan (just in case). For this portion of the post please do your best to picture me trying to keep my tiara atop my perfectly coiffed head with one hand (because last years Miss. America always does a half-assed job with the bobby pins) clutching my very first (and most likely last) blog award to my chest, tears streaming down my face as Bert Parks (So what if he is dead) sings “There she is Miss. America…Touching, right? I KNOW! I know I thought so too.

Melissa from Common Cents felt sorry for me loves me as much as I love her. She honored me with this award. Now that I have served, my term completed my reign it is time for me to pass the scepter on to five other bloggers. Although my chances at being Miss. America were, slim. I think I could have had a chance at Miss. Congeniality. Bluestreak, Barb, Simple Answer, I have nominated you. Here are the rules. I know that is only three nominees. If you would like me to link to your page just let me know. Because I am (as you can clearly see) Miss. Congeniality after all.
Why pie? Pie is good. Because when you move on up like the Jeffersons then you finally get a piece of the pie. Isn’t that what we all are striving for? Pie, Pi, TT, You have to love Pi. Besides being a mathematical constant, 3.14 blah, blah, Pi is irrational. As is my attraction to pie. Cake or Pie? Why, Pie of course. Pie enhances everything. The word “pie” can be used in any sentence. The answer to any question can be pie. If you do not believe me, try it for yourself. Since it is rumored that Big Jude’s (My mom) reads this blog. I will not elaborate on the joys of embellishing a profane conversation with the word pie. Ranting about pie is also an excellent way to answer reader questions.

1.Cake or Pie?
Answer: Pie

2. Does Big Judes read your blog? Does she know you have a blog?
Answer: See above.

3. Do you adore valances, swags, scarves?
Answer: Hate, Hate, and Hate, If we are talking about window treatments. They all look like cheap toupees to me. Now, strictly speaking a Hermès scarf would be divine.

4.Is your lawn everything it could be and more?
Answer: My lawn is nothing it should be and less. I am expecting hate mail from the Homeowner’s Association any moment now. To which I will respond “Shut your pie holes already, I planted those weeds!”

5. Have you changed your HVAC filters within the past 6 months?
Answer: Pie

6.Did you ever wear pegged-leg jeans or tight-rolled jeans? Are there photos?
Answer: I am a fan of the Boyfriend jean. Cuffed jeans if worn correctly can be good. Do not use Katie Holmes as an example. I do have pictures. Is she not the cutest thing you have ever seen? Obviously there is not a lot of excess pie consumption going on. I admire her restraint and her excellent sense of style.

7. Do you ever eat the breakfast of champions?
Answer: If you are referring to pie –Yes! If you mean Coffee and Cigarettes? Occasionally. If you mean beer, Yak.

There you have it, links, Miss. America and pie.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Dandelions and Magic Penguins

I have been eating Oreos since I was a little girl. My grandpa taught me how to dunk. He also taught me to clean fish and reload shotgun shells. I taught him to braid pigtails in Barbie hair and paint toenails.

In the summer, Gramps would commission me to pull dandelions from the front yard. A penny a piece, ten for a dime, fifty gets you a Popsicle from the Boyle's Joyland ice cream truck. Pulling dandelions is fun for about five minutes. Watching a four-year-old pull dandelions is fun for about four minutes. After that? Not so much.

If you are a Grandpa, it is more fun to snooze in the lawn chair and snore like a hibernating grizzly. If you are a Popsicle crazed pre-schooler, it is more fun to spin a thread of magic penguins and lucky bald spots in order to convince the neighbor children to each pull ten dandelions in order to earn "Great good fortune" by making a wish while rubbing the bald spot on the head of a slumbering Grandpa. A magic penguin hunting Grandpa. Thankfully, Gramps was a sound sleeper.

My plan was to earn enough cash to buy gobs of Popsicles. I dreamed of cleaning out the freezers, spending my days with sticky fingers, a blue tongue, dripping Bomb Pops in both hands.My Old Granny busted me less than an hour into my Popsicle Ponzi scheme. When the ice cream truck came that day, we all got Popsicles. I had to share the loot with my pawns. Lesson learned (Sort of).

Every time I hear the ice cream truck, I think about Gramps-- and magic penguins. I still dunk Oreos. Oreos are like Popsicles. If one is good, more is better. Why buy plain Oreos when double stuff is available? More stuff = More better. It makes sense.

