Ok, Mr. Crossley, I will write something. Shaysus!
I really dont have a topic today. The last couple of weeks went from crazy busy, to a full on HALT. Culminating the academic year, we have an event that monopolized my time from December until June 3, not to mention seven other events that I had to organize and execute during that time. They are all quite large, 150- 200 people, but the final event brings in 600 people. I had also volunteered to organize a couple of charity events on the side during this time. Needless to say, I have a few more, well earned, gray hairs on my head.
After June 6, I had NOTHING, ZIP, ZERO on my plate, and 275 vacation hours(!).
Needless to say, I have been taking it easy, well as easy as someone who got herself into a pickle and found herself the apple of an internet crazy's eye. Me and my big ass mouth. It's been getting me into the piss for over 20 years! During this down time, I have achieved very little. Some new web design for work, coordinating some meetings for the end of July, lots of walks with the dog, time by the pool, accounting, spread sheet making, step-parenting, wife-ing, fasting, cleaning, yoga-ing... OH, and internet drama-ing.
Did I mention that some guy accused me, (just me!) of being a vast network of internet trolls after I let him know I thought he was an asshole of epic proportions? YEAH! YAY! He even threatened to have me fired for being on the internet during work hours (though I'm not really working right now, well, at least not on the clock, just wirelessly). Yeah! He then threatened to have me sent to PRISON!! for tweeting things I never twatted! YUP! He has screenshots, y'all! Then Mother Theresa sent him an email about how he is a much better person than me. I am just a sad, ugly, lonely, bully who is "broken" and he needs to take pity on me. What a relief!
The lesson I learned? Some things are better left said behind someone's back, rather than to their face. I also made some new e-pals and e-haterz (thanks for the blog hits!). Also, people are attracted to drama (myself included) like flies on shit, and that it is probably a waste of my time to entertain the mentally imbalanced of the e-world.
So Mr. Crossley, to better spend my time, I want you to give me a topic... Any topic to write about. I feel rusty in the prose area, as my snark muscles are bulging like a steroid ridden, body builder.
Help me Obi-Wan. You are my only hope.
Showing posts with label rambling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rambling. Show all posts
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Crickety Crack, My Knee is Straight Whack!
I'm not sure if I am spelling "whack" correctly when referring to its "street definition". Do the kids even refer to oddities and offenses as "whack" anymore? Who knows.
Over the summer, my very best friend, who is a lunatic, and I were taking our dogs on 5 mile power-walks a couple of times a week. We felt accomplished, proud and two pounds thinner. We reminisced and mused about our college days when we would eat nothing but no-doz, cigarettes and vodka for a week, while running 5 miles every other day and how fierce our bodies looked.......on the outside...... on the inside they looked like Bubbles from the Wire.... If you don't know who I am talking about, here you go:
He actually looks kind of okay there.... You really don't get a feel for the amount scabies, Hep C and body lice he is cultivating.
So one day my very dear, best friend in the entire world, (who is a certifiable maniac), sends me this email:
She doesn't feel like a nut, SOMETIMES. All of the times. Ever.
She's like a Mafia Don.
But, she's convincing, so I joined up. Two days after this email exchange, we went to our local Runners Spot and were fitted properly for shoes, stocked up on wicking accessories and BenGay, and were ready to go.
Our first Saturday, we successfully cleared a five and a half mile route. (I use italics because we ran about four of it and were in some serious pain for over 24 hours.) The following Monday we cleared 3 and a half, as well as on Wednesday, and then the 5 and half the following Saturday. It was a good pattern, and we were feeling confident, albeit, achy, so we decided that this would be our routine.
Fast forward two weeks, the BFF starts going through some MAJOR life drama. MAJOR. The kind of drama that overtakes your body with nothing but adrenaline, keeps you up at night and enables you to exist on a diet of nothing but water and pretzels. The kind of energy that if you don't pull on your running shoes and clear 10 miles, you will more than likely tear off all of your clothes, run down the street kicking puppies, scaring children and screaming unintelligible lyrics to Wayne Newton songs. THAT MAJOR.
Being that my BFF may be a lunatic, she is by all appearances, an incredibly successful and rational woman, so she steps up her routine to avoid any kind of uncomfortable, "naked around the neighbors with a kitten dangling from her mouth" situations.
I, being her comrade in cross country, accompanied her.
From 3 and a half miles, we kick it to seven. THREE TIMES A WEEK. 21 MILES A WEEK. Which, is not too bad for people who run marathons regularly, who did not just start running after 6 years of not running, two weeks ago. It was the kind of advancement that the only other time in my life I have done such a thing, was in fifth grade, when I went to a ninth grade reading level.... Reading is a lot easier than running, just in case you were wondering.
Also, a dirt little secret about me.... I smoke. I smoke about two packs a week, but I still smoke.
So, we step up the program, but she is not only running on our days, but the days in between. She is clearing about 35 miles a week. She has always been more driven than I am, but I am still an incredibly competitive asshole, so I try to step it up as well. I begin to literally, KILL MYSELF. My life consisted of yoga and running..... The yoga was not an effort to enlighten and relax me. It was an effort to stretch out my muscles that were so tight, my 5'9 frame was contracting 3 inches to 5'6, and I seriously was convinced my calf muscles were taking up permanent residence in my butt. My feet were going to end up right below my bunsies.... It was not going to be pretty. Also, my house reeked like BenGay. My normal scent had gone from L'Occitane to a pungent eucalyptus, and my S.O. was threatening to shove me off of the nookie train. Not that it would matter, because I couldn't move. I hobbled around my house with heating pads and ointment like some decrepit fitness troll..... The situation was out of hand. I had to do something.......... I had to save myself.
This was easier said than done for two reasons:
#1.I am a competitive asshole. The thought that she was clearing 35 miles a week with nary a shin splint, was driving me mad.... Why was it so easy for her? Where was her pain? Why am I the one who has been stricken with the physical prowess of a geriatric, and she the nubile youth, who is a year older than me in actuality? WHY?
#2. My body, though broken and beaten, was foxing up to the max. My legs were looking bitchin and my skinny jeans were becoming a comfortable reality.
I was torn. Emotionally and physically.
I decided that I would pull back from running with BFF all of the time. My weekdays, I would run 4 miles and then join her on Saturday for our big run. It was the perfect plan.
One Saturday, due to prior commitments, I was not able to meet up with her for the run, so I decided to go at it alone. No biggie.
I'm running along and then all of the sudden, I was on the ground. There had been a shot of pain, and then my knee gave out. I collected myself, started to stretch in the middle of the sidewalk, and began walking. Walking was very uncomfortable. It actually felt more comfortable to run, so I did for about two miles... Then, the pain started shooting up the outside of my left knee, then it shot down to the side of my left foot. I had to stop.
I made it home, only to stretch, jump in the shower, strap on 4 in. stilettos and head to a cocktail party.
By Sunday, I was completely immobile.
Monday, I tried to run, mainly because I am insane. Needless to say it was not happening.
Tuesday, I activated my medical plan and headed to my doctor. After I laid out the puerile details of my bad judgment, it was of no surprise to anyone that I had now caused Iliotibial Band Syndrome to my knee.
I was prescribed anti-inflammatory medication, Vicodan (HOLLA AT YO GIRL!) and instructed to ice the shit out of my knee and to stretch gently. I was also instructed to stop running completely for a week, but to keep up with yoga, though mildly.
I felt frustrated and weak.
But, then I realized that even though I was injured, I had still accomplished more in six weeks than I ever thought I would. I also realized that going from zero to sixty is just fucking stupid. It's stupid and not surprising that I hurt myself. I am still young, but I am not 23 anymore. I am 33. My body will still cooperate with me, as long as I listen to its signals and PAY ATTENTION.
So, a week went by, and I successfully cleared 4 miles today, with little to no pain. The last two were not so easy, so I walked. But, it was still a success.
I plan to keep up with the goal we established. But, I am going to achieve this goal on my terms.
ETA: I also plan on getting some, now that the BenGay has been put to rest...*Cue Bow-Chicka-Bow-Bow, no babies, no babies, no babies, stop!*
Over the summer, my very best friend, who is a lunatic, and I were taking our dogs on 5 mile power-walks a couple of times a week. We felt accomplished, proud and two pounds thinner. We reminisced and mused about our college days when we would eat nothing but no-doz, cigarettes and vodka for a week, while running 5 miles every other day and how fierce our bodies looked.......on the outside...... on the inside they looked like Bubbles from the Wire.... If you don't know who I am talking about, here you go:
He actually looks kind of okay there.... You really don't get a feel for the amount scabies, Hep C and body lice he is cultivating.
So one day my very dear, best friend in the entire world, (who is a certifiable maniac), sends me this email:
Today I took my lunch hour to take a BIG walk, with a little bit of running. It was a full hour and I think I got in about 3 ½ miles. Anyway, I observed about 100 people out getting their exercise. Of note, all the women walking were between 150-180 lbs. and all the women running were between 130-150 lbs. I would estimate that there were only 1 or 2 that were on the other side of their respective groups. So, I have finally determined that running has to again become a normal part of my life. I’m ready to do this in a big way. I am sick and tired of my thoughts, regrets, wishes about my body dominating my thoughts.
I am going to start training for the ½ marathon = 13 miles. I want you to do it with me because it will be more fun and because it will improve our chances of succeeding since it always help to have someone encouraging the lazy one of the day.
It’s not until May. This is one of two of my ‘winter goals’. I also want to pick up on some fundamental Spanish. Okay, back to the running. In order to start training, we have to be able to run 3 miles. We can make that our September goal. Next goal is the Thanksgiving Day run, which is a 10K (6.2 miles). That will be no problem for us. I will map out all of the routes, unless you want to, but it will take 5-6 days of training a week and, up until Thanksgiving, it will never take more than an hour a day, unless we want it to. Two of my training days are going to be yoga on Tuesdays and frisbee on Sundays. So we would have 3 or 4 days each week where we have to get some level of running in. That could be Monday, Weds, Thurs, Saturday. We would be off on Friday always.
So, you think about it and decide……long term, do you want to be with the walkers or the runners?
She doesn't feel like a nut, SOMETIMES. All of the times. Ever.
From:BFF
Sent: Tuesday, August 25, 2009 2:03 PM
To:ConfusedKaty
Subject: RE: a big idea
Ok, we will join. I cannot run 3 miles either – it will be a struggle for me too. We probably won’t be running 3 miles without breaks until the end of September.
So, Thanksgiving Day is 6 miles
Then in March there is a 9 mile mini-marathon
Then May is the big 13 miler.
________________________________________
From: ConfusedKaty
Sent: Tuesday, August 25, 2009 2:07 PM
To: BFF
Subject: RE: a big idea
That’s going to be the first thanksgiving eve I don’t get schnockered.
