PRINESS PARKER POSIE

For Tiff with love:



You're welcome.

CONVERSATIONS WITH COWORKERS, PART... UM... THREE. YEAH, THREE

"Remember how I told you I was going to get a killer bruise from running into the drawer yesterday? It's definately a welt."

"Oh, gross. Is it all splotchy purple and yellow?"

"Ya know, for as bad as it hurt, the bruise is not that impressive."

"It's still gross."

"Don't worry. My tights hide it."

"You're tights?"

"Yeah. I wore orange tights for Halloween today."

"Well, R. wore an orange shirt."

"So, what are you wearing?"

"..."

(At this point we both break down into immature giggles)

"For Halloween. What are you wearing for Halloween?"

"I'm so telling HR."

"Sigh. Go ahead. I already touched someone from HR's butt yesterday."

"You what?!"

"It was an accident! I have big, oafish arms! And... she had a big, oafish butt."

TOOLY O'TOOL

The Distraction saw a new side of my personality this weekend, the bloody effing slave driver side.

No. He didn't call me that. I'm merely translating Sissy Boy Whimper.

Now, why did the Distraction get to see that bright and shiney side of me? Because he asked me to help him move out of his house and into an undisclosed location. (Yeah, his parent's house.)(He's not dealing with it well.)

His landlord, who also happens to be his housemate, got to see a new side of me, too. The side of me that thinks he's a huge fricking tool (the landlord, not the Distraction who is merely just a sissy). Because he is. And not just ANY tool but the Tooliest Tool who ever Tooled. He's also a world-class asshole.

Sadly, I am remiss in figuring out WHY he must think that I think he's a royal friggin tool. I doubt it could have been the two times I gave him the finger (since his back was turned both times) or the time I called him a tool (because it was said under my breath).

It could have been the glares. Yeah. It was probably the glares. I didn't really hide those.

You're probably wondering why Mr. Tooly O'Tool gets such a special distinction. Let me give you an example:

A woman that could be called, semi-accurately, Mr. O'Tool's girlfriend was on her way over, which Mr. O'Tool rolled his eyes about because fair from being his girlfriend, Mr. O'Tool is playing this woman to get her to buy some of his real estate.

But she's a bitch and kind of deserves it.

No, what really got me was the bitching about the mud in the house while we were moving (there was no mud... a leaf mayhaps, but no mud), and the fact that he asked the Distraction if he could buy the kitchen table from him. The Distraction says he likes that table. O'Tool suggests the Distraction can go buy another one (buy it yourself asshat.) The Distraction explains he promised the table to DBF BECAUSE HE ASKED FIRST. O'Tool then whines like a pussy little girl that DBF never does anything around here and how unfair that he should go without a kitchen table because HE IS TOO LAZY AND CHEAP TO GO GET ONE HIMSELF.

He also makes DBF go smoke in the grass because he doesn't like the ashes on the deck.

TOOLTOOLTOOLTOOL. And not even a useful one unless it might benefit him in any way.

I'm sure you all know I'm a closed book. No one can read me. So you understand why I'm so surprised he suspects I might not be his biggest fan. Prick.

BEANIE TO THE WEINIE

Because it's my blog and I'll do whatever the hell I want to, I would like to take a moment to introduce you to my youngest sister, Bean. (That's not her REAL name. It's just a nickname. Her real name is Jaymison McSnottypants-Buttheadface.)

She's a brat.


That face isn't so much the exception. It would be much more of a rule.

Oh yeah, she's also married... and younger than me. All at the same time, but whatever. I'm not bitter. She's taller than me, thinner than me, better endowed in the chest area, and bitchy to the extreme (WHAT?! You are!) BUT! to the untrained eye, we totally look like twins.

See:

SLRd (me)	Bean (her)

Ohhh! Guess who's sluttier! GUESS! (If you said me you're a prick.)

I know what you're thinking. THAT IS THE EXACT SAME IMAGE! However! It isn't true. I'm sure if I hadn't labeled our pictures and told you she was the married one you wouldn't have known. You would have accused me of such wrong-doing as using... the.. exact same picture. This is because I know you, Internet, and you are a harsh and judgemental bitch. Petty even. But I promise you on all this bloggity holiness that those are two drastically different individuals in those pictures. And I purport that I am the better dresser. I'm just saying.