It made sense until today. After years of consuming countless bags of Double Stuff Oreos I discovered that “Stuff” is not “Stuff” at all. “Stuff” is actually “Stuf”. What the hell? My childhood memories were a hoax. I guess it serves me right.

Thank goodness, I still have dandelions and magic penguins.

Out -T.


Monday, August 18, 2008

Androgen Spill Over?

Lauren, Lauren, Lauren, for the love of God, what is with the stache? There are products available. I cannot bear another season of seeing what appears to be a dead caterpillar on your upper lip. This problem demands your prompt attention. Please and thank you.



Saturday, August 16, 2008

Just Say No!

I should have listened to Nancy Reagan. Maybe I am screwed right now because I thought I knew more than Nancy did. It is possible. I bet I am not the first person who ignored Nancy and lived to regret it. Dammit, I should have just said no.

I have no problem telling Girl Scouts, Avon Ladies and annoying missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter- day Saints to piss off. That is right. I told Sister Laura and Sister Karen to take a hike. “Get off my porch before I go all Jehovah’s Witness on you” I believe is what I said. I can say no. Usually.

Sometimes my mouth writes checks my ass can’t cash. Today for example, Mr. Fussy Pants (My Add, OCD boss) came in to my office.

Tobi thought: It is Saturday for God's Sake. Go away and leave me alone. Shouldn’t you be playing Warcraft or something? Those shoes are ugly. Skechers? Hello?…Dork.
Tobi Said: "What’s up?"

Fussy: “How is your new house coming along, is it still a big mess?”

Tobi Thought: Big mess? Projects. Those are PROJECTS, damn you! Normal people do not live in operating rooms. Sterile is not a décor style. Tell your wife I said so. Big mess, Pffft… Why all the questions Deputy Fife?
Tobi Said: “It is fabulous. You should see it.”
Tobi Thought: Hell, I am going to hell. Liar-Liar pants on fire.

Fussy: "Good I have a client who may want to buy it. We had a deal working on a house in your neighborhood but it fell apart. I want to set an appointment to show it on Sunday. Is 2:00 all right? It is not a mess is it."

Tobi Thought: NONONO! It is a mess- A huge mess- A hot mess- there is poodle barf on the carpet- OHMYGODNOOOOOO- Laundryanddishesandhaironthecountertops…NO WAY! SAY NO!
Tobi Said: "2:00 is fine. I am telling you right now I will not sell it cheap. It is way too fabulous!"
Tobi Thought: Shit- I should have listened to Nancy.

So now what? Now I clean like a crazy person. Because, clearly, I am a crazy person. Potentially a homeless crazy person.

Out- (Of my mind) T.

Friday, August 15, 2008

The Not-To-Do List

I am a fan of the list. (I am also a fan of half naked hotty- pants boys half my age. That is the only reason for the photo above). Anyway, I like lists. Christmas lists, grocery lists, To-Do lists. I make lists for everything. Lists help me remember the trivial shit in my life I would just as soon forget. If I left things up to my brain, nothing would get accomplished. I would never have toilet paper or peanut butter. My electric service would be disconnected. The dog would not be fed and the lawn would not be mowed. Lists are good.

I have a new list. The Not-To- Do list. This list features things that I will never do again as long as I live. No matter what. So help me god. If there is any question about whether or not my latest hair brain brilliant idea is a good one, I can refer to the list for guidance. I am sharing the list with all of you today with the hope that I can spare you embarrassment or ridicule or, possible arrest. Nice of me, right? Consider this a public service announcement.

The Not-To-Do List:

Do Not...

Buy a house with no doorknobs. Doorknobs are important. There are no ads in the Yellow Pages for doorknob installers. The world of doorknobs is confusing. You will be tired of installing doorknobs long before the 28th knob is in place. Eventually you may get used to living without a doorknob on the master bedroom closet but it will take a while.

Call your Boss a fucktard. Only refer to your boss as a fucktard if you are certain that the intercom is correctly disconnected. This will not look good on your performance review. In all likelihood, an oversight such as this will become part of your permanent record. The consequences of your actions may be more severe if the speaker button is inadvertently pressed and your indiscretion is broadcast over the loud speaker.

