Thursday, August 30, 2007


I have two checking accounts. They're through the same bank and the entire reason I even have two is because I was the treasurer for my senior capstone college project.

There is about $45 left in that second account.

I graduated a year ago.

My mother has suggested I embezzled the money. Skimmed a little off the top, which is entirely unfair. I didn't skim from the top. I simply forgot to return from the bottom.

I HAD PLANNED TO! Honest! But things got hectic! And there was going to be a fee to close the account so soon after opening it! And really, everyone was only going to get back $1.25 and that just wasn't worth the effort. I only had the ONE CHANCE to get everyone together in ONE PLACE, and I failed.

Mom called it blood money.

I hold firm that I bled PLENTY for that God forsaken major and those pretentious pricks. I'm just saying.

So I made a decision. I am now going to take $50 from every paycheck and put it in that account. I'm considering the $45 a starter fee, restitution, blood money. AND MY CONSCIENCE IS CLEAR MOTHER!

With that money I'm going to buy myself a camera. Probably a Rebel. You know, a little something pretty.

Because I deserve it.

Wednesday, August 29, 2007


Monday evening, as I was returning from my workout, I happened upon an older neighbor of mine. She was standing on her stoop and watering her flowers from a gallon jug. Not so much watering, actually, as DOUSING THEM AS IF THEY WERE ON FIRE.

She glanced at me, assessing my sweat stained tank top, and smiled warmly.

"You walk this hill every day you'll lose it."

Tuesday evening, as I was returning from my workout, I happened upon another neighbor of mine, this one the father of a young child. He seemed to be tarring the roof of his garage.

"You're dedicate," he said, looking down at me as he slide the broom (or squeegee or whatever the hell they use to tar roofs) gracefully back and forth.


"I said your dedicated. You're out here no matter how hot it is." (Which is not ENTIRELY true since I most certainly was NOT out there when the temperature was 102.)

Wednesday evening, as I was returning from my workout, a young woman in a van happened upon me.

"You're working out, aren't you?"

Why, yes. I suppose I am.

"I teach free, they're free, aerobics classes at the Mt. Auburn Recreation Center. You should check it out."

And I did.

And it'll cost me $15 to become a member FOR THE REST OF THE YEAR (which is less than HALF of what I paid A MONTH at the PLACE I WORK FOR).

And they have a pool.

(( jig ))

Tuesday, August 28, 2007


"I win the Best Kid award."

"Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"I called grandma."

"You're right. You win. Mom will be thrilled."

"Grandma mentioned to me she'd lost a bit of weight."

"Did she take off her shoes?"

Monday, August 27, 2007


Yeah, I'm definately going to watch Pan's Labyrinth tonight instead of blogging for you idiots charming and productive members of society.


(I'll be back tomorrow.)

Saturday, August 25, 2007


"Would you guys tell your friends to CALL YOU if they can't find your apartment rather than just picking a door and walking on in?"

Now, I've been a good neighbor. I haven't bitched and moaned about the guys upstairs running down the steps like they weigh 3 million pounds. Or reminded them that, typically, Sunday through Thursday nights are considered WORK NIGHTS.

But last night I made the egregious error of forgetting to lock my front door. (SHUT UP)

It was 1 in the morning. I was asleep. I SLEEP NAKED.

I woke up right as the dumb bitch stumbled into my room, looked at me, and turned around NEVER APOLOGIZING OR EVEN SHUTTING THE GOD DAMN DOOR BEHIND HER STUPID, COKE WHORE SMELLING ASS.

I helpfully yelled after her to "get the f*ck out."

I dressed so I could go lock the door behind her only to discover that my entire apartment REEKED as if she'd chain smoked an entire carton in my living room before wandering around in search of SOMEONE in the pitch black apartment.





So hanging out all by myself Friday night wasn't so bad because you know what? I? Am an excellent conversationalist. And I'm pretty damn cool.

I know. I hide it well.

And you know, just between you and me, I am also a fabulous kisser. I mean, really top knotch. And if THAT weren't reason enough to hang out with me, I do that thing with my tongue. And I have REALLY freaking hot lips. Me. Ow.

Also, I give REALLY good bl... um... back rubs? Yeah. Back rubs. I give really good back rubs.

You're jealous. It's understandable.

I would be, too.

