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.

image: http://www.flickr.com/photos/k-hultkrantz/744832324/

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?"


image: http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090718/ap_on_fe_st/us_odd_wienermobile_wreck

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...

Image: http://stylefrizz.com/200906/dare-to-wear-tights-with-printed-veins-on/

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.