Get a tattoo. Do not do it. If you are under the age of 40, a tattoo is a bad idea. Speedy Gonzales will be adorable on your 22-year-old ass. Over time, Speedy Gonzales will crawl off your ass and down your thigh. By the time you are 40 Speedy will look more like Chucky from Child's Play than a mouse. Keep this in mind. (This one is a recommendation from a friend who shall remain nameless).

Cook eggs for your Iguana. Never try to hard- boil eggs in the microwave. When they explode (and they will, even if you take precautions and poke a hole in the shell then submerge them in water), the door to the microwave will blow off its hinges and egg shrapnel will cover the entire kitchen. The maintenance man will not be amused when you short-circuit the breakers to half of your apartment building. FYI- Purina makes lizard chow.

Apply for jobs for which you are not qualified. Just because you think, you could fake your way through an interview, does not mean you would make a good doctor, lawyer, or phone sex operator.

Take off your pants in the mall parking lot. If you are on a first date, on Saturday afternoon, in a jeep with no top (the jeep, not you), if a bee flies down the back of your jeans, let the bee sting you. Do not rip off your pants and stand in the front seat screaming, “Kill that Bastard”. Half-naked screaming attracts unwanted attention from potential boyfriends and strangers alike. Remember that you are ugly when you cry. Everyone will see this. Do not expect that there will be a second date.

Cut a postage stamp size square from the back of each of your soon to be Ex- boyfriends pinpoint oxford dress shirts.(without removing them from the dry cleaning bag) It may not be immediately obvious that you are responsible for this misguided mischief. He may be stupid, but eventually he will figure it out. This makes soon to be Ex-boyfriends angry.

Hire a male stripper for your grandmother’s 80th birthday party. It sounds funny. It is terrifying.

Suggest that your co-workers new baby looks a little like Ozzy Osbourne. For reasons that are not, entirely clear to me this will not be perceived as a compliment. Lactating women are vicious.

Imply that a client should have performed a credit check on her fiancé before she set a wedding date. Hindsight may be 20/20, but no one wants to hear that their beloved cannot buy lunch let alone a dream home. If you do this, snot will ensue.

Buy shoes that do not fit. Bad shoes will make you cry. No matter how cute they are, even if they are on sale. Do. not. do. it.

Assume you can dance because you have had a few cocktails. If you cannot dance sober you cannot dance drunk. And yes, those people really are laughing at you not with you.



Wednesday, August 13, 2008


Good lord Myrtle lock up the goats. I think I just saw a Chupacabra!



Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Dogs Should Not Wear Galoshes

Do not put boots on your dog. Dogs do not like boots. If you put boots on your dog, your dog will attempt to chew your face off. Even if you are successful in defending yourself from the attack of a pissed off poodle in rain boots, I can assure you there is no amount of pleading that will convince the traumatized canine to come out from behind the heavy ass couch that she crawled under to escape you and the torture of galoshes.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. How many awful stories start out with that line? I thought I was acting in her best interests. It was out of love that I sacrificed one of my Playtex Living Gloves to make rain boots for the Poodle.

I was pleased when the severed digits slid easily over each of her paws. They were yellow. I made yellow galoshes out of my rubber gloves for the dog because I love her. I wanted to spare her the discomfort of walking on wet carpet. I hated to see the tiny pads of her feet shriveled like raisins. I worried that the chemicals from the steam cleaner were hazardous to her health. I tried to put myself in her place. Wouldn’t walking around with wet furry paws be similar to wearing wet socks? I hate wet socks.

When the boots did not fit quite right, I used tape to affix them to her legs. Blue painters tape because it is “low tack”. Easy to remove from poodle fur when the carpet was dry. I try to think of everything. For about ten seconds I was proud of myself. She even looked somewhat cute, in a white trash doublewide trailer kid sort of way. You know it is true. Kids who live in trailers wear bread sacks on their feet for boots, or was that just me? Anyway, they looked cute.

I sat her down on the floor. She flattened out like a bearskin rug, refusing to bear weight on her extremities. No amount of cajoling would convince her to move. I turned my back only for a second. That was all the time it took for her to crawl across the floor on her belly like a lizard and slither under the couch. She stayed there refusing to move. I had visions of her chewing off her own feet in an attempt to escape the Playtex Wellies. I also had visions of astronomical vet bills for the mobility cart I would be forced to buy for the poodle with no feet. The thought of explaining this to the SPCA in an attempt to avoid prosecution for animal abuse was frightening. I was only trying to help. I love her!