________________________________________
From:BFF
Sent: Tuesday, August 25, 2009 2:03 PM
To: ConfusedKaty
Subject: RE: a big idea
It’s a great way to spend that entire weekend eating, drinking, and feeling really good.
Ok – you have only thought of reasons why not to, so I ask you again…..
Do you want to be with the runners or the walkers?
She's like a Mafia Don.
But, she's convincing, so I joined up. Two days after this email exchange, we went to our local Runners Spot and were fitted properly for shoes, stocked up on wicking accessories and BenGay, and were ready to go.
Our first Saturday, we successfully cleared a five and a half mile route. (I use italics because we ran about four of it and were in some serious pain for over 24 hours.) The following Monday we cleared 3 and a half, as well as on Wednesday, and then the 5 and half the following Saturday. It was a good pattern, and we were feeling confident, albeit, achy, so we decided that this would be our routine.
Fast forward two weeks, the BFF starts going through some MAJOR life drama. MAJOR. The kind of drama that overtakes your body with nothing but adrenaline, keeps you up at night and enables you to exist on a diet of nothing but water and pretzels. The kind of energy that if you don't pull on your running shoes and clear 10 miles, you will more than likely tear off all of your clothes, run down the street kicking puppies, scaring children and screaming unintelligible lyrics to Wayne Newton songs. THAT MAJOR.
Being that my BFF may be a lunatic, she is by all appearances, an incredibly successful and rational woman, so she steps up her routine to avoid any kind of uncomfortable, "naked around the neighbors with a kitten dangling from her mouth" situations.
I, being her comrade in cross country, accompanied her.
From 3 and a half miles, we kick it to seven. THREE TIMES A WEEK. 21 MILES A WEEK. Which, is not too bad for people who run marathons regularly, who did not just start running after 6 years of not running, two weeks ago. It was the kind of advancement that the only other time in my life I have done such a thing, was in fifth grade, when I went to a ninth grade reading level.... Reading is a lot easier than running, just in case you were wondering.
Also, a dirt little secret about me.... I smoke. I smoke about two packs a week, but I still smoke.
So, we step up the program, but she is not only running on our days, but the days in between. She is clearing about 35 miles a week. She has always been more driven than I am, but I am still an incredibly competitive asshole, so I try to step it up as well. I begin to literally, KILL MYSELF. My life consisted of yoga and running..... The yoga was not an effort to enlighten and relax me. It was an effort to stretch out my muscles that were so tight, my 5'9 frame was contracting 3 inches to 5'6, and I seriously was convinced my calf muscles were taking up permanent residence in my butt. My feet were going to end up right below my bunsies.... It was not going to be pretty. Also, my house reeked like BenGay. My normal scent had gone from L'Occitane to a pungent eucalyptus, and my S.O. was threatening to shove me off of the nookie train. Not that it would matter, because I couldn't move. I hobbled around my house with heating pads and ointment like some decrepit fitness troll..... The situation was out of hand. I had to do something.......... I had to save myself.
This was easier said than done for two reasons:
#1.I am a competitive asshole. The thought that she was clearing 35 miles a week with nary a shin splint, was driving me mad.... Why was it so easy for her? Where was her pain? Why am I the one who has been stricken with the physical prowess of a geriatric, and she the nubile youth, who is a year older than me in actuality? WHY?
#2. My body, though broken and beaten, was foxing up to the max. My legs were looking bitchin and my skinny jeans were becoming a comfortable reality.
I was torn. Emotionally and physically.
I decided that I would pull back from running with BFF all of the time. My weekdays, I would run 4 miles and then join her on Saturday for our big run. It was the perfect plan.
One Saturday, due to prior commitments, I was not able to meet up with her for the run, so I decided to go at it alone. No biggie.
I'm running along and then all of the sudden, I was on the ground. There had been a shot of pain, and then my knee gave out. I collected myself, started to stretch in the middle of the sidewalk, and began walking. Walking was very uncomfortable. It actually felt more comfortable to run, so I did for about two miles... Then, the pain started shooting up the outside of my left knee, then it shot down to the side of my left foot. I had to stop.
I made it home, only to stretch, jump in the shower, strap on 4 in. stilettos and head to a cocktail party.
By Sunday, I was completely immobile.
Monday, I tried to run, mainly because I am insane. Needless to say it was not happening.
Tuesday, I activated my medical plan and headed to my doctor. After I laid out the puerile details of my bad judgment, it was of no surprise to anyone that I had now caused Iliotibial Band Syndrome to my knee.
I was prescribed anti-inflammatory medication, Vicodan (HOLLA AT YO GIRL!) and instructed to ice the shit out of my knee and to stretch gently. I was also instructed to stop running completely for a week, but to keep up with yoga, though mildly.
I felt frustrated and weak.
But, then I realized that even though I was injured, I had still accomplished more in six weeks than I ever thought I would. I also realized that going from zero to sixty is just fucking stupid. It's stupid and not surprising that I hurt myself. I am still young, but I am not 23 anymore. I am 33. My body will still cooperate with me, as long as I listen to its signals and PAY ATTENTION.
So, a week went by, and I successfully cleared 4 miles today, with little to no pain. The last two were not so easy, so I walked. But, it was still a success.
I plan to keep up with the goal we established. But, I am going to achieve this goal on my terms.
ETA: I also plan on getting some, now that the BenGay has been put to rest...*Cue Bow-Chicka-Bow-Bow, no babies, no babies, no babies, stop!*
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Self Importance..........i.e..................... Suck it, David Crosby
If I have to suffer through another "flower child's" self important diatribe one more time, I may become Amish just to avoid popular media. Seriously, there is no generation more stuck on themselves than the Baby Boomers. We get, you had sex before marriage and smoked a ton of weed, good for you, now SHUT IT.I understand that the sixties were groundbreaking in knocking down rigid social structures, facing the evils of inequality head on, and realizing that there are choices in life. As a woman and a daughter of that generation, I DIG IT. However, in looking back at history long past and recent, there is no other generation so stuck on pontificating about their extreme awesomeness more than the children of the sixties.
God bless Tom Brokaw for taking the zeal out of their swagger and focusing for a time on our grandparents. There is a lot to be said about the children of the Great Depression and WWII. Then was a time that all the United States possessed was a dream and the follow through to obtain that dream. We were not a super power, but by inspiration, collaboration, and a common philosophy, our grandparents worked together to dig this country out of the worst rut it had ever faced. All the while still nursing those wounds, we banded together with the rest of the world to fight and defeat one of the greatest evils this world had ever seen.
Not only did they accomplish this, they steered clear of Time Life specials reminiscing about how AWESOME they were. They just wanted to dance during those informercials, and I can totally get behind that.
I do have to admit, I can kind of see where this need to express to the world how your generations part in history, was by far, the most profound time to exist. I know that I look at people who are younger than I am, and I shake my head while muttering "back in my day"while completely discounting their experiences for five minutes, until I finally get a grip back. I grew up in the eighties and the nineties, too young for Gen X, but too old for Gen Y. I remember Adam Walsh, and the hysteria that ensued from that awful tragedy.... Getting finger-printed, making an ID card in kindergarten, and working with my parents to come up with a "fool proof", safe word.
I remember when my parent's good friend died suddenly from a very severe and unmanageable pneumonia, later finding out that this was a disease that was going to and continue to kill many of the world's population. Because of AIDS, I knew what a condom was by second grade, which may or may not be appropriate. We chanted "Just Say No!" while marching behind Nancy Reagan and a stoned Drew Barrymore. We challenged authority after being inspired by Henry Rollins and "fought the power" while being directed by Chuck D .
It was a groundbreaking time, in a long line of groundbreaking times throughout human history. That's the crux of this post; humans are amazing... amazingly inventive, destructive, strong, cruel and kind... Human history is ever-changing and to single out one generation as being more important than another is purely self serving..... So, all of you people who burned out on the Haight-Ashbury, just SHUT IT.
That means you too, Peter Fonda.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
I've Decided To Go Evil.
After many strenuous and painful months of trying to be pure of heart, chaste, and remembering to always recycle; I have decided enough is enough, and I am going evil. It's just the nature of my being baby.
Thank the stars for the internet, without it I would have been at a complete loss on just HOW I should start being evil... Now I know...... Off to Italy!
Thank the stars for the internet, without it I would have been at a complete loss on just HOW I should start being evil... Now I know...... Off to Italy!
http://www.darksites.com/souls/horror/evilguide/index.html
Evil Plan (tm)!
Your objective is simple: Soul Accumulation.
Your motive is a little bit more complex: Mom never loved me
Stage One
To begin your plan, you must first seduce a pope. This will cause the world to sit up and take notice, paralyzed by your arrival. Who is this despoiler of all that is good and nice and true? Where did they come from? And why do they look so good in classic black?
Stage Two
Next, you must vaporize the moon (ooh, tides!). This will all be done from a floating fortress, a mysterious place of unrivaled dark glory. Upon seeing this, the world will weep uncontrollably, as countless hordes of mean english teachers hasten to do your every bidding.
Stage Three
Finally, you must tauntingly wave your great supernatural forces, bringing about an unending cacophony of screams. Your name shall become synonymous with fuzzy bunnies, and no man will ever again dare refuse to be your prom date. Everyone will bow before your dashing good looks, and the world will have no choice but to pray to you for enlightenment.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Losing My Edge
So, a person who actually reads this blog, commented to me the other day, (over beers, mind you), that my writing has lost its edge. That I am not as sarcastic or cynical as I used to be, which makes me not as funny.
Oh well.
I can't really say why I write this blog, it is more cathartic than anything. It is of absolutely no interest to anyone but myself and a handful of friends, but it has also been an evolutionary process for me. Maybe my writing is not as negative as it used to be, because I am feeling happier these days? Maybe I don't feel the need to grace the Earth with my searing wit and put downs?
What does behaving like an asshole in the written word really achieve?
I know it is a pretty good way to fuck up close relationships and piss a lot of people off!
I used to defend a lot of what I would write as "satirical", and it was..... But that did not make it appropriate subject matter, despite the truth of the situation..... Truth.... " We hold these truths to be self evident".... Truthiness..... I also think that I used this blog to insinuate what I believed to be the "truth" about certain situations that were happening in my life.... That this was some sort of "Cyber-Hall of Justice" where "Truth, Justice, and the American Way", would prevail.
Then I realized what an exercise in selfishness and futility that was. It was complete garbage, and luckily there was a delete button available to rid the world of my bullshit.... I never called anyone out, I never named names, but if anyone involved were to peruse this site, they would have known exactly who I was talking about.
That did happen and the results were not what I expected. I expected for these people to have some kind of moment of introspection... to realize just how "wrong" they were, and then to change their evil ways, baby.....
What a pile of sanctimonious bullshit.
