Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Have You Seen Me?

Guess what?
I know! I thought it was awesome too!
After almost two years of posting crappy cell phone pictures and stolen Google images, I decided enough was enough, so I took matters into my own hands.

I can only imagine how grateful you must be.
Don’t thank me yet.
I can’t figure out how to work the stupid thing.
The only person who could help me is Mr. Fussy Pants (My boss), and I can’t ask him, because I stole it from him.
I guess crime really doesn’t pay (Just thinking about how relieved Big Judes (My Mom) is right now to know that I am not a shoplifter makes me giggle a little).

I had huge plans for that camera. I was going to thrill and delight you with poignant photo essays. I had planned to take a picture of my butt. Well, the butt thing was more for my enjoyment really, not so much yours. I wanted to see if I could Photoshop it into a cute butt.

But, (Speaking of butts. We were weren’t we? Yes, I think so). But! The real reason I heisted the camera was so that I could get candid shots of all of my friends and family showing their boobs and barfing black-eyed peas celebrating New Years Eve tomorrow. I am almost positive that those pictures could have been worth a few bucks, or at least a few embarrassing reminders of how drunk happy we all were when we finally sent that Bitch 2009 packing.

Don’t worry; I still have time to figure this thing out. And if I can’t? Well, then I will just steal a picture of someone else’s friends boobs New Years Eve Celebration.

Be Safe,


Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Who Is This Craig Guy Anyway?

As if I do not have enough stupidity in my life already, yesterday I discovered craigslist (I know, I know, I am the last person alive).
All I can say is HOLY CRAP, is it safe for these people to be left unattended?

Lest you think I am overreacting, have a look for yourself.

Multiple Seating Furniture Pieces for Sale - $1 (Richardson)
Date: 2009-12-28, 2:17PM CSTReply to:

They are called chairs Dumbass! CHAIRS!

Hooker Game Table - $150 (Flower Mound)
Date: 2009-12-28, 11:57AM CSTReply to:

EEWWWW! What kind of games do hookers play on this table? Does it come with hand sanitizer?

2 Z GALLERIE Abstract Framed Prints Paid $119 each - $120 (Lakewood) Date: 2009-12-28, 1:15PM CSTReply to:

OK, so, let me see if I understand this, you paid $119 for this ugly shit and you want me to pay $120? Fuck me.

Date: 2009-12-28, 1:10PM CSTReply to:

They sound fabulous! Wait, does this mean they will peck my eyes out when I get them home? I am not falling for it lady, keep your creepy bird mirrors. And p.s. You can suck my Alfred Hitchcock.

Who's got a working parking meter - $1 (Arlington)
Date: 2009-12-28, 12:24PM CSTReply to:
Looking for a non digital working parking meter in good shape. The one you put coins in to operate. must work and have the violation flag in it. needed for kids who cant seem to stay off the Wii. Thanks Mark

Do they make a "Grow Some Marbles" game for Wii? I think it would be money better spent. Seriously, Mark, with all due respect, you are a Dipshit. You don’t need a parking meter. You need a shoe. Whack those little Bastards with your manly size 10s a couple times and they will turn off the Wii. Guaranteed.

Date: 2009-12-27, 9:06PM CSTReply to:

Is it just me, or does this seem a little pricey?

Table and chairs. Great condition - $100 (Lewisville)
Date: 2009-12-20, 11:11AM CSTReply to:

This is an unbelievable deal. You are lucky to be reading this right now. The kitchen table below is for sale for one hundred dollars. was either hand crafted by people indigenous to China, or possibly made by machines. Maybe, it was a combination. No one really knows, and that is what makes this item so special and so rare.
It comes with 4 chairs. I know you are saying "But wait, I don't have 3 friends; Why would I need all these chairs?" Look, if you saw field of dreams (and I know you did), if you buy it, they will come. Buy the table, and before you know it, you will have a house swarming with dead baseball players. I have a feeling this was shoeless Joe Jackson's actual kitchen table (I can't prove this).
Table Features:
1. 4 legs, I know I know you have two legs, 4 is just weird. Look, consider it extra redundancy
2. A top. This is probably the most important feature. Without it, you are just sitting there trying to balance 4 posts on end. Why would you do that? I guess what I am saying, is I am not trying to part this out so don't ask if you can just buy the chairs and legs. I can't bare to split up the set.
3. Chairs I should have made chairs item 4 as not to confuse you. Please do not assume that there are only 3 chairs because this is item 3 and starts with "3. chairs" I assure you there are 4.
4. Leaf clover (that was really dumb) There is a leaf that makes this table expand to seat many many many people. But a reminder, the chairs, there are 4 and only 4. Think of the leaf as a way to move your unpleasant friends / family further from you during meals so you can eat without having them so close to you. This feature alone is worth $100.

5. There is no fifth feature. Seriously, it is a table what else do you want from it? You are so demanding.
Date: 2009-12-27, 9:06PM CSTReply to:

I can’t “bare” it either!
Dude, your Grandma is going to be pissed when she finds out you are trying to sell her shit on craigslist. Get out of the basement, there is a whole big world out here!

This is just great, now where the hell will I spend the Christmas dough Big Judes sent? I can’t go to Wal-mart for fear that someone will take my picture!


Monday, December 28, 2009

7 lbs

For the last several days, I have been testing the potential toxicity of peanut butter. Call it my contribution to science. I have come to the conclusion that you can in fact ingest about 7 pounds of peanut butter and not die. Just don’t try to whistle.

Also? While you are in the process of eating 7 pounds of peanut butter do not wipe your sticky fingers on the ass of your favorite jeans, because it will leave an ugly stain, then you will be forced to change out of your favorite jeans (That you have worn for the last 3 days) into your clean not favorite jeans which will be too tight because you have eaten seven fucking pounds of peanut butter.

Consider it a public service announcement.


Wednesday, December 23, 2009

The Santa Hook Up

Have you ever wondered how the reindeer spend their free time while they wait for those annoying elves to finish making Christmas toys?
I have.
I assumed they played strip poker and smoked cigars.
Not. So.
Apparently, they hang out at my house.
How do I know this?

Well, I am glad you asked. I know this because Vivian the Obstinate Toy Poodle told me.

T--“Vivian! DAMMIT VIVIAN! What is with the poop in the hallway? Go the hell outside! POOP. OUTSIDE!”

Viv-- “I didn’t do it.”

T-- “Really? Then who did?”

Viv—“Not me.”

T—“You did.”

Vivo—“I didn’t”

T—“It was you”

Viv--“It wasn’t”

T—“Then how did it get here?”

Vivo—“A reindeer”

T—“A reindeer?”

Viv—“That’s right”

T—“That’s ridiculous, this is Texas, there are no reindeer in Texas.

Viv—“He’s from out of town. I met him online.”

T—“ You are dating a reindeer?”

Viv-- “Listen lady, I don’t pry into your private life. I would like the same respect. How would you like it if I interrogated you about all of the men you bring home?”

T—“All of the men I bring home? I do not bring men home!”

Viv—“ Well, maybe that’s your problem, if you did bring a man home once in a while you wouldn’t be so uptight about a little reindeer doo.

