Monday, November 1, 2010

Welcome to the Road Kill Cafe

My name is Luann, I'll be your server.

Today's special is a tasty little dish I like to call-- "The last Bitch that stiffed me..."

Except I'm 10, I'm not allowed to say "Bitch".

 So, what say we just keep that little tidbit between us, shall we?
Now then, what'll you have?
 I hear the Frito Pie  is to die for!


Saturday, October 16, 2010

Almost Sad

I hope to God that you were really selling candy bars. 

You were small and almost sad.     
I was one of the people in the crowd.  I almost didn’t notice, except, I did.


Where the hell is a Cop when you need one?
Not there.  Not then.  I know because I looked.    

We both know you shouldn’t talk to strangers.
I was a stranger, someone else’s mom, not yours.
You said you were not alone, that your aunt was inside the restaurant. You were all right you said, you were selling candy bars, you said.
We both know you shouldn’t talk to strangers, don’t we?

I hope to God you were really selling candy bars.

Thursday, August 5, 2010

We Need to Talk

There is something I think I should tell you. (Don’t you just hate when people say that? Me too, it makes me want to impale myself with the sharp end of a Snickers Bar). Here’s the deal. I cannot, do you hear me, CANNOT! Keep a secret. If you are knocked up, or you tattooed Speedy Gonzalez on your ass, and you want to confide in someone, tell your Priest, or your Doctor, or the guy in line behind you at the DMV, but whatever you do, do not tell me. I blab.

I can’t help it.

I am the girl who announced to my whole Earth Science class on our ninth grade overnight field trip, that while I found the constellations of the Milky Way Galaxy mildly interesting, the pot plants the neighbors were cultivating in the back of their barn were fucking amazing. Sorry Neighbors.

And sorry too, to my friend Anita because I told your mother that it was actually a fox, not the family cat that bit your finger, (Yes, we captured a fox and held it hostage for several days when we were ten years old. Don’t ask.), but I was afraid you would die of Rabies. Terrified actually, can you even imagine how long I would have been grounded if Big Judes (My Mom) found out you were foaming at the mouth and it was my fault?  Forever, that’s how long.

I would like to be able to report that I am more trustworthy now that I am almost one hundred years old, but, alas, that is not the case. Just last year my friend L. ask me to keep my big trap shut about an insanely cool project she started, The Secret Agent L Project, perhaps you have heard of it?

Anyway, L ask me what I wanted for my birthday (Because she is swell that way), and I told her that I was so ridiculously old that a gift would just remind me that my days were numbered, so really it would be better to skip the gift, unless of course the gift was a prescription for Prozac, because that is really the only thing that would have made me happy thought that she should do something nice, like anonymously nice, for someone else and then send me pictures, because that would make me happy, and then I would probably forget, at least for a little while, that I was practically as old as Dick Clark.

So, in typical L fashion, L knocked that sucker out of the park by doing this. (I told you she was swell).
But then, she told me not to tell, so of course the first thing I did was tell Karey M, then I may have mentioned it to Big Judes, and also, now that I think about it, it may have come up in conversation with Mr. Fussy Pants (My Boss), but I am pretty sure I only told him to prove that I really do have friends, and he probably told me to shut up anyway, so really I only told a couple people, which is really pretty good, all things considered.

That was a year ago, I just had another Birthday, now I am pretty sure I am older than Dick Clark. I am also pretty sure that I have one of the most amazing friends in the world, and I want to blab, so go here, and here, and here too.

Then go do something nice for someone.



Saturday, May 29, 2010

Show Your Molars

I can't decide if I want to join her, or slap her, but I admire the effort.
Have a great weekend!



Thursday, May 27, 2010


Question: How many oil company execs would it take to stop an oil spill?
Answer: I guess it depends on what size chunks you cut them in to.

Fuck you, you fucking  fucks (Very Ashley Morris/Treme/John Goodman of me, yes?).

Anyway, Facebook is invading my privacy.  Congress is trying to put me out of business. British Petroleum is poisoning my gulf coast.

And I?

I am busy looking at pretty pictures of over designed Dining Rooms, while contemplating the best way to organize my shoe closet.