Here is the "catch-22". My truth and their truth, were vastly different, and they felt just as passionate about their side of the situation, as I did. Instead of passive aggressively and cleverly hiding it within "blog" verse, they just confronted me, and then things got even uglier.
So clearly, my plan totally worked.
If my plan was to exacerbate the current situation, while in, turn creating more drama.
I also feel that the negativity I was harboring in my soul was creating problems for my future and destiny....... OH NOES! SOMEONE HAS BEEN READING THE SECRET AGAINZ!@@!)_!
Seriously though, all of these feelings of hurt, anger, jealousy, envy, and vindication were tied to my ankles like bricks. I let these dramas infiltrate my life so much, that it was all I could concentrate on, so much so, I lost my job. In hindsight, I feel that it was meant to be for me to leave that job, it was a shitty job in the suburbs, with a cranky, entitled boss, and I was bored with it. Most of all, I needed to lose so much, in order to see what I really have, and to be finally feel thankful for all of the wonderful things in my life.
I'm a very rich person. I have a lot of love and a lot of light in my life, and I am truly thankful for it.
So, yeah. I'm feeling better. I'm happy. I'm engaged to the love of my life, with whom I have been having a very passionate love affair with for the past five years, all the while growing a wonderful, enriching and deep friendship with. I have two lovely step-children, who are beautiful and brilliant. I have wonderful siblings, parents, and nieces, whom I cherish very deeply....
I feel peace......
Now, if I could only squeeze my fat ass back into some size sixes, I would be totally bitchin.
Namaste
Oh well.
I can't really say why I write this blog, it is more cathartic than anything. It is of absolutely no interest to anyone but myself and a handful of friends, but it has also been an evolutionary process for me. Maybe my writing is not as negative as it used to be, because I am feeling happier these days? Maybe I don't feel the need to grace the Earth with my searing wit and put downs?
What does behaving like an asshole in the written word really achieve?
I know it is a pretty good way to fuck up close relationships and piss a lot of people off!
I used to defend a lot of what I would write as "satirical", and it was..... But that did not make it appropriate subject matter, despite the truth of the situation..... Truth.... " We hold these truths to be self evident".... Truthiness..... I also think that I used this blog to insinuate what I believed to be the "truth" about certain situations that were happening in my life.... That this was some sort of "Cyber-Hall of Justice" where "Truth, Justice, and the American Way", would prevail.
Then I realized what an exercise in selfishness and futility that was. It was complete garbage, and luckily there was a delete button available to rid the world of my bullshit.... I never called anyone out, I never named names, but if anyone involved were to peruse this site, they would have known exactly who I was talking about.
That did happen and the results were not what I expected. I expected for these people to have some kind of moment of introspection... to realize just how "wrong" they were, and then to change their evil ways, baby.....
What a pile of sanctimonious bullshit.
Here is the "catch-22". My truth and their truth, were vastly different, and they felt just as passionate about their side of the situation, as I did. Instead of passive aggressively and cleverly hiding it within "blog" verse, they just confronted me, and then things got even uglier.
So clearly, my plan totally worked.
If my plan was to exacerbate the current situation, while in, turn creating more drama.
I also feel that the negativity I was harboring in my soul was creating problems for my future and destiny....... OH NOES! SOMEONE HAS BEEN READING THE SECRET AGAINZ!@@!)_!
Seriously though, all of these feelings of hurt, anger, jealousy, envy, and vindication were tied to my ankles like bricks. I let these dramas infiltrate my life so much, that it was all I could concentrate on, so much so, I lost my job. In hindsight, I feel that it was meant to be for me to leave that job, it was a shitty job in the suburbs, with a cranky, entitled boss, and I was bored with it. Most of all, I needed to lose so much, in order to see what I really have, and to be finally feel thankful for all of the wonderful things in my life.
I'm a very rich person. I have a lot of love and a lot of light in my life, and I am truly thankful for it.
So, yeah. I'm feeling better. I'm happy. I'm engaged to the love of my life, with whom I have been having a very passionate love affair with for the past five years, all the while growing a wonderful, enriching and deep friendship with. I have two lovely step-children, who are beautiful and brilliant. I have wonderful siblings, parents, and nieces, whom I cherish very deeply....
I feel peace......
Now, if I could only squeeze my fat ass back into some size sixes, I would be totally bitchin.
Namaste
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Blog Focus and Lobster Incidents
Blogging has turned into such the "industry" these days, which is just funny to me. What essentially started off as a computerized, online diary in which people stayed in touch with friends and family; has turned into the Op-Eds, Gossip, Entertainment, articles that used to be exclusive to magazines and newspapers.
I follow some blogs that are strictly for hobby, some are meant to tone the muscles of the author's creative writing skills, some are gossip, some are funny, and some authors make serious jack from advertising and don't have to hold down 9-5ers. I think that is tremendous for those authors. I wish I possessed the talent, foresight and entrepreneurship of those individuals!
Unfortunately, with the good, comes the bad and the ugly. One disadvantage to the blog, which you never really saw in the hard-copy, print world: Blogs strictly created to attack other blogs and their authors..
It's sad and gross, but it is the internet..... What should we expect, really? Just browse the Rants and Raves section of Craigslist for a minute, and you get the gist of the kind of bottom feeders that grace the world wide web with the benefit of anonymity. It's amazing the "king kong" sized balls someone can grow, under the cloak of disguise, as well as the amount of vitriol that can come forth from their souls.
Purely fascinating.
Anyhoodle, back to my blog and what I am trying to accomplish here..... Well, nothing really. I enjoy the experience of writing, it's incredibly cathartic for me, and it helps me sort out my issues. I must say, that I really don't feel like I fit into the blogosphere. Most women my age fall into the "Mommy Blogger" category, a category that many blogs I really enjoy fall into, but one that could not be further from my life.
I'm not a mommy.
I have been with my fiance for five years and he has two children that were babies when we got together, whom I have helped raise.... But, I'm not their mommy. I am their step-parent, their "Katy", which really does not give me license to discuss them too intimately here.... I have written about them before because they are wonderful, beautiful, smart, hilarious, and I love the shit out of them!...... But, it is really just better that I leave them out of my writing.
Plus, what's there to say other than this:
Being a step-parent is incredibly awesome, and, rewarding, while simultaneously, very hard, hurtful, alienating, and angering.
That's about it.
Other than that, I am an early thirties, career woman, who dreams of being a childless housewife, so I can cook, garden, clean and volunteer for neighborhood projects all day. Working is the pits. Please send money.
Thanks.
I was blogging on Big Booty Judy about my weight loss, which I have hit my goal, but I got bored of talking about it. I also became bored of posting everything I ate and breaking down recipes all of the time. I felt it made me sound as if I had a superiority complex, or held the secret to success for weight loss, which I don't.
So, what do I blog about?
Nothing.
And everything.
That has to do with me, and what I watch, think, experience, enjoy..
If it is boring to some, they can leave.
What do I want to accomplish?
Nothing really.
I am just trying to be a better person by getting things off of my chest and by trying to be creative and funny.
That's all.
OH, recently I was asked about "lobster incidents", and what that was all about.
Let's just say, after electrocutions and rising of the dead, I am done cooking lobsters at home.
I follow some blogs that are strictly for hobby, some are meant to tone the muscles of the author's creative writing skills, some are gossip, some are funny, and some authors make serious jack from advertising and don't have to hold down 9-5ers. I think that is tremendous for those authors. I wish I possessed the talent, foresight and entrepreneurship of those individuals!
Unfortunately, with the good, comes the bad and the ugly. One disadvantage to the blog, which you never really saw in the hard-copy, print world: Blogs strictly created to attack other blogs and their authors..
It's sad and gross, but it is the internet..... What should we expect, really? Just browse the Rants and Raves section of Craigslist for a minute, and you get the gist of the kind of bottom feeders that grace the world wide web with the benefit of anonymity. It's amazing the "king kong" sized balls someone can grow, under the cloak of disguise, as well as the amount of vitriol that can come forth from their souls.
Purely fascinating.
Anyhoodle, back to my blog and what I am trying to accomplish here..... Well, nothing really. I enjoy the experience of writing, it's incredibly cathartic for me, and it helps me sort out my issues. I must say, that I really don't feel like I fit into the blogosphere. Most women my age fall into the "Mommy Blogger" category, a category that many blogs I really enjoy fall into, but one that could not be further from my life.
I'm not a mommy.
I have been with my fiance for five years and he has two children that were babies when we got together, whom I have helped raise.... But, I'm not their mommy. I am their step-parent, their "Katy", which really does not give me license to discuss them too intimately here.... I have written about them before because they are wonderful, beautiful, smart, hilarious, and I love the shit out of them!...... But, it is really just better that I leave them out of my writing.
Plus, what's there to say other than this:
Being a step-parent is incredibly awesome, and, rewarding, while simultaneously, very hard, hurtful, alienating, and angering.
That's about it.
Other than that, I am an early thirties, career woman, who dreams of being a childless housewife, so I can cook, garden, clean and volunteer for neighborhood projects all day. Working is the pits. Please send money.
Thanks.
I was blogging on Big Booty Judy about my weight loss, which I have hit my goal, but I got bored of talking about it. I also became bored of posting everything I ate and breaking down recipes all of the time. I felt it made me sound as if I had a superiority complex, or held the secret to success for weight loss, which I don't.
So, what do I blog about?
Nothing.
And everything.
That has to do with me, and what I watch, think, experience, enjoy..
If it is boring to some, they can leave.
What do I want to accomplish?
Nothing really.
I am just trying to be a better person by getting things off of my chest and by trying to be creative and funny.
That's all.
OH, recently I was asked about "lobster incidents", and what that was all about.
Let's just say, after electrocutions and rising of the dead, I am done cooking lobsters at home.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Putting the "ASS" in Classy!
As the rest of the country struggles with the Recession, record high foreclosure rates and looming unemployment, Paris Hilton got a new car. Or, her old car......made nicer? Is that nicer?
I don't know what is grosser about this car..... That it looks like enough Pepto on wheels to race through the Jolly Green Giant's esophagus to cure his nausea, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, diarrhea....(SING IT WITH ME! Nausea, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, diarrhea!.... Oh how I adore a catchy jingle.) Or that this car cost $200,000....
Her parents must be really proud..... I know her grandfather isn't. Just when you think she could not get any tackier, Miss Hilton reminds us that she is the most vapid, cum-dumpster on the entire planet.
Kudos, my lady.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Sunday: Watching Paint Dry..... Literally.
The holidays are upon us.... Scratch that.... The Holidays are laying on top of us like a sixteen-drunk-frat-boys-pile on. My fiance (I am still not used to calling him that, in fact, I feel kind of silly using that term..... It brings back memories of the red-neck girls I went to high school with who were all engaged by 10th grade..I digress) and I are not huge "Holiday celebrating people", but we do decorate....for the sake of the children...... THINK OF THE CHILDREN, MAN!