T—“Holy Mother give me strength”

Viv—“I’m just sayin’”

T--“Never mind! Forget I said anything. I’ll clean it up. Go back to butt licking or whatever it was that you were doing. I give up.

Viv—“I was checking out the new dudes on e-havarti dot com, it’s a dating site for cheese lovers and like minded individuals."
You know, Blitzen’s boss is single, he’s old like you, kind of chubby, but beggars can’t be choosers. I hear he will be in Fort Worth in a couple days. Do you want me to see if he is interested? I could be discreet. A date would do you good. It might help you take the edge off. Seriously, you have been a pain in the ass lately.
I could make a phone call…of course it would cost you a couple of slices of Velveeta, but really that is a small price to pay. You are not exactly a hot commodity these days. Say the word and I’ll hook you up. It would give you a good excuse to brush your hair.
I think you could use a little Christmas cheer, ‘tis the season and all that don’t you know!"

T-“Great idea asshole. Why don’t you do that! And when I see him? I think I’ll ask for a cat for Christmas. I hear they are quiet and they poop in a box. ”

Merry Christmas!

Saturday, August 8, 2009

Little Pink Houses

I am in love.
Truly, madly, deeply, in love.

Isn't she divine?

Tell me you can see it!
The front porch?
The shutters?
The Lilac bushes?
Cookies in the oven, clothes on the line?

I am coming Darling!


Tuesday, August 4, 2009

With Love to Pittsburgh

There are 6,775,446,338 in the world; I only know a handful of them. Of that handful, only a few like me. Most of those few are related to me, so they are obliged to like me.

They don’t count.

I avoid social networking sites because it is somewhat embarrassing to show the world just how unlikable you are. The majority of the requests I get to follow me on Twitter are from porn stars. Secretly I think that is kind of awesome, but it is not really a glowing endorsement of my superior people skills. My Facebook page is like the Gobi (In this case the Tobi) Desert, barren. The friend request I received from my Rat-Faced Brother yesterday said: “Mom says I have to be your friend.”

Pathetic much?

I am always a little surprised when someone says they like me. “Who me? No, you must have me confused with someone else. Someone nice!” I even had to turn off the comments around here because I could not handle reading such nice things. Not because I don’t love me some nice comments, because I do. Truly, I do. But, because I do not have enough practice at nice to reciprocate. I have Comment Anxiety Disorder.

When I saw this today, from she, who is quite possibly one of the nicest people on the planet, Holy Santa, Oprah, Hare Krishna, I did not know what to say! I still do not know what to say.

Other than --
Thank you,
And buy the shoes L.
You totally need to buy the shoes!


Saturday, August 1, 2009

Crazy Quilt

I still call her Mamma. She lets me.
Even though.
In spite of.
Just because, and for my part, I am grateful.
Not always, but now.
I am grateful.

She and I.
We have spent years, a lifetime, my lifetime, weaving spider web thin threads of time into fabric.
This fabric we patched together is a crazy quilt. A mother’s story. A daughter’s story.
It is our story.
The fibers are us.

Sometimes, the strands we gathered were bright, shiny gold bits, intense, reflective, hot to the touch.
Other times, they were no more than scraps of discarded twine, salvaged from dusty corners, blown clean with collective breath, threaded through bent needles.
Sometimes, the stitches were work, done up close, with hunched shoulders, through squinted eyes.
Other times, it was effortless.

It is our story.

We have created a patchwork of life, together, with the help of other mothers and other daughters.
The ones that came before we were us.
The ones that came after. When we, became all of us.

She and I, continue to leave our mark on this tapestry.
It will go on this crazy quilt.
Long after we become them, and they become us.

There comes a time when you can take the quilt out, shake it in daylight,
admire its beauty, wrap yourself in it, and be grateful.

I am grateful.

Happy Birthday Mamma.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Tacos, Flowers and a Swingy Summer Frock

I was mad at a friend of mine yesterday. Not mad in a “I want to wrestle you in a vat of Jello Pudding and pull your hair” sort of way, more mad in a shouty, unreasonable, carry the hell on sort of way.

So, I was shouty, and he was quiet, mostly.

And somewhere in between "You are a giant wiener face, because you don’t listen to me EVER about ANYTHING, because you are a giant WIENER FACE! and, FINE! I will shut up and stop calling you names."

I think I said something about tacos and flowers, as in, "The only way I am going to shut the hell up is if you bring me tacos or flowers, because you don’t listen to me EVER about ANYTHING!"

He brought me tacos.

Then we were friends again. I was all smirky and self-satisfied because I won the fight.

He brought me tacos!

Then he ate all of the tacos right in front of me.

Not only that, but he told me that it looked like I was wearing a smock. I told him what he meant to say was “frock” I was wearing a swingy summer frock.
Then he said “No, it is a smock, and I am being kind calling it a smock. What it really is, is tragic”

Now I am mad again, and he is all smirky and self-satisfied.
The End

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Standing At the Intersection of Crazy & Boss Street

Dear Mr. Fussy Pants,

The answer to your question is NO!
I do not know what you thought about yesterday that you needed to do today.
I can only remember the things that I thought about yesterday.

Surprising I know.

If you persist in this sort of torment, I will have no choice but to stab you in the eye with my pen. Either that, or I will hold you down and draw really big numbers on you in red ink.

I am not even kidding.

Very truly yours,

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

The Days of Whine and Noses

Could someone please explain to me how a woman with the largest nose I have ever seen, an unfortunate nose, a nose of enormous proportion, a nose that is so freakishly big that I am almost positive she needs a Sham-Wow to wipe it?

How can this woman not notice that her whiny (with good reason) toddler has a ass load of crap in her diaper, and that said diaper is so foul that it is about to set off smoke alarms?

And while you are at it, please tell me what is so wonderful at the Hobby Lobby that it would cause Mrs. Schnozolla to ignore little Gorgeous Adorable Schnozolla’s pleas for attention for nearly twenty damn minutes, because whatever it is? I want one.

Even if it is not on sale.


Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Crazy Little Thing Called Shrub

I went a little crazy yesterday. I lost my marbles, flipped out, came unglued…

WAIT! Don’t leave. I‘ll stop!

Now then, what did I do, you wonder? Well, I’ll tell you.
I went to the Home Depot for grout.

Let me guess what you are thinking. Is it something like “Woo-hoo! Livin la Vida Loca at the Home Depot, stocking up on the grout, loser?"

To that, I say--“No, that is not the crazy part (smart-ass).”

The crazy part is that on the way to the flooring department I passed a lovely display of tropical plants.

They were on sale.

Now, I do not want a plant, nor, do I need a plant. Truth be told, I probably should not be allowed to own a plant.

Did I mention that they were on sale?

I intended to put the plant back in its proper place before I left the store. I know my limitations. Actually, I considered ditching the damn thing in the plumbing supply aisle, but I thought that green foliage sprouting from a rack of plungers would be a little obvious. I am not equipped to take on the responsibility of another living thing. I did not want to add plant killer to my list of shortcomings.

Bad mother, Poodle abuser and Parakeetophile are bad enough. Thank you.