Perhaps, I am the fucking  fuck.


Monday, April 19, 2010

You Smell Like Pee

When Search and Destroy (The ungrateful children I ruined my perfectly perky ass giving birth to) were tiny smalls they played a really fun game wherein one would say to the other “You smell like pee”, then the other would cry and cry and cry, while one laughed and laughed and laughed. It was the funnest game ever!

If Destroy were telling you this story she would insist that I, the meanest mother in the world, who was constantly on the phone, or smoking pot in the bathroom, did not allow fun. Ever, no matter what, so help her God.

According to Destroy the worst day of her life was when she was five years old during a particularly rousing game of you Smell Like Pee and I (The Meanest Mother on the planet) without warning, hurled my leather bound Anniversary Edition of House Beautiful Magazine directly at her head, (because Search was my favorite) hitting my target with the skill of William Tell, concussing Destroy and knocking her left eyeball out, thereby making it impossible for her to pick up her toys ever again.

In fact, if Destroy is to be believed, her inability to do homework, clean her bedroom, or be home on time, can all be traced directly back to The Pee Game. That is not exactly the way I remember it, except for the pot part. But anyway, you would think that an episode so traumatic as to knock your eyeball out would have put a swift end to the game of pee.

Not so.

The memory makes me long for the time when parents could spank the hell out of their children in public without fear of incarceration. If I had it to do over again, the first time one of the little jerks threw themselves on the floor at the grocery store and screamed “Make her stop! Pleeeease! Someone help! I don’t know this woman!” I would just give them a kick and go back to squeezing grapefruit.

Seriously, what did all the patience, the time-outs, the negotiating get me? I’ll tell you what it got me. It got me three full grown people with tattoos, who still do not listen to a word I say.

Destroy paid me a visit at my office today. The first words out of her mouth ( After “You better stop ignoring me” which is her standard greeting, because Destroy insists that I have ignored her since birth, never mind that I speak to her no less than five times a day) were “You smell like pee.”

I couldn’t help myself. I kicked her.

Then I laughed and laughed. She cried and cried and cried.

Who says I don't like to have fun?

This game is totally fun! Or at least it was, until Destroy pointed to a suspicious stain on the collar of my spiffy spring blouse. You see, Vivian the Obstinate Poodle is playing for the other team. She is in cahoots with my rotten children to make me insane.

It seems that this morning Vivian found opportunity to pee in my purse. Not just in my purse, but strategically on my cell phone, which I pulled out of my purse and rubbed all over the side of my face when my lovely daughter called to tell me she was paying me a visit. Yea Teamwork!

Did you catch that?

I want to cry and cry and cry.

After I shower and change, I think I will kick the dog, or at the very least we will have a serious talk before I put her in time-out. After that I will be in the bathroom. Call me.


image: image that I can't post because blogger hates me.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Save Yourself Some Trouble and Leave the Sour Cream for Potatoes

Before we start with this sad tale of bad ideas gone worse, please direct your attention to the photo on your left.

For the record, the “G” on the adorable flowerpot housing the soon to be dead begonia (or whatthehelleveritis) does not stand for “Granny” or any variation thereof.

 Just because I have potted begonias and poodle statuary, on my front porch does not mean that I have thrown out the thong panties and dry martinis in favor of Depends and Metamucil, but I do understand your concern.

Spring lasts about fifteen minutes in Texas. One day you are freezing your ass, and the next, you’re neked in the backyard with sweet tea and a paper fan from the Baptist church trying to keep your boobs cool.

Saturday it was spring, so of course, I decided to smear sour cream all over the cement poodle on the front porch, because Martha told me to. Or, maybe it was the lady at the thrift store with the missing eye teeth, I don’t remember, but someone (who seemed like they should know), told me that if you put sour cream on cement and bake it in the sun, then you end up with lovely aged patina that is all green and shit.

What you end up with is a cross-eyed canine that smells like a homeless guy's arm pit, and every cat in the neighborhood on your front porch trying to lick your (not green) poodle.

Thank God, spring is almost over.


Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Blame it on The Bug

I totally have a bug up my nose. I am sure of it. This is better than a bug up your ass,

But still.