Friday, August 24, 2007


It migth be common knowledge but I'll say it again anyway. I like living alone. I like it so much that I'm pretty damn sure I just might love it. In fact, I know I do. I love it. I LOVE living alone. And do you know why I love living alone? Because you see that mess over there? That's my mess, which is SO VERY MUCH EASIER to clean up than your mess.

Also, I like my time to myself, whether it be idly wasted or enthusiastically spent because, see, it takes quite a lot of effort for me to be charming and lovely all day at work with people I like. It is exceptionally taxing if I don't like them.

That means that at the end of the day, I'm generally not in the mood to make "small talk" or "chit chat." That means, generally, my brain, she is on auto-pilot and that annoyed expression accompanied by glazed over eyes is not exactly a sign of rapt attention.

But that is only most days.

Then there are some days when I'm feeling lonely. Some days when I'm in serious need of someone who can take my mucusy, vomit-like expulsion of words. But not only take them. What I need is someone who won't judge me for them. And as much as I love my group of friends, it is for that reason that I feel spent and tired and used. I'm not particularly in the mood to become gossip fodder.

Despite that I dont want to be alone tonight.

Yet here I am, home alone tonight renting movies, Pan's Labyrinth and My Super Ex-Girlfriend. Oh, shut up. Don't judge me. I'm in a wee bit of need of some guy bashing tonight, because not only did my plans fall through but every freaking one of you available to hang out with is doing bachelor party stuff, which, yes, I'm happy for you but it's a well documented fact that I DON'T LIKE WEDDINGS and I could definately use to not be by myself tonight.

And that really sucks.


It shouldn't be this hard.

Thursday, August 23, 2007


Sometimes, I say dumb things. Unfortunately, I spend an overwhelming majority of my waking hours at work. I think you see where I'm headed here.

And while at work, it isn't exactly uncommon for my friends and me to get bored. It also isn't uncommon for us to alleviate that boredom by thinking of dumb things to say to entertain each other. Or by making up nicknames.

Hello, everyone. My (nick)name is Bobby Jean. (And, yes, there is a voice to go along with the persona. Also, I may or may not have blackened out one of my teeth to add to the realism. BECAUSE I'M DEDICATED.)

This week, in order to stave off the boredom, IT guy got it in his head that he was a crazy mad Photoshopping genius and he made computer background bling for the other two members of our foursome.

I, UNDERSTANDABLY, was miffed. I mean, where the hell is my bling, bitch?!

So after pointing out his error (whining) and requesting (demanding) some super fine bling of my own, I got it in my head to make suggestions of what my background bling should say. Because my real name? That's just too boring. And why bother with your REAL name when you have a totally-crazy-cool-and-not-dorky-at-all nickname like Bobby Jean? WHY BOTHER?

And those suggestions, they just started rolling. We started off innocent enough with a boring ole Bobby J, or B Jean, or NERD but then it struck me! Idiot's disease! (Thanks A LOT, Dad, ya bastard.)

My name should be Bobby J-izzle!


Except I'm not. And you shouldn't. Because Idiot, thy name is Bobby Jean.

Now, keep in mind I was typing this all in an email and, IN MY HEAD, I was pronouncing it Jay. Izzle. NOT jizzle. So as I was standing in IT Boss' office proclaiming of my brilliance in nicknamed background bling, I realized exactly what I had been spelling. Right about the same time her eyes grew to the size of saucers and she did that uncomfortable laugh she does when I say something inappropriate (yeah, not the first time that's happened).

And, folks, because of where I work, our emails are PUBLIC RECORD.

Let me spell that out for you. If Johnny Q. Public walked into our office and demanded to see all of Bobby Jean's emails from 6 months ago through today, WE ARE REQUIRED BY LAW TO GIVE THEM TO HIM.

Luckily, chances are good that won't ever happen.


I have to think, dear reader(s), that this was PROBABLY WORSE than that time I was telling them in a definately not indoor voice about my college professor who was, "gayer than gay," as we were walking through the atrium. That echos. And my dumb ass definately got overheard by a person with small children. Small children with perky ears and absorbent brains.

Now, in all fairness, that college professor REALLY WAS gayer than gay. You remember Jack from Will & Grace? Yes.