I must have been distracted by something shiny on the way back to the garden department, because before I knew it, I was in the check out line with grout, and about forty-two other unwanted items including the damn plant.


(Here is where the crazy part comes in).

I TRIED to tell the mean looking cashier who has a working knowledge of power tools that I changed my mind. I WANTED to tell her to forget the plant. I wasn’t taking it. “Never mind” I wanted to chirp, “Sorry for the inconvenience and the potting soil all over your counter, I’ll be on my way now. Toodles! Catch you later! Au revoir! Thanks for the grout and naval jelly! See you soon!”



Then the plant was mine. The responsibility was mine. The guilt was mine.
And who am I?

I my friends, am Elmyra Duff.

At some point between strapping my potted victim in the car with the seat belt and apologizing to it all the way home, I fell in love with the plant.

"You are my new friend. I will name you Shrub, & I will love you & hug you & squeeze you to death!"
"You have been naughty Shrub. Now I will have to spank you."

Crazy I tell you.


Sunday, July 19, 2009

Eddie Ross, In the Garden, With a Darling Centerpiece

I am fully aware that this particular entry crosses the boundaries of polite blogging, but please take it in the spirit in which it is intended. That of course, is my mean, hateful, shallow, and somewhat macabre, spirit that I am sort of ashamed of, but unable to control.

So, lately I have been reading MUCH more than I have been writing.

Good lord there are a lot of blogs out there.

Anyway, I have recently subscribed to Eddie Ross’ blog. Eddie is every Grandma’s favorite decorator, former contestant on one of HGTV’s I wanna be a famous designer shows, ex- Martha Stewart minion.

You know who I am talking about, right?

So, Eddie spends his days blogging, going to flea markets, setting lovely tables with his Goodwill finds, and entertaining friends, while I spend my days eating Ho-Ho’s and reading blogs. (If you think you detect a hint of jealousy here, you are correct).

Recently, Eddie did a series of posts about an upcoming outdoor vegetarian luncheon he was hosting for a few of his oh-so- glamorous friends (Again with the jealousy). Because it would be impossible for all of the followers of his blog (who wish that they were his oh-so-glamorous friends) to attend said luncheon, he invited all of them (us) to follow the festivities on Twitter.

My first thought? “Well that is fucking stupid”
My second thought (several seconds later, because I am not very bright). “Eddie is annoying.” Who wants to attend a luncheon where the host Tweets the entire time? Not to mention that there was no meat on the menu. Annoying I tell you.

I skipped following the luncheon on Twitter in favor of Hostess Snack cakes, and spent my afternoon silently criticizing other annoying bloggers for offenses I perceived to be as bad as, or worse than, Eddie’s social media hit mongering extravaganza. There is a lot to criticize, I am telling you. It is better than making fun of ugly people at the mall, but I digress.

Later, when Eddie’s re-cap of the event appeared in my Reader I clicked through (I had to click through because Eddie’s full posts do not appear in Reader. That is annoying too by the way). The pictures were lovely, the food looked divine, the lack of animal protein was barely noticeable, and Eddie set a gorgeous table.

The centerpieces were wild flowers from the property Eddie and his partner recently purchased. From reading the post, I gathered that Eddie was uncertain of the botanical origins of the sweet looking posies he used to adorn the lunch table. Eddie put out a call to the blogosphere for help with identification, and the blogosphere responded in his comments section.

It seems that these lovely little blooms bear a striking resemblance to Water Hemlock (or some such plant), that is ….

Wait for it… (Speaking of annoying).

Yep, you guessed it.


As in lethal.
As in ingest a small amount and you die, or, in this case, you kill your uber glamorous guests at your oh- so- chic luncheon.

If you ask me, the image of fancy dead ladies in their summer frocks, strewn about the well-manicured lawn clutching monogrammed bakelite silverware, while Eddie taps out frantic messages of his distress is…

Freaking hilarious. Can you imagine THOSE Tweets?

Death by fussy decorator.

A real time game of Clue. Eddie Tweets in 160 characters or less as dapper gentlemen tip over in their hummus, all the while Eddie’s cyber pals are trying to guess what is killing the party!

Oh, the missed opportunity!

So close to the best blog post in history! Martha would have flipped her wig with envy.
Imagine the followers he could have had! The page views on his blog.

This kind of greatness you cannot buy!

Next time, may I suggest Sunday brunch for twelve with Oleander jam on toast points?



Saturday, July 18, 2009

Some People Have All the Luck

Why not Texas? Why not me?
This would have been better than winning the Lotto.

The call to the insurance company alone would have made my life complete.

"Hello Allstate? T. here. It appears that a giant weenie has penetrated the door to my fortress. Can you send an adjuster right away?

Hello? Hello?"



Friday, July 17, 2009

Wet Butt Syndrome

This day started like all of the others with a couple of exceptions. I looked in the mirror at 7:00 AM. Usually I avoid all reflective surfaces until well after eight or until I have consumed at least a gallon of coffee.

Whichever comes first.

I am proud to report that I do not look a year older. Seeing me in the mirror, the first thing on birthday morning was far less terrifying than I had imagined, probably due to my unfocused eyes. The blanket marks on my face camouflaged the crow’s feet and wrinkles that I am positive sprung up like mushrooms overnight.

What a relief.

The first gift I received was a neat pile of poodle shit strategically placed at the foot of my bed. The only thing missing was the candle.

Thank you, Vivian (You asshole).

Mr. Coffee responded to my pleas for the caffeinated courage I needed to face the day, and produced my first cup in record time. Only afterwards did I wonder if Mr. Coffee was setting records, or if this is what happens after you celebrate 99 birthdays. Time flies.

Fuck you too Mr. Coffee for mocking me.

My next birthday surprise was a nasty case of wet butt syndrome. I failed to notice that my neighbor Barney Rubble’s lawn sprinkler had soaked my patio furniture before I sat down to have a good cry on the veranda. So, that is what it feels like to pee in your pajama pants? Great, I cannot wait. Depends anyone?

Not nice Barney, not nice, at all.

The shower is a good place to have a nervous breakdown, or it would have been, if I would have remembered to remove my spectacles (Blindness was last year’s gift from the universe). When the steam fogged up my glasses, I was certain it was lights out. Oh, the irony of being found dead in the shower on my birthday, in a wrinkled birthday suit.

Is that irony or is it just pathetic?

Who cares? I’m old.

Not funny Universe.

Red shoes seemed happy, cheerful almost, a good choice to complement my snazzy birthday ensemble. Except red shoes reminded me of red hats, and that reminded me of those crazy women you see in restaurants crafting boutonnieres out of surplus tampons, celebrating being old, and pretending not care. I care!

Don’t even think about it you red-hatted bitches! I’ll cut you.

I am leaving for the office now. Perhaps work will serve as a good distraction. I keep reminding myself that it is 100 degrees outside.


Holy Hormone Replacement Therapy; This sucks.