Desperate times call for desperate measures. I went for the cheese. Vivian is usually not allowed cheese. She loves it. It makes her sick. I have white carpet. No cheese. What else could I do? I attempted to lure her out with a cheese trail. Two slices later she still would not move. I gave up. I was distraught. I finished cleaning the carpet and threw myself on the sofa and waited. She couldn’t stay under there forever could she?

Minutes later it started. Hckkk..Hckkk..Hckkk…The sound that strikes fear in the heart of every pet owner. The sound of a barfing dog. Dammit! Damn the cheese! Hckkk..Hckkk..Hckkk.. She shot out from under the couch at full speed the horror of the galoshes momentarily forgotten. When she reached the center of the room she realized they were still there. She was spinning in circles like a bull at the rodeo. A three pound bull in yellow boots. HCKKHCKKKHCKKK…I tried to catch her. I did. However, it was too late. The damage was done. Remnants of processed cheese food were all that remained. The look on her face was that of odd satisfaction. For good measure, she peed.

Do not put boots on your dog.


Monday, August 11, 2008

Ask me Anything

Today for your viewing enjoyment I bring you John Travolta. The John Travolta of better days. Cuter days. Days before scientology and the ravages of time had taken their toll. I loved Vinny Bobarino with all my heart. A love so strong that even Shaun Cassidy could not compete for my attention. Why, you ask? because John (Vinny) looked exactly like Mike Brown. The most beautiful boy in the world. The boy that got away. All because of my over active competitive tendencies and an AMC Gremlin. Well Up your nose with a rubber hose Mike Brown. Nobody likes a sore loser.

This is the first installment of "Ask me Anything" (Thank you, OHJ for coming to my rescue).
It is my attempt to make up for the lame Eight-Ball post that appeared instead of the traditional "100 Things About Me" entry in celebration of post 100 on this blog. I suck, I know, Sorry. blah blah... Anyway here are the answers to the burning questions that inquiring minds want to know.

The question “Did you ever drive or ride in a Gremlin?”

No. I did, however, ruin my chance for true love in the eighth grade when I made Mike Brown (The most beautiful boy in the world) look like a douche in front of Mrs. Burton's Social Studies class by correctly answering the final question in the Friday current events game.
The question: Name an AMC Vehicle.
His answer: Vega.
A dumb answer made even more humiliating because A) He was a boy and B) His family owned a chain of car dealerships. As much as I wanted him to marry me, I wanted to win more. I answered the question correctly (Gremlin). The crowd went wild. Mike Brown never spoke to me again. I had the gift of emasculation even then.

The Question “Did you attend more than 1 prom?” “Do you still have your prom dress? If so, have you worn it in the past 5 years for any reason?"

No. No. And No. I was much too cool for prom. I do remember having an unnatural attraction to fingerless lace gloves.

The Question “Do you own a gun? Sometimes wish you did? Have a secret list of those who might see the business end of it?”

If I owned a gun, the streets of Fort Worth Texas would be littered with wounded Mailmen, Trash men, old men, Salesmen, Weathermen, UPS men, lawn guys, cowboys, clowns. I would put a cap in all of their asses. Just because I could. Armadillos, I would totally murder Armadillos. I would shoot out the tires of any car displaying a “My kid is on the honor roll” bumper sticker. Lest you think I would discriminate while on my murderous rampage I have saved a few bullets for Mary Kay ladies, Sonic Drive- In car hops, and all members of any home owners association lawn beautification committees. They would all be sorry! I think it is better for everyone if I do not carry a weapon.

The Question “Ever been a bridesmaid? More than twice?
More times than I care to count. I made throw pillows out of one of the lovely dresses. The rest went to Goodwill so some less fortunate bridesmaid could share the joy of pink taffeta.

The Question “Are you smarter than your boss? your dog?”

My dog is smarter than my boss.

The Question "Did you ever think that SD might need his hearing tested?"

Sugar Daddy (The boyfriend formerly known as Doo-Doo head) is deaf as a stone. Unfortunate for him. Highly amusing for me. I relish each opportunity to interpret what he thinks he just heard. This is greatness in my opinion. I never pass up the opportunity to lie for my own entertainment.

Case in point: Pizza guy delivers pizza. Sugar Daddy pays. I stand at the door trying to resist the urge to tear the pizza box from the delivery guys hands and help myself to a slice right in the middle of the living room.