No really. I am deadly serious. THEY EVEN LOOKED ALIKE. Go watch a rerun on WE and you just might realize why he was my favorite professor EVER.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007


Over the weekend, after my friends had consumed nearly $30 in tiny, breaded mystery meat (AND only half of a steak, prick), we headed over to (one of the) Matt's house to watch a movie.

But not just any movie.

A Thai martial arts movie. The uncut, international version.

Now, I LIKE this kind of movie. Despite some initial tribulation, I've since grown to appreciate the artistic beauty of such movies as House of Flying Daggers and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

The Protector was only kinda like those movies.

Don't get me wrong. It WANTED to be like those movies. Artful. Coherent. Tolerable.

It gave the artful a damn fine attempt what with the beautiful backgrounds and Thai dancers to tribal (?) beats and I guess, in the end, I GET what happened so THEY WERE TRYING, but there is only so much disbelieve I am willing to suspend towards any one venture and THEY CROSSED THAT LINE.

They bid their time, however. I was totally into the guys fighting style and I'm fully accepting that no wires were used. I'm willing to believe he managed to climb down four stories using not much more than a drain pipe, IF THAT. I'm apprehensive of his ability to stop, dead in the air, two guys on bikes who ALONE had more mass to them than this little Thai guy. I am COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY unwilling to believe that some Russian-looking dude, huge though he may be, could EVER, in the very slender whisp of reality in which I live, THROW A FREAKING BABY ELEPHANT THROUGH A WINDOW.

Now, I did my research folks. Baby Asian elephants weight over 200 lbs WHEN THEY ARE BORN and the one they were using in this film was not nursing so it had to have been at least 2-3 years old. These things reach sexual maturity at 9 years old. As in, not so much baby as adolescent. YOU DO THE MATH!

And, yes, I get what they were trying to do, showing the big, bad guy's disrespect toward elephants that are considered like brothers to the people of Thailand. BUT HE THREW IT! LIKE A DISCUS!

I can't wrap my head around it. He t-h-r-e-w a baby freaking elephant. GAH!

I just.. GAH!

Tuesday, August 21, 2007


My mom thinks my dad is an idiot.

Oh, she may not say that exact word but if you listen carefully to the tone of her voice and see that specific gleam in her eye, it is pretty safe to infer that goofy and idiot roughly translate to the same thing.

Let's take today for example.

My dad, in a fit of brilliance, decided rather than wait until someone else was done with the lift, that he would simply climb the shelves in the warehouse where he works. He made it up there no problem and was a good story off the ground before he teetered, realized he was going down, and jumped for it.

And tore up his middle finger in the process.

Now, I wouldn't go so far as to call my dad a clutz but this certainly isn't the first time he's lost his balance. As he turned, his finger got caught on something above him that he'd initially reached for to steady himself, and tore a jagged slice through the meat of his finger. It's somewhere between a scratch and disfiguringly maimed (and only required 8 stitches and no vicodin).

He yelped, "Jay fall down!" and tucked and rolled (or tripped on his cape) to end up back on his feet to the amazement of his four coworkers.

He drove himself to the urgent care and had to get a tetanus shot. The nurse told him it would hurt a lot less if he relaxed his arm when she gave him the shot. He told her it was relaxed. He just works out.

She laughed.

Then he did relax his arm.

She laughed harder.

Mom went to pick him up and he said on the way home they bought her a little nurses outfit. He said it's cute but rather short and he doesn't know what's the matter with him but he just becomes such a clutz when she's around and he keeps dropping things. He's also requesting sponge bathes.

Apparently, that is where Mom draws the line.

* * *

I woke up last night at 11:30, groggy and confused. I stared at my clock for a long while and thought, "I am REALLY freaking late for work. Wait. Why is it still dark outside?"



My internet crapped out on me last night. Expect a post later.

Like tomorrow later.


Sunday, August 19, 2007


In about a half hour there will be God knows how many people in my tiny, one bedroom apartment demanding mini corndogs because I'm an idiot. Who, yes, drank again last night only a measly little week after saying never again.

(BUT! I am not hung over because I had ONE. And it was a little one. Only a half-liter as opposed to the FRIGGIN HUGE liter mugs Hofbrau is known for. I am awesome with the restraint and willpower. BOW DOWN BEFORE MY AWESOMENESS AND WEEP AT MY GLORY!)