400 sneezes later, I am still convinced there is a DAMM BUG UP MY NOSE.
I think I can feel its twitchy little bug feet stomping around between my eyes.

I am afraid to blink because when I do I see big furry legged insects behind my eyelids.
I am afraid not to blink because someone told me if you sneeze with your eyes open, your eyeballs pop out.


I once had a boyfriend who put jock itch cream in his ear because it itched (What can I say, he was hot, I tried to overlook the improper use of topical ointments). I would put jock itch cream in my nose right now to see if it kills bugs, except I don’t have balls, therefore, I have no ball cream. I guess I should have married him, and then my problems would be solved.

On second thought, that’s a bad idea, I would still have a bug up my nose and a husband with itchy parts. Come to think of it, I put vagina cream on my toes last week to see if it would help the allergic reaction I had from shampooing the horrid white carpet at The New Digs barefoot. That didn’t work at all. Maybe I was too hard on him. I probably should have married him. Oh wait, he didn’t ask, or maybe he did, I’m not sure, it’s hard to concentrate with a tarantula winding its way to your cerebral cortex.

That is so gross. Let’s talk about something else shall we?

How about,the fact that not only did I apparently snort a June bug up my nose hole today, I also managed to send the entire contents of my e-mail box to one of my co-workers. All 1492 saved messages. How cool is that? Or, not. And while I was at it, it seems I also sent dozens of random e-mails across the world. If you got one, or a hundred, Sorry. I am blaming it on the bug.


*Also, I can't post a picture, which is probably for the best, but I'm pretty sure that's the bugs fault too.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Fancy Ketchup

I know I have green eyes. I know I am left handed. I know that I have never put a Brussels sprout in my mouth, nor will I.

These are facts.

Somewhere between the facts and the total bullshit I tell myself, there is a murky area of things I believe to be true.

For example, I believe that I am not a total asshole, others often disagree. I believe that Brett Michaels is still hot (sort of), because if I didn’t believe that, then I would have to admit, that I am old as fuck too, and that my eyeliner, that looked just as pretty as his in 1987, only serves to accentuate the crinkly skin bordering my basset like eyeballs that other people (who laugh) refer to as laugh lines.

Also, I believe I am pretty fancy. There is really no basis for my opinion, other than, I decided a long time ago that I was. So, now I am. Fancy.

The thing about fancy, is that you can think that you are, until someone informs you, you’re not.

One day your blonde tresses are shiny and lustrous, your eyeliner is perfection, every horny chick in America, or, at least in Kansas wants to hump your leg, and the next thing you know, you are on a bus with a bad weave and presbyopia.

Or, in my case, one minute you have a killer do, a hot car and kick ass boots, and the next you are covered in orange paint wearing a stained Oz Fest t-shirt, sporting a hairstyle that looks for all the world like a guinea pig is molting on your skull.

Combine that unpleasant image, if you are able, with a male escort adorned in white socks and tire tread sandals, driving a 1982 Olds Delta 88, with no shocks and a second hand dresser tied on top with bungee cords.

It does not exactly scream fancy, now does it?

The nice ladies at the Sugar and Spice Resale Store certainly didn’t think so. They were almost polite when they directed me to the back of the parking lot, where the good souls of Granbury Texas were handing out free food boxes. Apparently, I am more homeless-ish than fancy.

“Why? Why Nice Ladies do you do this to me? I am here because I want to buy a desk. With money! I do not want your free canned Brussels sprouts. I will never eat a Brussels sprout! I am Fancy! I borrowed the car! The hair, well, you have a point about the hair, but still,


Sensing my distress, my escort, the dork in the sandals and socks, suggested that we go to lunch. After all, he had used a TV tray as a desk this long, another week or so, until I composed myself wouldn’t hurt.

“Lunch, are you kidding me? I need to go home and lie down.” I responded.
“But I’m starving” he whined.
“Fine then, let’s drive through McDonalds” I said.
"McDonalds? McDonalds is disgusting" he continued.
"Totally", I countered, "But they have fancy ketchup."