Also, a side note to her husband, this is NOT a face you can ever hope to see again:


See, because she's married she doesn't have to do that anymore. Tiff said so.

But I digress.

The reason I went through all the trouble of giving you an intimate look at the Beanie to the Weinie is because she has provided us with an unpresidented opportunity. An opportunity to go on an adventure, dear reader(s)! An adventure THROUGH TIME. Would you do that with me? Would you like to travel back a few years to the ONLY NIGHT IN MY ENTIRE LIFE that I may not entirely remember? The only night that when regaled by hilarious quotes and reminisced witty banter I routinely laugh heartily before asking, "who said that?"

The answer is always me.

Now, rather than spending the last 300+ words making fun of her, I could have just rewritten her blog entry over here, but she used such pretty (obnoxious) colors, I thought, "what the hell?" Not to mention this was so much more fulfilling.

SHE'S A LADY WHOA WHOA WHOA

When I got back from working out you know what I wanted? Huh? Can you guess? Water, you say? Um, well, yes, but after that. A massage? Oh. Oh, you are good. Well played my dear adversary, but you're still wrong.

I decided I wanted a good, ole, steaming cup of tea.

But not just any tea. No, because last time I went to the grocery store I splurged. Because it was free. And I bought myself some Lady Grey, because sometimes an Earl is just too much. No, sometimes you just need a delightfully robust Lady to really get the juices flowing.

Me. Ow.

IS IT THE WEEKEND YET?

The weekend was a bust kids. I sort of feel like it didn't even happen.

I didn't go into this weekend thinking it would suck great big donkey balls. No, I went into this weekend thinking I had plans Saturday. Plans that involved a bar and some shameless, drunk flirting and a designated driver in the form of the Distraction, because it was his best friend's birthday.

There was no bar.

(There wasn't really much flirting either. Bastard.)

No, instead we went to the Distraction's best friend's (here after known as DBF) coworker's house. Where they talked about work. THE WHOLE TIME. Which, um, yay beer? But HOLY FREAKING GOD PEOPLE. Nobody, absolutely nobody in the history of the world is that interested in what they do and what they "do" is work for Macy's in the credit department or some such shit.

Now, I would LIKE to be liked by the Distraction's friends because to be such increases the chances of hanging out, but I find DBF frustrating in that he's a very one-sided conversationalist. If we aren't talking about him or if he isn't the center and the glory of the conversation, he glowers.

This annoys me. Particularly since I know that to be a good conversationalist, it is recommended you ASK THE OTHER PERSON SOME QUESTIONS or, at the very least, appear somewhat interested when they do dare to open their mouths.

I'm just saying.

And I have tried to engage him. I really have. The first night I met him I was content to ask question after question and listen raptly as he told me of his bouncer hijinks but come Saturday, even the Distraction was bored as evidence by the text he sent me that said, quite simply, "boring."

A TALE OF TWO MATT'S

"Men can lactate."

"No."

"Yes. It's a sympathy reaction in some men."

"No way. No man is that sympathetic."

"Not a straight guy at least. I wonder if that is a sign you're gay?"

"No. I think liking men is a sign you're gay."

A WORK IN PROGRESS/UPDATING AS IT HAPPENS

After drinking really expensive scotch:

"It's like if a briquette had a rectum and you licked it."

* * *

"Fanny in England means vagina."

"So why does it mean butt here? How did we get that so screwed up?"

"Knickers means underwear."

"No, that's bloomers. No wait. Those are those things with the elastic around the knee women used to wear under their dresses."

"And those were underwear."

"Roomy underwear!"

"What? You don't like roomy underwear?"

"I do! Heh. Wouldn't it be funny if I just dropped trow and was wearing bloomers?"

* * *

"You know what would make you feel better, Matt? If A had some scotch."

"But I don't want any scotch."

"But look at it. It likes you. It doesn't swirl like that for just anybody."

"It's trying to seduce you."

* * *

"Ohh! What if you soaked a steak in the scotch?!"

"It would no longer exist."

* * *

"Okay, what are you doing? I'm bored."

"We're sitting around talking about UFC and how my sister shamed me."

"Um.. yeah.. fun."