There will also be a steak for McLovin, the Artist Formerly Known as DO (which, seriously, Superbad... was HILARIOUS) because, apparently, I owe him a steak from YEARS AGO when I said something funny.

At a very inappropriate time.

And, being the jerk that he is, rather than nurture my comedic genius and guide it to it's climactic fruition, he demaned I repay my tactless remark with a steak. Actually, with several steaks.

But he'll take what I give him, damnit.


"Trying to exterminate an entire race of people is only SLIGHTLY worse than masterbating in a public restroom."

Friday, August 17, 2007


It was decided as we began trolling about campus looking (unsuccessfully) for an open pool table that I would be the prize up for grabs.

Because Matt? He thinks he's funny.

Matt's Lady Friend who we shall call Cailie, because that is her name, asked what I would have to do for the winner. I stared lustily at her and told her anything she wanted. Bitch decided she would pimp me out. Whore.

It was then decided I would belong to Cailie and make outs were suggested because boys are clever. Really. We didn't see that one coming.

But then she lost me to Matt in a thumb war. Whore.

So what would you think Matt would want to put me to work doing? Huh? Huh? Sexual favors, you say? Not even. No, Matt demanded I PAINT HIS APARTMENT! I KNOW! That's what I thought! Wasting a perfectly good opportunity with this? Hah!

But fear not, dear reader. I rescued myself from oppression, bought my freedom you might say, by SPANKING Matt and Cailie a euchre. It was BRUTAL. There may even have been weeping and gnashing of teeth.

At least there should have been for losing me. TWICE.


Thursday, August 16, 2007


After all the bitching and whining and begging for me to NOT use that blond wigged and Warrent t-shirted picture, apparently DO was "kinda disappointed" (and exceptionally eloquent) when I changed it out for the month of August.

He will live to regret that.


"Oh my freaking God," you might say.

"Who is that hot, blond chick," you might query.

But alas:

That is not some hot, blond chick.

That is my best friend, Dan.

In all his majestic, lily neon white, hippy boy glory.

Seriously. Dan. If you love me AT ALL, you will so let me shave your head when you come home. I THREW YOU TWO PARTIES! It is the LEAST you can do.

(AHHH!!! Are you wearing your man-purse in that last picture?! Seriously? That thing is still alive?)


Michael sounded like he could use a sexy dream and a pick-me-up (And he made comments on my bloggity. If you make comments I just might do nice things for you, too). So rather than your regularly scheduled programming, I'm going to answer Michael's question from way back in July. Because I'm nice like that.

Michael says: Tell me about a golden land of milk and honey where grad students are (adequately) funded and the True Academic (tm) is a heroic, respected figure in society.

Y'know, fiction.

Once upon a time in a land far, far away - let's say Mars for the sake of argument - there was a wonderful, not assholish university. Only the brightest of the bright got to go to the WNAU located mere lightyears from the Martian colony of Red Rock.

Our young hero, Michael, was a fresh faced and happy lad of 23 who had just graduated from Ass Rape U. They were not so kind to sweet Michael at ARU but they had not broken his spirit. Despite what everyone said, he knew he had a chance and he applied for the grad program at WNAU.

Oh, what a happy day it was when Michael received his acceptance letter to WNAU. Here was finally a school where SOMEONE might finally appreciate his wit, charm, and brilliance.

But young Michael had a problem. WNAU was on Mars and, as such, cost a whole freaking butt-load of money. How was he possibly going to pay his way?

But fear not, young reader. A plan soon presented itself, for Michael soon found himself a sugar daddy who really appreciated his boyish charm and after only a few nights of life scarring and humiliating debouchery, a tear-stained faced Michael got a fond pat on his sore rump and off he went to better horizons.

WNAU was everything our hero ever dreamt of. He felt a true nurturing of his talents and an appreciation of his ideas and hard work. And, joy of joys, he met someone. She was young, smart, and demure with flowing red hair and fiery blue eyes and she though our hero was brilliant and funny and she liked to do naughty sexual favors to him in their hover-bed in the hazy red light of the Martian sunrise.

Our dear Michael had never been more happy.