The good thing about the holidays? Time off.... Lots of beer..... and chocolate treats... The bad thing about the holidays? Well, besides the obvious: STRESS, DEBT, BFA (big fat ass)SYNDROME, DEALING WITH PEOPLE YOU TRY TO AVOID, aka, FAMILY.. The bad thing is living in a house that is need of constant upgrade, repair and renovation. In light of this, we are taking this time off to pay some much needed attention to our kitchen. We are painting, we are (he is) exposing brick, we are (he is) fixing transoms, we are ACCOMPLISHING great things.
The problem lies in the fact that I am really shitty at renovations. I can't paint. I mean, I can..... just not very well. I have a very short attention span. I am impatient and I lose interest in projects 60 minutes after I start them. I have boxes full of tiles when I decided that I was going to become a "tile Mosaic" aficionado.... Well, I have decided that I am going to empower myself and I am going to paint that kitchen so well, head hunters for the kitchen painting industry are going to be breaking down my door and offering me tens of dollars to become pro.
Alas, I am already experiencing a wrench in my plans.
I have to wait for paint(primer) to dry..... For like two hours before I can put a second coat on.. Then I have to wait and let the primer "cure"(are you effing kidding me?), for 24 hours.....
God, please grant me the strength to stay interested in this project for the duration................... OOH! SOMETHING SHINY!
The good thing about the holidays? Time off.... Lots of beer..... and chocolate treats... The bad thing about the holidays? Well, besides the obvious: STRESS, DEBT, BFA (big fat ass)SYNDROME, DEALING WITH PEOPLE YOU TRY TO AVOID, aka, FAMILY.. The bad thing is living in a house that is need of constant upgrade, repair and renovation. In light of this, we are taking this time off to pay some much needed attention to our kitchen. We are painting, we are (he is) exposing brick, we are (he is) fixing transoms, we are ACCOMPLISHING great things.
The problem lies in the fact that I am really shitty at renovations. I can't paint. I mean, I can..... just not very well. I have a very short attention span. I am impatient and I lose interest in projects 60 minutes after I start them. I have boxes full of tiles when I decided that I was going to become a "tile Mosaic" aficionado.... Well, I have decided that I am going to empower myself and I am going to paint that kitchen so well, head hunters for the kitchen painting industry are going to be breaking down my door and offering me tens of dollars to become pro.
Alas, I am already experiencing a wrench in my plans.
I have to wait for paint(primer) to dry..... For like two hours before I can put a second coat on.. Then I have to wait and let the primer "cure"(are you effing kidding me?), for 24 hours.....
God, please grant me the strength to stay interested in this project for the duration................... OOH! SOMETHING SHINY!
Friday, December 5, 2008
I Don't Watch Telelvision
HA!
I'm just kidding. I am a big fan of the TV, I just think it is the most fantastic invention ever.
I want to address the people in the world who not only do not watch Television, but who also spend hours on Facebook /Myspace /somewherejustasequallygoofy.com, pontificating about the evils of television, dropping snide remarks riddled with self importance, usually in Italics, "I do not partake in TV", on friends and family member's pages.
You guys are adorable,
My question is this:
Though I appreciate your concern for my brain cells (hint, it's not the T.V. that's killing them, it's the vodka and the huffing), but are you not utilizing a tool that serves colossal time wasters like message boards, BLOGS, vanity pages, etc? A medium that lead to the rise of Tila Tequila, Paris and PErez Hilton?
Do you think anyone here is going to be impressed with your self-serving sacrifice to not watch TV? Because I am willing to bet that each person who reads that post could care less.
The majority of people on the internet are not able to spell "YOU'RE", okay? Know your audience. This audience lacks the ability to appreciate, let alone be affected by, your lack of TV viewing...... This is not the coffee house and nobody here really cares, Neitzsche.
On a somber note, why don't you like TV? Do you hate fun and happiness, too?
Please spare me the self important, "I find my entertainment in the written word" statements.......*sigh*.... Don't get me wrong, I too, love to read . I have also found that if I read a book and then watch TV, my mind does not explode and can totally handle the change between written words and moving pictures..... Surprising, I know.
I have also found in the past that people who own a TV, yet claim to hate and never watch said TV, are usually big, liars. I dated a guy who used to lament the television.....He would go on and on about how worthless it was and how people who watched it were zombies, and "yaddayaddaconspiracydoublecappucinowithsoy"
It was really obnoxious.
Anyhow, one day I came home early to find him not only watching TV, but he was watching the E! Channel's Talk Soup.
Words of truth.
He tried to act like it was an accident, but I knew. He not only watched TV, he watched the lowest common denominator TV shows and then watched the weekly shows that re-capped those shows! I was SO onto him. It even made me like him more... I was, as the kids say, really starting to "feel" him after that and found a new hope for our union. Alas, I think the shame of being discovered as a closet, trash-TV watcher, was too much for him to live with. After the discovery, he never really looked me in the eye again, and physically connecting was sparse if existent at all.....So, we broke up a few days later.
So, you don't watch television.
Good for you.
Maybe with all of this extra time you have, you can go pick up litter, or cure cancer, or something? I don't know.... Have a ball, be crazy and not watching TV with your bed self.. Just stop yammering about how awesome your non-TV-watching skills are on the INTERNET. Instead of giving the impression that you are an intellectual, you come off more as a conceited prick. It doesn't make you a more valuable member of society and it certainly doesn't win you free pizza or anything, (which I would bet that winning free food has more to do with watching TV, than not watching).
Also, remember your audience. You are trying to impress upon the community of MYSPACE, that television is bad and that pursuing more intellectual activities, is good.
The community of MYSPACE.
really?
I'm just kidding. I am a big fan of the TV, I just think it is the most fantastic invention ever.
I want to address the people in the world who not only do not watch Television, but who also spend hours on Facebook /Myspace /somewherejustasequallygoofy.com, pontificating about the evils of television, dropping snide remarks riddled with self importance, usually in Italics, "I do not partake in TV", on friends and family member's pages.
You guys are adorable,
My question is this:
Though I appreciate your concern for my brain cells (hint, it's not the T.V. that's killing them, it's the vodka and the huffing), but are you not utilizing a tool that serves colossal time wasters like message boards, BLOGS, vanity pages, etc? A medium that lead to the rise of Tila Tequila, Paris and PErez Hilton?
Do you think anyone here is going to be impressed with your self-serving sacrifice to not watch TV? Because I am willing to bet that each person who reads that post could care less.
The majority of people on the internet are not able to spell "YOU'RE", okay? Know your audience. This audience lacks the ability to appreciate, let alone be affected by, your lack of TV viewing...... This is not the coffee house and nobody here really cares, Neitzsche.
On a somber note, why don't you like TV? Do you hate fun and happiness, too?
Please spare me the self important, "I find my entertainment in the written word" statements.......*sigh*.... Don't get me wrong, I too, love to read . I have also found that if I read a book and then watch TV, my mind does not explode and can totally handle the change between written words and moving pictures..... Surprising, I know.
I have also found in the past that people who own a TV, yet claim to hate and never watch said TV, are usually big, liars. I dated a guy who used to lament the television.....He would go on and on about how worthless it was and how people who watched it were zombies, and "yaddayaddaconspiracydoublecappucinowithsoy"
It was really obnoxious.
Anyhow, one day I came home early to find him not only watching TV, but he was watching the E! Channel's Talk Soup.
Words of truth.
He tried to act like it was an accident, but I knew. He not only watched TV, he watched the lowest common denominator TV shows and then watched the weekly shows that re-capped those shows! I was SO onto him. It even made me like him more... I was, as the kids say, really starting to "feel" him after that and found a new hope for our union. Alas, I think the shame of being discovered as a closet, trash-TV watcher, was too much for him to live with. After the discovery, he never really looked me in the eye again, and physically connecting was sparse if existent at all.....So, we broke up a few days later.
So, you don't watch television.
Good for you.
Maybe with all of this extra time you have, you can go pick up litter, or cure cancer, or something? I don't know.... Have a ball, be crazy and not watching TV with your bed self.. Just stop yammering about how awesome your non-TV-watching skills are on the INTERNET. Instead of giving the impression that you are an intellectual, you come off more as a conceited prick. It doesn't make you a more valuable member of society and it certainly doesn't win you free pizza or anything, (which I would bet that winning free food has more to do with watching TV, than not watching).
Also, remember your audience. You are trying to impress upon the community of MYSPACE, that television is bad and that pursuing more intellectual activities, is good.
The community of MYSPACE.
really?
Monday, October 20, 2008
Copy Kitty Katy Kat
I stole this from my buddy, John at Round is Funny.
What is your favorite word?
Fantastic.
It feels good to say it.
What is your least favorite word?
Right now, socialist. Why? Because all of the maroons out there flapping their gums about it are using it incorrectly.
What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
Food. I love to cook. It's a way for me to be creative and to feel in touch with my mother and grandmothers who left me amazing recipes and talent, and I feel fantastic when I make some one's tummy happy.
What turns you off creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
Egos.
What sound or noise do you love?
Rainy spring and fall mornings.
What sound or noise do you hate?
People who abuse the horn on their car on my street at 12 a.m.
What is your favorite curse word?
I have so many it's hard to choose one.
I'll go with fuckstain.
What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
A princess firefighter.
What profession would you not like to do?
Bean counter.
If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
Hello Gorgeous!
What is your favorite word?
Fantastic.
It feels good to say it.
What is your least favorite word?
Right now, socialist. Why? Because all of the maroons out there flapping their gums about it are using it incorrectly.
What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
Food. I love to cook. It's a way for me to be creative and to feel in touch with my mother and grandmothers who left me amazing recipes and talent, and I feel fantastic when I make some one's tummy happy.
What turns you off creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
Egos.
What sound or noise do you love?
Rainy spring and fall mornings.
What sound or noise do you hate?
People who abuse the horn on their car on my street at 12 a.m.
What is your favorite curse word?
I have so many it's hard to choose one.
I'll go with fuckstain.
What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
A princess firefighter.
What profession would you not like to do?
Bean counter.
If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
Hello Gorgeous!
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Men in Cars
Dear Men in Cars,
When I am running down the street, wearing a jogging suit and headphones without a Ben And Jerry's delivery truck in front of me or a heard of elephants chasing me, it is safe to assume that I am doing it on purpose.
So, I don't need a ride, thanks.
Now, I know gas is expensive these days and you just circled around the block three times to "make sure" I didn't need a ride, (thanks for your concern and diligence, by the way), but I really don't want a ride. I know that sometimes when you are being generous and your random act of kindness is rejected, it can be frustrating! However, it is probably better for you to quell your disappointment, lest you say something unnecessarily MEAN.