Monday, March 15, 2010

I’m ready for My Close-up, but I’d prefer a LivaSnap Mr. Demille

"I think what he was trying to say is "Are you serious?" when I kindly asked Fletcher to remove his doggie self from the chair I just finished re-doing, either that or "Get lost lady" I'm not sure..."
- Tobi

This is Fletcher, one of the most annoying canines on the planet according to me. He is however quite photogenic, which is why he was included in Desire to Inspire's Monday feature, Pets On Furniture. Also, he was sitting on furniture so that helps.

I submitted his photo without consulting Vivian the Obstinate Poodle, as it turns out that was a really bad idea.

She is plenty pissed.

I tried to point out that she is earthbound and incapable of jumping on furniture so the chances of her being included were slim, not to mention the fact that I am blind and incapable of taking a picture that is in focus. 

She's not buying it.

I think is it funny that the person submitting the photo was Tobi and not the dog. 

Vivan remains unamused.


Thursday, February 25, 2010

To My Beloved Harbingers of Toxic Assets

Dear Homely Lateral File Cabinets,

My beloved harbingers of toxic assets,my precious repositories of dental records, I have my eye on you. You can't hide behind your practical beige- beigeiness any longer. I am unfazed by the poopish pallor of your factory finish. I do not care that you weigh 600lbs; your size does not deter me. I am a girl. - You can't give me a hernia.
(Can you? shit, I hope not).

When I look in your drawers, I see heaven. I have big plans for you my lovely oversized tuna cans.

I want to make you fancy- like this!

 Or, possibly this

Let me show you the world!

And if you resist?

I will put your big boxy asses right back on craigslist where you came from.
So watch it.

Love always,
(Or at least until the cheapskate "Client" forks over enough dough for a proper piece of furniture.)
Pygmalion T

images: i credits for any of them.sorry, sorry

Monday, February 22, 2010

I am Your Scary Blog Mother

Once upon a time, there was an unfortunate fireplace. This fireplace was a plain, square, big, blonde brick shit house of a fireplace. For nearly fifty years the fireplace had survived Hip Cats and Hippies and Yuppies and Hipsters unscathed.
If you take a moment to recollect the truly horrible things that people have done to their fireplaces throughout the years, then perhaps you would conclude that the fireplace was not so unfortunate after all.

But if you did that then the story would end here.

And while no one could blame you for wanting a quick end to this story, you are not getting off that easily.

So don’t do it...

Now then, on with the story. One day The Unfortunate Fireplace was minding its own business when some crazy oldish chick with bad hair and an unhealthy affinity for spray paint showed up.

Who are you and why are you here?"  asked the Unfortunate Fireplace

I am your Scary Blog Mother and I am here to transform you into a thing of beauty.” replied the crazy chick.

Thing of beauty.

Needless to say, the fireplace was skeptical, not because The Unfortunate Fireplace questioned its potential for beauty, more because the fireplace questioned the ability of anyone with hair so heinous to change anything for the better.

Do you have a magic wand?” inquired The Unfortunate Fireplace.

Wand, schwand!” said the Scary Blog Mother. I have paint, and the advice of commenters who have no vested interest in the outcome of this project, what more do you want from me?”

The Unfortunate Fireplace felt it best not to answer that.

So the Scary Blog Mother set about gluing and painting and swearing, and also whining.  For days this went on.  At one point, the Unfortunate Fireplace wished that it would spontaneously combust, as did the Scary Blog Mother.

But they persevered, and now the Scary Blog Mother is posting the results of the transformation on the World Wide Web so in twenty years when big, square, blonde brick shit houses of a fireplace are all the rage, someone can do a Google image search and recollect what truly horrible things people have done to their fireplaces throughout the years.

And they all lived happily ever after.

The End


Saturday, February 20, 2010

Kinkos Blow (Up) Job

Let's pretend that this photo has something to do with the following entry without acknowledging the fact that I am just too lazy to take a relevant picture for you. Shall we?

Did you know that Hobby Lobby has custom frames (unclaimed for whatever reason) 80% off right now? I was shocked too; I thought that only happened in July. In fact, when I discovered them I was so overwhelmed with lust that I started making out with a handsome silver leaf devil right in the middle of the clearance aisle. It was embarrassing to say the least.