Upon graduation, Michael received not one, but 13 offers to do whatever the hell it is he wants to do with his life, four of which offered at least six figures and benefits out the wazu. Of course, no matter if Michael was rich or poor, his lovely, arm candy girlfriend was so desperately in love with his she would have married him no matter what.

So he took the job where he was appreciated and respected and absolutely swimming in the money and never did he speak of that one time, before college, where he was ass candy for some dirty, dirty old pervert.

The end.

* * *

There Michael. I hope that made you feel better! You got two times the sexy dream. Yeeoowww! You stud you.

* * *

Do the rest of you who bother to read my bloggity realize what that means? DO YOU?! It means I am out of story ideas for when I'm out of bloggity ideas which means you buttheads are slacking and you need to ask me more questions. Anything goes.


Wednesday, August 15, 2007


All day I have been unable to shake this heavy, comatose feeling. All day I've felt as if I was hallucinating, zoning out, and thinking things that were not true. (What? You mean I'm not... well, shit!). And that, my gentle reader(s) (<-- ambitious), should not be the case. Because I went to bed at 8 last night. Eight. The one that comes after seven, which is BEFORE IT IS COMPLETELY DARK OUTSIDE.

But then my alarm went off.

Startled, I reached out and flipped to switch from buzz to off. To no avail.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Ahn. Ahn. Ahn. I. Hate. You. Death. Die. Kill. Beep.

Growling slightly, my brows furrowed, I punch the snooze.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I punch it again, this time more forcefully.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I've officially reached the pissed off stage and I bash at the offending snooze button with all the restraint of a stampede.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Swearing obscenities under my breath (or not because we all know I live alone) and fuming, I yank the damn thing from it's spot on my window ledge and rip the cord out of the wall.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

SONOFABITCH! I am so frustrated I'm crying at this point as I flip the damn thing over and tear out the battery because THE BEEPING MUST EFFING STOP. STOP IT. STOP NOW!

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I throw down the alarm in defeat feeling spent and annoyed beyond anything I've ever felt before IN MY FREAKING LIFE.

And then I woke up. To find out I'd overslept and needed to leave the house in five minutes if I was going to make the biweekly staff meeting on time.

Now, why, I ask you, do I not have cool dreams? Crazy dreams? Sexy dreams? I mean, damn. I could use a really good sexy dream. One with someone tall, dark, and handsome and preferably not bovine. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?! Because this fake alarm from hell shit IS NOT CUTTING IT.

Someone. Anyone. Tell me a sexy dream.

Tuesday, August 14, 2007


Exhausted. To bed now. Night.

Monday, August 13, 2007


Okay, so since she's actually received my bachlorette party presents, that means I get to tell you all of my brilliance.

Present 1: Big ass, white granny panties.

This went much along the same lines as getting Christina a maternity bra for her party a couple years ago (Really? That long? Damn). There was also some of the single person lore involved with this choice seeing how wimmins never seem to get laid when they're wear the sexy panties, it's only when they have on embarrassing underwears that the men folk seem to want to go downtown.

I'm just doing my part.

Present 2: A thong that states, "You may now f*ck the bride."

You know. In case he forgot.

Present 3: A thong for him in the shape of an elephant, wherein he gets to "fill out" the trunk.

Bean was very emphatic in her demands that Bob wouldn't fit in said trunk. I choose to feel pity at such remarks.

Bob was disgusted by this gift. I'm not sure why. It's a perfect chance to show Bean his animal magnatism. He gave it three strikes. The first was the dental floss string that had to go up his butt. The second is the effort it takes to "fill out" the thong (lazy bastard). The third was the elephant googly eyes, which I think just adds to the realism of the whole effect.

Now, here is the difference between Bean and myself (among many, many, many other things). Anyone I'll end up marrying would not have shied away from such manties. Nor would he have left them on the coffee table (because, ew). No, he would have proudly stuck the thing down his pants with the ears hanging out. Because that is classy.

Present 4: Flavor "BJ" drops.

Did you know they make flavored drops to make giving head a whole lot more pleasant? Well, they do. And now Bean is the proud owner (well, I'd be proud) of a four-flavor variety pack.

Because I figured Bob needed all the help he could get.

Sunday, August 12, 2007


Well. It's finished. Bean and Bob have become united as one soul together forever.

Or, as we've been so tactfully putting it, she's his problem now. (HI BEAN! Just kidding! It's a joke!)