"Well, if you come over you have to drink scotch."

"DEAL. Wait. Let me ask Not Girlfriend."

"Oh my God, you're whipped!"

* * *

"It tastes like they distilled a tire fire."

* * *

"You should pet my fuzzy thing."

AND BINGO WAS HIS NAME-O

Tonight I skipped working out to go to the grocery store. This seemed like a good idea, particularly because the ingredients used in the last four meals I've "made" myself consist of bread in varying degrees of toastedness and peanutbutter.

There may even have been jelly used on one occasion but, alas, that too was in short supply.

So to the grocery store I went for the first time in numerous days (10. Ish.) and oh. I was a greedy little shit. I got just over $100 in groceries. Guess how much I paid? Just over $1. NO, I DIDN'T STEAL IT.

You see, this weekend my work had a really boring employee picnic. At said picnic there was BINGO and I did my damnedest to make my Grandma proud. At the picnic I won an envelope full of gift certificates to Krogers and while they were probably supposed to go to more than one person, their loss was my gain.

God, this post is going no where fast.

BUT! I did find out that Zanarans black beans and rice is some tasty shit. Even if it did pass it's use by date a couple of months ago.

Uch. Alright, I'm bailing now before this can get any worse. Maybe you should suggest topics again. Like "most embarrassing moment" or "first kiss" or "when can I take you out for a romantic rendezvous". Yup.

ISH

Friends, family, and stalkers. Dear, sweet, gentle reader(s) of my blog, I need your help to prove a point.

A good few of you have already weighed in on this debate but alas, it still rages. You see, the Distraction, he has this pesky little belief that is WRONGWRONGWRONG. And I, being the good and gracious person that I am, want to rub his nose in it.

The Distraction believes to the very fiber of his being that if he tells me he'll be somewhere at, oh lets say 11:30, and then throws an "ish" onto the end, that gives him leeway to be upwards of 40 M-I-N-U-T-E-S late. FOURTY. Four. Zero. I ascertain that "ish" equals 20 minutes, tops. Twenty. Two. Zero. As in HALF of what he thinks it should mean.

And that, dear reader, is where you come in. How much time does "ish" really give you?

Also, the Distraction has started to tell me that UFC is fake (WHICH IT SO TOTALLY IS NOT) because he likes watching me snivel and whine about it and also, he's an asshole. And now I have to go take a nap so I'm in a (somewhat) pleasant mood when he comes over to hang out after he gets off work tonight.

FOR MICHAEL DIAL 001# NOW ON YOUR TOUCH TONE PHONE

As fate would have it, I owe Michael a blog entry. Among other things. And, truth be told, a blog entry from me is like sexual favors because one mention on this bad boy and the lady friends will be lining up DOWN THE BLOCK, that is the sort of clout I have around up this joint.

Word.

And you know what potential lady friends of Michael the Great, the Stud, the MAN? It is a well known fact that smart is the new sexy and the Man? He has brains out the ass. He probably qualifies for MENSA but don't let that fool you. He's not one of those assholes who has to prove himself to others by talking down to them. No, no, the man is suave. He's smooth like butter without the greasy feel.

And easy on the eyes! He's tall and lean, like a love machine and Michael the Magnificent has a face that could launch a thousand ships, which, lets be honest, wars have been started over less ladies. But fret not. The man has time for all of his new beautiful girlfriends. Able to satisfy ALL of his charges with just enough time left over for cuddles and talking about his feelings.

And does he ever have feelings. He's open and sweet and caring and he'll make you feel like a queen.

Did I mention he's loaded? Oh, don't you let that grad school persona fool you. He's recently come into a multi-billion dollar inheritance and he would love nothing more than to spend the money on you and saving the penguins.

His tears cure cancer and he can stop global warming with his smile. The sun shines because Michael the Luxurious says it should be so.

And he could be yours for the low, low price of five easy payments of $19.99 each.

REINVENTING BRAND LOYALTY

I want to marry whoever came up with this website. I have not laughed this hard in a long, long time.

NOTE: This is NOT work appropriate. That means you, dear sister.