Out (To Pasture) - T

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Ten Horrible Things That I Would Rather Have Than a Birthday

Ten Horrible Things That I Would Rather Have Than a Birthday

1. Kittens for dinner.

2. An episiotomy.

3. My 100 year High School class reunion (Oh, wait that is this weekend! Shit).

4. A fat husband on my couch.

5. A mouthful of used chewing tobacco.

6. Vinyl shoes.

7. A lisp.

8. A job in a tollbooth.

9. A tattoo on my forehead.

10. A dead squirrel under my bed.


Monday, July 13, 2009

My Big Fat Stupid Birthday

Holy hell! I am having ANOTHER big, fat, stupid, birthday. Not that I am complaining, because I do love some cake, and old beats dead, but Sweet Mary Mother of God; ENOUGH ALREADY! This is getting embarrassing.

Now I am so old, that not only do I have to lie about my own age, I have to lie about my *children’s ages as well. This would be fine if my children would co-operate except, that my children have never co-operated with me, one time, ever, in their lives. Something tells me that ain't changing by Thursday.

They are mean, these kids.

I try not to let on, but they frighten me. They always have. When they were younger, I had them convinced that I was on parole for selling my last batch of offspring to the gypsies. (It helps to control wild children if they think you are insane. How is that for helpful parenting advice? I bet Dr. Braselton never told you that shit, now did he)?

Anyway, I was hoping that the children of the corn would forget about my birthday entirely.

No such luck.

I received the following text message from Destroy yesterday.

“Happy almost Birthday! Are you married yet?”

To which I replied.

“Thank you. No thank you.”

Destroy, is girl child number two, one-half of the Search and Destroy team. Since birth, she and her equally irritating sister along with their adorable pain in the ass little brother Elroy; have made it their goal to ruin my life. I think it is safe to say that their mission was a success.

Never being one to leave well enough alone, Destroy persisted with her wireless attack.

D-- “You promised me a Daddy. Hurry up, before it’s too late!”
T-- “I promised you a pony too, are you sensing a trend?”
D-- “Funny. It is the nursing home for you old woman! "

Isn’t she sweet?

The best I can hope for is that they will not make me go out with them in public to celebrate. At my age, humiliation and birthdays do not mix.

At the very least, I hope that they do not buy me another goat. That thing was fucking crazy.

Hold me, I'm scared.


* I know I promised never to mention your existence on this blog, but it appears I lied about that too, kinda like that Santa Claus thing...


Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Hey Sister, Sole Sister

Dear Lupita, My dear Lupita, Dearest Lupita, To Whom It May Concern, Listen up Sister,

Why Lupita? Why are you so mean?
Are the demands of merchandising footwear giving you gas? Is that what is causing your brow to furrow?

Tell me Lupita, please!

Is it the hammertoes, the bunions, the corns and calluses that have you peeved? Are the Life Stride loafers you purchased with your employee discount pinching your cloven hooves? Is that it? Did your skinny stepsister get the glass slipper while you were stuck marking down 782 pairs of past season Dearfoam slippers?

Is that your problem Lupita? Or is it me?

I admit that I may have overreacted when you told me that you could not help me with my exchange, but Lupita is it really too much to ask that BOTH shoes in the box be the same size, because you see Lupita, both of my feet are the same size. I tried to convince my left foot that the pain would eventually subside after the blood flow had been restricted for a few hours, but it was no use.

I had to bring those shoes back.

I know that I crossed the line when I threatened to set fire to the Huaraches display. But come on Lupita, we both know that Huaraches are ugly anyway. I was trying to save you the trouble of moving them to the clearance table. Face it no one has worn those things since 1985.

The funniest thing happened as the security guard was escorting me off the premises! I noticed the 800 number for your corporate office posted on your front window. And guess what Lupita? I called it! I spoke with the nicest lady (Maybe a transfer to a desk job would improve your disposition—Just a thought). She connected me to your district manager who not only agreed that I can indeed exchange my mismatched sandals, but he also gave me a gift certificate and a 20% off coupon!

Isn’t that swell?

I am so excited! I have decided that I am coming back to your store on Saturday! I want to try on every size 7 in the place. I may even slip on a Huarache just for old time’s sake. It may take hours, but I do not care! We can bond Lupita.

You and I-- Sole sisters!

I have no doubt that you will not mind one little bit if I need to exchange three or four more times before I find the perfect fit. If this news does not cheer you up Lupita, well then, I just don’t know what will!

I will see you Saturday!

Your BFF.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Move along Folks, There’s nothing here to see

This post is not about the Fourth of July, Michael Jackson or the rooster that lives somewhere close to the window at my new office. It is not about my suspicion that someone has commissioned this rooster to do his very best to drive me insane by crowing eight hours a day. Every damn day.

We will not discuss the fact that I put a whole pile of unwanted items by the curb at the request of Goodwill because I am too freaking lazy to haul a whole closet full of unwanted crap across town to them.

This has nothing to do with the fact that I was emboldened by the idea of anonymity offered by the good folks at Goodwill, so among all of the unwanted ottomans, mismatched shoes, and armless dress mannequins was a platinum blonde wig.

I won’t even tell you about the pair of size 11 Lucite stripper shoes, the coordinating trashy ensemble size XXXL, or the pipe and silk smoking jacket I included in my generous donation.

This post has nothing to do with the fact that my neighbors ransacked my loot mere minutes after I placed it outside, and stole Every. Damn. Thing! We will not talk about my firm belief that my surfboard is now listed on E-Bay, or my loss of a tax deduction this year.

I refuse to tell you that now I feel compelled to explain to the thieving bastards in my neighborhood that the stripper get up was a Halloween costume, or at least it would have been if the DDHBF (Doo- Doo Head Boyfriend) would have agreed to play one of The Girls Next Door to my Hugh Hefner.

Who steals from Goodwill anyway? I have decided to avoid eye contact for the next ten years instead.

I considered writing about how I now believe in God, because Mr. Fussy Pants left for vacation yesterday , and that was the exact same day that the electricity was disconnected at the new World Headquarters of Fussy & Bitchy Inc. because someone (ahem) forgot to transfer the service. If that is not divine intervention, well then, I do not know what is.

I almost blogged for help when the electric door locks trapped me in the aforementioned office with six pissed off co-workers and no air conditioning. At the very least, I was going tell you how disgusting it is to have sweaty boobs.

If we were going to talk about boobs I could have told you that yesterday, for the first time since seventh grade math class, I removed my bra without taking my arms out of the sleeves of my shirt. I think that was the best thing I learned in the seventh grade. However, that is not the point.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I was going to admit that I spent the weekend repainting the kitchen for the third time in six months, but it was a holiday, and that seems pathetic, even to me. Pathetic and disturbing, because really? Three fucking times is ridiculous.

I know that about now you are hoping that I will shut the hell up get to the point. Except, there is no point.

The best thing about this particular entry is that it is not about CHEESE.

You are welcome.


PS- Have I mentioned that I am amazed that you take the time to e-mail me? And, how much I appreciate you?
Because I am, and I do.
I rully, rully do.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

Gwendolyn Cheese and Her Circus of Fleas

Gwendolyn Cheese and Her Circus of Fleas

Ladies and Gentlemen! Kids of all ages! Come see the circus with fleas on three stages!
For the first time, in the completely wide world, a circus of fleas make believed by a girl.
Meet Gwendolyn Cheese, Ringleader extraordinaire,
With her band of tiny performers that fly through the air.
They spin and they twirl with the greatest of ease, and that is quite a feat for bugs with no knees.