I'm tired and hung over and, after this weekend, I am never going to drink again. Okay, fine. I might drink again, but not for a long time. ALRIGHT! Give me a week back at work. I'll change my tune.

Two nights in a row of the drinking, and two nights in a row of the taking a (couple) shot(s) when I really should have known better. I think I've figured out a system (if you can call it that) wherein I keep a good buzz going for most of the night. Last night that consisted of ordering a beer and a water every time I went to the bar.

But then, against what would be better judgement if I did not have the buzz, I agree to take a shot with whoever made THAT dumb suggestion (Rico, Trini, Bob, and Trini, I'm looking at you).

I've felt not quite awful, but not quite right all day.

And my teeth hurt. For no good reason I can discern.

BUT! I had one hell of a time and without further ado I present you all with:

  • Grandma trying to get in Grandpa's pants. They've been divorced for 17 years. (Mom: "Are you writing something for your blog?" "Yeah, the highlights, including Grandma hitting on Grandpa." "Honey, if you think that's a highlight you need to get a life.")

  • Clomping down the stairs at the church before the wedding and yelling, "I AM A DELICATE FLOWER!"

  • One of Bean's old high school friends walking up to me after the wedding and saying, "I heard you were upset about Bean getting married before you and I just wanted to let you know I understand." Um. The hell? Tell me, exactly, which one of the voices in your head told you that?

  • The running commentary from Trini in the video ("Aw. Isn't the bride pretty? I really need a beer.")

  • The fly that got drunk in my glass of champagne for the toast. (Yummy, yummy protein.)

  • I definately made a toast and the theme song from the Love Boat may or may not have been dramatically quoted.

  • Chasing after two of my nine-year-old cousins around and around and around the tables while double fisting it and nearly wiping out. This and the fact that I couldn't take a full breath in that damn dress consisted to my flushed appearance for most of the night, much to the concern of the best man.

  • Mom having to get practically naked EVERY TIME she had to use the bathroom

  • Having dad hold my beer so I could go to the potty and then stealing his when he had to go. Because it was cold and had more in it. And then I got it up my nose.

  • Wayne pointing out JUST how white my legs are. Bastard.

  • Spitting out the car window on the drive home and hitting Trini.

  • Contributing to the whole "something old, something new, something borrowed, somthing blue" superstition by being the "something blue". By taking a picture of my butt. With my skirt tucked into my underwear. For Bean to keep in the bouquet as she walked down the aisle.

Now, before you ask, yes, I did bring my camera, but I didn't take any pictures because, well, everyone else had cameras. I did, however, get what I consider to be the MOST IMPORTANT WEDDING PICTURE OF THE WEEKEND:

That's right folks. That is EXACTLY what it looks like. Ribs. Better yet, Trini ribs. Mouth-watering, fall off the bone, oh my God where have you been all my life ribs.

And those alone would have totally worth the drive.

Tuesday, August 07, 2007


Y'all. I suck at being a girl. I lose all of my merit badges and pillow fight/makeout privileges (Yeah, guys. Your fantasies? They're true. Every slumber party leads to a pillow fight which leads to curious touching which leads to chick on chick makeouts. But you didn't hear it from me).

See, what happened is this. I changed purses today because my old black one, which never gets used anymore since I have red and blue and tan to choose from, MATCHES MY BRANDY NEW SHOES (coincidence you ask or PURE UNADULTERATED GENIUS?) and I forgot.

I forgot I've been ravenous. I forgot I've been moody and bloated. I forgot that I CRIED this week while reading Harry Potter 7 because waaa! My poor Weasley twims get MAULED! Mauled I tell you!

I forgot all those things so why are you looking all shocked and surprised that I forgot to pack something absorbent. Like a diaper.

A curse upon my loins!

I don't understand why my body feels the overwhelming need to prove to the world I'm not getting it on. I am fully aware of my lack of makeouts (because you can TOTALLY get pregnant by tongue kissing. I heard it from Jenny who heard it from Dan who heard it from his cousin whose sister totally got pregnant that way. IT'S TRUE!).

I guess I could forgive my body this obsession if it weren't for the most annoying of grievences. Cramps. Better yet. Cramps that pulsate. Betterer yet. Cramps that migrate.

