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?


Sunday, January 17, 2010

You Cannot Write a Check with a Tampon

Do not try to wirte a check with a tampon at Wal-Mart, or bad things will probably happen. Always have your pen ready in advance. It is the best policy. Especially if you are too blind to find any of the credit cards that you have thrown in the bottom of your purse, and every time you try, you pull out the appointment card for your next gynecological exam.

When you decide to write a check, because an angry mob is forming behind you, and the cashier is giving you the squinty pirate eye, be careful!

I happen to know that it is easy to mistake an unwrapped tampon for a Bic Rollerball pen. They feel a lot alike.

If you attempt to pull the cap off the pen, (that is actually a tampon), and in the process, you shoot the tampon in the general direction of the Captain Hookerish cashier, your first inclination may be to flee the scene.

This is totally understandable. No one needs Sterno and Preparation H that badly (Shut up, it is for my eyes not my butt. I am not sure why I feel like I need to explain these things to you, but I do).

It may seem like the only logical option to avoid further embarrassment is to run into the bathroom and hide for a few hours until someone else in Wal-Mart makes an ass out of himself or herself, so that you can leave unnoticed . Again, perfectly understandable, but, BUT! When you do this, make sure that you are in the correct bathroom. If you are a girl, urinals are a warning sign.

Do not ignore the warning signs. Really bad things may happen.

Really bad things, such as:

1. A man may enter the bathroom after you, forcing you to hide in the last stall to avoid detection.

2. The man may select the stall right next to the stall you are trapped in.

3. The man may do what men do when they are in the men’s bathroom.

4. It may be necessary to stuff the pink reminder card from your gynecologist into your mouth to prevent yourself from screaming like a stabbing victim.

5. The man may then try to strike up a conversation with you by saying something like “ Hey, how’s it going?”

6. When you do not answer, the man may then say something like “Can you hear me?”

7. If you do your best imitation of a pooping man, and answer with your best pooping man voice, he may continue the conversation by asking you if  Mary is waiting outside.

8. If you do not know Mary, you may have to say so.

9. Then you might hear the man say “Hold on, I have to tell this dude next to me I am on the phone.”

10. Then you may have a fucking heart attack.

11. You may pray that your heart attack will be fatal when you realize that your lovely lady shoes are clearly visible under the stall door. The pooping man may recognize you (forget the angry mob and Captain Hooker) when, or if, you ever walk out of the men’s bathroom.

12. You may need to pick up your purse, and your feet, and perch on the not so sanitary toilet stool for a very long time after the pooping man leaves, until you are sure the coast is clear.

13. You may panic because you are afraid the coast is never going to be clear. This is Wal-Mart, not your gynecologist's office. It seems men come to Wal-Mart for the facilities, not the falling prices.

14. You may lose your will to live, and decide to write a suicide note on the bathroom wall.

15. When you pull your Bic Rollerball pen from your purse it may be a tampon.

Do not ask me how I know these things.



Saturday, January 16, 2010

Grandma Got Run Over By a Credenza

Good Saturday morning Chickens! You will never believe where I am off to today. I have been commissioned (If you count a pound of flesh as an acceptable form of payment, and I do. Believe that.) to transform this:

In to something that is, well, not this. Can you believe that the owner of this hideousness is not a ninety-year-old Alzheimer’s patient? Me either (neither? You say potato etc.).

My client (Why does that word sound dirty when I say it?) seems a little skeptical  because the only experience on my resume is blog reading, but I refuse to listen to any whining.

"Be a good boy and give Granny a kiss good bye, you will take my pretty shit and like it!"

I think Dom D├ęcor may be a new trend. You heard it here first.


Friday, January 15, 2010


I have it on good authority that Nick is the best Jonas brother, I wonder if that pisses Joe off?  I bet it does.

Anyway, OH. EM. JAY! The best thing happened yesterday. It was so good, that it almost makes me sad that today is Friday. Mr. Fussy Pants (My Boss) injured his neck.  How great is that?

I’m not sure how it happened. If I were guessing, I would say that he was bending over to pick up one of the pennies I glued to the floor in his office. He must have strained something (Super Glue is strong stuff). Now all he can move are his eyes. Not only that, but he has a terrible head cold, so every time he sneezes it makes him cry, and cuss, but mostly he cries.

Greatness I tell you!

I spent all day yesterday trying to make him turn his head. “Hey, look!  That homeless guy in the parking lot has a man purse just like yours!”  He let me go home early. Well, he made me, but whatever.

Today I am stepping up my game, if I can figure out how to work the fire alarm, that is.

I should be home by lunch.


Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Mr. Wonderful

Do you see this? This is a problem.

