Tobi et al.

Not Dead, Just Stupid

2011-09-22T09:49:00.000-07:00

Holy shit. It has been so long since I've been here I don't know how to blog anymore.
(I know you're thinking that I never really knew how to blog in the first place, and you are correct. Mean, but correct.)

Anyway, I posted this lovely office picture just to see if I could. If you are admiring my lovely office picture, (Which I cannot give proper credit for) then good for me.

Good for me, dammit.

Out-
T

Welcome to the Road Kill Cafe

2010-11-01T06:56:00.000-07:00

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!

Out-T

Almost Sad

2010-10-16T22:16:00.000-07:00

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.

Notice.

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.

Barfiesta

2010-08-15T06:00:00.000-07:00

Of all of the colors in the crayon box, yellow is the barfiest. No one wants the yellow crayon, and by no one, I mean me.

Yellow is barfy.

The only color that comes close to the hideousness of yellow as far as I am concerned, is the color formerly known as flesh. Flesh is pretty barfy too, even if you change its name to the more politically correct color known as peach.

Still barfy.

If you combine yellow and flesh, what do you get? A veritable barfiesta!

Or, my office.

The only bright spot in this gastrointestinal cavalcade of nausea inducing debauchery is my fancy turquoise desk. It’s a shame the new spray painted finish has been marred by my tears.

What was I supposed to do?

I certainly could not keep the pee chairs at the New Digs. They were a daily reminder of my failed attempt to be sunny and happy and shit. They had to go. So of course, I sold them to Mr. Fussy Pants to put at the new corporate headquarters of Fussy and Bitchy Inc. I was almost finished patting myself on the back for my shrewd negotiating skills, when Fussy informed me that the pee chairs would make a lovely addition to my little corner of hell commonly referred to as my office.

Say Whaaa-T?

He wasn’t kidding, and I didn’t want to give him his 60 bucks back, so there they are in all of their pee stained glory.

I am a lot of things, but I am not a quitter, I embraced the barfy office. I made lemonade out of pee. I covered all evidence of my attempt to tunnel out of my personal Alcatraz with a chopstick, by covering the damaged plaster with a billboard-sized poster of the most evil canine in the world who coincidentally pees on all of my belongings. This my friends, is subliminal decorating at its finest. My own Strawberry Fields “John is dead” moment. I kick ass at this, I know.

I just hope the new girl thinks so when she sees her new office Monday morning.

Out-

El- Em- In- Oh- Pee!

2010-08-07T14:37:00.000-07:00

Damm you Craig and your list, and damm the sweetest, young, non English speaking pregnant woman I have ever seen, who overcame our language barrier by using her elevated hormone levels like chemical weapons against me, forcing me to give her $15 for six of the most hideous, pee stained chairs that ever were, and then using the cutest little kid you have ever seen as bait to convince me to carry six pee stained chairs one at a time down three flights of stairs (that is 36 flights of stairs, if you’re counting) so she could get them out of her apartment.

What can I say?

I’m a sucker.

I am a sucker who drove all the way to Dallas to pick up six, (count them, SIX) horrid chairs, and instead of leaving them at the side of the road, or lighting them on fire, I brought them home, where I then spent way too much time and destroyed a perfectly good manicure re-covering them.
IN YELLOW FABRIC!!

Now I have Yellow Pee Chairs!
Lovely.

Have a Hap-pee Weekend,
Out-
T

We Need to Talk

2010-08-05T11:41:00.000-07:00

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.
Please.

Out-
T

image:http://www.rimabean.com/?p=463

Show Your Molars

2010-05-29T07:10:00.000-07:00

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

Out-
T

image:http://www.threadbombing.com/data/media/3/happy.jpg

Question

2010-05-27T07:30:00.000-07:00

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.

Out-
T

Who Needs Pigs in Bonnets When You've Got Neil Diamond?

2010-05-09T07:11:00.000-07:00

Happy Mother's Day Big Judes.
Don't worry, from now on I am leaving the singing to Neil.

Love-
T

*sorry HOBAC, but I am taking full credit for your dandy idea. I can't afford any more competition for Judes' affection!

Henry, Oprah, And Esther Are Ruining Everything.

2010-05-07T14:09:00.000-07:00

Henry, Oprah, and Esther are ruining everything. And, let’s not even talk about how it feels to be rejected by Jerry Springer. Lets just not.

Mother’s Day is now two days away and I still do not have a gift for Big Judes.

Damm that Henry! Damm him and his perimenopausal pigs, he never responded to any of my inquiries. I guess the hats were too much to ask.

