Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Due to circumstances beyond our control:
Fort Worth will be closed today.
There is ice in Texas this morning. Any amount of frozen precipitation brings the entire metro-plex to a screeching halt (more accurately a sliding crash). Texans on ice are like pigs in tutus—Ugly!
All across the city scenes like this are-taking place.
Poor Texas kids.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Why you wonder?
Because Lassie would never chew up panties, or pee on the carpet and
If I ever fall down a well, Lassie will save me.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Yesterday was a cute day. I can always tell it will be a good day when my cowlicks are hardly noticeable and I do not have to lie down to button my jeans. Cute is relative, especially at my age, you take what you can get.
In my youth, leering cowboys with bull balls dangling from their bumpers would have been dismissed with an eye roll and a sneer. Not now, now, catcalls from migrant workers riding in the back of nondescript white pick up trucks are considered high praise. You take what you can get.
After I begrudgingly stopped for gas on the way to work, I noticed men staring. Men of all ages were looking and smiling, they were flirting I tell you! I discreetly checked to make sure a boob had not popped out of my sweater, but no, that was not it.
I wondered if it was the good hair, or the new wrinkle control moisturizer or possibly the Spanx (God bless the Spanx) making me so irresistible. I decided not to question it. Fabulous is as fabulous does.
All day it continued. Everywhere I went men noticed. One thing was certain. I could not pass up the opportunity to capture my undeniable appeal on film. My plan was to unleash the power of the glamour puss on every free dating site on the interwebs. Who knows if this sort of magnetism would ever happen again? Let the manhunt commence!
At first, I did not notice the car in the lane beside me. It was the arm waving that caught my attention. Well, that and the girls pointing and shrieking …Wait, Girls? My charms know no bounds. Either that or I have a flat tire. Damm.
Upon inspection, it was not a flat tire. Worse-- My imagined charm was just that. Imagined. What was not imagined was the anatomically correct, naked looking butt print; apparently, I leaned against my filthy automobile while pumping gas. All day I had been driving around with what amounted to a Playboy centerfold ass shot in dust on the side of my car.
Embarrassing? Yes, but at my age you take what you can get.
There is no way I am washing that car.
Let the manhunt commence!
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Not many events in recent history compare to today’s inauguration. Putting a man on the moon, tearing down the Berlin wall, ending the cold war, may come close. This is like the summer of love without all the dirty hippies.
I spent the weekend fanning this little flicker of hope that I have been feeling, (Which is not easy for someone like me who has an uncanny ability to find the black lining in any cloud). For today, I am suspending disbelief.
Moreover, singing… Because today we are going to party like it is 1969.
Friday, January 16, 2009
There is only one thing I can think of that would be worse than hearing "Brace for impact" from the pilot of an aircraft on which I was a passenger. That would be hearing a doctor say "Congratulations it's a girl."
Have a good weekend
Look out for low flying geese and pea chicks in pearls.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Today is Thursday January 15, 2009.
The ambient air temperature this morning is 30 degrees Fahrenheit, which is 1.111 degrees Celsius in case you were wondering.
Do you know what that means?
It means that it is fricken cold outside.
Please do me a favor--
Put on some clothes on, will you?
We do not, I repeat, DO NOT live in Miami.
If I see you in shorts and flip flops today, I am telling your Mother.
Very truly yours,
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
I am writing to thank you for killing my joy. I am sure you remember me. I am the one that made you typealize my blog forty two times. In a row. Over and over. Non-stop (did I say over and over?) until you finally (not so nicely, I might add) told me to knock it off.
How did you think I would react to this...
The analysis indicates that the author of http://www.tobietal.com is of the type:
ISTP - The Mechanics
The independent and problem-solving type. They are especially attuned to the demands of the moment are masters of responding to challenges that arise spontaneously. They generally prefer to think things out for themselves and often avoid inter-personal conflicts. The Mechanics enjoy working together with other independent and highly skilled people and often like seek fun and action both in their work and personal life. They enjoy adventure and risk such as in driving race cars or working as policemen and firefighters
So, fine, I’ll stop, but I am telling you right now I am not a fucking mechanic (Oh, the blue collar implications of it all). Also, Additionally! Furthermore!! For your information, I hate people--Well, stupid people anyway--HATE THEM, do you hear me? I most hate the imbeciles I work with.
Avoid inter-personal conflict you say? I adore conflict, I live for conflict. Inter, Intra, group, I love them all. For the record? I would not date a Fireman, let alone be one. Communal living, heavy equipment, horrid uniform, are you kidding me?
Couldn't you just have told me I suck and left it at that?
Monday, January 12, 2009
What. So. Ever.
This is Shirley the office cat. Do not worry, she is not dead, nor did I force her to pose for my amusement (I value my face). She is sleeping.
If this blog had audio, you could hear Rosa the cleaning woman swearing in Spanish because someone (I will not mention any names) left peanut butter cup wrappers in the trashcan under her desk (The very same desk pictured above). Over the weekend an opportunistic mouse took up residence.
The collective opinion of the anonymous employee and the cat that was hired to control the rodent population at Fussy and Bitchy Inc. was reported to have been a unanimous.
I have class reunion info.
I w/cu in July.
I had to put my head between my knees to prevent hyperventilation.
The only reason I graduated from high school in the first place is because I was offered a plea deal, I was no more popular with the student body than I was with the faculty. For some reason people are not amused when you steal their cars, even less so when you break their arms (wussies).
If I had only terrorized these people for four years (give or take) I would not feel so bad, but that is not the way it works in Topeka Kansas, most of these tortured souls have been my victims since elementary school. There are many years of grudges being held here people, I am sure of it.
I do not want to let Wilson down, but this could be dangerous, I am not as young and flexible as I used to be. What if they combine forces and try to stuff me in a gym locker? I could break a hip.