Oh, it may start to one side. And that might not be so bad. But then it starts to think that my lower back? Much better residents. I mean, what with the room and the view (of my bum, people, and WHAT a bum). And my cramps, see? They're about as hard to evict as coachroaches. Truth be told, I'm fairly certain my cramps could survive a nuclear holocaust and the ensuing winter, too.

It's been a pity in my life that I haven't ever really dated anyone who was good at/liked to give back massages. Because that would be THE SHIT right about now.


I almost called you today. It wasn't any conscious decision. I walked to my car after spending an extra 2 1/2 hours at work and my finger started moving of their own volition...

And then I hung up the phone.

Monday, August 06, 2007


I went to see Harry Potter 5 this weekend. I totally wish I was 12 so I could crush on the Weasley twins. I think I just like their characters.

Yeah. That's it. Their characters.

Before the movie, Eric and I were getting some snacks. He thought it best to let me pay with my card and he would just give me cash, and lets face it folks, I NEVER carry cash so any opportunity to garner some is welcomed.

"How much is popcorn?" he asked riffling through his wallet.

"Four dollars, plus gratuity."

He paused, and glared at me. "I'M NOT GIVING YOU A GRATUITY."

"Why not?" (I may or may not have pouted at this point.)

"Why should I?"

"I'll let you look at my boobs?"

"Oh! So ten dollars sound good? What does that make it now? Grape slushies and money to get to look at your chest?"

For the record, I didn't take his money.

I should have. But I didn't. It might teach his dumb ass a lesson, because SERIOUSLY guys. Why pay for something that, given you don't get caught, YOU CAN DO AS MUCH AS YOU WANT FOR FREE?!

I mean, I know I have wonderful boobs. And they certainly have served me well over the years (and, between you and me, I always get a shit eater grin on my face when I find out that people I had previously thought had failed to fall victim to the boobs admit their defeat), but to go so far as to let me hold them for ransom?

And I wasn't even wearing a low cut top. Unlike Friday night. Friday night I had on my cute, little, pink, strappy tank top. While standing at Kroghetto. Waiting for one of the Matts.

And I felt very much like a prostitute standing on the corner waiting for a trick to drive by. And that shirt? Doesn't even show the amount of titty that this bridesmaid dress is going to put up there on display. NOT EVEN CLOSE.

Saturday, August 04, 2007


Everything you are about to read it true. Despite that, I'm assuming a number of you might need to suspend your disbelief for what I'm about to tell you:

I went shopping today. Alone. Because I wanted to.

(I KNOW!! Don't worry. Stay with me. It gets much more believable later on, I SWEAR.)

I bought three things for myself.

(SHUT IT. I didn't say it got more believable IMMEDIATELY.)

At Bed, Bath, and Beyond I bought myself a new loofa (Yay! Nakey time will be so much more FUN now!) and a hanging mirror for my door (Yay! Nakey time will be so much more FUN now!), and then, at DSW, I bought myself new shoes (Are you still nakey if you're wearing shoes?).

I have to say, after all that I was pretty thirsty. Also, kind of hungry. And because I am brilliant, I thought a smoothie will be just the thing to thwart both these ailments.

So I drove to Smoothie King.

As I pulled into a spot, I noticed the spot directly ahead of me was open so I pulled forward. I got out. That is when he got my attention. And he shall be known as Self-righteous, Pretentious, Pricky Person or SP3.

Mr. SP3 was just stepping out of his LOVELY man van to my right as I got out of my car. He looked perturbed.

SP3: "Hey! You almost hit me!"

Now, take notes here, dear reader, for I am peacemaker extraodinaire.

I fixed upon him my most sympathetic gaze. Something that might have been misinterpreted as incredulous with a hint of disgust.

SP3: "Why don't you watch where you're going?"

Now, I HAD been paying attention and when I made the decision to pull forward, he was NOT opening his door. Not only that, but he could have been ALL THE WAY OUT OF HIS CAR AND STILL HAD PLENTY OF ROOM BETWEEN HIS BODY AND MY CAR. I'm just saying.

Also, SP3, you may not realize this, seeing how it's our first meeting, but I? Am awesome. At everything. Especially driving. My driving could soooo kick your drivings ass. Yeah, huh! That is so even possible!

By the way, this wouldn't even be a problem if you never existed. I'm just saying.