LONG STORY SHORT, I HURT MY FOOT

It is not unusual for me to drop things. My keys mostly but I've branched out. I've even dropped things like my cell phone, cups, eggs, and knives and usually quite close to my beloved tootsies. Yet, despite quite the list of sharp and/or dangerous falling within a hair's-breath of my feet, I am thankfully without scarring or a pronounced limp.

This is because as a sort of necessity against my own apparent lack of coordination, I, subconsiously, have developed a defense mechanism against such folly. I'm a very freaking quick to get my foot the hell out of the way. Seriously, though. It's almost comical to watch me kick the impending victim my leg out of the way the instant something begins to slip from my grasp.

Unfortunately, I found out on Thursday, I apparently have to be watching it fall to beget the required reaction.

Now close your eyes and come on a magical journey with me through time to Thursday morning as I was all naked and wet in the shower. The water cascaded down in thick, steamy streams as I lathered my hair as is my wont. Having had AT LEAST 15 years experience taking showers, it isn't common that something as trivial as soap gets in my eyes, nor did it this day because I closed them. "Go you", you might be saying to yourself (either that or "big freaking deal") but alas that was only the first is a not-so-long line of cause and effect.

It was about the time that I shut my eyes tight that I discovered I had not the significant amount of lather in my hair. So I reached out, clumsy and blind to grab at the shampoo.

Yeah, I knocked my conditioner off the shelf. Demon bottle landed TIP DOWN on the top of my innocent foot, causing a slight welt and a bruise that I have since developed the annoying habit of knocking into with my other foot while I sleep.

I know you all think I have this rough and tough exterior and that I could probably take a bullet without so much as flinching, but it's just not true (and really, this super hero worshipping has got to stop). I whined and whimpered like the sissy little girl I am and I even created this LONG ASS BLOG ENTRY over something as dumb as dropping something on my foot. While I was naked. In the shower.

What? Why are you looking at me that way? Ew. Stop it. STOP LEERING AT ME! WHAT MAKES YOU THINK THAT IS OKAY BEHAVIOR BEFITTING OF A LADY?!!! Why are you laughing? Stop laughing!!!

Pervs.

LAME BUT UPDATED

My apartment is FAH-REE-ZING. Why don't you turn on the heat you suggest? Because my heat is connected to the whole building so the landlord has to do it and he informed me Wednesday that on Thursday they would either turn it on for the year or DETERMINE IF IT NEEDED REPLACED.

Blink. Blink, blink.

And now I ask you, why was this not done BEFORE it got to be 41 degress IN MY APARTMENT?! My appendages might FREEZE. OFF.

WTF, dude?!

Oh, also, one of the screws that holds my toilet seat on is broken.

* * *

Last night my buddy's wife was making us all cake when his brother showed up and spewed this little gem: "Oh, you want that butter soft? I'll make it soft for you.... You won't still want it."


And then later, this one: "I gave you a perfectly good tag line and--"

"It was dirty!"

(Shocked, gapping-mouthed silence) "It was dirty?! Coming from you?! You're one towel away from becoming a pornographer!"


Asshole. I used a pink heart to cover up his cash and prizes, too.

* * *

This made me giggle. I heart the hat.

MAKING THE RIGHT CHOICE FOR RIGHT NOW

I'm giving up men.

Not entirely, mind you. I'm thinking a month to start off with. Because as much as I want to be okay with things, I'm not completely okay. And I know I will be but right now? All of this? It makes me angry. And it makes me frustrated and I feel hurt and yeah, even used.

Part of it might be hormonal. Actually, you know what? Yes. Yes, I can guarantee you part of this is hormonal, which bahh. WE'VE BEEN OVER THIS.

I think the biggest thing driving this decision is that I haven't been making the best choices for ME, right now, at this moment. And they haven't been BAD choices, just not the right ones or the best ones, and I'm emotionally drained from being angry at the outcome and angry with the people involved.

So for now I'm retreating, rallying the troups, regrouping for another charge. Because it's the smart thing to do. And it's the right thing to do. But it really sucks to do because temptation is an ugly bitch, and god am I tempted.


(On the plus side, I'm actually allowing myself to get angry rather than hiding how I feel and letting it fester and infect me until it presents itself as depression, so... go me.)

AND THE WEINER IS...

Michael!

You realize that with the w(e)inn(er)ing of my contest, you will be blessed with good luck and lots of amorous, pert women who will litter your bed with conquests?