You see, the reason I am running down the street is because I am aware of the fact that my ass if fat. Maybe you were pointing that out for my benefit, in case I was not aware? If so, thank you for your concern, I know I have a big, fat ass, running usually alleviates this condition.
Now, when I suit up to run, I wash the make up off of my face and throw my hair back, haphazardly, in order to keep it out of my face, as well as keep the sweat out of my pores. I will admit, I don't look so hot. When you add this to the fact that my blood is pumping and my smokey, "pool hall", poor excuses for lungs, are in overdrive to get oxygen to my blood cells; the tendency is that my face is usually a disturbing shade of fuscia, or puce, if you will.
Not the best look, I know, but I am aware of it. When you pointedly informed me that I was an "ugly bitch", thanks for the information, but the proper authorities had already been notified and appropriate measures were being implemented, i.e. the firing squad was lining up in my backyard getting ready to humanely put me out of my misery.
So, men in cars, I want to express my deepest gratitude for your concern for my well being and for the offer of the ride. I know that these gestures are coming from a place of love and concern, and God is smiling down upon you and your deep concern for society not having to be exposed to my "Fat Ass Ugliness". Your determination and powers of persuasion (i.e. driving around the block three times to try to get me into your vehicle) were not unnoticed. Thank you for taking the time and for the environmentally harmful emissions expelled from your car on behalf of little (well not so much, due to my big fat ass), old me and my welfare. Thank you, thank you, thank you, men in cars, but may I leave you with some words of wisdom? If I am ever in need of a ride within the city I live, I will take the bus.
Kindest Regards,
Me.
When I am running down the street, wearing a jogging suit and headphones without a Ben And Jerry's delivery truck in front of me or a heard of elephants chasing me, it is safe to assume that I am doing it on purpose.
So, I don't need a ride, thanks.
Now, I know gas is expensive these days and you just circled around the block three times to "make sure" I didn't need a ride, (thanks for your concern and diligence, by the way), but I really don't want a ride. I know that sometimes when you are being generous and your random act of kindness is rejected, it can be frustrating! However, it is probably better for you to quell your disappointment, lest you say something unnecessarily MEAN.
You see, the reason I am running down the street is because I am aware of the fact that my ass if fat. Maybe you were pointing that out for my benefit, in case I was not aware? If so, thank you for your concern, I know I have a big, fat ass, running usually alleviates this condition.
Now, when I suit up to run, I wash the make up off of my face and throw my hair back, haphazardly, in order to keep it out of my face, as well as keep the sweat out of my pores. I will admit, I don't look so hot. When you add this to the fact that my blood is pumping and my smokey, "pool hall", poor excuses for lungs, are in overdrive to get oxygen to my blood cells; the tendency is that my face is usually a disturbing shade of fuscia, or puce, if you will.
Not the best look, I know, but I am aware of it. When you pointedly informed me that I was an "ugly bitch", thanks for the information, but the proper authorities had already been notified and appropriate measures were being implemented, i.e. the firing squad was lining up in my backyard getting ready to humanely put me out of my misery.
So, men in cars, I want to express my deepest gratitude for your concern for my well being and for the offer of the ride. I know that these gestures are coming from a place of love and concern, and God is smiling down upon you and your deep concern for society not having to be exposed to my "Fat Ass Ugliness". Your determination and powers of persuasion (i.e. driving around the block three times to try to get me into your vehicle) were not unnoticed. Thank you for taking the time and for the environmentally harmful emissions expelled from your car on behalf of little (well not so much, due to my big fat ass), old me and my welfare. Thank you, thank you, thank you, men in cars, but may I leave you with some words of wisdom? If I am ever in need of a ride within the city I live, I will take the bus.
Kindest Regards,
Me.
Friday, March 21, 2008
GANGLAND
Our house is located in the middle of one of the oldest, "old growth-forests" in Cincinnati, Parker Woods. I have lived in my house for four years and I have never seen head nor "hoot" of an owl near our house. I knew they had to be there, in fact, I had heard them in the distant corners of the woods, but had not seen nor heard any in our backyard.
Well, NOT ANYMORE.
Apparently our little corner of the woods has become some sort of "den of vice" for owls looking to procreate, or maybe to engage in more nefarious shenanigans?
The owls, oh boy, the owls! They are loud and they sound scary! Especially if you have never been five feet away from two owls having some sort of "discussion."
The first night I heard the chaos was last Sunday while Mr. Hotbuns was still out of town and the little ones were at their mom's house. I was all ALONE in my very dark bedroom.... by myself....TOTALLY ALONE....Except for the cat. I was awakened by this very loud "OOH OOH OOH!" and then the sound of very large, very powerful, wings flapping right out side the window. (Though at the time it seemed like this was going on right in front of my face.) This disturbing ruckus made me think there was a Ring Wraith outside of my window on a flying dragon.
Then I heard ""OOH OOH OOH!!!!!!!""" again followed by a high pitched, Fozzy Bear, "WAKKA WAKKA WAKKA WAKKA!" and then some more, pretty serious, flapping noises.
It sounded like a duel between two cracked out unicorns.
The thought running through my mind?
"Yo' ass is grass, Frodo Baggins."
After I was done crapping the bed, I grew baby balls, big enough to come out from under the covers and look out of the window. As soon as I peered out towards the yard, two, GIANT OWLS flew right in front of my window! I could detail their feathers, they were so close.... I jumped back, fearing I was going to get "winged" in the face, they were so close.... Which, in turn, sent me back under the bed.
After I self talked myself out of my panic, I finally came out from under the bed, on a mission to figure out what the hell just happened. I approached the window, trying to remain brave, I could see the perpetrators on top of our shed sharing a tender moment... or so I thought was a tender moment.
I felt a wave of relief and crawled back under the covers. I mean, I had THE ENTIRE BED to myself, I needed to enjoy it. As I awoke the next morning, I had pretty much forgotten about the incident and went about my day. I chose to look at the bright side, I have owls humping in my backyard....This only means baby owls and I am a sucker for "baby" anything.
Well last night as I laid in bed, feeling total relaxation setting into my entire body, my mellow was totally crashed by the sound of Mr. Hotbuns running up the stairs calling for me:
"There is something really fucking weird going on! Oh My God!"
I sat up startled thinking that our house was possibly being taken over by the band of Mormon missionaries who live up the street, or that our drunken, crazy, neighbor set his hair on fire again, when I heard:
"WAKKA WAKKA WAKKA!"
Oh fantastic! The horny owls were back, fucking the night away on my shed. I prayed they would just freaking get it over with and be off smoking cigarettes somewhere, commenting on how great each other were before midnight. After some more furios flapping and beak clacking, they both took flight to finish the dance of night someplace else.
After the two love birds made their get away, Mr. Hotbuns and I started to discuss what had just happened and how tonight was NOTHING compared to the boisterous love making of the night before.
However, we were both kind of stricken with a sense that there was no love between these two creatures of the night, unless owls, unlike what we had been under the impression of before, really liked it rough.
What do you do when you are in doubt? Well, I don't know what you do, but I certainly turn to "Google" when I am in a knowledge pickle.
Unfortunately, after some extensive Googling and Wikipedia-ing, we were faced with a very harsh realization: What we mistakenly thought were owls caught in the throes of love, were actually owls in the middle of a turf war.
Perfect.
We were living in the South Central of the nocturnal world and my house is located right on Crenshaw.
Totally awesome.
Well, NOT ANYMORE.
Apparently our little corner of the woods has become some sort of "den of vice" for owls looking to procreate, or maybe to engage in more nefarious shenanigans?
The owls, oh boy, the owls! They are loud and they sound scary! Especially if you have never been five feet away from two owls having some sort of "discussion."
The first night I heard the chaos was last Sunday while Mr. Hotbuns was still out of town and the little ones were at their mom's house. I was all ALONE in my very dark bedroom.... by myself....TOTALLY ALONE....Except for the cat. I was awakened by this very loud "OOH OOH OOH!" and then the sound of very large, very powerful, wings flapping right out side the window. (Though at the time it seemed like this was going on right in front of my face.) This disturbing ruckus made me think there was a Ring Wraith outside of my window on a flying dragon.
Then I heard ""OOH OOH OOH!!!!!!!""" again followed by a high pitched, Fozzy Bear, "WAKKA WAKKA WAKKA WAKKA!" and then some more, pretty serious, flapping noises.
It sounded like a duel between two cracked out unicorns.
The thought running through my mind?
"Yo' ass is grass, Frodo Baggins."
After I was done crapping the bed, I grew baby balls, big enough to come out from under the covers and look out of the window. As soon as I peered out towards the yard, two, GIANT OWLS flew right in front of my window! I could detail their feathers, they were so close.... I jumped back, fearing I was going to get "winged" in the face, they were so close.... Which, in turn, sent me back under the bed.
After I self talked myself out of my panic, I finally came out from under the bed, on a mission to figure out what the hell just happened. I approached the window, trying to remain brave, I could see the perpetrators on top of our shed sharing a tender moment... or so I thought was a tender moment.
I felt a wave of relief and crawled back under the covers. I mean, I had THE ENTIRE BED to myself, I needed to enjoy it. As I awoke the next morning, I had pretty much forgotten about the incident and went about my day. I chose to look at the bright side, I have owls humping in my backyard....This only means baby owls and I am a sucker for "baby" anything.
Well last night as I laid in bed, feeling total relaxation setting into my entire body, my mellow was totally crashed by the sound of Mr. Hotbuns running up the stairs calling for me:
"There is something really fucking weird going on! Oh My God!"
I sat up startled thinking that our house was possibly being taken over by the band of Mormon missionaries who live up the street, or that our drunken, crazy, neighbor set his hair on fire again, when I heard:
"WAKKA WAKKA WAKKA!"
Oh fantastic! The horny owls were back, fucking the night away on my shed. I prayed they would just freaking get it over with and be off smoking cigarettes somewhere, commenting on how great each other were before midnight. After some more furios flapping and beak clacking, they both took flight to finish the dance of night someplace else.
After the two love birds made their get away, Mr. Hotbuns and I started to discuss what had just happened and how tonight was NOTHING compared to the boisterous love making of the night before.
However, we were both kind of stricken with a sense that there was no love between these two creatures of the night, unless owls, unlike what we had been under the impression of before, really liked it rough.
What do you do when you are in doubt? Well, I don't know what you do, but I certainly turn to "Google" when I am in a knowledge pickle.
Unfortunately, after some extensive Googling and Wikipedia-ing, we were faced with a very harsh realization: What we mistakenly thought were owls caught in the throes of love, were actually owls in the middle of a turf war.
Perfect.
We were living in the South Central of the nocturnal world and my house is located right on Crenshaw.