Losing the pigs was a blow, I will admit, but I remained optimistic. It only took a day or two to devise another plan. A plan commonly referred to as “B”.

What was plan B you wonder (or not)?

Well, I will tell you anyway. Plan B was to parlay my blogger cred into a guest appearance on The Oprah Show, wherein, I would enthrall Oprah’s audience by talking about something enthralling, and then, when O wasn’t looking, I would send Big Judes a personal Mother’s Day greeting. Something similar to the Carol Burnett ear tug, only more discreet, like a butt scratch. Perfect. Unfortunately, my suggestions/ pleas/threats/demands for airtime fell on deaf ears. Oprah was having none of it.

All I will say about Jerry Springer is that apparently, he is only interested in guests of unknown lineage, even if you offer to pull a tooth or two to better serve his demographic.

My deep enduring love for my mother is rivaled only by, well, my rivalry with my pesky little brother. Just when I was ready to give up and let Rat Boy retain his golden child status, lo and behold, (I have always wanted to find occasion to write that), lo and behold, ~~a spam~~ an important email arrived in my in box.

Was it from Oprah? Henry? Jerry Springer perhaps?
No. No, it was not. And who cares about them anyway? They are dead to me now.

The muy importante dispatch was from the top brass at Charter Communications, my internet service provider. Blogger (me), Internet service provider (them), I figured I had some leverage with these people. Better still, they were writing to tell me about their On Demand Service. How freaking perfect was this?

They wanted, nay practically begged me to make demands!
And so, I did.

I am telling you right now, this is not over even if the Fat Lady did sing.

Out-
T

image:www.tvacres.com

What Do You Get the Woman Who Hates Everything?

2010-05-03T17:46:00.000-07:00

Here we go again. Another Mother’s Day, and I, the most not thoughtful daughter in the universe have not sent a gift.

In my defense, Big Judes is impossible to shop for. She hates everything. Everything I give her at least, I'm not sure why.

As much as I would like to, I can’t write her another blog post, because, well, they pretty much suck, especially three years in a row. So I have been searching craigslist (Shut up! I need something special, and unique, and most importantly something my Rat Faced brother hasn’t already given her, so what if it's someone’s used crap? We are going for one of a kind here people).

Anyway, I think I found it.

Behold!

pigs in a jar (paris,texas)
________________________________________
Date: 2010-05-01, 9:48PM CDT
Reply to: pale-ateea-1720249000@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]

These pigs were put in this jar 29 years ago my dad was wondering if some one was interested in these pigs in a jar make an offer by calling 903-517-####6 ask for Henry

I know! I was excited too! I emailed Henry right away, I didn't want to miss this opportunity.

Hi Henry,

Are your pigs in a jar still available? Please let me know as soon as possible. Sunday is Mother’s Day, I think Big Judes (My Mom) would love these. Actually, she would probably prefer bunnies or kittens, but I guess I waited too long, because there are none advertised on craigslist (I am a last minute shopper).

Also, if it is not too much trouble would you ask your dad if he could dress the pigs up a little since they will be a gift? Nothing too fancy, maybe just some hats. Or sandals would be good since they have the perfect hooves for them. The accessories are just a suggestion, I will let your dad decide what he thinks is best. Please though, no blankets, that is just too predictable. Judes’ favorite color is green if that helps at all.

I hope to hear from you soon,

T.

PS- I forgot to ask if it would be possible for you to ship the pigs to Kansas, that’s where Judes lives. It would be great if you could you pick out a Mother’s day card and put it in the box with the pigs. And if it is not too much of an inconvenience could you write-

“Happy Mother’s Day, Big Judes. I bet your Rat Faced Son didn’t send you anything this fantastic, did he? Keep this in mind next time someone asks you which one of us is your favorite.”

Love,
T. (Your new favorite kid)

Don’t worry about the handwriting Henry, it has been so long since I’ve sent a card she will never know it’s not mine. Please make sure that the card is a Hallmark, since I’m sure she will check.

Thanks Henry,

PPS- she spells it B I G J U D E S (she would notice if her name was misspelled), or you can just use Mom to be on the safe side. It's your call

So far Henry has not written back, he didn’t return my phone calls either.
I remain hopeful.

Out-
T.

You Smell Like Pee

2010-04-19T12:38:00.000-07:00

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?
THERE IS POODLE PEE ON MY FACE!
I REALLY DO SMELL LIKE PEE!

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.

Out-
T

image:http://images.dvdempire.com/gen/movies/983h.jpg-the image that I can't post because blogger hates me.

