Good thing I don't own a gun or I'd be laying waste to several people right now. Mainly the pressure washers outside who didn't deem it important to inform me that they were about to clean the outside of the building and subsequently soak my balcony. When I went out to smoke and saw, I got the bag of charcoal we had out there beside the grill (now wet on one side), my glass candleholder thing, and pissed.
Then, the dumbass with the hose climbs a ladder and puts himself on MY FREAKING BALCONY. I don't know he's there until he is shooting water inside my house through the crack in the French doors. I run over and lock the door cause these goobers are so supremely unprofessional, I don't put it past him to walk in and open up my fridge to see what's for lunch.
When I hear him stop spraying for a moment, I venture outside to smoke again and find that he's now turned over my grill and knocked all the effin charcoal out. Plus, handy that MY chair was on MY balcony so that he could have somewhere to stash his FKIN dirty ass tools.
THEN to top 'er all off, while I'm standing there on MYMYMYMYMY balcony where I go to smoke because I don't smoke in MY friggin house cause that's MY MFIN prerogative, he climbs back up the ladder and onto my balcony beside me, turns the damned hose back on and starts spraying away...WHILE I'M STANDING THERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I am f***ing livid right now.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
McBlog
At my house, we prefer to get our morning news from Robin Meade. It wasn't always so. Brad was always watching Soledad O'Brien and Miles O'Brien, no relation. I can't stand them. So, I'd always flip over to Robin. She's funny, she's bright-n-smiley and she says "Good Mornin', Sunshine!" I promise you that she's the only one who would say that to my grouchy ass in the morning, and its nice to hear. Brad finally bent to my will and now loves her, too because she is Playboy-centerfold hot. (I think in recent years all that hotness is maintained by countless dollars in plastic surgery, but whatever. Media's hard) While watching the lovely (and increasingly less animated) Robin this morning, I bore witness to a story that nearly made my brain activity come to a screeching halt.
Read the story at CNN
The new Mirriam-Webster dictionary includes the word:
McDonald's has gone and lost their damned minds over it. They claim it is insulting to the people who work in the fast-food industry. They want it removed from the dictionary.
For one thing, Mickey D's, the thing that is probably MOST insulting to the people who work in the fast-food industry is how little they are paid. Look...it's right there in the definition!
And for another thing, since when can a corporation, or anyone for that matter, protest the inclusion of a word in the dictionary? What the hell is that about? Is McDonald's a vocabulary authority all of a sudden? Are we only going to record our history, culture and language in a way in which McDonald's approves? If we allow this to happen, what's next?
I'll tell you. Fat people will protest the word "fat". It's offensive to them and obviously needs to be removed from the dictionary. (I think I could get behind this movement, myself.) Whiny people will oppose the word "whiny". It offends them, and, well...they're whiny. Whores will protest the word "whore", bitches, the word "bitch", and skanks the word "skank". If a word like "skank" can be in the dictionary, why not McJob? The dictionary shouldn't have to be politically correct. It should just be. I'm not saying that the American vocabulary hasn't taken a steep decline. It is what it is, though.
Later, while I was Simming in a world I can make sense of, President Bush held a press conference in the Rose Garden. I presume it was for something important and Iraq or nookyuler-related, but all I really caught was the part of the conversation that was about beef. It struck me funny, I guess. Something about opening up the beef market to some other country. I can't even find a story about that particular moment in the press conference to bring you any solid information on what the eff he was talking about. His pro-beef argument was something like "They'll like it. It's good for them." What?
Also big news today, the knock-down-drag-out between Rosie O'Donnell and Elisabeth Hasselbeck on "The View". I don't watch "The View". But I SOOOO wish I had've been yesterday. Brad says its like wrestling for women. I suppose.
I reckon that's all for now. Working on a man blog, girly-girls. ;)
Read the story at CNN
The new Mirriam-Webster dictionary includes the word:
McJob
(mek jäb') n. a low-paying job that requires little skill and provides little opportunity for advancementMcDonald's has gone and lost their damned minds over it. They claim it is insulting to the people who work in the fast-food industry. They want it removed from the dictionary.
For one thing, Mickey D's, the thing that is probably MOST insulting to the people who work in the fast-food industry is how little they are paid. Look...it's right there in the definition!
And for another thing, since when can a corporation, or anyone for that matter, protest the inclusion of a word in the dictionary? What the hell is that about? Is McDonald's a vocabulary authority all of a sudden? Are we only going to record our history, culture and language in a way in which McDonald's approves? If we allow this to happen, what's next?
I'll tell you. Fat people will protest the word "fat". It's offensive to them and obviously needs to be removed from the dictionary. (I think I could get behind this movement, myself.) Whiny people will oppose the word "whiny". It offends them, and, well...they're whiny. Whores will protest the word "whore", bitches, the word "bitch", and skanks the word "skank". If a word like "skank" can be in the dictionary, why not McJob? The dictionary shouldn't have to be politically correct. It should just be. I'm not saying that the American vocabulary hasn't taken a steep decline. It is what it is, though.
Later, while I was Simming in a world I can make sense of, President Bush held a press conference in the Rose Garden. I presume it was for something important and Iraq or nookyuler-related, but all I really caught was the part of the conversation that was about beef. It struck me funny, I guess. Something about opening up the beef market to some other country. I can't even find a story about that particular moment in the press conference to bring you any solid information on what the eff he was talking about. His pro-beef argument was something like "They'll like it. It's good for them." What?
Also big news today, the knock-down-drag-out between Rosie O'Donnell and Elisabeth Hasselbeck on "The View". I don't watch "The View". But I SOOOO wish I had've been yesterday. Brad says its like wrestling for women. I suppose.