Totally awesome.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
What's Driving You Crazy Today, Kate?
What isn't driving me crazy?
I cannot believe that the end of times are upon us. I thought there were at least two more weeks before the pain, torture and hangovers of the Holidays ensued. But, alas, Thanksgiving is next week. That sucks major dong.
These are driving me crazy.
There is nothing more confusing to me than the kiosk ponytail. I can understand the desire for luscious, thick, shiny hair. I too, covet Gisele Bunchen's seemingly silky, luxurious locks, and envy each layer of perfectly healthy, non-splitting, Rapunzelesque hair. I get it. I want it. I would do almost anything to have it. ALMOST.
Here is a lesson for the ladies: You can't purchase hair at the mall for $14.99 at the Kiosk next to the festively painted hermit crabs and mood rings.You just can't. You are not fooling anyone.
Underpants, jeans, shoes, vibrating chairs, as well as many other wonderful items are available at the mall for your procurement. You can even buy creams, lards and diamond dusts that promise, PROMISE, to turn your hair from split and flat, to bouncy and phat.
Here is the deal, if you are under the impression that a pony tail with the same make up and DNA of Barbie's (Barbie the PLASTIC doll) is going to wow the masses and inspire envy to all of those who lay their eyes on your luscious locks of deceit, you are wrong.
And for pete's sake, if it falls out on the street after a fierce and crushing cat fight, (especially if this takes place on my street, you little bitches) PICK THE DAMN THING UP.
I am sooooooooo tired of driving up my street after a hard day, dreaming about lounging in my bed, gazing at the latest saga of Elizabeth, Lucky and Jason in General Hospital on the DVR, while dining on chicken Thai basil; to be cruelly thrust back into reality when I spot something furry and animal looking in the middle of the street.
My stomach tightens and my palms get all clammy, thinking that maybe, this time, it is an animal,or more importantly, one my furry friends, who has met their maker in the cold, cold street.... As I approach the fuzzy mass, the gross realization sets in that your $14.99 promise of hair envy, has been ripped off of your dumb and delusional head, and is now littering my street. What seems obvious to me is, if this piece of $14.99 heaven isn't even worth you picking it up after it is violently ripped from your head, why waste money on it?
Just stop it. I am tired of the adrenaline rush of terror, then anger, to see that it is just another rotting corpse in the battle of teenage angst, purchased at the mall.
I cannot believe that the end of times are upon us. I thought there were at least two more weeks before the pain, torture and hangovers of the Holidays ensued. But, alas, Thanksgiving is next week. That sucks major dong.
These are driving me crazy.
There is nothing more confusing to me than the kiosk ponytail. I can understand the desire for luscious, thick, shiny hair. I too, covet Gisele Bunchen's seemingly silky, luxurious locks, and envy each layer of perfectly healthy, non-splitting, Rapunzelesque hair. I get it. I want it. I would do almost anything to have it. ALMOST.
Here is a lesson for the ladies: You can't purchase hair at the mall for $14.99 at the Kiosk next to the festively painted hermit crabs and mood rings.You just can't. You are not fooling anyone.
Underpants, jeans, shoes, vibrating chairs, as well as many other wonderful items are available at the mall for your procurement. You can even buy creams, lards and diamond dusts that promise, PROMISE, to turn your hair from split and flat, to bouncy and phat.
Here is the deal, if you are under the impression that a pony tail with the same make up and DNA of Barbie's (Barbie the PLASTIC doll) is going to wow the masses and inspire envy to all of those who lay their eyes on your luscious locks of deceit, you are wrong.
And for pete's sake, if it falls out on the street after a fierce and crushing cat fight, (especially if this takes place on my street, you little bitches) PICK THE DAMN THING UP.
I am sooooooooo tired of driving up my street after a hard day, dreaming about lounging in my bed, gazing at the latest saga of Elizabeth, Lucky and Jason in General Hospital on the DVR, while dining on chicken Thai basil; to be cruelly thrust back into reality when I spot something furry and animal looking in the middle of the street.
My stomach tightens and my palms get all clammy, thinking that maybe, this time, it is an animal,or more importantly, one my furry friends, who has met their maker in the cold, cold street.... As I approach the fuzzy mass, the gross realization sets in that your $14.99 promise of hair envy, has been ripped off of your dumb and delusional head, and is now littering my street. What seems obvious to me is, if this piece of $14.99 heaven isn't even worth you picking it up after it is violently ripped from your head, why waste money on it?
Just stop it. I am tired of the adrenaline rush of terror, then anger, to see that it is just another rotting corpse in the battle of teenage angst, purchased at the mall.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Mouse Update
Apparently the mice in Northside have reaped substantial, unnatural abilities, due to their proximity to P&G factories and the Mill Creek.
Northside is now home to Mighty Mice.
When I first discovered the little lovelies' droppings in our silverware drawer, I foolishly thought it was just one, itty bitty, mouse. So we trucked up to CVS in the Gaslight to get some mousetraps. We thought it would be so easy. We were so young and foolish.
There is this lady from Russia who has been working at this CVS for years. She is the meanest, uninterested, wearin' lots of makeup, lady I have ever met. Seriously, if you say "Hi" to her, she grunts at you without making eye contact. She is totally intimidating. I asked her where the mousetraps were, and her little face lit up! At first I thought she was passing gas, but then realized she was smiling at me...... What? Were they out? Was she going to go on a tirade about how cruel it is to kill mice with traps and insult my lazy cats, all hopped up on catnip and Pounce Treats?!? OH GOD WHAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN?!?!?!?!?!??!
She tenderly grasped my arms and led me directly to the mouse traps. She then proceeded to pick up a package and hand them to me.
I clearly thought I was having an acid flashback.
She then smiled ear to ear, and slyly said "I hope you catch it"! I was in shock. I walked away from the "Boo Radley" incident that had just occurred and paid for the traps. As I got into the car, Hotbuns asked me if I was okay, because I was pale. I told him he would not believe what had just happened, because I was still convinced I had made it all up.
When we got home, I designated Hotbuns to be the mousetrap engineer and coroner. He finally was successful in getting the cheese on the trap, only losing two fingers! (I sewed them back on later.) He placed it in the silverware drawer and we went about the rest of our day in giddy anticipation.
The next day we galloped down the stairs, as if we were children ambushing a Christmas Tree. We opened the drawer, ready to bask in the fact that, DAMMIT! WE HAVE THUMBS, EAT IT MOUSE!!!!! We then discovered that the trap had not been activated, yet the cheese was missing. The little pisser sure showed us.
After three more attempts, *shame*, we finally prevailed. We had wine to celebrate.
So two weeks go by. One morning as I was going for a spoon for my steaming, delicious bowl of oatmeal, I noticed little black pellets in the silverware drawer.................AGAIN.
So far we have made about ten attempts to get his one. All unsuccessful.
The mice in Northside have thumbs.
Northside is now home to Mighty Mice.
When I first discovered the little lovelies' droppings in our silverware drawer, I foolishly thought it was just one, itty bitty, mouse. So we trucked up to CVS in the Gaslight to get some mousetraps. We thought it would be so easy. We were so young and foolish.
There is this lady from Russia who has been working at this CVS for years. She is the meanest, uninterested, wearin' lots of makeup, lady I have ever met. Seriously, if you say "Hi" to her, she grunts at you without making eye contact. She is totally intimidating. I asked her where the mousetraps were, and her little face lit up! At first I thought she was passing gas, but then realized she was smiling at me...... What? Were they out? Was she going to go on a tirade about how cruel it is to kill mice with traps and insult my lazy cats, all hopped up on catnip and Pounce Treats?!? OH GOD WHAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN?!?!?!?!?!??!
She tenderly grasped my arms and led me directly to the mouse traps. She then proceeded to pick up a package and hand them to me.
I clearly thought I was having an acid flashback.
She then smiled ear to ear, and slyly said "I hope you catch it"! I was in shock. I walked away from the "Boo Radley" incident that had just occurred and paid for the traps. As I got into the car, Hotbuns asked me if I was okay, because I was pale. I told him he would not believe what had just happened, because I was still convinced I had made it all up.
When we got home, I designated Hotbuns to be the mousetrap engineer and coroner. He finally was successful in getting the cheese on the trap, only losing two fingers! (I sewed them back on later.) He placed it in the silverware drawer and we went about the rest of our day in giddy anticipation.
The next day we galloped down the stairs, as if we were children ambushing a Christmas Tree. We opened the drawer, ready to bask in the fact that, DAMMIT! WE HAVE THUMBS, EAT IT MOUSE!!!!! We then discovered that the trap had not been activated, yet the cheese was missing. The little pisser sure showed us.
After three more attempts, *shame*, we finally prevailed. We had wine to celebrate.
So two weeks go by. One morning as I was going for a spoon for my steaming, delicious bowl of oatmeal, I noticed little black pellets in the silverware drawer.................AGAIN.
So far we have made about ten attempts to get his one. All unsuccessful.
The mice in Northside have thumbs.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Gersh Dang Mouse in the Gersh Dang House.
Dangit.
Last year we were fortunate enough not to host the "Rodentia Invasionia". Unfortunately, it seems this is an "every two year" event. Like every good host, we obviously have to roll out the red carpet!
As I opened the silver ware drawer Saturday morning, I noticed little black crumby things scattered all throughout the utensils my family sticks IN THEIR MOUTHS. Hooray! Not only is the little vermin an unwelcome house guest, but he does not even have the decency to poop in the JUNK DRAWER. Asshole.
Preferring salt over mouse dookie as a seasoning to my eggs, I promptly removed all utensils and stuck them in the dish washing machine. I then proceeded to pour gasoline into the drawer and light it on fire, hoping to gas the little fucker out. Didn't work.
I am not terrified of mice. I grew up on a farm and mice are really the least of your worries when a fifty pound groundhog is chasing you and trying to rip your leg off. Our house was not just a people house, but a youth hostile for rebellious mice, who wanted more out of life, than following the traditional values of the field. I had to vacuum out the couch one day when I was eight and found three little guys flattened underneath the cushions, just like little rodent pan-cakes.
What I love the best when vermin enter your lives is the advice you receive from people you love, and once thought had any common sense.
First Question:
"Don't you have three cats? How can you have mice with three cats?"
I do have three cats. Two that are indoor/outdoor, one that is strictly outdoor. The two that stay inside are useless. Why? They see a mouse and they get excited and look at each other like "By golly, jidya see dat! Wut is dat!" They then proceed to grab a bowl of catnip and take station at the closest vantage point, to watch this amazing thing run across the floor! They are like French people watching Jerry Lewis movies; the act is so unnatural, totally unfunny, completely not fascinating, and just deeply disturbing.
This brings us to the first suggestion:
"Well, you should get one of those cruelty free traps."
This is so dumb, on so many levels.