Save Yourself Some Trouble and Leave the Sour Cream for Potatoes

2010-04-14T06:02:00.000-07:00

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.

WRONG

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.

Out-
T

Blame it on The Bug

2010-03-23T13:02:00.000-07:00

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.

Lovely.

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.

Out-
T

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

Fancy Ketchup

2010-03-16T15:29:00.000-07:00

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,

I AM FANCY DAMMIT!”

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."

Out-
T

image:http://images.teamsugar.com/files/upl1/1/15259/16_2008/ketchupgourmet.jpg

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

2010-03-15T11:09:00.000-07:00

"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.

Out-
T.

To My Beloved Harbingers of Toxic Assets

2010-02-25T12:32:00.000-08:00

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 suck...no credits for any of them.sorry, sorry

I am Your Scary Blog Mother

2010-02-22T10:52:00.000-08:00

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
Out-
T

images:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3037/2843316137_f8153f7785.jpg?v=0, http://ankastreasures.files.wordpress.com/2009/01/fireplace.jpg

Kinkos Blow (Up) Job

2010-02-20T07:25:00.000-08:00

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?

Out-
T.

A Piece of Quiet

2010-02-17T13:10:00.000-08:00

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-

"GODDAMMITTOBI!?GETTHEHELLOUTOFMYOFICENOW!!”

And that is why his name is Fussy and also why he gets no quiet.

Out-

The Sisters Three

2010-02-05T11:06:00.000-08:00

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.

Out-
T

Ms. Jett Puffstickyfacemeanbiterdog and the Stupid Fireplace

2010-01-30T07:21:00.000-08:00

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,

Out-
T

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:http://www.flickr.com/photos/uhdeeuh/18069987/ i can't credit the other one because i cant remember where it came from...sorry, sorry

Remember Granny?

2010-01-27T05:42:00.000-08:00

This is Granny, poor, poor, Granny.

Progress.

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.

Out-

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

Thank Oprah it’s Friday.

2010-01-22T18:16:00.000-08:00

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.

Out-
T

Best Day Ever

2010-01-21T10:58:00.000-08:00

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.

Out-

image:http://compulsiveoverreader.files.wordpress.com/2009/04/hypocrite.jpg

Big Judes Speaks

2010-01-19T12:59:00.000-08:00

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?

Out-
T

You Cannot Write a Check with a Tampon

2010-01-17T09:00:00.000-08:00

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.

Out-
T

Image: http://i150.photobucket.com/albums/s92/MiniCooperMan08/Miscellaneous/MensBathroom1.jpg

Grandma Got Run Over By a Credenza

2010-01-16T07:25:00.000-08:00

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 Décor may be a new trend. You heard it here first.

Out-
T

OMJ!

2010-01-15T05:35:00.000-08:00

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.

Out-
T

Mr. Wonderful

2010-01-12T07:15:00.000-08:00

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.
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.

Out-
T

You’ve come a Long Way Baby

2010-01-10T08:21:00.000-08:00

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.

image:http://www.wwenglish.com/up06/2008/04/24846/1a.jpg

Please Rush

2010-01-08T11:22:00.000-08:00

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.

Out-

image:http://www.glittyknittykitty.co.uk/archive/katmari_earmuffs.jpg

Captain's Log: Stardate 201001.06

2010-01-06T09:42:00.000-08:00

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

Out-
T

image:http://www.digitalmonkeybox.com/STchicks00060.jpg

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

2010-01-05T16:05:00.000-08:00

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,
T

Ms. Potato Head

2010-01-03T12:45:00.000-08:00

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?

Crafts?

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.

(No?)

Something more utilitarian? A potato paperweight?

Nevermind, I'll keep thinking.

Out-

Goat Head, Squint

2010-01-01T05:23:00.000-08:00

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.

Out-
~~Oprah~~ T

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

Have You Seen Me?

2009-12-30T14:39:00.000-08:00

Guess what?
I STOLE A CAMERA!
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 STOLE A CAMERA!

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.
Dammit
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,

Out-
T

Who Is This Craig Guy Anyway?

2009-12-29T04:32:00.000-08:00

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.

PAIR OVAL-TIPPI HEDREN MIRRORS WITH BIRDS AND BRANCHES - $100 (DALLAS)
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.

LIVING ROOM FURNITURE FOR SALE - $150500 (DOWNTOWN DALLAS)
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!

Out-
T

7 lbs

2009-12-28T11:32:00.000-08:00

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.

Out-
T

image:http://www.thenibble.com/zine/archives/flibbertigibbet-gourmet-peanut-butter-cups.asp

The Santa Hook Up

2009-12-23T13:21:00.000-08:00

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!
Out-T

Little Pink Houses

2009-08-08T07:06:00.000-07:00

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!