There are fleas riding camels, fleas breathing fire,
Fleas in a clown car with one missing tire.
Some jump on trampolines, bouncing much higher,
Than Marvelous Martha who walks the tight wire.
Maybe the most flabbergasting of all, is Carlos Courageous the flea cannonball.
He shoots through the air and over a wall, an unheard of stunt, for a creature so small.

Gwendolyn has chosen the most talented bugs,
She has picked them up outside and kept them in jugs.
She finds them in floorboards and underneath rugs.
She teaches them tricks with kisses and hugs.

The people all gather under the tent,
Amazed to behold such a special event
The children and parent’s are happy they went.
They all think it is well worth the two quarters they spent.

All summer long, they travel around
Down highways and by- ways, from city to town.
Performing their acts and making the news.
They have even played Peoria with glowing reviews…

I try. Lord knows, I. Try. But, every time I sit down to tell you about all of the fantastical adventures of my non-stop, thrill a minute, too freaking fabulous to describe with my limited writing skills lifestyle, all I get is…



Cheese. Cheese. And more Cheese! She will not go away, this kid. For weeks now, children’s rhymes, that is it. Happy, sweet, fuchsia drenched prose. Dripping with maple syrup and cotton candy sauce. I am just waiting for the fucking unicorns.


Where is the bitchy? What happened to the sarcasm? I am afraid I have lost my cynical charm.

Have I mentioned that I do not like children? I thought so.

I need an exorcism, or maybe forty-two back-to-back episodes of TLC’s Bringing Home Baby.

It just sucks. Believe me; I am aware that it sucks.

Send Help!

PS-love you L.

Friday, May 22, 2009

It Is 10 AM Do You Know Where Your Liver Is?

I have never given my liver much consideration. I know I have one, but I couldn’t tell you where it is. Big Judes (like every other mother in the world) made sure I could point to my ears and my nose; it is not cute for babies to point to their liver.

Guts are not cute.

Nor is it cute for girl toddlers to point to their boobs according to Judes, but that is another story entirely.

I remember the invisible man in the Sears catalog. He was a see through guy made of plastic with his innards exposed, an educational model on the last page of the toy section next to microscopes and rock tumblers. The invisible man never made it on to my Christmas list. I only stopped to check him out on the way to the bra pages. Judes did not subscribe to National Geographic. Smiley ladies in bras were the closest thing you could get to naked at my house. The appeal of the invisible man was his lack of clothing, not his liver.

Brains get a lot of good press. We are all interested in improving our brains; we protect them from harm with helmets. Everyone knows that a mind is a terrible thing to waste.

And hearts? Hearts are the celebrities of the organ world. They have associations and holidays, not to mention their own international symbol. We “heart” New York. Matters of importance deserve a heart to heart talk. I bet no one has ever embellished a love letter with a liver.

Even kidneys have a bean.

What recognition do livers get? None whatsoever.
It is a shame really, because livers kick ass. If you do not believe me, spend a day or two without one.

This brings me to my point:
Yes, there is a point! …

Go hug your liver (If you can find it). Be an organ donor. Thank your lucky stars that your liver does the job it was hired for without complaint. While you are at it if it is not too much of an imposition, could you put in a good word to God, or Allah, or Buddha, or Oprah or whoever it is that you consider a higher power for a particular liver in Kansas? You see, I love this liver very much and I want it to get well.

Livers Rock!
You Rock!


Sunday, May 10, 2009

Happy Mother's Day Anyway

The first pets I remember owning were turtles. I was three. There were two of them in a kidney shaped bowl with a little green palm tree in the middle. I named them Pixie and Dixie. They died. You buried them in the back yard.

I dug them up remember?
A pleasant childhood memory indeed.

I thought about getting you turtles for Mother's Day. Just for old time’s sake, but you hid them pretty well the second time. Besides, I think those little turtles are illegal now because they are poisonous. I kept thinking.

I considered sending a carton of Alpine cigarettes to replace the ones I stole from you and smoked in the alley with my friends, but you don’t smoke anymore, besides, cigarettes don’t exactly say I love you. They might kill you.

You used to take me to the Circus and let me ride the elephant. That would make the perfect Mother’s day gift! We could climb on top of a pissed off pachyderm and let a drunk Carney lead us around in a circle. How is that for mother daughter bonding? Then I remembered Sue the elephant in Ohio that lost her mind and trampled a bunch of Shriner's. We probably shouldn’t risk it.

I crossed the Oscar Meyer Wiener Whistle off the list, even though I loved it when you took me to Joe White’s grocery store to see the midget in the hot dog car. The whistles were recalled years ago due to being a choking hazard. Another childhood memory sullied.

We could go for a bike ride except we don’t have helmets. There is always shopping. Shopping seemed safe. Then I remembered the time you lost me at Montgomery Ward’s, and it took you at least an hour to come get me from the bra department. I understand the allure of a good shoe sale, but I am not convinced you didn’t hear my repeated pleas for help over the intercom. Shopping is out. I am not taking any chances.

We could get matching tattoos! I couldn’t think of a better way to commemorate our shared life experience. Unicorns? Butterflies? Skulls? I was going to let you choose. Then I figured in twenty years we would find out that the ink causes hemorrhoids or something and you would blame me. Scratch tattoos.

After careful consideration, I have decided that it is dangerous to have a mother. Just think of the pounds of carcinogen-laced bacon, the second hand smoke, the flammable pajamas and the toys slathered in lead based paint. I am amazed that I survived to adulthood.

Good grief woman, were you trying to kill me?
Don't answer that!

Happy Mother's Day anyway,


Monday, April 20, 2009

You Sir Are No Wombat

I was wandering through the grocery store parking lot searching for “Hilda” (The miracle of German engineering that is my car), praying that I would find her before it started to rain and ruin the four bags of peanut butter cups I had just purchased, when a man dressed as a wombat pulled up next to me on his motorcycle. He offered me his card and asked if I had ever considered cosmetic dentistry. I told him that I had thought about laser teeth whitening.

“Are you a dentist, because it says here that you sell cars?” I inquired after reading his card.
“No” he replied “But I am currently enrolled in a correspondence course, and it is cosmetic dentistry we are talking about here lady, not root canals.”
Being slightly put off by his condescending tone, I told him to show me his teeth; I reasoned that if he were in fact a student, his own bicuspids should be some indication of his proficiency in the art of mail order dentistry.

After some hesitation, he curled his upper lip exposing a row of little tiny rodent teeth replete with pointy incisors.

“You are not a dentist, or a wombat for that matter! You Sir are a WEASEL!”

I dropped the bags of peanut butter cups and ran…

Don’t you hate it when people tell you about their dreams?
I KNOW! Me too!

I think the lesson here is Do Not Eat Four Bags of Peanut Butter Cups before Bed.


Saturday, April 11, 2009

The whole bunny/egg thing makes total sense to me now.

Happy Easter.