I reckon that's all for now. Working on a man blog, girly-girls. ;)
Night Owls (with no life like me)
Maroon 5 on SNL tonight. :) No, it won't be any funnier than usual. Only sexier.
Oh, and...
Today is my baby brother, Steve's 26th birthday. Woohoo! Happy Birthday Steve-o! Go to his page and wish him a happy b-day. Do it for Adam Levine. j/k
Holy Crap
Adam Levine is so nummy.
(Check me out....finishing a blog I started weeks ago! Go, me!)
OK. I was watching VH1 this morning, like the old person that I am. They played the Maroon 5 video that I was harping about a couple weeks ago. I thought "Oh, hey...I should maybe finish the blog about him. Damn, he's hot. Stop grinding coffee beans, Brad, so I can immerse myself in his sexiness."
I didn't collect a ton of pics on this one. He's hard to find solo. And I don't want to spend a lot of time elaborating on why he's so...delicious. Cause you can kind of see that for yourself.
Former dork, super skinny, occasionally sings in a high falsetto a la Jordan Knight. Talks filth. Probably his bark is much worse than his bite. But I wouldn't mind finding out for myself.
Enjoy. I will do better next time. Promise. Thanks for playing. ;)
(Check me out....finishing a blog I started weeks ago! Go, me!)
OK. I was watching VH1 this morning, like the old person that I am. They played the Maroon 5 video that I was harping about a couple weeks ago. I thought "Oh, hey...I should maybe finish the blog about him. Damn, he's hot. Stop grinding coffee beans, Brad, so I can immerse myself in his sexiness."
I didn't collect a ton of pics on this one. He's hard to find solo. And I don't want to spend a lot of time elaborating on why he's so...delicious. Cause you can kind of see that for yourself.
Former dork, super skinny, occasionally sings in a high falsetto a la Jordan Knight. Talks filth. Probably his bark is much worse than his bite. But I wouldn't mind finding out for myself.
Enjoy. I will do better next time. Promise. Thanks for playing. ;)
Ladies...all the Ladies
Even though it's bitterly cold and raining, I feel like summer inside. So, kicking off this year's summer men will be Adam Levine. From Maroon 5. Click the link below to watch the new video, and begin lusting with me. Cause that's what it's all about. I am collecting pictures to share with you this week.
Love to all!
No Clear Message
--If one buys into the Theory of Supply and Demand, then one can only assume that the only people demanding to buy shoes at WalMart are hookers and elderly women. Why am I shoe shopping at WalMart? Cause I had nothing better to do, and that is a serious declaration, right there. Anyway...my choices are six-inch high heels or six-inch wide heels. Oh, and if I look long enough, I might happen across a clear pair with clear six-inch heels that flash when I walk. That's really gonna come in handy, you know? Nothing worse than being plowed by a moving vehicle while trying to make a little money working the corner of 5th and Grand. If my shoes light up as I sashay about, I can probably write those off on my taxes as safety gear required by my profession. Cha-ching!
--Have you been watching the news? I am so excited about the election next year that I could just pee myself. Who's vying for the Democratic nomination? A Latino, an African-American, and a WOMAN(among others who really don't count, as I'm sure will be proven in time)! To avoid the risk of having myself run out of my conservative state on a flaming pole, I'm not telling who I'm rooting for. In fact, as a woman in the state of Alabama, I'm not sure it's acceptable for me to have political opinions. I just do what Jon Stewart tells me to. In fact, I think I'm voting for Jon Stewart. Will he make a better president than Dubya? Doubtful. But it'd sure be a helluva lot more entertaining.
--I bought a copy of In Touch Weekly. Apparently, I had extra neurons firing with all the political news, so I felt the need to bed some of them back down. OK, so, like JT and Cam are totally over, and now In Touch wants to know who we (their loyal readers) think is best for Justin.
Option A) Scarlett Johansson
Option B) Cameron Diaz
Option C) Kate Hudson
OK, folks...giving this matter all the serious thought it deserves...let's break it down:
Scarlett is obviously the right choice. She's young, she's hot, she's not a bed-hopping starlet. She's so gorgeous, even Isaac Mizrahi couldn't keep his hands off her, and I would wager he's not into the female anatomy so much. Justin has already co-habitated with Cameron Diaz, and that didn't work out, so I'm not sure why she's even an option. Ever the romantics, In Touch Weekly. And, concerning Kate Hudson, that's gonna be an emphatic NO. I think Kate needs some anti-depressants, maybe and a little soul-searching, but I don't think a 20-something boyfriend is the answer. Muddies the thinking.
I can't believe I just spent more time debating who would best hump Justin Timberlake than I did discussing who might make a better president in 2008.
Also, of great import: Should Britney or K-Fed get custody of the kids? Now, THERE'S a coupla lousy candidates...
OK, I'm bored with myself now. Love you guys.
--Have you been watching the news? I am so excited about the election next year that I could just pee myself. Who's vying for the Democratic nomination? A Latino, an African-American, and a WOMAN(among others who really don't count, as I'm sure will be proven in time)! To avoid the risk of having myself run out of my conservative state on a flaming pole, I'm not telling who I'm rooting for. In fact, as a woman in the state of Alabama, I'm not sure it's acceptable for me to have political opinions. I just do what Jon Stewart tells me to. In fact, I think I'm voting for Jon Stewart. Will he make a better president than Dubya? Doubtful. But it'd sure be a helluva lot more entertaining.