I purchased a stunning bench for the New Digs (I hate this whole “New Digs” thing, have I told you that? No? Well I do, but it seems a little late in the game to change it now, and besides, I can’t come up with anything better, except maybe The Den of Iniquity, which would probably make Big Judes worry, so for now, we are sticking with the New Digs. Okey dokey?).

Anyway, I purchased this damm stunning bench without giving any thought to the fact that it is made of steel. The bench weighs as much as my next-door neighbor.  It took two grown men and one scary woman, (Who I am pretty sure spends her free time as a pivot in a roller derby league. It was the tattoos and tutu that made me draw this conclusion, but I could be wrong), to hoist the stunning bench into my car.

At the time, it didn’t occur to me that I might have a problem getting the stunning bench out of the car. Even when all three ex-cons helpers had to lie on their backs and use their legs close the door. It did occur to me that I wanted to kick their asses for putting their feet on my car, but I was afraid, so I let it slide.

On a side note, if you are planning to murder your neighbor, make sure you have accomplices; because there is no way you will be able to dispose of the body by yourself. I am not kidding.

For a week, I have been driving around with this big ass box in my front seat. Because, Hello?  I can’t get it out. The box restricts my vision. Not that I use the mirrors much anyway, except to apply lip-gloss, but still.  This stupid box is ruining my life.

It is very much like a boyfriend. A life ruiner.

So, what does a bitchy girl do when a roller derby queen hands her a life ruining cardboard boyfriend?

Stuff her bra?
No, she does not.
She embraces him.

Meet Mr. Wonderful.

We’ve only been together a few days, but I think I am falling for him... He gets me. He is the Penn to my Teller. (Or, is it the other way around? Who cares. I'm in love). He may be a little one dimensional, but then, aren't they all?  He is sort of cute, also totally recyclable. I am hopeful that he will be my ticket to the HOV lane. It is still too early to tell. We are trying not to rush things.

The best thing about him is, he is not my dead neighbor.
Imagine what a problem that would be.


Sunday, January 10, 2010

You’ve come a Long Way Baby

Lately I have tried to be nicer to telemarketers that annoy the crap out of me at work because, let’s face it. Today’s telemarketer was probably yesterday’s Mortgage Broker, and frankly, I don’t feel like tempting the gods.

I try. I swear. I try.

(Insert ringing phone).

T (Thinks): SHIT! Is someone going to answer that, because my fingernails are wet and it would be inconvenient to pick up the phone. (Have I mentioned that the mortgage biz is a little slow right now? I thought so. PS. - Fuck you Shaun Donovan).

T Says: “Thank you for calling Fussy & Bitchy Inc. How may I help you?”

Annoying Telemarketer: “Is Mr. Fancy Pants in?”

T (Thinks): God grant me the serenity
T Says: "I’m sorry Ma’am there is no one here by that name. How may I help you?" (See? Trying).

Annoying Telemarketer: "Is this Fussy & Bitchy Inc.? I need to speak with Mr. Pants, or the owner, or the manager, or the person (with a penis) that makes decisions, or anyone except you. Connect me NOW! Please!"

T (Thinks): Oh. No. She. Di’int! (I’m hip that way).
T Says: “No.”

Annoying Telemarketer: “No? Did you say no? Either connect me now, or I will call back and tell Mr. Pants that his Secretary is rude and refuses to…”

T (Thinks): Forgive me Jesus.
T Says: “Hold it right there Nineteen Seventy Two! First, he doesn’t have a Secretary; he has an Assistant, and please do me a favor, tell him that she is a bitch. Because she is, and he doesn’t listen when I tell him, because I hate everyone. While you are at it, tell him that his “Secretary” called you an assbag before she hung up on you.”

T (Thinks): Hey, I’m getting pretty good at this nice thing.


Friday, January 8, 2010

Please Rush

Where in the hell are all of the degrees? My office is as cold as my tiny black heart today, and Mr. Fussy Pants is too cheap to turn up the heat.

I don’t think that I need to point out that certain girl parts do not like to be cold.  At all. Nor, do they care about the price of natural gas.

My boobs took it upon themselves to order these with Fussy’s Visa card.

I am not sure what you call them, tittens, maybe?  I don't know .

But, I can't wait until they get here.



Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Captain's Log: Stardate 201001.06

8:02 AM--Hair dye on head (Also on cabinet, floor, and curious Poodle)—Check

8:12AM—Teeth whitening strips in place—Check—(Note to self: Do not attempt to drink coffee, tastes like minty ass).

8:17 AM—Firming and toning mask applied to face (and; butt, just for grins).—Check

8:29 AM—Eyebrows tweezed—Check

8:44 AM—Eyebrow pencil located to attempt reasonable facsimile of former left eyebrow—Check

9:01 AM—Legs shaved—Fail--Default to knee socks.

9:15AM-- Assemble appropriate work attire—Fail—Fuzzy slippers and knee socks deemed inappropriate.