Anyway, it was not until I got home with a shit load of these gigantic things that I realized that most of them were not standard sizes.

Can you say DAMMIT?
All together now: DAMMIT!

Don't worry, this story has a happy ending.

FedEx Kinkos (or whatever they call themselves this week) can make photo enlargements, if you are willing to pay them a million dollars. I think it is understood that I am not. What they don’t tell you is that for the cost of a cheese enchilada you can print humongo images that you stole from the internets of your own compositions on rolled architectural bond paper. Maximum width is 36” for black and white and 40” for color in any length.

I’ll give you a minute to let that sink in.

Like crack without all the addiction/tooth loss issues, right?

I can imagine that about now you are wishing that you had my phone number so that you could call me for the hook up, (ok, maybe not. Shut up, it's my imagination not yours), but that won't be necessary. I am feeling all sharey this morning. Don't say I never gave you anything.

Kinkos Blow (Up) Job Instructions-

1. Optimize your stolen image lovely artwork to 300 dpi. (Here is a free program if you need it, you can also enlarge the image in inches to fit your frame. Cool, yes?). Then go Here and find the Kinko’s closest to your office so you can lie to your boss and tell him that you are running to the drugstore for feminine products and be back to work in a reasonable period of time.

Upload the image with instructions to the Kinkos dude who is not aware that he is about to be your new best friend. Then go give your new best friend your lunch money and he will give you your cool ass picture. Buy a can of spray adhesive while you are there.

2. Adhere your cool ass picture to foam core or similar sturdy cardboard you have taking up space in the front seat of your car. (Sayonara, Mr. Wonderful) and mount it inside your frame. I didn’t worry about glass mostly because I am cheap because I like the way it looks as is, but you can add it if you want.

3. A word of warning. The paper is not photo quality, it is blue print paper so you have to be a little careful (Read: Don't try it drunk) when attaching it to your foam core or you will fuck it up (Does that sound like the voice of experience talking? It is).

Now that I have the hang of it, I am seriously considering wallpaper.
Might as well think big right?


Wednesday, February 17, 2010

A Piece of Quiet

This is Mr. Fussy Pants
Mr. Pants would like a piece of quiet, but he cannot have one because he will not say "please".
All Mr. Pants will say is-
And that is why his name is Fussy and also why he gets no quiet. 


Monday, February 15, 2010

Does This Post Make My Ass Look Dumb?

Tongue observations 2/15/2010
1. My tongue has a butt crack. 2. My tongue looks 100 years old. 3. This picture of my tongue creeps me out. 4. I always thought I had a cute tongue. I don't. 5. I have the shortest tongue in the entire world. 6. This gift is screwing with my self-esteem.

Some girls got flowers for Valentines Day, some got candy, and others had romantic candle lit dinners.

I got a tongue tattoo.

What the Hell?
If you are waiting for a punch line, then you know how I felt yesterday.
There isn’t a punch line.

I got a tongue tattoo.

The End.


Friday, February 5, 2010

The Sisters Three

I love the sound of high heels on hard floor, the smell of good perfume, the luster of pearls, coffee in cups around a kitchen table, giggles, and stories and swears.

I especially love the swears.

In my life, when you mixed this all together, it only meant one thing. Court was in session.

The Sisters Three were together.

Eavesdropping is an art, in case you are unaware. It requires stealth, the ability to make one’s own self small and unnoticed. It is not hard to be small when you are four, it comes with the territory. Unnoticed is another thing entirely. Lucky for me, I had talent.

Judes is Number Two of The Sisters Three, sandwiched between Number One, who is, like me, a T and Mame who is Three.

As I recall these sisters were always up to something. I remember being part of quickly hatched plans and hare brained schemes on more than one occasion. Sometimes, those plans ended badly, hysterically usually, but badly.

“Do not tell your father that Number Three wrecked the car.  Do not do it.  I will tell him.  Do you understand me?” Judes warned.

I offered an affirming nod.

And I didn’t tell, really, I didn’t, not until exactly 5:16 pm when my father’s car pulled into the driveway.