Out-T

With Love to Pittsburgh

2009-08-04T18:02:00.001-07:00

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!

Out-T

Crazy Quilt

2009-08-01T13:17:00.001-07:00

I still call her Mamma. She lets me.

Still.

Even though.

In spite of.

Just because, and for my part, I am grateful.
Now.
Not always, but now.
I am grateful.

We.
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.

We.

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.
T.

Tacos, Flowers and a Swingy Summer Frock

2009-07-28T09:49:00.000-07:00

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

Out-T

Standing At the Intersection of Crazy & Boss Street

2009-07-23T06:08:00.000-07:00

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,
T

The Days of Whine and Noses

2009-07-22T06:19:00.000-07:00

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.
Out-T.

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

Crazy Little Thing Called Shrub

2009-07-21T10:08:00.000-07:00

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.

Crap!

(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!”

I COULDN’T.

I TRIED!

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.

Out-T.

Eddie Ross, In the Garden, With a Darling Centerpiece

2009-07-19T07:12:00.000-07:00

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?
OK.

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.

Poisonous!

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…

Well…
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?

Out-T

image:http://www.flickr.com/photos/lovedaylemon/3280499381/

Some People Have All the Luck

2009-07-18T07:08:00.000-07:00

Why not Texas? Why not me?
Dammit!
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?"

Out-T.

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

Wet Butt Syndrome

2009-07-17T09:25:00.000-07:00

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.

THAT WAS NOT A HOT FLASH!
THAT WAS NOT A HOT FLASH!!
THAT WAS NOT A GOD DAMNED HOT FLASH!!!

Holy Hormone Replacement Therapy; This sucks.

Out (To Pasture) - T

image: http://www.txroadrunners.com/images/pics/Funny6/ButtSandSculpture.jpg

Ten Horrible Things That I Would Rather Have Than a Birthday

2009-07-16T09:45:00.000-07:00

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.

Out-T.

My Big Fat Stupid Birthday

2009-07-13T09:57:00.000-07:00

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.

Out-T.

* 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/

Hey Sister, Sole Sister

2009-07-08T05:23:00.000-07:00

~~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.
T.

Move along Folks, There’s nothing here to see

2009-07-07T06:10:00.000-07:00

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.

Out-T.

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.

Gwendolyn Cheese and Her Circus of Fleas

2009-07-02T06:07:00.000-07:00

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…

Well…

Cheese.

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.

WHAT THE HELL?

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!
Out-T

PS-love you L.

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

2009-05-22T09:19:00.000-07:00

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!

Out-T.

image: http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=14121647&ref=em

Happy Mother's Day Anyway

2009-05-10T07:07:00.000-07:00

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,

Love
T.

You Sir Are No Wombat

2009-04-20T06:06:00.000-07:00

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.

Out-T.

image:http://www.theage.com.au/ffximage/2005/03/09/ani_wombat_gallery__550x393.jpg

Retard

2009-04-11T11:21:00.000-07:00

“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?
Confused

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.

http://www.jonco48.com/blog/retard_20soup.jpg

Ovaries and a Nice Chianti

2009-04-09T05:45:00.000-07:00

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.
Fast.
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,
T.

image:http://dockera.com/pics/fun/bitch.jpg

Maybe Next Time

2009-04-04T05:19:00.000-07:00

Guess where I was NOT last night.

Oh Leonard, did you miss me?

Out-T.

Couples Only Skate

2009-03-28T05:45:00.000-07:00

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!

Out-T.

Post Traumatic Snake Syndrome

2009-03-25T17:26:00.001-07:00

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.

Out-T.

Say Hello to My Little Friend

2009-03-24T13:59:00.000-07:00

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?

Out-T.

image:http://www.bugsinthenews.com/blotched_water_snake%20042803.htm

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

2009-03-24T08:37:00.000-07:00

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.

WE ARE ALL GONNA DIE!

Oh the irony of it all.

Princess Wee-Wee Is Not a Fetus

2009-03-23T04:29:00.000-07:00

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.

Out-T.

*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."
image:http://www.phreeque.com/princess_wee_wee.html

Putting Lipstick on the Pig

2009-03-22T14:03:00.000-07:00

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.
Maybe.
Not.

Out-T.

Sweet Sam

2009-03-19T06:47:00.000-07:00

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

Out(standing)
XO
T.

The Caped Cod

2009-03-18T10:55:00.000-07:00

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.