9:22 AM-- Abort mission and eat donuts—Check



Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Would it Make You Feel Better if I Showed you my Underpants?

Let me ask you something, hypothetically speaking, of course. If you talked your friend, who happens to be a dumb boy, (Not that that should have any bearing on your response to the question, but still, he is, a dumb boy). into tearing out all of the carpet in his house and replacing it with lovely epoxy resin, (see exhibit A) in spite of the fact that it costs ninety four seventy bozillion dollars, and it takes dangerous machinery and,  many, many, hours of hellish preparation to ready the floors for the lovely epoxy.

If, you convince him that he should do this, because you will help him, and you totally know what you are doing.

If you are so persuasive that it really doesn’t matter to him that the manufacturer of the lovely epoxy strongly recommends that he contacts a professional, so that no one dies during installation.  If he buys your bullshit story that, clearly, the people who work for the manufacturer do not have any idea what they are talking about. 

If you convince him that crawling out of his bedroom window to get in to his kitchen, or bathroom, for three days in December, when it is cold as balls outside, while the lovely epoxy dries is a good idea, a really excellent idea actually.

If you help him install the lovely epoxy floors and secretly you are really surprised, and really, really, relieved the whole thing is not screwed up, because you didn’t have a clue as to what you were doing, and worse, you did not have one single good argument planned for why he should not stab you after you screwed it up.

If, later you get a picture in your e-mail box, of what appears to be a lizard, embedded in the lovely epoxy (See exhibit B), in the exact area of the floor for which you were responsible, meaning that it appears that you coated the live, living lizard with epoxy, and then, when he stuck to the floor, you covered  him yet a second time, just to prolong his misery.

If essentially, you murdered a lizard and the floor all in one shot, (Oh Karma, I fear you are a bitch) then what the pray tell would you say?

 The only thing that comes to my mind is the unfortunate Creepy Crawler incident of my second grade year when I convinced Brian Christensen, (Another dumb boy), that it really, truly, cross my heart, would be OK to make Creepy Crawlers in his basement with the new Creepy Crawler maker that he got for Christmas, even though he promised his mother that he never, ever, would make Creepy Crawlers, unless his mother was there, and she wasn’t, but, I promised it would be OK, because I knew exactly what I was doing, which I didn’t.

Anyway, when Brian Christensen’s mother caught us in the basement making Creepy Crawlers, even though he knew that it was not allowed, and even though he knew he would get grounded, or dead, or whatever, when his dad got home. When that happened, I offered to show Brian Christensen my underpants to make him forget that it was my fault that he was grounded and soon to be dead.

Brian Christensen accepted my generous offer, and guess what? It worked, I had magic underpants! He was impressed, and not mad at me at all.

Obviously, now, my magic underpants seem like they may be the only answer to my problem. I could just ask “Would it make you feel better if I showed you my underpants?”, and then close my eyes and pray he doesn't stab me. I am pretty sure that is a good idea, except he is not seven, and he has seen underpants before. He might just stab me anyway. Underpants or no underpants.

That is why I need your advice.

Thank you in advance,

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Ms. Potato Head

What. The. Hell.  I think I need an intervention, a twelve-step program, the phone number for Root Vegetable Addicts Anonymous, or maybe Jesus, because JESUS, this is out of control.

I own FORTY SIX POUNDS OF POTATOES!  I am not even kidding.

Don't ask me how this happened.  I have no idea.  I also have no paper towels, no peanut butter, and no laundry detergent, because I can never remember to buy them at the store.

Apparently, I never forget the potatoes.

 I have tried to compensate by using them to wipe up spills and wash the clothes, but potatoes aren't very absorbent and they make a terrible racket in the dryer.

What does one person do with this many potatoes?


Would Potato Patch Kids be big sellers on Etsy?
(Probably not).

What about Pet Potatoes?  Is there a market?
(I didn't think so).

Maybe I could use them as decor.  Easter is coming.

 Something more utilitarian?  A potato paperweight?

Nevermind, I'll keep thinking.


Friday, January 1, 2010

Goat Head, Squint

Ta-Futha-Mucking- Da!
The First.  I did it.  I lived to tell.  I have high hopes for you Ten.  Don't piss me off.

In honor of the First, the first not stolen picture that did not come from my crappy cell phone.
Just as crappy, just not from my cell phone.

It looks pretty good, if you squint.

It also looks like I am a large man dressed in black, caught on surveillance tape while robbing a convenience store if you squint.

Or Oprah! I sort of look like Oprah if you squint!
Go ahead (goat head), squint.

See? Oprah! Totally.

OK, Fine. It sucks. I know. But today is the First, and it looks pretty good.

If you squint.

Oprah  T

And yes Mother, I have every intention of making my bed.