“Dude, seriously, if you don’t roll your ass to the cafeteria in the next sixty seconds I will push you in the janitor’s closet and leave you there while I eat your Manwhich. I mean it. I am going to fucking lose it if we have to eat with the retards again. Don’t you want to sit with the cool kids, the ones that can walk and don’t drool on themselves? How are you ever going to find a chick if we don’t go where the action is?”

“Oh man, listen to this: page 62…”

Dear Annie,
I have exceptionally small breasts, but my boyfriend said size doesn’t matter. Is that true?

Dear Confused
Of course not. He said that only to get you into bed. I bet he’s sleeping with another girl now.

“Who writes this crap? Annie is obviously a fossil. Size does matter Todd! Believe me. It matters! Have you ever seen boobs?
No, probably not.
We need to show you some ta-ta’s Mr. T.
Guys love big boobs. Get your ass to the cafeteria and I will arrange a private viewing of Playboy, it’s a magazine full of boobs. It is all about the boobs Toddster.”

“Listen Todd, we need to talk. It’s your hair. Do they have the lawn guys style that shit for you? It is bad, but don’t worry I can fix it. I have gel, we can mess it up like you meant for it to look like that. It will be cool. I brought some Musk Oil too, it sort of smells like a girl, but it is better than the institutional funk you have going on now. You reek dude.”

“Guys suck Todd; all they care about is their stupid cars.
Who would miss a keg party to change their carburetor? It makes no sense.
Why are you smiling?
I get it. You like cars too. I thought you were different. Figures.
Hey, since you won’t be driving anytime soon, I think we should pimp your chair. We could trick it out with some chrome or something.
Would you like that?”

“Look man, you don’t have any reason to be pissed off at me. It was Spring Break; I wasn’t even supposed to be here last week. I didn’t ditch you if that’s what you’re thinking. What was I supposed to do? Call you? You can’t even talk.
I am the one that should be pissed. We’ve been doing this for how long and you decide that you will make it all the way down the hall to the lunchroom while I was gone? Not cool.
Listen, I’m sorry. I am just happy we don’t have to hang out with the fruits and nuts anymore. How do you live with all that grossness? I would freak out.”

“No one eats peas Todd. No one. If they put that shit on your plate again, just ignore it. You’re not a kid. They can’t make you eat your vegetables. Don’t let the man keep you down Todd. When I’m gone, you will have to fight for yourself. Fuck peas! Got it?”

“Look, about the party tomorrow. I can’t make it. I want you to have fun though, OK? Tell them you want one of the corners of the cake. That is where all the icing is. When they throw a shit fit because I am not at my own party, you will get it. You understand right? Who celebrates when they break up? It’s stupid. And Todd? I will miss you. I’m sorry I called your friends retards.”

Todd was my "interim project” in high school. While my classmates were spending a semester at the newspaper office, or interning at the capitol, I was stuck at The Kansas Neurological Institute, a residential treatment facility for severely handicapped children. It was not a plum assignment. Nobody wanted the job. Sometimes there are consequences to being a fifteen-year-old asshole.

I spent the Spring of my sophomore year coaching a severely brain damaged boy to maneuver his wheelchair one hundred yards up the hall to the school cafeteria so he could get a plate of pseudo prison slop and feed it to himself in less than thirty minutes. Just like a normal kid. If normal kids were partially blind, deaf, paralyzed and couldn’t speak that is. It took all semester, but he made it.

Todd and I were the same age. The only difference between us was that when he was about the size of a football, one of his parents threw him against a wall. Mine didn’t.

Spring makes me think of Todd, and yeah, I should have gone to the party, but that’s not the worst part, I should have never called his friends retards.
Sometimes there are consequences to being an asshole.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Ovaries and a Nice Chianti

Someone is going to get it.

I am not even kidding. Any day now, you will read about the (Almost) elderly, (Slightly) overweight, (Somewhat) promiscuous, crazy lady (With bad hair), that lost her mind and beat her co-workers to death with last season's Michael Kors gladiator sandal.

The sad part is any chance I may have had for an acquittal will be lost, because all the evidence needed to convict me will be right here on this blog.
I am screwed.

The days of me vs. the dumb boys at Fussy & Bitchy Inc. are over. Now I find myself in the middle of a hen party at work, only these hens have stilettos, over processed hair and little tiny brains filled with hate and nonsense. Send. Help.

After a week and a half of tolerating the mean girls and their bitch assedness, I have composed a warning letter. I think it is only fair, this way it will not be a surprise when I bludgeon them to death with last years foot wear.

Dear Future Victims Of My Wrath,

I am sick to death of mindless women who believe that they are endowed with superpowers that allow them to be the exception to every rule, because really? Seriously? If you think for one minute that you are the only one who has had to endure the pitfalls and pratfalls of motherhood you are fucking delusional. Your husband is not a bigger asshole than mine was and for the record, we all had crappy childhoods. The difference is some of us grew up.

How can you “Hate” so many things? Fat people, ugly people, non-English speaking people, Wal-Mart, cats, pine nuts. You hate them? I do not have the energy to consider them, let alone hate them. Hating is hard work. Save it for things that matter, or better yet just stop it.

I will admit that I am a bit mystified by your ability to raise the pitch of your voice to such a frequency that only dogs can hear you and your fixation with marking your territory is fascinating, but if you push me, I will pee on your desk blotter. I swear. I will.

Here is a tip: Without exception, every interesting woman I know has struggled to harness the power of the bitch. You see, we all have it. You are not special.

Being a superficial bitch, an ignorant bitch, a selfish bitch? That is the easy stuff and frankly, it wears thin.
There is a huge difference between sarcastic wit and mean spirited bullshit.

It takes practice to control the force. Over time, if you are diligent, hopefully the result will be wisdom. Some women even achieve “Nice”. Unfortunately for you, I am not there yet. Worse, I can revert to the insane bitch of my past with little provocation (As I said it is a struggle).

So Stop It. Please, or I will eat your ovaries with some pine nuts and a nice Chianti.

All the best,


Saturday, April 4, 2009

Maybe Next Time

Guess where I was NOT last night.

Oh Leonard, did you miss me?


Saturday, March 28, 2009

Couples Only Skate

Who could forget the disco ball, red carpet on the walls and asshole boys skating backwards?

The best song ever played at the Starlight Skate Center in Topeka Kansas on a Friday night, with the possible exception of “Babe” by Styx.

Now line up it’s time to Snowball!


Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Post Traumatic Snake Syndrome

Oh look, a kitten baking bread!

There is nothing traumatic about kittens. Unlike snakes, kittens are cute and furry; apparently, they like to bake bread. Additionally they don't smell like ass. Snakes do. (Smell like ass, not bake bread).

Nature and I have had an unspoken arrangement. I avoid nature. Nature avoids me. This agreement has worked out well. Now for some reason Mother Nature hates me, just like Mrs. Ebrahardt my preschool teacher hated me.

Mother Nature could have sent me a flock of cooing doves, or a playful woodland creature, or perhaps a fluffy kitten. Instead, I got an odiferous serpent, the smell of which will be imprinted on my brain for the rest of my life.