I bet Debbie Kerner will be there with her stupid umbrella and Mike Powell “The good Citizen”, (he always volunteered for crossing guard duty in the sixth grade). You know he rues the day that Mrs. Morgan bestowed that deal breaking moniker upon him. It killed any slim chance he had of making out with a girl until college. Who wants to suck face with the Good Citizen?
Then there is Bud Trickle, my first love. The boy who broke my heart. I spent hours looking at disgusting pond water and cheek cells through his microscope. I practiced removing the funny bone from that stupid Operation game for weeks. Why? Because Bud Trickle aspired to be, a doctor and I aspired to be Mrs. Bud Trickle.
My plan was working swimmingly, that is until Bud Trickle noticed Lori Peyton and her boobs. I was no competition for an eleven-year-old Anna Nicole Smith. Bud Trickle was gone in a flash leaving me heart broken and flat chested. I hope Bud Trickle has three chins and a bad case of acid reflux. I may show up just so I can check him out and let him in on a little secret.
Lori Payton stuffed her bra, you twit!
You dumped the next Madame Curie for a box of Puffs tissues Bud Trickle!
Sunday, January 11, 2009
There is no doubt that we will end up together in a singlewide trailer surrounded by four or five yapping toothless poodles. S. will make candles. I will peddle them from my shopping buggy on the streets of Stop 6 so we can buy Miller High Life and Lotto tickets.
The candle is blue. It has a very familiar scent that I was not able to put my finger on. I think S. may have bestowed the mystery candle on me in an attempt to drive me insane. I would not put it past her. She may be holding a grudge from all of the trouble I got her into in the eighth grade. I love her, but she scares me a little.
It became an obsession this candle, like having a word on the tip of your tongue and not being able to think of it. I moved it from the bathroom to the kitchen so I could be closer to it. I asked everyone who came over to identify the scent. No one knew.
To preserve what little is left of my good mental health I decided to let it go. I would call the smell the scent of love. S. loves me. I love her. I love candles. It makes sense if you think about it. My brain reluctantly agreed. Game over. Love it is. It was time to move on and obsess about other things.
This morning it hit me. This candle? The terrifying, mind-melting candle of doom? It smells exactly like a Cabbage Patch Kid. Apparently, adoration and flaming rubber dolls smell strikingly similar.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Instead of wearing my heart on my sleeve, I apparently wear my disdain, disgust, shock, surprise, and angst on my face. I think this may explain why I have never been successful at poker.
It may also explain why small children and house pets cower in my presence.
All I can say to this shocking revelation is; Why didn’t you bastards tell me sooner? If the reported observations are correct, I have been walking around for the nearly 102 years of my life exposing my inner most feelings to the world without any knowledge of my actions. What goes on between my brain and I is confidential.
It appears my facial features have betrayed me.
After hearing this tragic news my first impulse was to make an appointment at Dr. 90201’s office for a heavy dose of Botox. A paralyzed face cannot involuntarily contort, now can it? Then I considered seeking employment at a movie theatre, or perhaps a coalmine, some place dark where I can avoid embarrassment.
For now, I think I will just practice my jazz hands while I wait for Mr. Wonderful.
Was that the doorbell?
http://www.easyletters.net/image/monkey-see-monkey-do.jpg, http://entertainingconx.com/images/laura4.jpg, http://www.flickr.com/photos/23097960@N04/2356327944/
Friday, January 9, 2009
This morning as I was trying to write a message on my butt with a purple sharpie I twisted my neck in such a way that it caused a disturbingly loud pop followed by—
I did not die (this was the good news), My head did not fall forward indicating a cervical spinal cord injury that would leave me incapacitated for the rest of my life (better news). I could still speak. (I know this because I yelled “Oh Fuck” so loud I am sure it woke baby Jesus). The bad news is I could not move my neck without seeing stars and experiencing a blinding pain from my left ear to my knee.
Spending the next fifty years looking over my left shoulder seemed less than ideal, I briefly considered seeking medical attention. Then I remembered Big Judes and her cheerful reminders to put on clean underwear before car trips, in case we were unfortunate enough to be involved in a multi-car pile up on interstate 70 en route to Grandma’s house. Apparently, it is important to wear fresh drawers for the ambulance ride to the hospital. A pleasant childhood memory and a life lesson, good work Judes.
Clean bloomers was not really a problem. The fact that they were around my ankles where I could not reach them was a bit of an issue. Well, that, and the bright purple limerick scrawled on my ass in permanent marker- That was the issue.
I managed to lower myself to the floor without losing consciousness. When one is paralyzed on suspect white carpet there is a lot of time to ponder things, many things, such as the estimated time that would elapse before someone would find my lifeless body, or the odds that Vivian the obstinate Toy poodle would gnaw off my pinkie toes before help arrived. Somewhere between planning my imaginary wedding to George Clooney and chastising myself for never using the hand held vacuum attachment under the bed, it hit me. Post It Notes.
If only I had used a Post It Note, I would not be in this predicament. I would not lay dying on soiled carpet in flagrante delicto waiting for help that would never arrive, worrying that when my friends and family descended on the New Digs after my funeral to divide my possessions, someone other than BFSK S. would be assigned the task of cleaning out my panty drawer.
Before you rush to defend me (As I am sure you are inclined to do) allow me to say that I am crappy to you too, my Internet friends. Everyday I go to my Google reader and lazily read your posts. I enjoy you immensely. Do I tell you? No, I do not. Not enough, I realized after I read this. That is how my 2009 resolution was born.
I have resolved to use Post It Notes. You will find me in the comments section of your blog. I will be a participant this year rather than an observer. I will never, ever, write on my own butt again.
Five, Four, Three, Two…