Out-T.

image:http://adamant.typepad.com/seitz/images/tinfois_2.jpg

Posted No Trespassing!

2009-03-17T10:11:00.000-07:00

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.

Out-T.

image: http://www.flickr.com/photos/mmmazzoni/425928333/

Where, OH Where Has My Little Blog Gone?

2009-03-16T09:19:00.000-07:00

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.
Now?
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

Out-T

Screw You William Willett

2009-03-07T07:24:00.000-08:00

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

Hello Daylight Saving Time?

You. Suck.

No offense, but you do.

Suck.

Keep your sunshine.

I want my hour back.

Out-T.

Sinner - Sinner Chicken Dinner

2009-03-06T05:08:00.000-08:00

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.

Out-T.

image:http://www.flickr.com/photos/frogjesus/466752976/

Girdle Interrupted

2009-03-05T05:41:00.000-08:00

“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.

Seriously?

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.

Out-T.

image:http://www.flickr.com/photos/35422874@N00/2283668781/

The Elephant in the Room

2009-03-04T06:24:00.001-08:00

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.

Out-T.

Money Laundering

2009-03-03T06:25:00.000-08:00

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!

Out-T.

image:http://i140.photobucket.com/albums/r37/cynnamoroll/3b.png

Ascension

2009-03-01T08:02:00.000-08:00

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.

Out-T.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/grrlscrap/2728593141/, http://www.collageimpressions.com/QQuotes.htm

Beverly Hills(billy) 90210

2009-02-28T07:12:00.000-08:00

Today is moving day at Fussy and Bitchy Inc. (My place of employment). The hoopty U-Haul is loaded. All we need is a mattress and a couple chickens on top to complete this tragic scene.

Where is the Northern Van Lines moving truck with cute boys to do the heavy lifting? Who is catering lunch? Do these people not realize I am allergic to manual labor?

If Mr. Fussy Pants asks me to ride in the rocking chair in the back--

I will quit.

I swear.

I hope you have a swell weekend (Damn your hides).

Y'all come back now,

Ya hear?

Out-T.

Trailers for Sale or Rent

2009-02-27T17:06:00.001-08:00

Yesterday Viv the obstinate poodle and I were discussing the current state of our financial affairs. Actually, I was doing most of the talking. She was mostly trying to sniff my crotch.

I was patiently explaining that I was trying to change my attitude, turn over a new leaf, focus on what’s important, stop crying because I can (for the time being ) no longer justify our conspicuous consumption. I told her I thought she should do the same. We would both be happier. This was going to be GREAT!

She pretended to ignore me.

Undaunted, I rallied on—“There are more important things in life than new shoes! (I am not sure what they are, but I think it is time we find out)… So what if we cannot shop or go out to dinner, or spend weekends at the beach? We can be frugal! We do not need fancy wine or gourmet cheese. We have each other! "

"As long as we are together, it would not matter where we are. We could live in a singlewide trailer and be happy, couldn't we?”

Well, couldn't we?

“I
SAID
COULDN'T
WE
VIV?”

VIVIAN!?!

I guess not.

Out-T.

Fat Tuesday

2009-02-24T07:12:00.001-08:00

"This is a shell building with no restroom or interior water. Previously occupied by Handley Feedstore. Please check potential use - with current regulations or requirements. Directions: Historic Handley, adjacent to Red Rooster Lumber Co."

I am fat.
It is Tuesday.

Fat Tuesday will be followed by WTF Wednesday.
I am sure I will still be fat on WTF Wednesday.

I baked a cake on Mind Melt Monday and proceeded to consume the chocolate monstrosity in its entirety.

BY MYSELF!

When you fall asleep with a mouth full of cake and wake up five hours later convinced that your not so welcome furry four legged house guest took advantage of your reluctant hospitality by using your face as a potty pad-- I think the experts would agree that this a warning sign. A referral for treatment to a twelve-step program for frosting addicts will probably follow.

Admitting that you have a problem is the first step to recovery. I know these things because I watch Intervention on television while eating cake and congratulating myself for not being addicted to cough syrup or slot machines,

I think the events of Holy Shit I Killed the Dog Friday would have forced anyone to bake. (Addicts always have excuses).

Holy Shit I Killed the Dog Friday was the day the stupid dog that I agreed to baby-sit while its owner went to Mardi Gras jumped off my bed. I was nice enough to let him sleep with me (even though Viv the obstinate poodle warned me that he was trouble). He re-payed me by hitting the floor like a five-pound brick of semi-sweet baking chocolate, and then proceeded to flop around like a carp. It was a horrifying sight I assure you.