“Hi Daddy, Mame crashed the car, and you are getting a new razor for Christmas, but I did not tell.

Do you understand? Mama is telling, not me. ”

I knew better, swear, but, there was something about the excitement that was irresistible.

I am still surprised they let me live.

Cat eye shades, cashmere twin sets, wool hound's tooth swing jackets, leggings like Mary Tyler Moore and that ability to make a bologna and cheese sandwich on pedestrian white bread look like a gourmand's signature dish, (I think it was the way that she licked her lips after each bite) all of this, is what I think of when I think of T.

I remember a baby boy born on the fourth of July. The same Fourth of July that I stepped on the glowing wire of a sparkler dropped on the lawn. I remember that T was our best Christmas present when she came home. I know that if you were to ask Two or Three, they would tell you that T was Granny's favorite. They may be right.

I am not sure about that.

Also, I am not sure if The Sisters Three planned to have babies three, within the space of about three months, but that was exactly what happened. The result was two more girls named T, and we became The Cousins Three.

It was T, on what was the worst day of my life that looked right at me and said. "Forever is not always. Enough never is. You can make it through this space between, because you have to. There are three people counting on you".

She was right.

I am going home now, to say goodbye to T. The Sisters Three are now two. If I could, I would tell her, that forever isn't always, but sometimes enough is enough. I would tell her she should leave now if she needs to, and that we will always remember, the times that came before this space between.


Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Do I Have to Do That Too?

I have to do everything around here. I swear it is taxing.

This morning for example-

“You see Officer, at approximately 0-nine hundred hours I was on the balcony freezing my face off smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee getting a breath of fresh air and practicing Tai Chi, when I heard glass breaking below in the parking lot.

I spotted two suspects in a late model Ford Bronco, maroon in color, license number TXthr2367. One suspect was breaking the windows on the subject vehicle with what appeared to be a crowbar. I immediately shouted What the fuck do you think you are doing you assholes? Stop or I will call the police!

When they heard me, the suspects left the scene in the Ford Bronco headed eastbound on Stupidity St. I called 911, located the owner of the vehicle, questioned the Manager of the employment agency next door and obtained the suspects names, addresses, phone numbers and drivers license numbers from the job applications they had filled out moments prior to their crime spree, while I waited for you to arrive.

Here is my contact information in case you have further questions. Now, if you will excuse me I have to go back to the balcony to finish my coffee and cigarette work.”

“Thank you Ma’am for trying to help but I am afraid that there is no way to tie the suspects from the vehicle to the employment agency, so I won’t be able to use that information”

“Did I hear you correctly Officer? Did you really just say what I think you said?”

“I’m sorry Ma’am, but there is no way to use the information you provided.”

"Yes, I heard that part. Use the license plate number (Duh).  The car should be registered to one of the suspects (Insert deep sigh and eye roll here).

I mean did I just hear you call me Ma’am?
You DID NOT just call me Ma'am!
Did. You?"

"No, Ma..."

"Fine then Officer, are you going to go arrest these assholes criminals, or do I have to do that too?"


Saturday, January 30, 2010

Ms. Jett Puffstickyfacemeanbiterdog and the Stupid Fireplace

What do you do with a pissed off toy poodle with mini-marshmallows stuck to her face?
Stack graham crackers on her head and pretend you’re camping, of course.

Have a great weekend.
Keep the pantry door closed,


OK, fine. That was the lamest of lamer entries ever, but the dog really does have marshmallows stuck to her face. When I try to pull them off, she bites me.

Because she is really, mean.

Dog slobber, squashed marshmallows and facial lacerations do not inspire creativity, so it was tell you about Ms. Jett Puffstickyfacemeanbiterdog or talk about that stupid fireplace again.

Either way it’s lame.

Just in case you are curious here is the final plan for the stupid fireplace.

I’ll let you know how (if) it turns out.
Don't even ask me how the dog turns out.  I am pretty sure that will be a disaster.

image:  i can't credit the other one because i cant remember where it came from...sorry, sorry

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Remember Granny?

This is Granny, poor, poor, Granny.


More progress.