OR

The OTHER great prizes you were promised for participating which are (in order of importance):

1. My love and adoration


2. Use of tagline on THIS VERY BLOG for the rest of THIS VERY MONTH


3. A nice entry written about you (that doesn't involve the earnings of college moneys in raunchy ways) that you can print and frame and hang on your wall so people realize you are friends with ME


4. An autographed dollar in the shape of an armadillo

All of which will happen later. Except the tagline usage, which is actually already happening. See: above.


So, yay Michael and thank you everyone else for playing along! For those of you distraught about not winning, there shall be more games later. Because I'm an attention whore.

IT WASN'T A DATE

We crept through the haunted house (themed with clowns, which, ew) with obnoxious 3D glasses that made the Distraction look like a lame superhero. I was so intent on making my way through the warped mirrors I didn't notice the Distraction mouthing to the creature sneaking up behind us to get me.

I screamed bloody murder, startling the older women ahead of us, before doubling over into a fit of giggles.

Those same older women also laughed at me for saying, and I quote, "Hold my hand, goddamnit," to the Distraction about halfway through. Right about the same time we were accosted by a CREEPY-ASS CLOWN, and I am not a fan of the clown in the BEST of circumstances, thankyouverymuch.

I also clung to the back of the Distraction's shirt as we felt our way through a choking, smoke-filled shack where he almost whacked his head on, well, a decapitated head hanging from the ceiling.

Ohhh! And there was definately the having of the cotton candy. Which he paid for.

But it wasn't a date. I asked.

"No." He glanced quickly in my direction. "Yes? I don't know! WHY DO GIRLS ALWAYS HAVE TO LABEL EVERYTHING?!"

I laughed maniacally, "Well, I have to know, because if it IS a date, it would be a first date, and that means I can't put out."

He eyed me suspiciously.

I punched my leg in self-righteous indignation. "It's the PRINCIPLE of the thing," I declared. "Besides, that would make me a whore."

I think it was about that time he realized I was kidding.

He looked at me, a bemused smile on his face. "So you can put out if it's not a date?"

I laughed.

"Yup," he said, "definately not a date."



The coolest thing I saw all night was a skeleton doing a keg-stand while his decomposed buddy bonged a beer out of a spine. HIGH CLASS.

ICKY-CREEP-OUT-FREAK-OUT

Yeah, yeah. I know I said I was going to leave the TAGLINE post up until Friday but I LIED! I realize you're shocked and appalled but I'm fairly convinced you'll get the hell over it.

Now, many, many, many, as in most if not all of you are WELL aware that I am easily startled. So easily, it isn't really even a challenge. So easily, YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE TO BE TRYING. So easily that if you MERELY STANDING where I do not expect you to be, I WILL scream and do my icky-creep-out-freak-out, which may or may not involve jumping in the air and the flailing of arms and legs because, when I'm startled, I seem to lose control of fine muscle movements and SPASM. It's an awesome party trick. See: Back when I was in the old house, and Eric and I used to hang out a lot more than we do now, he was talking to me in my bedroom before I kicked him out so I could change. Like any NORMAL PERSON would, I assumed he WENT THE HELL DOWNSTAIRS AND WAS NOT GOING TO JUMP OUT AT ME UNEXPECTEDLY (even though after the fact, I'm fairly certain I could HEAR HIM OUT THERE).

He jumped out and then collapsed to the ground as I screamed BLOODY EFFING MURDER and swung my shoes into his chest.

It's a shame they weren't heels.

Ahh, but here's the rub. I actually LIKE being startled. It's a jolt to my system, it gets the juices flowing, it makes me feel alive in a way that normal life just doesn't. And.. it's funny, which you know I'm all for.

And that, my dear reader(s), is why I'm so bloody, freaking excited. Not only is this wonderly delicious month the month of ghoulish horrors, when it's permissible and sometimes even encouraged to creep and scare and lose your shit, but tomorrow night the Distraction and I are going to the Halloween Haunt at Kings Island. Roller coasters and haunted houses all rolled into one and delivered to me in the shimmering darkness and (hopefully) crisp chill of a brilliant October night.

I am nearly orgasmic with excitement.