--I bought a copy of In Touch Weekly. Apparently, I had extra neurons firing with all the political news, so I felt the need to bed some of them back down. OK, so, like JT and Cam are totally over, and now In Touch wants to know who we (their loyal readers) think is best for Justin.
Option A) Scarlett Johansson
Option B) Cameron Diaz
Option C) Kate Hudson
OK, folks...giving this matter all the serious thought it deserves...let's break it down:
Scarlett is obviously the right choice. She's young, she's hot, she's not a bed-hopping starlet. She's so gorgeous, even Isaac Mizrahi couldn't keep his hands off her, and I would wager he's not into the female anatomy so much. Justin has already co-habitated with Cameron Diaz, and that didn't work out, so I'm not sure why she's even an option. Ever the romantics, In Touch Weekly. And, concerning Kate Hudson, that's gonna be an emphatic NO. I think Kate needs some anti-depressants, maybe and a little soul-searching, but I don't think a 20-something boyfriend is the answer. Muddies the thinking.
I can't believe I just spent more time debating who would best hump Justin Timberlake than I did discussing who might make a better president in 2008.
Also, of great import: Should Britney or K-Fed get custody of the kids? Now, THERE'S a coupla lousy candidates...
OK, I'm bored with myself now. Love you guys.
Why am I still awake?
I have nothing to say, really. That makes me very sad. Just sort of wanted to share some pics and possibly a few rambling thoughts. The weather's making me cloudy, and I think I need some pills. Or maybe just some sunshine. Whatever...
My kid is so cute. And that's all I have to say about that. Obviously taken Christmas morning...he was so funny. When he dumped out his stocking, he rifled through the loot and then said "Not a single lump of coal!" How cute is that? I'll kill you over him...
My cousins, Shereela and Dewayne on Christmas night. Shereela is going to have a small fit when she sees I've posted this. And probably an even larger one when she sees this:
I don't know what Brad's doing there...being silly. We were all chock-full of holiday cheer. I still haven't taken down my Christmas tree. I'm thinking of throwing a blanket over it and calling it a sculpture.
My kid is so cute. And that's all I have to say about that. Obviously taken Christmas morning...he was so funny. When he dumped out his stocking, he rifled through the loot and then said "Not a single lump of coal!" How cute is that? I'll kill you over him...
My cousins, Shereela and Dewayne on Christmas night. Shereela is going to have a small fit when she sees I've posted this. And probably an even larger one when she sees this:
I don't know what Brad's doing there...being silly. We were all chock-full of holiday cheer. I still haven't taken down my Christmas tree. I'm thinking of throwing a blanket over it and calling it a sculpture.
I was going to load a picture that I took of the moon with a halo around it on New Year's Eve here, but:
1. It's on my phone, and I am tired of trying to make it work tonight(this morning?). Too technical for my way exhausted brain to figure out how to hack my Razr right now.
2. I think the halo didn't show up in the pic. I couldn't get far enough back to capture it really. Also, I was so very, very, (there's not a word to even do it justice), drunk on New Year's I'm not quite sure there was, in fact, a halo around the moon. Really...super stumbling, floating, eye-jarring, purple-tongue, slurring, highly un-sexy, sloppy sloshed. It was a good night.
1. It's on my phone, and I am tired of trying to make it work tonight(this morning?). Too technical for my way exhausted brain to figure out how to hack my Razr right now.
2. I think the halo didn't show up in the pic. I couldn't get far enough back to capture it really. Also, I was so very, very, (there's not a word to even do it justice), drunk on New Year's I'm not quite sure there was, in fact, a halo around the moon. Really...super stumbling, floating, eye-jarring, purple-tongue, slurring, highly un-sexy, sloppy sloshed. It was a good night.
Moving on...
I thought it was cool. Extremely foggy, and all the twinkly lights. No, I wasn't drunk...I don't think...
We've been having some spectacular sunsets lately. Imagine this one without all the phone/power lines. So, I'm not a great photographer. I don't aspire towards that. Revel in the beauty and tune out the reality. That's what I try to do.
I thought it was cool. Extremely foggy, and all the twinkly lights. No, I wasn't drunk...I don't think...
We've been having some spectacular sunsets lately. Imagine this one without all the phone/power lines. So, I'm not a great photographer. I don't aspire towards that. Revel in the beauty and tune out the reality. That's what I try to do.
Happy Halloween, I guess?
When I was a teenager and a young 20-something, I was pretty heavy into horror movies. I will still watch any of the "Scream" Trilogy to this day. However, with the addition of a child to my life, getting older, and taking a husband who will not watch horror movies, my tolerance for them has lessened. Now, only at Halloween time do I make a dalliance into the horror genre. I'm just that into holidays, so sue me. I also have fake spider web draped across my bar.
As I get older, and the age of the actors in horror movies stays the same, I find them difficult to watch because it makes me scared for my child to leave the house. As if the news isn't effective enough at achieving that end. All the horror movies I have watched in my day have caused me to have the following hang-ups:
1. I can't get into my vehicle alone at night without turning on all the interior lights and checking every crevice to make sure a psycho killer with a knife hasn't somehow sneaked his/her/its way into my locked car and is waiting patiently for my arrival so they can stab me through the seat/slice my throat/chloroform me so they can torture me in a remote location before slashing me. Not to mention, the sound of my own footsteps at night always makes me think that someone is right behind me.
2. My husband can't understand why I lock the bathroom door when we are home alone and I am taking a shower. Well, because I've seen Psycho, and locking the door is the only thing I find that will allow me to relax enough to bathe properly without worrying that after I wash my face and open my eyes, some loon dressed as his dead mother will be standing there waiting to bleed me down the shower drain. That's a reasonable concern, right?