Mrs. Ebrahardt could have worn pants. Instead, she chose to wear long flowy skirts and then she got mad when she caught me instructing four-year-old boys to lie on the floor to get the best view of her garters and support hose. I still remember how mean she was and her horrible perfume.

For weeks after the garter incident, I imagined Mrs. Ebrahardt around every corner, silently lurking in the shadows trying to catch me being bad. A Garter snake so to speak, a big stinky Garter snake threatening to tell my mother on me. It freaked me out.

Finding a snake yesterday freaked me out. I AM STILL FREAKING THE HELL OUT.

I have developed a condition as a result of the shock. I think you call it Post Traumatic Snake Syndrome.

Have a look...

Don't worry this is not my butt. It is my shoulder. Ignore the freckles and liver spots those are not symptoms of my ailment. I am referring to the lovely red splotches. Someone less medically astute than I may mistake them for hives,

And yes, I am covered with them.
Thanks for asking.

I am now adding Calamine lotion to the list of odors indelibly imprinted on my brain.


Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Say Hello to My Little Friend

Snake update!!

It only took one trash can a golf club and some scaredy cat boys to rid the lobby of our unwanted visitor. No one died (not even the snake).

I am still upset that I missed the photo op, but this is a close facsimile. Apparently he is a Blotched Water Snake, common in this area and non poisonous.

Hansom' devil isn't he?



A Live Dispatch from the Office of Fussy & Bitchy Inc.

Oh, we got trouble
Right here in River City
With a capital 'T' and that rhymes with 'P' and that stands for 'penis'
That stands for 'penis'

Which has nothing what so ever to to with the fact that there is a BIG HONKING SNAKE IN THE LOBBY RIGHT THIS MINUTE BLOCKING THE EXIT at Fussy & Bitchy Inc. but it was the first 'p' word I could think of. 'Pool' does not really apply in this circumstance.

But then neither does penis does it?

There may be some innuendo there ...
Never mind.

We surely got trouble

Where was I? Oh yes, THE SNAKE! My new cell phone does not have a camera or I would show you a picture of this venomous serpent. I am sure it is an Anaconda, or possibly Cobra. The crappy phone does have a MP3 player. I could record Mr. Fussy Pants squealing like a girl.

That might be fun.

Do Mortgage professionals make good snake charmers?
We shall see.
I am sure some people are of the opinion that they make better snakes.

Let's just say I am the Marion The Librarian of the group.


Oh the irony of it all.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Princess Wee-Wee Is Not a Fetus

I am convinced that I have an embryonic twin lodged in my head.
Her name is Thumbelina.

My tiny baby sister that never was is trying to kill me. According to Google, This is a rare condition called Fetus in fetu. (Which for some reason brings to mind fettucine alfredo, but that may be because I have not eaten for three days). Who knows?
I know one thing, having an unborn child in your head hurts.

A lot.

It can ruin your weekend.

On the bright side, I am sure I will be receiving a phone call from the Discovery Channel any moment seeking exclusive rights to my story. I will be famous like the Octomom. Unless, of course, Thumbelina turns out to be an impacted wisdom tooth as BFSK (best friend since kindergarten) S. suspects.

That is what I think she said before she hung up on me.


*FYI: Do not EVER do an image search for "parasitic twin" in the morning. EVER.
Princess Wee -Wee is a little person not a fetus, but I love her name and I care about you.

** Edited to add that Princess Wee-Wee is not an embryo OR a fetus.-- Yes, BFSK S. I DO know the "diff."

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Putting Lipstick on the Pig

The old "new" blog template made me itch.
Maybe I will like this one better.
Maybe it will inspire me.
Maybe I will stop posting stupid crap.


Thursday, March 19, 2009

Sweet Sam

Look up and look around T-Mart shoppers! That flashing blue light is on in our Children’s Department, where we are proud to introduce the very first guest post from my favorite third grader in the completely wide world!

Nothing Rhymes With Paris

I was going too write a poem about Paris
Because Paris is the girl that I am
But, there is nothing that rhymes with the word Paris
So, I am changing my name to Sweet Sam

By Paris
Age 8


Wednesday, March 18, 2009

The Caped Cod

I want a cape.
A red cape like Superman’s
Only cuter.

Think about it.

There is no accessory more appropriate for Spring 2009 than a cape.
It takes Superhero powers these days just for me to get out of the bed.

I could be the Caped Cod (Holy Mackerel!).
A cape would be comforting, like macaroni and cheese without all the calories.

It may inspire me to do good deeds. Maybe.
If fashioned correctly a cape would cover my ever-expanding ass.

Nothing could say, “Back the hell off “like a cape.
Evildoers and scary homeless guys would fear me.
I will fight shitheadery wherever it lurks.

I am not so sure about ducking in to a phone booth to change clothes because phone booths are disgusting and not easy to find… I’ll have to work on that.

I know what you are thinking.
Please, no comments about it matching my tin foil hat.



Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Posted No Trespassing!

My refrigerator would make a good Leprechaun hideout. Until yesterday I had never noticed how little my refrigerator is. Until yesterday’s post that I forgot to publish until today I had never noticed how stupid my refrigerator AND my kitchen cabinets look without handles either. Blogging can be so therapeutic.

Anyway, when I purchased the refrigerator I did not ask for the midget model (Perhaps, I should be more PC and say little person?), but that is exactly what I got. This thing is the companion to the Easy Bake Oven I had as a child!

Lillaputionesque I tell you.

Now I am positive that Leprechauns hang out in there.
They are probably swilling my green beer and ransacking the produce drawer in search of Lucky Charms. Right. Now.

The sneaky little bastards.



Monday, March 16, 2009

Where, OH Where Has My Little Blog Gone?

Now then, where were we?
Oh yes, last time we were here (about a year ago wasn’t it?) I was bitching about the time change, which is still a problem because I have a hard enough time being on time.
Well, now, it is out of the question.
Fashionably late is now irritatingly absent, and try as I might I cannot help it.
The message here is do not invite me to lunch, or a party, or ask me to pick you up at the airport until October because I will piss you off.

In other news, I sucked up a bottle of Visine with the vacuum cleaner (sometimes I over estimate the power of the Hoover). Not surprisingly, the offender was stuck in the hose. A broomstick, a wire hanger, and an attempt to blow said bottle out of the hose like a poison dart from an African blowgun garnered no results. I did manage to stab my finger with the hanger and bleed all over the damn place, but the stupid bottle is still stuck. Unfortunate, because there are Styrofoam bits all over the floor from the latest "Denial is a Beautiful Thing-F$$K the Recession Darling, We're Still Rich!" home improvement project at the New Digs.

Since there is no way I will be installing glass tile in the kitchen anytime soon, I opted for a lovely mural. Well,“Lovely” may be reaching a bit, actually, “mural” is a stretch as well, considering I printed a photo from my computer glued it to foam core and tacked it to the wall.

It looks easy right? Well it wasn’t. I had to climb on top of the refrigerator to complete the installation. While I do not have a fear of heights, I do have a fear of falling and breaking my neck. To make matters worse, I cannot cut a straight line to save my life. You would think by now I would know my limitations. You would also think that I could count.