Granny again , bless her heart.

Not Granny.

Today's question, what to do with this?
Clean it?  Paint it?  Cover it?  Frankly, I'm stumped.

I guess I could ask the guy who owns the ugly fireplace what his preference is, but then if I did that, he might think his opinion mattered, or something.  Not a good precedent to set.


ps- Could the pictures be any crappier?  I should have stolen a better camera. Next time.

Friday, January 22, 2010

Thank Oprah it’s Friday.

It is a really good thing that it’s Friday. The odds of me making it one hour longer (let alone another day) in the fifth circle of hell--commonly known as Fussy & Bitchy Inc.-- without committing a prosecutable offense that carries a mandatory prison sentence of at least twenty-five to life, were practically nil today.

I was torn between arson and worrying a squirrel. I am not sure how to worry a squirrel, exactly. Do you turn down the volume and hide the remote when Oprah comes on? That worries my mom. I’m not sure about squirrels.

Squirrel worrying is against the law in Missouri. I don’t think it carries a mandatory prison term, except, of course, if you are holding someone’s head underwater in the employee break room sink while you do it.

I am pretty sure that is illegal in all fifty states.

Since there were no squirrels in the break room (with the possible exception of the rodent-esque maintenance guy who was trying to figure out why the internet service is screwed up again), I was leaning toward arson. Except, I couldn’t find an accelerant. The maintenance guy does not know how lucky he is.

In the end, I scrapped the arson idea and decided to eat all of the Twinkies out of the lunch bags in the refrigerator.

That caused quite a ruckus.

Thank Oprah it’s Friday. By Monday, the Twinkies should be a distant memory.

I hope.

Have a swell weekend.


Thursday, January 21, 2010

Best Day Ever

Oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’, stompy boots.
You are glossed, and made of leather.
How I love yooou stom-py boots!

Today I am wearing my favorite boots. They are my favorite boots because they stomp. I don’t even have to try, they just stomp.

It’s heaven.

I have been stomping all over the office.
I stomped until people started yelling at me.

Then I started singing.

And stomping.

I am having the best day ever!
I hope you are too.



Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Big Judes Speaks

My Mother is a handful. I love her, truly, I do, but she is a handful. 
She is also cooler than I am. It irks.

This is Big Judes' Facebook photo. Funny, disturbing and cool.  A trifecta. Damm her.

Yes, Judes is hip to the Facebook.  And it appears that the Facebook is hip to Judes.

Here is an excerpt of an actual conversation between Judes and a few of her friends.
(Names have been removed to protect the innocent).

Judes' granddaughter talking to her 20 something friends says:

Don't ask the lamest of the lame what to do on a Friday night! Matter of fact, I will give you my Grandma's cell phone number. I'm sure she has more going on than I do!

And then...

This IS your grandma, and I don't have a cell phone and I also have no idea what I'm doing on facebook! I did have a smashing good time Friday night, too bad you couldn't be there.

I bet she was drunk again.  Smashing is code for smashed.  I am pretty sure. 

And then...

you tell her Judes!!

This is one of MY friends!  Judes is stealing my friends!

Mrs. Friend Stealer (I added the friend stealer part), I like your style.

Is he hitting on my mother?  I think he is hitting on my mother!

Wow!  you are being outdone by Big Judes

Sadly, we all are.

Wow. That is the funniest thing ever. ..  

Who are these people?  Fan club members?  Someone stop her!

Mother!  Don't you have some knitting or something to do? 

She doesn't knit

Do I know you?

Mother, what are you doing?

Really, I should know better than to ask this question.

Scram, I'm busy.  I'm trying to find you a husband.  I don't have much time.  My bunko game starts in 45 minutes.  I don't want to keep the girls waiting.  I might miss the stripper.

Mother, stop please.  What are you telling these people?

Relax, I didn't say anything bad.  I told them that you weren't very smart. (Don't worry; I blamed your father for that). Then I told them that what you lack in intellegence, you make up for in looks, which is not a total lie, afterall, you look just like your mother.

Have Fun at bunko mom.

Okay, so maybe I embellished a little, at the end, but seriously, is she cool, or what?