3. I am not able to sleep in a room with an open closet door. And it isn't good enough to get up in the dark to shut the door. Oh, no! The light must be turned back on, the closet fully inspected (clothes beaten, moved aside, etc), door shut, light off, back in bed. And then I'm still going to panic a little.
4. Anytime my son talks about anything that even sounds like an imaginary friend, I get totally scared for my baby. Yes, I am occasionally worried that some evil demon may try to possess my sweet boy, or that he's seeing things that I can't. Sixth Sense, anyone?
And you thought I was kidding when I said I was afraid of the dark...
So, my boss and everyone else at work is all into horror movies. They think me seriously deprived because I haven't seen Saw. Or Saw II. Or have any desire to see Saw III. First of all, when you talk about those movies, you have to say "Did you see Saw?" And the see-saw part of that throws me. I used to see-saw, sure. Secondly, I gain no joy level by watching people die grotesque deaths. It horrifies me, fittingly enough. And I don't want to invite horror to imprint itself upon my brain. I haven't seen The Grudge, The Exorcism of Emily Rose, Hostel, Silent Hill, The Hills Have Eyes, or Glitter.
I don't like being scared, basically. The whole adrenaline rush of being young and scared has passed through and out of my life. And, really, there are more worthy things to be horrified by. Children orphaned by AIDS in Africa, for example. Genocide, war, North Korea having nuclear capabilites, education standards in Alabama...
But, in keeping with the season, I borrowed a little film called "Wolf Creek" from my boss and did my level best to watch it Wednesday. Brad came in about the time I started watching and he sat down to try to suffer through it for me. It began innocently enough, as usual. Pretty Girl 1, Pretty Girl 2, and Pretty Boy (whom both Pretty Girls fancy) are driving across the Australian Outback, for some God-forsaken reason. Along the way is this giant crater called "Wolf Creek." I guess creek means something different to Aussies. The three corpses-waiting-to-happen get out of the car, high from the monster joint they just smoked and stretching, laughing and chasing each other around. They scale the crater, go down into it, smoke another joint, and generally celebrate their youth, beauty and altered state of mind. When it's time to get on with their journey to wherever the hell it was they were going in the first place, lo and behold, all watches have stopped and the car won't start. Whodathunkit?
Pretty Girls 1 and 2 soon discover that while Pretty Boy might be able to tell them the best self-tanner to use, he's useless when it comes to fixing a car. This was their first mistake. Everyone knows you don't road trip across the Outback with a man who can't tell a spark plug from a lugnut. Mistake Two: deciding to wait the night in the car, hoping someone will come along to rescue their stupid behinds. Because, you already know some crazy bushman is going to be the closest thing to a white knight you're likely to come across in the Official Freaking Geographical Middle of Nowhere. And you would be right.
Bushman arrives acting like he's a bit strung out. But the three geniuses find him entertaining and helpful. Bushman offers to repair the car, of course, but it'll have to wait till morning. They set up camp, everyone's sitting 'round the fire, having a chuckle and a drink that Bushman made. Duh.
Pretty Girl 1 awakens to find herself gagged, bound at the wrists and feet, and all alone. Quickly, she unties the gag. She rolls about on the grungy shed floor, bemoaning her unfortunate luck. Her eyes land on a shard of glass. She picks it up and starts sawing at the plastic wire tie around her wrists. When she frees her hands, she gets to work on her feet. Stepping out of the shed, she sees no one around. The car that was supposed to be repaired at this point is sitting under a lean-to with the engine completely disassembled on the ground. No hope, there! Unflappable, #1 dashes around the yard barefoot, looking for a way out. She finds a pair of boots and slips them on. As #1 is about to make her big break, she hears #2 scream!
#1 trips the light fantastic back across the mudhole of a yard to find #2 in a completely different shed, bloodied, tied to a pole and begging for her life.
At this point, Brad goes berserk. He tells me to turn it off, turn it off, you're a sick bitch, I don't want to watch that little girl get shot by that freak, what is wrong with you? This was unnecessary, really, as I was getting a little pissed with the movie, myself. But, it was time to drag out our well-worn arguement:
Brad--That's just sick! Why do you want to commit those images to your memory?
Betsy--I don't! But you can't tell me you don't have any desire to know what happens to that girl!
Brad--I can already tell you! She gets killed, then the other girl gets killed, and dude's already dead!
Betsy--OK, I don't really crave watching people die, but how is it that you always come off on me about horror movies, when you watch executions all the time on the History Channel, and frankly I think that's worse, cause those are real!
Brad--Well, fine...turn it back on, and let's see these girls get slaughtered, you sicko.
I decide to look through the scene selection, to see if our heroes actually make into some of the future scenes. All three are in scenes up till the very last scene.
Feeling smugly justified (and for what reason? I dunno), I turn the movie back on and wait for #1 to rescue #2, find Pretty (but useless) Boy and get the hell on with it. I was sorely disappointed. #1 DID rescue #2. She even shot Bushman in the neck. But, then...typical...the gun jams and girly doesn't know how to fix it, so she can't finish him off with the gun. She raises the gun over her head, and I'm getting all like "Yeah, you go, girl!", and then she brings the butt of the gun down on Bushman's back. HIS BACK! WTF? Smash his skull, you ding-dong! You even have on boots! Finish him! What a moron. I now feel like maybe this broad deserves to die to remove her dumb ass from the procreating population.