A frantic trip to the Doggie Emergency Room ensued. $250, a diagnosis of a fractured pelvis (Apparently a freakish occurrence that will require specialty surgery that could total many thousands of dollars- I am not even kidding), and three prescriptions including one for liver flavored Morphine later, the dog acts as though nothing in the world is wrong with him. He runs, he jumps, he chews shit up. I hate him.

I do not know if Fido has made a miraculous recovery, or I just imagine he has because I took the Morphine myself (It is not so bad once you get past the taste). Either way, I still feel terrible about the poor weasel's plight. I hold the ratty little beast all the time, even though he leaves hair all over everything, including the black turtleneck sweater I was wearing on Ghetto Saturday.

Ghetto Saturday was the day that I was stuck with Realtor Djour because Mr. Fussy Pants (My boss) announced on Are You out of Your Mind Thursday that he had found a ~~shill~~ buyer for our current office (I was unaware that he was looking for a buyer!--Nothing like job security, or lack thereof to make a woman break out the hand mixer). I was charged with the duty of securing new offices by March 1, otherwise known as Just Fucking Shoot Me Sunday.

Anyway, Realtor Djour could not resist pointing out that I had furry boobs. Ironic considering that she herself was wearing a frock adorned in chicken feathers as we stood in a feed store (SWEAR TO GOD) with no indoor plumbing. Clearly, the realtor needs treatment. Not me.

Yes, more excuses! So what?

Now it is Fat Tuesday. Tomorrow is WTF Wednesday, the day I have to tell my former loved one I broke her dog.

Before you know, it will be Just Fucking Shoot Me Sunday.
The day I have to show Mr. Fussy Pants our new office, but first I must find a company that rents his and her Porta-potties.

I.
Need.
Brownies.
Stat.

Out-T.

I Love the Smell of Money Burning in the Morning

2009-02-19T06:35:00.000-08:00

It reminds me of bacon. On second thought, that lovely aroma may be my ass on fire, or yours. I am not sure.

I do not have the strength for a full-blown rant today. This post is more of a whimper.

Make. Them. Stop.
Please.
Thank you,

If you refinance your 100 thousand dollar mortgage from your current rate of 6% to a new lower government subsidized rate of 4%, you will see a monthly savings of a whopping $122 per. month. I suppose you could add that to the $8 per. month you will save from the new tax cuts and buy yourself a bottle of Xanax, provided you still have health insurance.

Have a nice day.

Out-T.

image:http://www.flickr.com/photos/chromewavesdotorg/528727180/

Be Mine

2009-02-14T06:04:00.001-08:00

Dear Boyfriend of the Doo-Doo Head Variety,

I am touched by the lovely Valentine card you ~~recycled from last year~~ sent me. Words cannot accurately express how I feel about you. I tried to write you a poem, but I could not think of anything that rhymes with douche. Perhaps a love song is more appropriate.

Love,
T.

image: http://www.funny-potato.com/funny-valentine-pictures.html

No One Wants Ugly Shoes

2009-02-11T07:45:00.000-08:00

I am sick and tired of hearing about toxic assets, bailouts, TARP, and stimulus plans. Sick of it I tell you. This financial crisis is exhausting.

To be candid I would not know a toxic asset if it bit me on my not-so-perky ass. So I decided to do a little research (by little, I mean very little, like almost none).

I have concluded that toxic assets are like ugly shoes. It only took me about ten minutes to figure this out. I am not sure why our esteemed elected officials are having such a hard time. I think they should give me a call. I would be happy to explain it to them.

The convo would go something like this…

Hello congress?
T. here.
No one wants ugly shoes.
Get rid of them.
Now.
Ugly shoes will never be cute.
Give them away if you must.
Make room in the closet for cute shoes.
Bye.

See? How easy was that? Banking crisis solved. They can thank me later.

Maybe that was a little too brief for politicians. Fine. Allow me to explain (Or leave now if you know what is good for you).

Banks are like shoe stores. Banks buy and sell bonds, stocks, and loans. They have expanded their business to include MBS (mortgage-backed securities), CDO (collateralized debt obligations), CDS (credit default swaps).

Shoe stores buy and sell boots, sandals, and high heels. Many shoe stores also sell handbags, hats and scarves.

Simple? Yes?

Business has been good for the last several years. Banks were buying all the paper they could get their hands on. Instead of doing proper due diligence, banks relied on credit rating agencies to tell them what they were buying. This would have been fine if the credit rating agencies had known what the hell they were doing, but they did not. OOPS.