The delivery guy takes the proffered loot then asks SD " Do you want any cheese or red pepper?" (As in packets of Parmesan and pepper flakes).

I shake my head no and close the door.

SD still looks slightly confused (This is where the greatness comes in).

I wait for a slow count of ten to give pizza guy time to get back to his car.

Then I turn to SD and say " I can't believe you let him talk to you like that!"

SD ( Being the macho caveman in metro-sexual clothing that he is) responds " What did he say?"

Me- "Something about you being a cheap old' effer... Didn't you tip him?

SD- " I want my $5 back, I will kick his tattooed ass!"

See what I mean? Hilarious.

Well kids, that does it for this weeks installment of Ask me Anything. Keep those cards and letters coming. I will be here next week. same time, same place to give you more answers to questions that no one really cares to hear the answers to.


Saturday, August 9, 2008

Motherly Love

"Always keep several get well cards on the mantle ... So if unexpected guests arrive, They will think you've been sick and unable to clean! "

I thought I would share this little nugget of wisdom sent to me today by Big Judes (my mom).
This woman knows me so well.
It makes me wonder, if I started a nasty rumor about my untimely demise, would people send food?


Friday, August 8, 2008

Blue Anchovy Spiderweb Sherbet

Elton John has his own Ice cream. Ben and Jerry’s Ice cream, no less. This totally pisses me off. Lord knows, if consumption were the determining factor in who gets their own ice cream, then there is no doubt that a picture of Yours Truly would have been gracing the cover of ice cream tubs long ago. I assure you I have consumed more ice cream than Elton John and Jerry Garcia put together. They may have sold more records. Big deal. In my opinion that should have no bearing on who gets an ice cream flavor.

Elton John has talent. Talent and ice cream do not mix. If you have talent, why do you need ice cream? It makes no sense. The same goes for considerate boyfriends, a swimsuit you are not embarrassed to wear, and an unlimited shopping budget. If you have these things then you do not need frozen treats of any kind, let alone your very own ice cream flavor. This is outrageous!

To make matters worse Sir Bitchy Pants has named his flavor "Goodbye Yellow Brickle Road." Excuse me? Which one of us is from Kansas? Who was forced to watch re-runs of The Wizard of Oz on Memorial Day weekend for over twenty years? Who was traumatized by flying monkeys and spastic midgets all in the name of tradition and State Spirit? (because let’s face it, Kansas is not famous for a whole lot of other things). Who suffered endless Dorothy jokes?
Me dammit! I did! Who got the ice cream flavor?
Not me! It was some English guy who has probably never been to Kansas. This is a travesty.

I thought about a letter writing campaign. I briefly had plans to rally all of my supporters to of protest the injustice I have suffered. I had visions of a public apology from Ben and Jerry and Sir Bitchy Pants as well. If they refused to apologize, I would sue them in civil court for 10% of their net worth claiming that I was suffering from anxiety and hemorrhoids. My faith in recombinant bovine somatotropin free products has been shaken to the core. I scrapped this idea after I learned that some other crazy bitch innocent victim had already stolen my spotlight with her outlandish claim against another Mrs. Minister Bitchy Pants. Besides, a trumped up lawsuit would require that I surrender my chunk spelunker membership. I could never do that.

I have decided to cut Ben and his little friend Jerry some slack. I have forgiven them for the oversight. I am not however ready to forget. I still want my own ice cream flavor. It just so happens that it is indeed possible for those of us without our own ice cream to compensate for our serious lack of sweetness by generating a custom flavor. Apparently, I am not the only one with this ice cream dream. I feel better knowing this.

Now then, would anyone care for a heaping dish of Blue Anchovie Spiderweb Sherbet?



Thursday, August 7, 2008

Princess Pee-Pee

I would like to direct your attention to the google ads on the sidebar to your right. One post about pee and now I am apparently the pee-pee princess. Lovely. I will not even mention how many people have found their way here by doing a google search for "Pee" or some variation thereof. Why people? Why all the pee?


Unlikely Birds

"Thinking again?" the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin.
"I've a right to think," said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried.
"Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs have to fly...." — Alice's Adventures in Wonderland,



Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Auntie Mame

"Life's a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death!" Famous words from Mame Dennis, "Auntie Mame". I have my own Auntie Mame. Mame is the celebrity in my family. She was an actress when I was a child. A real, honest to goodness, bonifide, stand up on the stage, sing and dance actress. My very own Liza Minnelli.