So, I won't go into any of the fine details, just suffice it to say that all of their efforts were for naught. After #1 and #2 meet their end, I turn the movie off, cause I really don't want to see anymore what happens to Pretty Boy. Depressing. Freddy Krueger was more fun. I want to see at least one person survive. And not the Bushman. Sigh...
Does anyone know of a horror movie that won't totally depress me? Something that's fun and scary and Halloween-ish, but not completely stupid and unjust? Do they even make horror movies like that anymore? I've seen all the Scary Movies. Number 4 was rubbish. Guess I just need to settle down with a good thriller, or maybe revisit Sidney, Gale and Dewey. I like the mind games, not the gore.
Gettin' Crazy with the Cheez Whiz
Sorry I am such a loser and haven't blogged lately. I have been working on the rest of the blogs about my birthday. I'm sure the interest in that has cooled considerably. I am still going to post them, they have just been incredibly time-consuming. Couple that with the fact that I'm having one of those anti-social/depressive moods kicking my butt the last couple of weeks, and you have a recipe for blogging disaster. I guess. What do I know?
Anyway. What are all of you up to lately? Gotta be more interesting that what I've been doing. I promise. It is PMS-time again, so maybe something will piss me off and drive me over the edge real soon.
Fingers crossed...
Love to all
You look like a monkey, and you smell like one, too
There's no way to condense this into one short, witty blog. And I don't wanna. The series of blogs you are about to find yourself reading (or choosing not to read, as the case may be) is going to be long. I think they will be interesting. But mainly, they are for me to look back on and remember my last 20-something birthday. It was an amazing trip. Let's start with:
Friday, September 8, 2006:
Woohoo! Happy Birthday to me! I slept a lot longer into my birthday than I wanted...but that's because I was at Wendy's a lot longer the night before than I wanted to be. In fact, work is where I began my birthday at 12:01 AM. I was there till 2. Anyway...rough night. So I slept in.
Day's Agenda:
--Haircuts
--Cliff's Grandparent's Day Party at school
--Go see Granny and Grandaddy
--Dinner with Brad
--Packing
--After dinner activities not to be discussed further
OK, so, first of all, my grandparents were up our arses about every 30 minutes...calling and wanting to know when we were getting there. I got up around 10 AM, and went with my mom to get our haircut. I got mine cut fairly short, and it's an adjustment after having long hair forever. But I think I am getting used to it...it's much easier to dry now, and that's always a plus. I think we got 2 calls from Granny, Grandaddy and company during this hour.
After haircuts, it was off to Cliff's school. I'm glad that my mom was here to be able to go to the party for him. Heaven knows none of his other grandparents showed. We had fun, and Cliff thought it was the most novel thing that we were visiting him at his school. Momma had some mixed nuts, Cliff had some chips and Sprite, and I had a sliver of cake that stopped just short of being transparent. Several text messages here from Shereela. Bless her heart, she just wanted to see my mom.
Brought Cliffy home from school, got his backpack and assorted school paraphenalia into the house, and I call Brad. He's going to be done with work around 6, and seeing as it's 3 pm now, we probably won't be back from Bryant (where my grandparents live) till after he needs to be picked up from work. I offer to drop the car at his store and leave the keys in the glove compartment, so that he may bring himself home when he's done. Momma and Errol follow me to drop the car. And then the birthday girl (read:me) does something so completely blonde, it's a damned shame that I'm not so I could blame it on being a blonde. I put BOTH CAR KEYS in the glove compartment (does anyone keep gloves in there, BTW?), and promptly lock the car doors, thus locking all the keys up tight inside the vehicle. I actually stopped in the parking lot, stock-still, like a freaking cartoon character, and realize what the hell I've just done. And then I start swearing. A lot. I call Brad and, surprisingly, his will alone isn't enough to make the car doors pop open.
Momma drives back over to my house, and I get a wire clothes hanger (no Mommie Dearest 'round here), and a phone book. Errol tries to pop the locks to no avail. Mind you, it's hotter than seven hundred hells. And I hate nothing worse than being hot. So, I'm ill as a hornet (as we say down South), and decide, screw it...I'm calling a locksmith. I do, and get all that arranged. Shereela calls while I'm waiting on the locksmith to get there and I think I said something like: "Dammit, I've locked the f**kin' keys in the car, and I can't leave till I get it open. I've called the locksmith and he's on the way, and everybody up there is just going to have to suck it up and wait till we friggin' get there! Sorry I've ruined everyone's damned day!"
While I'm waiting, and chain-smoking, to boot...a guy that Brad works with that we'll call "Funny Guy", pulls in and finds my dilemma quite amusing. He offers a hammer to smash in the window. I offer to smash in his skull with said hammer. He laughs. I think he thought I was kidding. The locksmith arrives and gets the car open (thank Heaven), and I get the keys out of the glove compartment, take one off and put it on my keyring, and slip the other under the driver's mat. Funny Guy yells to me "Make sure you don't lock the doors!" Guffaw, guffaw. I flip him off, get in Momma's car and off we go to Bryant. It's now after 4 pm.
Bryant, Alabama is somewhere on the other side of the world. Or, at least that's what it feels like when you are driving there from Fort Payne. Longest freaking day trip ever. When we finally pull in to my grandparent's drive, I see an unusual (to me...the car's normal, just wasn't my grandparent's) vehicle sitting in the yard. The Tennessee tag tells me all I need to know. It's my least favorite aunt in the whole world. And her daughter, my least favorite cousin. Awesome. They know I can't stand them, and they also know it's my birthday, and they ALSO know that my mom could've gone the rest of her life probably without laying eyes on them ever again. In fact, those are the exact reasons that they came. Bitches. Before I even get out of the car, I'm ready to head back to Fort Payne on foot if necessary just to not have these Hagathas ruin my birthday. Grrrr....