First off, what is this person expecting me to do? Trap the stupid mouse, then drive it to the country, to release it while screaming, "BE FREE FAIR MOUSE, BE FREE!" Then witness a red tail hawk come out of nowhere, and snatch the fucker up for dinner?
My house is not a holy place that mice just "pop" into existence, I don't care how filthy some of you think I may be. The thing had to come from somewhere (outside) and since I am not wasting a $2.25 gallon of gas on a mouse, I only have one more option of where to release it (outside), and I have not had a friend with a snake since my Metallica phase in high school.
But, what is dumbfounding to me, is that the same person who wondered why I own defective cats, is the person who suggested a cruelty-free trap. Placing a trap that will snap the mouse's neck quickly, is crueler than letting a cat get to it? Um, hello?
Let me introduce you to Bernie, the third kitty, who lives outside. Bernie lived in the house during the "Rodentia Invasionia" of 2005. Unfortunately for us, he is akin to peeing on just about EVERYTHING in the house, if permitted inside, and unfortunately for Bernie, he pees straight cat urine and not Lysol. So during this stint of mouse residency, Bernie is not a viable solution.
Death to a mouse by way of feline intervention is NOT humane, and quite a gory process. First, the feline (one that is not hopped up on cat nip and Pounce treats) sniffs out the mouse. Secondly, the feline becomes one with its environment, meaning, if the stake out location is on the floor, the feline will flatten itself to become "one" with the floor. Time is no matter to the feline, for it will wait until mouse boldly attempts to change positions, then *SNAP*, the mouse is now a cat toy.
I use "toy" for a reason. Cats are amazing hunters by instinct, they are carnivores and in the wild, they need to hunt to eat. House cats (once again, those that are not hopped up on cat nip and Pounce treats) do not need to hunt to eat, yet sill, instinctively possess the ability to be a great hunter. Being that the house kitty does not hunt to eat, it hunts for sport. A torturous, gruesome, horrible sport. Kind of like golf, but not as boring.
The kitty uses the mouse as its personal entertainment for however long the mouse can cling on to dear life. They carry the mouse around in their mouth, like it was their wittle baby. They play solitary table hockey with the mouse, slamming it back and forth between their paws. They then play the "Hippy Hippy Shakes" game with the mouse, clenched in kitty's jowls, shaking it back and forth until the wittle mouse gets all dizzy! Fun for cat and mouse.....*ahem*
Well, this is what happened to the last mouse that dared enter the lair of "Bernie the Brain Eater". We found the body of the decapitated mouse on the rug in the kitchen and the head being used as a "CHASE IT!" ball throughout the house.
Yep, a regular trap is definitely crueler than letting a cat get to it.......
So, I have decided to go about getting the mouse my own way. I got a six pack, a lawn chair and a BB gun. That son of a bitch will never know what hit him.
Last year we were fortunate enough not to host the "Rodentia Invasionia". Unfortunately, it seems this is an "every two year" event. Like every good host, we obviously have to roll out the red carpet!
As I opened the silver ware drawer Saturday morning, I noticed little black crumby things scattered all throughout the utensils my family sticks IN THEIR MOUTHS. Hooray! Not only is the little vermin an unwelcome house guest, but he does not even have the decency to poop in the JUNK DRAWER. Asshole.
Preferring salt over mouse dookie as a seasoning to my eggs, I promptly removed all utensils and stuck them in the dish washing machine. I then proceeded to pour gasoline into the drawer and light it on fire, hoping to gas the little fucker out. Didn't work.
I am not terrified of mice. I grew up on a farm and mice are really the least of your worries when a fifty pound groundhog is chasing you and trying to rip your leg off. Our house was not just a people house, but a youth hostile for rebellious mice, who wanted more out of life, than following the traditional values of the field. I had to vacuum out the couch one day when I was eight and found three little guys flattened underneath the cushions, just like little rodent pan-cakes.
What I love the best when vermin enter your lives is the advice you receive from people you love, and once thought had any common sense.
First Question:
"Don't you have three cats? How can you have mice with three cats?"
I do have three cats. Two that are indoor/outdoor, one that is strictly outdoor. The two that stay inside are useless. Why? They see a mouse and they get excited and look at each other like "By golly, jidya see dat! Wut is dat!" They then proceed to grab a bowl of catnip and take station at the closest vantage point, to watch this amazing thing run across the floor! They are like French people watching Jerry Lewis movies; the act is so unnatural, totally unfunny, completely not fascinating, and just deeply disturbing.
This brings us to the first suggestion:
"Well, you should get one of those cruelty free traps."
This is so dumb, on so many levels.
First off, what is this person expecting me to do? Trap the stupid mouse, then drive it to the country, to release it while screaming, "BE FREE FAIR MOUSE, BE FREE!" Then witness a red tail hawk come out of nowhere, and snatch the fucker up for dinner?
My house is not a holy place that mice just "pop" into existence, I don't care how filthy some of you think I may be. The thing had to come from somewhere (outside) and since I am not wasting a $2.25 gallon of gas on a mouse, I only have one more option of where to release it (outside), and I have not had a friend with a snake since my Metallica phase in high school.
But, what is dumbfounding to me, is that the same person who wondered why I own defective cats, is the person who suggested a cruelty-free trap. Placing a trap that will snap the mouse's neck quickly, is crueler than letting a cat get to it? Um, hello?
Let me introduce you to Bernie, the third kitty, who lives outside. Bernie lived in the house during the "Rodentia Invasionia" of 2005. Unfortunately for us, he is akin to peeing on just about EVERYTHING in the house, if permitted inside, and unfortunately for Bernie, he pees straight cat urine and not Lysol. So during this stint of mouse residency, Bernie is not a viable solution.
Death to a mouse by way of feline intervention is NOT humane, and quite a gory process. First, the feline (one that is not hopped up on cat nip and Pounce treats) sniffs out the mouse. Secondly, the feline becomes one with its environment, meaning, if the stake out location is on the floor, the feline will flatten itself to become "one" with the floor. Time is no matter to the feline, for it will wait until mouse boldly attempts to change positions, then *SNAP*, the mouse is now a cat toy.
I use "toy" for a reason. Cats are amazing hunters by instinct, they are carnivores and in the wild, they need to hunt to eat. House cats (once again, those that are not hopped up on cat nip and Pounce treats) do not need to hunt to eat, yet sill, instinctively possess the ability to be a great hunter. Being that the house kitty does not hunt to eat, it hunts for sport. A torturous, gruesome, horrible sport. Kind of like golf, but not as boring.
The kitty uses the mouse as its personal entertainment for however long the mouse can cling on to dear life. They carry the mouse around in their mouth, like it was their wittle baby. They play solitary table hockey with the mouse, slamming it back and forth between their paws. They then play the "Hippy Hippy Shakes" game with the mouse, clenched in kitty's jowls, shaking it back and forth until the wittle mouse gets all dizzy! Fun for cat and mouse.....*ahem*
Well, this is what happened to the last mouse that dared enter the lair of "Bernie the Brain Eater". We found the body of the decapitated mouse on the rug in the kitchen and the head being used as a "CHASE IT!" ball throughout the house.
Yep, a regular trap is definitely crueler than letting a cat get to it.......
So, I have decided to go about getting the mouse my own way. I got a six pack, a lawn chair and a BB gun. That son of a bitch will never know what hit him.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
The Sexual Revolution: In Its Infancy.
I am an empowered woman. I am an independent woman. The shoes on my feet? Yeah, I bought them. I like to look at the world through "Kate Colored Glasses" where people really are not homophobic, racist or sexist. That is absurd! How 1950's!
Today I embarked on a solo mission to the Home Depot. I was feeling empowered, confidant and ready to pick out the various hardware items I needed. A couple of gallons of paint, check. A big, two-gallon bucket of primer, check. Now I was in need of three pieces of wood, 1 1/2 inch by 1 1/2 inch. A task I found rather daunting, but hey! I am a strong, independent, professional, thirty year old woman! I not only "ROAR!", I follow it up with a "WHOOT WHOOT!" and a sassy, "HOLLA!"
I could totally do this.
As I left the safety of the paint aisle, an aisle consisting of many of my female compatriots, which was comforting and non-threatening, I followed the main aisle to the, dark and scary land, also known as the lumber aisle. The lighting became grey and ominous, as I clutched onto the note card relaying my careful instructions. I felt a lump, deep in the pit of my belly, as I made a left turn into the dreaded, " Den of the Contractors".
I chanted to myself as I chugged cautiously down the aisle...."I think I can, I think I can, I know I can, I KNOW I CAN!
The independent construction-contractor, a person most likely of the male persuasion.Not just a male, but a redneck, Alpha Male.*shudder*
I walked tentatively up the aisle, looking at all the lumber, (which may as well have been ancient, Egyptian Hieroglyphics, because I was not comprehending what I was looking at, at all), as I was approached by two, very scary, and very dirty contractors. "Hey pretty", I smiled and turned away as fast as I could. " I am Helen Keller.......... I see no one, I hear no one. I am lumber, I am an inanimate object, I have no senses."
But seriously, what the hell are men thinking? Think about guys, are you really going to "pick up a chick" in the lumber department of the Home Depot? Especially, with your super sexy, super dirty coveralls? I mean, nothing is HOTTER to me, than I man with fingernails as dark as tar and with a scent of turpentine and Camel Filters. You don't see women in the tampon aisle trying to lure that one member of the opposite sex who has made a wrong turn into the menstrual-dome, do you? Come on!
As I stood there, still as stone, I looked out of the corner of my eye to make sure they were at a safe distance, so I could high tale it the hell to the next aisle! As I turned in the next aisle, relief set in. I was sure I found what I was looking for! The heavens opened, the heavenly light poured down from the rafters, and I even heard Christmas Muzak! I had found my wood (natch). I was headed for the promised-land of the check-out aisle.
I felt relieved. I felt amazing. I felt like Gloria Steinem. I had faced the oppressor, and I had fucking, survived! I walked out of the exit of the Home Depot, trying to look graceful and confidant, as I struggled to maneuver the 500 lb cart with three, 15 ft., pieces of wood in it. In order to regain control of my cart, I had to circle around the truck lane where, *GASP*! The contractors loaded up! GOD NO!
As I fumbled with the cart, trying to put my sunglasses on, because these men were not going to see the FEAR IN MY EYES, though they could sense it... They are just like dogs, those contractors.... As I struggled to keep my confidence, I heard the most, ridiculously, absurd statement, I have heard:
"LOOK! It's a girl! She can't even push the cart!BAWAHAHAHAHAHA!
I was mortified, horrified, embarrassed and frightened. I tripped over my feet, and was thrusted into oncoming traffic. I was almost hit by a car. After regaining my composure, I then found my vehicle, loaded up, and got the hell out of there.