After eight hours of struggling with this behemoth, I ran out of tacks. Twenty minutes before this week’s episode of Big Love. It should have been one hour and twenty minutes if life was fair nevertheless, it is not.

Nor is it fair that even though I rushed to the Wal-Mart to buy tacks I still missed 20 minutes of Big Love. Worse still is the knowledge that everyone in aisle 15 at the Wal-Mart noticed my blood smeared T-shirt and the black circle around my mouth from sucking on the vacuum hose.

I am sure they thought I was a bong smoking taxidermist in need of more supplies for my latest dead Bambi project. I thought about trying to explain that I am actually just a harmless, albeit accident prone polygamy fan in the express lane with thumb tacks so I can climb back on top of my refrigerator before 7:00 pm.

On second thought I decided:

F$$k it. I am rich. I can be crazy.

Denial is a Beautiful Thing Darling


Saturday, March 7, 2009

Screw You William Willett

"Early to bed, and early to rise, makes Tobi bitchy, twitchy and snide"

Hello Daylight Saving Time?

You. Suck.

No offense, but you do.


Keep your sunshine.

I want my hour back.


Friday, March 6, 2009

Sinner - Sinner Chicken Dinner

I went for the nuggets-- I stayed for the shoes.

For reasons that are still not entirely clear to me, I needed chicken nuggets for lunch yesterday. NEEDED them I tell you. Never mind that I hate all things McDonald's. Forget that no one over the age of seven would willingly eat a chicken nugget.

I had to have them.

Unfortunately for me, there is a Marshall’s Department Store (I see you rolling your eyes) in close proximity to my neighborhood golden arches.

Six new shirts, two pairs of jeans, one smashing pair of spring sandals, and a felony violation of the No Shopping- Because You Are Poor Ordinance later, the soggy chicken nuggets were still laying in the front seat of my car where I left them.

The good news is-- I probably spared myself from ingesting about three kilos of artery clogging trans-fat.

The bad news is-- God is punishing me.

On my way back to the office my cell phone died.
Fourteen days after the warranty expired.
Six months before I am eligible for a free new phone.
I will have to commit to two more years of service to the tune of $3432 to get a new one.
Alternatively, I could pay cash... (If I hadn’t spent it all).

I should have stopped at Neiman’s.
It totally would have been worth it.


Thursday, March 5, 2009

Girdle Interrupted

“Waiter, there is an old woman in my soup. If it is not too much trouble could you call 911 and refill our water please?”

I put on the dreaded panty girdle because I cannot hold my breath all day. I have tried. I look angry and slightly constipated. When I exhale, I look four months pregnant. The black pencil skirt tells no lies. I should have just worn pants, but I am a team player.

The restaurant I selected fit all of the criteria for business lunches with Mr. Fussy Pants (My boss). It was loud, cheap, with good food and no paper napkins. Our reservation was for one o’clock. The girdle of doom had caused a rash and a horrible itch by ten. It seemed logical to take it off and stuff it into my purse rather than walk around the office scratching my ass. The plan was to put it back on before lunch. I forgot.

Lunch went smoothly. I only had to kick Fussy under the table a few times. The investors we were meeting with seemed pleased. It was time to get the hell out while I was ahead.

I requested the check. The waiter went to fetch it. I was silently congratulating myself for a job well done. I exhaled. Unfortunately, at the same time I was breathing a sigh of relief, the old woman at the table next to me stopped breathing. She apparently swallowed wrong and started to choke.

The waiter came back with the check. When he heard the wheezing he stopped dead in his tracks and stared—At Me! I scanned the area. Everyone was looking...

AT ME!?!

Granny continued to hack.

Silently I reviewed the procedures for the Heimlich maneuver smiling inanely to project a feeling of calm control and digging through my bag for my cell phone. I reasoned that as long as Mee-Maw was coughing she was not going to die. The worst thing that could happen is that she would barf and frankly, I did not want her barfing on me (Go-ahead call me evil, I deserve it).

Calmly I pulled crap out of my purse and found my phone. If she stopped coughing because her airway truly was obstructed, I would need 911 or BFSK (Best friend since kindergarten) the nurse, to talk me through this.

"Are you going to do something to help her?" Estelle Getty from another table shouted at me. Everyone including the bastards at my own table wanted to know why I was not doing anything.


Do I look like Marcus Freaking Welby? What do these people think I am supposed to do?

I considered rushing to her side and screaming “Put your arms up! Put your arms up!" while shaking the crap out of her, because that is what Big Judes (My Mom) used to do to me as a child, but I know from experience that all that does is make the screaming person feel better. It does nothing for the person choking.

Instead, I reluctantly stood and patted the old bat on the back (It is no secret that I am missing the nurturing gene). This is the best I could do. As predicted, Granny seized until she yaked in her napkin. Lovely. I must say she felt much better afterwards.

I on the other hand did not.

I weakly sat back in my chair and wiped my brow with my own napkin.
Except that my napkin-- Was not my napkin.

It was the panty girdle.

As if I needed further proof that no good deed goes unpunished.



Wednesday, March 4, 2009

The Elephant in the Room

My obsession feelings for the witty and talented M21 are no secret. I would truly love to squeeze him, or marry him, or at least hang out with Mona if he would let me. Luckily, I am hundreds of miles away from the Maison21 atelier. This spares us both the embarrassment of trying to explain my inappropriate behavior to the police. It also spares me the expense of posting bond for stalking.

To his credit, M takes my unwanted advances in stride. He even allowed me to participate in the first Bloggers Design Challenge, so imagine my delight when I saw this.

I swear I heard the angels trumpeting when I read about it.

Do not even get me started about these... or what I would like to do with them.
Well, that was a little awkward now wasn't it?

In an effort to avoid being the proverbial bedazzled elephant in the otherwise tasteful room and to prove that I do have a modicum of self restraint. I am leaving this challenge to the professionals. Besides, I could never hold a candle to the talent of the esteemed HOBAC, the first entrant in the OCDD challenge, and another of my imaginary friends who so far has not filed a restraining order against me. Bless him for that.

But enough about me, go check it out and get busy!

Tell M that Tobi Tobivitch sent you.


Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Money Laundering

What does it mean when you look forward to laundry day for the possibility of finding lost change in the bottom of the washing machine?

A. You are thrifty and wise. You should be commended for your resourcefulness.

B. Obviously, you have lost your mind. No one cares about change. Just admit it is the spin cycle you are enamored with and seek help.

C. You need a hobby.

D. You are a freaking wing nut. When you start rifling through your friends couch cushions, or prying your teeth loose for the tooth fairy, keep it to yourself!



Sunday, March 1, 2009


And if I go,

while you're still here...

Know that I live on,

vibrating to a different measure

--behind a thin veil you cannot see through.

You will not see me,

so you must have faith.

I wait for the time when we can soar together again,

--both aware of each other.

Until then, live your life to its fullest.

And when you need me,

Just whisper my name in your heart,...

I will be there.

-Colleen Corah Hitchcock

I knew Lisa through her words.
Lisa was a gift generously shared with us by her daughters Teenie and Cam and her husband Dude.

Hold your memories close and whisper her name. I know she will hear you.

I just know it.