Granny and Grandaddy are as hospitable as always. Granny's cooked way too much food. Grandaddy pulls out all his puzzle toy things. They fight over Granny's smoking. They make me feel guilty for not visiting more. There're little kids underfoot everywhere...most of them mongrels. Shereela, Dewayne, and Keisha (my cousins) are the bright spot of the visit. They are all good kids, and fun to hang out with even though they are all in the throes of severe adolescence. I manage to be civil, if not polite, to my aunt and her vile offspring and her vile offspring's spawn. (I think that was pretty decent of me since bad behavior on one's birthday is lauded by my family.) They manage not to be the complete and utter psychos that they are for the half an hour it takes for me to make them feel uncomfortable enough to leave. Oh, hell, I'm just flattering myself, there. These nut-jobs have never picked up a hint in their lives. My side of the conversation mainly consisted of muffled grunts and raised eyebrows. Anyway, we somehow disentangle ourselves from the clan, and get out of there after a couple hours time.
Back to Fort Payne. I'm excited because Brad and I are going to go to dinner together kid-free. We don't get to do that a lot. Like ever. And I haven't seen my husband for more than 15 minutes a day in the weeks preceeding this event. We are as indecisive as always, and don't know what we want to do for dinner without the constraint of making sure chicken nuggets and french fries are on the menu. So, we decide to drive around for a bit on some backroads and think on it.
While tooling around somewhere close to Crossville, we see a small animal jet across the road. I recognize the ball of fur as a kitten and stop the car in the middle of the street. Brad, without saying a word, gets out and rescues the tiniest cat I have ever seen in my life. Poor little thing. She was scared to death. So, now we have a cat. We then decide to go to Mi Casita for dinner, so that we can nip out to the car to bring the new addition some Mexican goat cheese and water.
Normally, Mi Casita is one of the quietest places you can go to eat. The wait staff are wonderful people who never let your glass get more than half-empty, but otherwise leave you the hell alone. But, as luck would have it, now that Fort Payne has gone "wet", Mi Casita has "Open Mic Night" on Fridays. Hoop-dee-hoo! I love me some bad karaoke. And I wasn't disappointed. It was bad...real bad.
Apparently, the event hasn't really caught on yet, so the crowd consisted of: Karaoke Guy, Karaoke Guy's sullen girlfriend, Throaty Broad Chick who thinks she can sing, Throaty Broad Chick's Friend/Groupie, and Friend/Groupie's Mom. Mom and Friend/Groupie are done up in full denim finery. Friend/Groupie is dripping with gold jewelry and is perfectly manicured and flat-ironed. They are sitting at the booth directly behind ours getting loose on Silver Bullets. Karaoke Guy sets up Throaty Broad Chick to sing Faith Hill's "It Matters To Me." He says "This will show her true talent!" He wasn't kidding. Throaty Broad Chick then moans her way through the song, hitting notes that sound like they are coming from a motorcycle engine. At the end of the song, Friend/Groupie (who refuses to sing at the microphone, but sings loudly enough at her table so that she can be heard throughout the restaurant without the aid of amplification) says at the top range of her redneck voice, "That was great, girl! That was freakin' awesome!" I'm beginning to wonder if they are somehow related to Anna Nicole Smith. Mom then stands up in her booth and announces raucously "It's Open Mic Night at Mi Casita, and I am NOT going home! WOO!" The crowd WOO's back at her, and I look at Brad and try not to pee myself with joy that this scene is playing itself out in my presence.
Throaty Broad Chick decides to sing another, (be still my beating heart) but decides to sing something a little more male and a little more redneck. "Sweet Home Alabama" starts twanging through the speakers. Through her rockin' rendition, I am literally about to cry under the effort of not laughing. She bends and shimmies, and every once in a while, she twirls the mic like a lasso. It was priceless.
Alas, the novelty of the situation had worn thin. I went to the bathroom and saw so much body glitter on the floor around the toilet that I could no longer suffer the festivities with a straight face. We pay the bill and go out to the car to drive home.
Cliffy's still awake when we get here, so we tell him to come look at what we brought home. Brad has made the kitty some warm milk and egg, and she's hungrily lapping it up. Cliff comes around the corner of the kitchen and stops dead, slack-jawed. "It's a cat!", he says. "I knew I was going to get a pet!" We ask him what he wants to name her. He thinks about it for a while, and says he wants to name her "Cat Junior". Brad and I find that hilarious. My mom explains that Junior isn't really a girl's name, and asks Cliff if he would like to call her "Junie" for short. He is agreeable to this.
Everyone gets ready for bed. Momma, Errol and I have a long drive ahead of us in the morning.
Insert "after dinner activities not to be discussed further" here.
Saturday, September 9, 2006...coming soon.
Friday, September 8, 2006:
Woohoo! Happy Birthday to me! I slept a lot longer into my birthday than I wanted...but that's because I was at Wendy's a lot longer the night before than I wanted to be. In fact, work is where I began my birthday at 12:01 AM. I was there till 2. Anyway...rough night. So I slept in.
Day's Agenda:
--Haircuts
--Cliff's Grandparent's Day Party at school
--Go see Granny and Grandaddy
--Dinner with Brad
--Packing
--After dinner activities not to be discussed further
OK, so, first of all, my grandparents were up our arses about every 30 minutes...calling and wanting to know when we were getting there. I got up around 10 AM, and went with my mom to get our haircut. I got mine cut fairly short, and it's an adjustment after having long hair forever. But I think I am getting used to it...it's much easier to dry now, and that's always a plus. I think we got 2 calls from Granny, Grandaddy and company during this hour.