I remember costumes with feathers and flowers. Sequins, many sequins. The smell of grease paint, the roar of crowds. I am quite sure she signed autographs. I saw her in the newspaper and on television. Auntie Mame was a star! Through her screen door, strains of Mame rehearsing show tunes could be heard all the way up the block. I used to sit on my Granny's front porch, six doors down, and listen. I am not sure that she knew it, but the neighbors listened too.

My Granny's house was the place that all the neighbor ladies came to drink coffee after the husbands were off to work and the beds were made. A secret society where the women of the block would gather to discuss dreams of new davenports and wall-to-wall carpet. I would take my appointed place on the kitchenaide stool pushed up to the counter and pretend to be busy dismembering my Hi Heidi dolls while Granny and the coven dished gossip. Sometimes during a lull in the conversations, Mame's voice would drift through the open kitchen window. The ladies would stop and listen. I listened too. Coffee cups stopped in mid-air as the women strained to identify the song. Then they would smile and comment. "So talented". "Just lovely"... I smiled too.

I was Mame’s biggest fan. In my four-year-old brain, Mame was as beautiful as Audrey Hepburn, as talented as Mary Tyler Moore, as stylish as Jane Jetson. I always pictured Mame surrounded by friends and fans sipping Shirley Temples (The only cocktail I knew existed), wearing feather boas. Together we would be the life of the party. I pictured myself there too, enthralling the crowd with my tales of adventure and intrigue. A three-foot bombshell dripping in sequins and glitter. Like Pippy Longstocking but cuter-- with boobs. I really wanted boobs.

Mame was on the short list of adults that I never terrorized with my odd, slightly sociopathic behavior. Well, hardly ever. There was the time when I was six. I tried to avoid going to the drive-in movies by hitch hiking several miles from Mame's house back to my own home to wait for Big Judes and The Dad to return from what must have been an important function, (otherwise they would have never asked anyone to baby-sit. They knew better). After what I am sure was a frantic search, Mame found me attempting to climb through my bedroom window, (left unlocked for just such emergencies). If I had been taller, or if Mr. Hammet, our neighbor, had not caught me attempting to steal the milk crate from his front porch to stand on, my plan would have worked. I think she has forgiven me for that.

Mame was on my short list because she was one of the only people I knew that talked to a little kid (who desperately wanted to be a big person) like she was already big. She listened to the things that were important to me as if they were important to her too.
To this day Mame has a contagious enthusiasm. I am certain that if I called her on the phone with details of a new life’s plan to be a goat herder in Appalachia, living off the land and producing exotic cheese, she would be the first to endorse my dream and the last to ever say “I told you so” if my goats went crazy and trampled me to death before ever producing a single ounce of stinky feta.

Mame has her own kids now and grandkids too. We met last weekend for lunch and volleyball. I spied Mame from across the convention center. One hug and a quickly hatched plan for illegal admittance to the tournament later we were breezing past the doorkeepers as if making our grand entrance at the Met. All these years later Mame still has it. I am still her biggest fan.


Monday, August 4, 2008

The Lace Reader

I think I may have found the summer read I have been looking for. With any luck this book will be in my hands by the end of the week. I cannot wait!

You can go here for lace reading instructions. My neighbors will be so happy that I will be otherwise occupied for a few days. They have never said anything, but I'm pretty sure they do not appreciate the naked dancing and small fires in the backyard of the New Digs.


Sunday, August 3, 2008

I Am Miss. Understood

Yesterday while I was kvetching about how stupid and impossible writing 100 things about myself in celebration of post 100 was turning out to be, Sugar Daddy (The boyfriend formerly known as Doo-Doo Head) decided for some reason that it might be helpful (and possibly make me shut the hell up ) if he stuck his giant egg shaped cranium between my face and the computer screen. The poor man is desperate for attention.

I suppressed the urge to shriek (again) about his insensitivity to my plight and chastise him for behaving like a twelve year old, or a pug with distemper. Instead, I tried to smile sweetly which I am sure looked more like the grimace of trapped gas than the affirmation of my love and affection I had hoped for. I grabbed both of his cute, if not slightly floppy, ears. I gave a slight twist to his oversized skull to indicate playfulness, but not enough force to reveal my true intention to snap his neck like a matchstick if he persisted in this torment.