When I arrived home, I was proud to have accomplished my task, and relieved to have made it out of there alive and un-groped.
As I sat down to relax by way of Cafe Vienna instant international coffee, for the ex-pat in all of us, the Little Honey broke the bad news.
I picked out the wrong wood.
Today I embarked on a solo mission to the Home Depot. I was feeling empowered, confidant and ready to pick out the various hardware items I needed. A couple of gallons of paint, check. A big, two-gallon bucket of primer, check. Now I was in need of three pieces of wood, 1 1/2 inch by 1 1/2 inch. A task I found rather daunting, but hey! I am a strong, independent, professional, thirty year old woman! I not only "ROAR!", I follow it up with a "WHOOT WHOOT!" and a sassy, "HOLLA!"
I could totally do this.
As I left the safety of the paint aisle, an aisle consisting of many of my female compatriots, which was comforting and non-threatening, I followed the main aisle to the, dark and scary land, also known as the lumber aisle. The lighting became grey and ominous, as I clutched onto the note card relaying my careful instructions. I felt a lump, deep in the pit of my belly, as I made a left turn into the dreaded, " Den of the Contractors".
I chanted to myself as I chugged cautiously down the aisle...."I think I can, I think I can, I know I can, I KNOW I CAN!
The independent construction-contractor, a person most likely of the male persuasion.Not just a male, but a redneck, Alpha Male.*shudder*
I walked tentatively up the aisle, looking at all the lumber, (which may as well have been ancient, Egyptian Hieroglyphics, because I was not comprehending what I was looking at, at all), as I was approached by two, very scary, and very dirty contractors. "Hey pretty", I smiled and turned away as fast as I could. " I am Helen Keller.......... I see no one, I hear no one. I am lumber, I am an inanimate object, I have no senses."
But seriously, what the hell are men thinking? Think about guys, are you really going to "pick up a chick" in the lumber department of the Home Depot? Especially, with your super sexy, super dirty coveralls? I mean, nothing is HOTTER to me, than I man with fingernails as dark as tar and with a scent of turpentine and Camel Filters. You don't see women in the tampon aisle trying to lure that one member of the opposite sex who has made a wrong turn into the menstrual-dome, do you? Come on!
As I stood there, still as stone, I looked out of the corner of my eye to make sure they were at a safe distance, so I could high tale it the hell to the next aisle! As I turned in the next aisle, relief set in. I was sure I found what I was looking for! The heavens opened, the heavenly light poured down from the rafters, and I even heard Christmas Muzak! I had found my wood (natch). I was headed for the promised-land of the check-out aisle.
I felt relieved. I felt amazing. I felt like Gloria Steinem. I had faced the oppressor, and I had fucking, survived! I walked out of the exit of the Home Depot, trying to look graceful and confidant, as I struggled to maneuver the 500 lb cart with three, 15 ft., pieces of wood in it. In order to regain control of my cart, I had to circle around the truck lane where, *GASP*! The contractors loaded up! GOD NO!
As I fumbled with the cart, trying to put my sunglasses on, because these men were not going to see the FEAR IN MY EYES, though they could sense it... They are just like dogs, those contractors.... As I struggled to keep my confidence, I heard the most, ridiculously, absurd statement, I have heard:
"LOOK! It's a girl! She can't even push the cart!BAWAHAHAHAHAHA!
I was mortified, horrified, embarrassed and frightened. I tripped over my feet, and was thrusted into oncoming traffic. I was almost hit by a car. After regaining my composure, I then found my vehicle, loaded up, and got the hell out of there.
When I arrived home, I was proud to have accomplished my task, and relieved to have made it out of there alive and un-groped.
As I sat down to relax by way of Cafe Vienna instant international coffee, for the ex-pat in all of us, the Little Honey broke the bad news.
I picked out the wrong wood.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Out Of My Way, Sister.
Since the early 1990's, this country has been in the grips of a coffee drink epidemic. I have never paid much mind to this, being the "all American girl" that I am. But as I become older, albeit, wiser, I am more conscious of our societal ills and ways to cure them.
I am not undertaking the battle of Starbucks vs. Independent Coffee Houses, I really could care less, plus Starbucks has good coffee. They never burn the beans, the espresso, or the milk, nor do they run too much water through their grounds. ( I AM LOOKING AT YOU, K-HOLE!) Also, being that I worked at one of the first, established coffee houses in my city, I know that this does not entitle me to act like a pretentious, twat, and give bad service to people I deem as "Yuppie Scum". (I AM LOOKING AT YOU, SITWELLS LESBIAN BARISTAS! DON'T MAKE ME TAKE OUT MY EARRINGS!)
The epidemic consists of the late teens, college, working, whatever girl, with the cheap, low rise, jeans, acrylic nails, and glitter encased cell phone. (Oh, you know who you are bitches) These ladies have watched one too many Jennifer Love Michelle Gellar Lohan Duff Hilton, movies and are now embarking on the world of coffee drinks, by way of the Frappucino, at 7:30 in the morning, much to my dismay.
Here is the deal, toots. You don't want coffee. You don't like coffee. You want people to perceive you have one ounce of intelluctual integrity, by way of carting around a to go coffee cup. What ruins this ruse for you, is when you plop down and start licking the whip cream off of the top of your drink. You look ridiculous, plus it is just bad manners. What you want, is a piece of chocolate cake, with a glass of milk. For the love of all that is holy, get out of my COFFEE line and hit the nearest bakery.
I need coffee. I especially need it at 7:30 am. I don't take coffee regular, i.e. two sugars and one cream ( oh the nostalgia that term stirs up for me. When coffee came in a bottomless pots, and sorority chicks stuck to diet coke, like GOD intended.) I drink it black. I like the taste, though I know it does not taste "good", that is not why I am fucking drinking it. I am drinking it for the buzz, the buzz that I need, so I don't chase these chicks out of the coffee shop and smack them silly. The buzz I need, so I don't see my first client, and proceed to tell them what a giant TURD I think they are and how they have a face only a mother can love. I NEED COFFEE FOR THE SAKE OF MY FELLOW MAN.
What I don't need, is to be stuck in line, behind you, having to hide behind sunglasses because the glare from your *giggle* OMG SPARKLE PHONE!!@!@, is blinding me, your cheap perfume is making me sick, while listening to your innane conersation that motivates me to move to the country, never ever to see another soul again. All of this, while you ask for a shot of mocha, a double shot of vanilla, a shot of caramel, extra whip and sprinkles, grande, DECAF frappucino. (Just typing that makes my blood pressure rise to dangerous numbers.)
Seriously, this is a problem of epidemic proportions, America. I believe the dye contained in fruppucino sprinkles has dumbed down the average, young, American intellect (not like it was high before!), making it socially acceptable to say "LOL" in real life conversations, for LaLohan movies to be critically acclaimed and for Paris Hilton to have some societal redeeming value. I believe this can all be traced back to the Frappucino, AKA, Public Enemy Number One.
Only we, the people, can curb this gross epidemic, plaguing our society. We must take action and not sit back idly, while these women keep polluting our coffee lines in the morning, on the way to their casting calls for "Blind Date" or "Flava of Love". We must knock them down when we see them coming, and stick a chocolate chip cookie in their mouth, while screaming "BEAT IT" in their make-up caked, faces! We must lure them away from away from the Starbucks with supplies of Diet Cokes and Three Musketeer Bars. IT MUST BE DONE.
It can be done.
You can help.
I am not undertaking the battle of Starbucks vs. Independent Coffee Houses, I really could care less, plus Starbucks has good coffee. They never burn the beans, the espresso, or the milk, nor do they run too much water through their grounds. ( I AM LOOKING AT YOU, K-HOLE!) Also, being that I worked at one of the first, established coffee houses in my city, I know that this does not entitle me to act like a pretentious, twat, and give bad service to people I deem as "Yuppie Scum". (I AM LOOKING AT YOU, SITWELLS LESBIAN BARISTAS! DON'T MAKE ME TAKE OUT MY EARRINGS!)
The epidemic consists of the late teens, college, working, whatever girl, with the cheap, low rise, jeans, acrylic nails, and glitter encased cell phone. (Oh, you know who you are bitches) These ladies have watched one too many Jennifer Love Michelle Gellar Lohan Duff Hilton, movies and are now embarking on the world of coffee drinks, by way of the Frappucino, at 7:30 in the morning, much to my dismay.
Here is the deal, toots. You don't want coffee. You don't like coffee. You want people to perceive you have one ounce of intelluctual integrity, by way of carting around a to go coffee cup. What ruins this ruse for you, is when you plop down and start licking the whip cream off of the top of your drink. You look ridiculous, plus it is just bad manners. What you want, is a piece of chocolate cake, with a glass of milk. For the love of all that is holy, get out of my COFFEE line and hit the nearest bakery.
I need coffee. I especially need it at 7:30 am. I don't take coffee regular, i.e. two sugars and one cream ( oh the nostalgia that term stirs up for me. When coffee came in a bottomless pots, and sorority chicks stuck to diet coke, like GOD intended.) I drink it black. I like the taste, though I know it does not taste "good", that is not why I am fucking drinking it. I am drinking it for the buzz, the buzz that I need, so I don't chase these chicks out of the coffee shop and smack them silly. The buzz I need, so I don't see my first client, and proceed to tell them what a giant TURD I think they are and how they have a face only a mother can love. I NEED COFFEE FOR THE SAKE OF MY FELLOW MAN.
What I don't need, is to be stuck in line, behind you, having to hide behind sunglasses because the glare from your *giggle* OMG SPARKLE PHONE!!@!@, is blinding me, your cheap perfume is making me sick, while listening to your innane conersation that motivates me to move to the country, never ever to see another soul again. All of this, while you ask for a shot of mocha, a double shot of vanilla, a shot of caramel, extra whip and sprinkles, grande, DECAF frappucino. (Just typing that makes my blood pressure rise to dangerous numbers.)
Seriously, this is a problem of epidemic proportions, America. I believe the dye contained in fruppucino sprinkles has dumbed down the average, young, American intellect (not like it was high before!), making it socially acceptable to say "LOL" in real life conversations, for LaLohan movies to be critically acclaimed and for Paris Hilton to have some societal redeeming value. I believe this can all be traced back to the Frappucino, AKA, Public Enemy Number One.
Only we, the people, can curb this gross epidemic, plaguing our society. We must take action and not sit back idly, while these women keep polluting our coffee lines in the morning, on the way to their casting calls for "Blind Date" or "Flava of Love". We must knock them down when we see them coming, and stick a chocolate chip cookie in their mouth, while screaming "BEAT IT" in their make-up caked, faces! We must lure them away from away from the Starbucks with supplies of Diet Cokes and Three Musketeer Bars. IT MUST BE DONE.
It can be done.
You can help.
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