After haircuts, it was off to Cliff's school. I'm glad that my mom was here to be able to go to the party for him. Heaven knows none of his other grandparents showed. We had fun, and Cliff thought it was the most novel thing that we were visiting him at his school. Momma had some mixed nuts, Cliff had some chips and Sprite, and I had a sliver of cake that stopped just short of being transparent. Several text messages here from Shereela. Bless her heart, she just wanted to see my mom.
Brought Cliffy home from school, got his backpack and assorted school paraphenalia into the house, and I call Brad. He's going to be done with work around 6, and seeing as it's 3 pm now, we probably won't be back from Bryant (where my grandparents live) till after he needs to be picked up from work. I offer to drop the car at his store and leave the keys in the glove compartment, so that he may bring himself home when he's done. Momma and Errol follow me to drop the car. And then the birthday girl (read:me) does something so completely blonde, it's a damned shame that I'm not so I could blame it on being a blonde. I put BOTH CAR KEYS in the glove compartment (does anyone keep gloves in there, BTW?), and promptly lock the car doors, thus locking all the keys up tight inside the vehicle. I actually stopped in the parking lot, stock-still, like a freaking cartoon character, and realize what the hell I've just done. And then I start swearing. A lot. I call Brad and, surprisingly, his will alone isn't enough to make the car doors pop open.
Momma drives back over to my house, and I get a wire clothes hanger (no Mommie Dearest 'round here), and a phone book. Errol tries to pop the locks to no avail. Mind you, it's hotter than seven hundred hells. And I hate nothing worse than being hot. So, I'm ill as a hornet (as we say down South), and decide, screw it...I'm calling a locksmith. I do, and get all that arranged. Shereela calls while I'm waiting on the locksmith to get there and I think I said something like: "Dammit, I've locked the f**kin' keys in the car, and I can't leave till I get it open. I've called the locksmith and he's on the way, and everybody up there is just going to have to suck it up and wait till we friggin' get there! Sorry I've ruined everyone's damned day!"
While I'm waiting, and chain-smoking, to boot...a guy that Brad works with that we'll call "Funny Guy", pulls in and finds my dilemma quite amusing. He offers a hammer to smash in the window. I offer to smash in his skull with said hammer. He laughs. I think he thought I was kidding. The locksmith arrives and gets the car open (thank Heaven), and I get the keys out of the glove compartment, take one off and put it on my keyring, and slip the other under the driver's mat. Funny Guy yells to me "Make sure you don't lock the doors!" Guffaw, guffaw. I flip him off, get in Momma's car and off we go to Bryant. It's now after 4 pm.
Bryant, Alabama is somewhere on the other side of the world. Or, at least that's what it feels like when you are driving there from Fort Payne. Longest freaking day trip ever. When we finally pull in to my grandparent's drive, I see an unusual (to me...the car's normal, just wasn't my grandparent's) vehicle sitting in the yard. The Tennessee tag tells me all I need to know. It's my least favorite aunt in the whole world. And her daughter, my least favorite cousin. Awesome. They know I can't stand them, and they also know it's my birthday, and they ALSO know that my mom could've gone the rest of her life probably without laying eyes on them ever again. In fact, those are the exact reasons that they came. Bitches. Before I even get out of the car, I'm ready to head back to Fort Payne on foot if necessary just to not have these Hagathas ruin my birthday. Grrrr....
Granny and Grandaddy are as hospitable as always. Granny's cooked way too much food. Grandaddy pulls out all his puzzle toy things. They fight over Granny's smoking. They make me feel guilty for not visiting more. There're little kids underfoot everywhere...most of them mongrels. Shereela, Dewayne, and Keisha (my cousins) are the bright spot of the visit. They are all good kids, and fun to hang out with even though they are all in the throes of severe adolescence. I manage to be civil, if not polite, to my aunt and her vile offspring and her vile offspring's spawn. (I think that was pretty decent of me since bad behavior on one's birthday is lauded by my family.) They manage not to be the complete and utter psychos that they are for the half an hour it takes for me to make them feel uncomfortable enough to leave. Oh, hell, I'm just flattering myself, there. These nut-jobs have never picked up a hint in their lives. My side of the conversation mainly consisted of muffled grunts and raised eyebrows. Anyway, we somehow disentangle ourselves from the clan, and get out of there after a couple hours time.
Back to Fort Payne. I'm excited because Brad and I are going to go to dinner together kid-free. We don't get to do that a lot. Like ever. And I haven't seen my husband for more than 15 minutes a day in the weeks preceeding this event. We are as indecisive as always, and don't know what we want to do for dinner without the constraint of making sure chicken nuggets and french fries are on the menu. So, we decide to drive around for a bit on some backroads and think on it.
While tooling around somewhere close to Crossville, we see a small animal jet across the road. I recognize the ball of fur as a kitten and stop the car in the middle of the street. Brad, without saying a word, gets out and rescues the tiniest cat I have ever seen in my life. Poor little thing. She was scared to death. So, now we have a cat. We then decide to go to Mi Casita for dinner, so that we can nip out to the car to bring the new addition some Mexican goat cheese and water.
Normally, Mi Casita is one of the quietest places you can go to eat. The wait staff are wonderful people who never let your glass get more than half-empty, but otherwise leave you the hell alone. But, as luck would have it, now that Fort Payne has gone "wet", Mi Casita has "Open Mic Night" on Fridays. Hoop-dee-hoo! I love me some bad karaoke. And I wasn't disappointed. It was bad...real bad.