Business for shoe stores has been booming. Keeping shoes and accessories on the shelves is challenging. Our shoe store owner turned to E-Bay to make a large purchase of assorted items and relied on the seller’s description without benefit of photos to make her purchase. This would have been fine if the sellers knew what the hell they were doing. Sadly, they did not. OOPS.

When the banks got around to looking at these assets, they discovered that about thirty three percent of it was worthless. These car loans, credit card loans, and mortgages would never perform. Total crap. Thirty three percent had potential. If the banks held these assets for a period of time and the economy continued to prosper these assets had a good chance of performing. Thirty three percent of these assets were stellar. Gold balls. No problem.

When our store owner received her order from E-Bay, she was horrified to discover that thirty three percent of the shipment was hideous, Think Payless end of season clearance. Thirty three percent was from an up and coming designer. They had potential. Thirty three percent were fabulous, Think Prada.

Common sense would dictate that the banks would act swiftly to write the bad debt down, or off their books entirely, sell the remaining assets, and be more prudent in the future. They did not. Instead, they held the paper. The economy slowed down. They were holding the worthless paper. The second thirty three percent of the assets were deteriorating. The remaining third was at risk due to pressure on these borrowers from job losses, gas prices and the general fuckery that was the economic climate. OH NO!

Our store owner could not face her epic screw up; instead of marking down the Payless rejects and getting them out the door, she stashed them in the back room. Out of sight. Out of mind. The up and coming designer she was counting on to recoup her losses from the Payless crap was busted for using kitten fur to line his trendy boots. She would have to mark his stuff down to get rid of it. Demand for Prada purses fell due to the same economic fuckery that was plaguing the banks. OH NO!

As the economy continued to spiral downward banks were faced with insolvency. They turned to the Federal Government for help. Gazillions of dollars were handed out to stabilize the banking system. The toxic assets remain on the balance sheets. No one knows the value of these securities. The private sector is unwilling to invest in them. The government cannot possibly buy them all. So now what? Nationalize the banks or let the free markets dictate who lives and who dies?

Our shoe store owner has hard choices to make. Sell her inventory at pennies on the dollar and risk bankruptcy, or make a deal with the devil. Her soul in exchange for a loan. A bailout in exchange for eternal hellfire and damnation. So now what?

No one wants ugly shoes.
See? How hard was that?

Out-T.

image: http://www.kangflatsc.vic.edu.au/home/lgreat/special/uglypics/shoes.jpg

Slip Sliding Away

2009-01-28T05:37:00.000-08:00

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.

Out-T.

Beware the Goat

2009-01-23T17:36:00.000-08:00

Lock your car.

Take your keys.

Do not talk to strange goats.

Have a safe weekend.

Out-T.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/edgarjediza/2450657353/

Lassie Come Home

2009-01-22T20:37:00.000-08:00

I have decided to change Vivian The Obstinate Toy Poodle’s name to Lassie.
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.

Genius!

Out-T.

http://www.xmoppet.org/movie/lassie/lassie22.html

Dust Bunny

2009-01-21T08:22:00.001-08:00

I hate to put gas in my car, especially on cute days. Nothing screws up the mojo of good hair like whipping wind and gas fumes, nothing, except possibly washing the car. I do not like to wash the car even on a bad day. Consequently, my gas tank is always empty and my car is filthy.

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!

Out-T.

So This Is What Making History Feels Like

2009-01-20T04:23:00.000-08:00

The thought of George Bush vacating the White House today makes me a little giddy, or it did anyway. Then I remembered he lives in Texas. Crap!

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.

Peace

http://www.flickr.com/photos/31024924@N07/3018691433/

Like a Breath of Fresh Hell

2009-01-16T08:54:00.000-08:00

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.
Out-T.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090116/ap_on_re_us/plane_splashdown

Listen Up Ice-Holes

2009-01-15T06:18:00.000-08:00

Good Morning My Fellow Citizens of Fort Worth:

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,
T.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/lauri_vain/1802363801/

Buzz Kill

2009-01-14T08:32:00.000-08:00

Dear Typealyzer,

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?

Out-T.

Who Gives a Cat's Ass?

2009-01-12T15:11:00.001-08:00

It is a wonder that I get anything done at work

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.

"Ehhh..."

Out-T.

Mamas don’t let Your Babies Grow Up to be Bud Trickle

2009-01-12T04:50:00.000-08:00

I received an ominous text message from my friend “Wilson” in Kansas:

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.

Those boobs?
Lori Payton stuffed her bra, you twit!
You dumped the next Madame Curie for a box of Puffs tissues Bud Trickle!

Out-T.