I said through clenched teeth with as much fake gleeful enthusiasm for this nonsense as I could muster,
T: “You have cold ears”
SD: “Oh, Thanks. You know, you would freak out if I said something like that to you “
T: “Huh….?”
SD: “What is that supposed to mean? Is that blog speak? Like hearting, or puffy hearting Miss. Bitchy Mc Bitcherton? Why don’t you just speak English? If you are trying to tell me that I am lame or stupid just say THAT. OK? Why do you have to speak in code? What are old gears?
SD: “Old gears? –Jesus, that’s rude!”
T: I think we should talk about whose blog you have been reading. I will have you know that I have never hearted or puffy hearted in my life!



Saturday, August 2, 2008

One Hundred Things You Never Wanted To Know About Me

Go ahead ask me anything.
(You did not really think I would post 100 useless facts about myself did you.)

File this under "Who the hell cares."

Friday, August 1, 2008

Ninety-Nine Bottles Of Condiments

This is Post #99 in the “100 Posts In One Hundred Days Marathon.” It has actually been 99 posts in 100 days but who is counting (besides me)? I am happy to report that after ninety-nine posts I still have a friend. I have not been fired from my job (dammit). I am not being sued and my boyfriend still speaks to me (occasionally). My family never really spoke to me before so, those relationships are still intact. All in all, the experiment has been a success.

That is not to say every post was a success. No, far from it. There are many that I consider truly cringe-worthy. I have no doubt that if you have read this blog more than once you would agree. All grammatical and punctuation errors aside, some entries were just plain awful. I will not apologize. No, that would be too easy. Instead, I thought I would give you, Dear Reader, a few examples of deleted posts. I want illustrate how much I care about you and your happiness.

Will Beg For Boobs: A website where you can go to post pictures of your less than perfect boobs and complete strangers will donate money for enhancement. Isn’t this what makes our country great? Maybe not.

Liv-A-Snap Crotch. An intriguing tale of a panty eating Toy Poodle (who shall remain nameless) and her traumatized owner.

Death By Kitchen-Aide, A witty little rant about murder with a hand held mixer. Complete with a delicious recipe for Brain Salad.

Kleenex Tissues, Doublemint Gum and Dentures, The contents of my Old Granny’s pockets. Who cares? Really?

Psycho Clown And The Missing Nose, Admitting that you dated a clown is humiliating. Telling the internets you stole his nose may be libelous. I thought better of it.

I think you get the idea. You see, it could have been worse. Way worse!
I have discovered that blogging has rewards and consequences.
The rewards:
1. All of the good writers and interesting people behind those blogs that have exposed themselves to me (so to speak).
2. I have spent less money shopping. It could be argued that I have traded one bad habit for another.
3.Blogging is cheap. I am nothing if not cheap.
4.I have lost five pounds. You cannot eat Cheetos while typing.

The consequences:
1.You cannot eat Cheetos if you never go to the grocery store.
2.My refrigerator contains ninety-nine bottles of expired condiments and a science experiment in the crisper drawer.
3.The New Digs has not had a good cleaning in almost 100 days. I am expecting BFSK S. (Best friend since Kindergarten) and the Merry Maids swat team at my door for an intervention any day now.
4. I realized very quickly that the mention of a blog makes normal peoples' eyes glaze over.
5. If I am any indication, bloggers must be very hairy people. Nothing has been shaved, plucked, trimmed, or shorn in weeks.
6. You fail to send your mother a present on her birthday. Instead you resort to a lame mention in a blog post entitled "Ninety-Nine Bottles Of Condiments" that she will likely never see. Happy Birthday Big Judes--Your crappy daughter loves you!

Tomorrow I will celebrate post 100 with a charming entry entitled “One Hundred Things You Never Wanted To Know." After that, we will see.

If there is any doubt that this blog jumped the shark about fifty days ago here is the post that should have appeared yesterday.

Who Needs Red Bull?

Who needs Red Bull when you can have "Unagi Nobori," or "Surging Eel," A fizzy yellow canned beverage made in Japan from eel guts.
"It's mainly for men who are exhausted by the summer's heat," a company spokesman said of the beverage. You can read more about it here.

Until tomorrow.