Me: "Sorry?" I said with UTMOST sincerity.

I turned to leave. And ran into my side view mirror, so when I heard Mr. SP3 call me an asshole, I couldn't quite stop myself.

Me: "Oh, bite me."


You'll forgive me, dear reader, but I was overwhelmed... no, no I was COMPELLED at that very moment to share with Mr. SP3 my brandy new manicure. Specifically, a particular finger of that manicure. This was merely because the manicure on that particular finger is BEAUTIFUL and I was still under the misguided hope that this guy was at all rational and might be calmed by the sheer beauty held before his gazing (glaring) eyes.

He was not.

SP3: "Why don't you sit on it and rotate, bitch."

Son, please.

Me: "That WOULD be more fun that doing it with you."


I was kind, guys. I let him have the last word. Mostly because I had just walked into Smoothie King as this point. I composed myself, smiled brightly at whoever was in the store, and walked to the counter.

And then I promptly turned and walked out of the store and back to my car.

Why? you might be asking yourself. Because my car? It was still parked next to his sexy man van. And there was no reason why someone who is as much of a prick as Mr. SP3 would not, if he left his store before I left mine, key my car. And I'm just not okay with that.

I mean seriously folks. It isn't my fault that Mr. SP3 is socially awkward enough to bitch out a COMPLETE STRANGER for some perceived wrong THAT DID NOT ACTUALLY HAPPEN. He must not have been raised right because I would NEVER bitch out a complete stranger for any reason ever. Amen. Except maybe under my breath or, ironically, while driving, because, DUH! Quick get away.

Not that I've ever done that (yeah, about a month ago and the F-word may or may not have been thrown out at the beginning of that little spat but he shouldn't have been walking on a DON'T WALK signal and getting all up in my way).

Now, you may be wondering why, but I DID take to heart what this guy said to me folks. Next time, I'll pay attention. So I don't miss.

I'm just saying.

Friday, August 03, 2007


BJ: "I slept from 4 to 9 then went back to bed at midnight."

Bubba: "I tried to take a nap but my mom woke me up to show me my stupid horiscope."

Hazel: "What did it say?"

Bubba: "I don't know. Something about 'there will be luck in your future.'"

BJ: "You'll get lucky in the future?! Hot damn, that's specific."

Hazel: "God, I need mine to say that soon."

Thursday, August 02, 2007




"Oh, Jesus! What happened?!"

"Um, well, I broke a nail."


"What?! That's a crisis!"

"You have got to be kidding me, kid."


* * *


"Mommy! I have a crisis! The perfect, happy wedding has been thwarted."

"Alright. And exactly how is that?"

"I broke a nail."

"SONOFABITCH! So, are you going to need a tip put on?"

"Probably not. I figure my nailbeds are long enough she can just cut the rest and fake it."

"You're a bitch, you know that?"

* * *

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BEAN (also known as Baby Butthead Brat Face)!!!

Wednesday, August 01, 2007


Time now for the next installment of "I will answer ANYTHING you ask me!" (Sparkly lights! Cheesy music! Jazzy hands!)

This episode is brought to you by Anonymous (if that is your real name) who says: Tell us about your love of anchovies.

Um. Well. See, here's the thing. I don't like anchovies. Or sardines for that matter. I'm not entirely sure where you got your informaton, Anonymous, but I'm not terribly fond of tiny fish and their horrible smell.

BUT! As luck would have it, I DO have an honest to life story about tiny fish (sardines rather than anchovies but really, close enough, right?).

Once upon a time, I was in high school. I know, I know. Hard to believe. But, alas, it is true. And during that time of my life, my dad had an ugly old truck. This was not the black truck he later gave to Tiff but a two-tone blue monstrosity with no power steering and the meanest clutch the land has ever seen.

But that's not important.

What is important is that SOMEONE broke into the back window of this truck (which wasn't exactly hard since the latch had long since broken) when it was sitting in the driveway and threw in an (open, obviously) can of sardines into the truck. Not only was that a pleasant smell, but it stained wherever it touched a stange sort of neon green.

I can't say with any certainty that that even expediated the sell of that truck but it is sufficient to say I was always afraid to drive the truck after that because I didn't want to turn neon green.

And that was how I saved Christmas.