The Sweet Scent of Love or Flaming Cabbage Patch Kids

2009-01-11T12:47:00.000-08:00

BFSK S. (best friend since kindergarten) gifted me with a candle for Christmas. A candle she lovingly crafted with her very own two hands. I never knew S. had such talents. Secretly, I was pleased, because this means that in the future when S. is too old and senile to be a nurse, but rather requires the assistance of a nurse, I shall be the one to assume the duties. I am after all 3 months younger.

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.

Who Knew?

Out-T.

Monkey See--Monkey Do

2009-01-10T04:55:00.000-08:00

As if I were not charming and alluring enough, it has come to my attention that I have a sexy habit that is sure to attract the (deaf, mute), man of my dreams. In fact, I am expecting Mr. Wonderful at my door on bended knee any moment. I may have to cut this post short. I am sure you will understand.

It seems I am the woman of a thousand faces. What man could resist the feminine wiles of a mime?

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.

To make matters worse, it is reported that this unconscious mugging affects me most when I watch television. Stinky cat food commercials make my nose wrinkle. Slutty contestants on Rock of Love Bus produce a cynical sneer. Couples kissing? Puckered lips.

OH my God, I am a freaking sideshow!

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?

Out-T.

http://www.easyletters.net/image/monkey-see-monkey-do.jpg, http://entertainingconx.com/images/laura4.jpg, http://www.flickr.com/photos/23097960@N04/2356327944/

Note on Self:

2009-01-09T08:34:00.000-08:00

I have been having a hard time making resolutions for the New Year. After the head trauma that was 2008, I was a bit afraid to aim too high with my good intentions. Breaking any bad habits, improving my health or disposition, swearing never to swear again seemed too lofty. Aiming lower by vowing to shave my legs regularly seemed pointless... I was almost ready to give up. Then as luck would have it the perfect resolution landed in my lap or more precisely on my ass.

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—

Nothing.

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.

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.

Friends should not make friends conceal the evidence. No wonder I was meeting my untimely demise at the hands of a purple sharpie. I am a crappy friend.

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…
Ready
Set
Don’t Go.

Out-T.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/rayfenwick/1616225495/

Puddin' On The Ritz

2008-12-31T15:04:00.000-08:00

Stir the eggnog, lift the toddy, Happy New Year, everybody.
- Phyllis McGinley

As I prepare to celebrate the New Year hobnobbing at a swinging soiree, I am led to wonder-- Who is the genius that decided that it is a good idea to shimmy into a slinky dress after 30 consecutive days of conspicuous consumption?

All I can say is thank God for Spandex.

Not exactly Guy Lombardo, but you get the picture.

Be Safe.

Out-T

O Tannenbaum

2008-12-24T16:50:00.000-08:00

From my digs to yours...Happy Holidays

May the toilet paper on your tree always be two-ply.

May your poodle expel the tinsel she consumed without medical intervention.

And may the boobs in your entryway always be double D's.

( . ) ( . ) Out-T.

Bite Me Martha Stewart

2008-12-24T09:11:00.000-08:00

Don't look now, but T. is in the kitchen at the New Digs getting her Martha Stewart on in preparation for the Christmas festivities that are about to commence.

In true trailer park fashion I give you "Corn Flake Wreath Cookies"

One stick of a substance remotely resembling butter, three cups of stale marshmallows left over from Thanksgiving, four cups of generic breakfast cereal, some Halloween candy, and copious amounts of artificial green dye are all you need to impress your family and friends.

Christmas Goose, Yule log, figgy pudding? Bite me Martha Stewart.

Break out the Vienna Weenies and let the party begin.

Out-T.

Dirty Old Saint Nicholas

2008-12-21T16:11:00.001-08:00

Dirty old Saint Nicholas lean your ear this way, don't you tell a single soul what I'm going to say...

Dear Santa,

I did not send my Christmas list to you sooner because I have not been very good this year. I was really afraid I would be getting cinders in my stocking. After seeing this picture of you I decided I may have a chance after all.

I hope you can overlook the recent incident with the homeless guy and the frozen turkey. How was I to know the boy (I swear he looked about 12) in the blue Ford was a police officer. I did apologize for asking him if his mother knew he was carrying a gun after he showed me his badge. Just so you know, I gave the turkey back.

Instead of cookies and milk, if you look between the cushions of the couch at the New Digs, you will find loose change and I have generously left a full can of Colt 45 and a box of Swisher Sweets for your enjoyment.

I will leave the gift selection up to you, anything extra you may have on the sleigh will do just fine. Usually, I am much more particular, but really? There is no damn way I am sitting on your lap.

Your Friend,