Apparently, the event hasn't really caught on yet, so the crowd consisted of: Karaoke Guy, Karaoke Guy's sullen girlfriend, Throaty Broad Chick who thinks she can sing, Throaty Broad Chick's Friend/Groupie, and Friend/Groupie's Mom. Mom and Friend/Groupie are done up in full denim finery. Friend/Groupie is dripping with gold jewelry and is perfectly manicured and flat-ironed. They are sitting at the booth directly behind ours getting loose on Silver Bullets. Karaoke Guy sets up Throaty Broad Chick to sing Faith Hill's "It Matters To Me." He says "This will show her true talent!" He wasn't kidding. Throaty Broad Chick then moans her way through the song, hitting notes that sound like they are coming from a motorcycle engine. At the end of the song, Friend/Groupie (who refuses to sing at the microphone, but sings loudly enough at her table so that she can be heard throughout the restaurant without the aid of amplification) says at the top range of her redneck voice, "That was great, girl! That was freakin' awesome!" I'm beginning to wonder if they are somehow related to Anna Nicole Smith. Mom then stands up in her booth and announces raucously "It's Open Mic Night at Mi Casita, and I am NOT going home! WOO!" The crowd WOO's back at her, and I look at Brad and try not to pee myself with joy that this scene is playing itself out in my presence.
Throaty Broad Chick decides to sing another, (be still my beating heart) but decides to sing something a little more male and a little more redneck. "Sweet Home Alabama" starts twanging through the speakers. Through her rockin' rendition, I am literally about to cry under the effort of not laughing. She bends and shimmies, and every once in a while, she twirls the mic like a lasso. It was priceless.
Alas, the novelty of the situation had worn thin. I went to the bathroom and saw so much body glitter on the floor around the toilet that I could no longer suffer the festivities with a straight face. We pay the bill and go out to the car to drive home.
Cliffy's still awake when we get here, so we tell him to come look at what we brought home. Brad has made the kitty some warm milk and egg, and she's hungrily lapping it up. Cliff comes around the corner of the kitchen and stops dead, slack-jawed. "It's a cat!", he says. "I knew I was going to get a pet!" We ask him what he wants to name her. He thinks about it for a while, and says he wants to name her "Cat Junior". Brad and I find that hilarious. My mom explains that Junior isn't really a girl's name, and asks Cliff if he would like to call her "Junie" for short. He is agreeable to this.
Everyone gets ready for bed. Momma, Errol and I have a long drive ahead of us in the morning.
Insert "after dinner activities not to be discussed further" here.
Saturday, September 9, 2006...coming soon.
Love is a Many Splendored Thing
I love my crazy-ass husband. He's not the most romantic guy...nor the sweetest...nor the most sensitive...but he is about as perfect a mate as I can imagine. I can say anything to him, and know that he will understand me fully, no matter how crazy the b-s is I'm babbling.
Other people...do NOT understand our relationship. All my girlfriends can't figure out why I talk to him on the phone so much. I just don't have quite as much to discuss with anyone else. Sometimes we talk like we're gangsters. Sometimes we bitch to each other. Sometimes we just share the line in silence. We talk about vacations we want to take, furniture we want to buy, why Cliff should get in bed earlier, the price of gas, current affairs, movies, television, music, and...just everything. We are absolutely each other's best friend. And I know without a doubt that he would tell you the same.
Just about every other couple we know fights on a regular basis. Brad and I hardly ever argue. We have pondered this at great length, and have come to the conclusion that the reason for our domestic bliss is that we work out our aggression through talking a constant stream of the most ridiculous crap to each other. An example: We moved the computer and computer desk into the living room from the bedroom last week. The conversation during this monumental undertaking went something like this: (Parental Advisory: Adult Language Follows) (Horrified For My Child Advisory: Cliff was asleep)
Brad: "It won't fit in that corner. It's all over the French doors. It's crazy. We can't do it"
Betsy: "Shut your hole. I know you're lying. Move this shit."
I walk in the living room to see the bottom half of the desk situated perfectly in the corner.
Brad: "Bitch."
Betsy: "Dickhead. I knew you were full of it."
Brad: "Shut up, whore, I'll haul all this shit to the dumpster."
Betsy: "I know I'll be hauling something down to the dumpster tonight."
Brad: "Mean bitch."
Betsy: "I don't think I can carry your dead carcass, so I'll just roll you down the stairs and then kick-roll you across the parking lot and just leave your dead ass lying in front of the dumpsters."
Brad: "I can actually see you doing that."
Betsy: "You won't feel a thing."
Brad: "I never did."
Betsy: "Kiss my ass."
Brad: "Who are you?"
Betsy: "F**k you."
Brad: "You crazy bitch. F**k you."
Betsy "I love you."
Brad: "I love you, too, you silly whore."
We finished putting the desk together and were laughing our stupid asses off the whole time. This entertains the crap out of us. My brother-in-law has actually threatened to tape our conversations (cause we don't hold back when we have company), and make a cartoon of us with our semi-violent ramblings as a soundtrack. I think that would be funny. I think other people would be slack-jawed at the seemingly hateful things we say to each other. That's just how we roll. And it is the secret to our rarely-explosive marriage.
I hope you enjoyed that as much as we did.
P.S. I'm at 932 views right now. Thanks to all! :))
One Track Mind
My mommy's coming! I haven't seen my mother for 2 years. That's insane! Well, we were supposed to go visit her for Christmas last year, but being the consummate losers that we are, couldn't save the money in time. So, it's not her fault it has been so long.
(OK, I have been stressing over this for months...am I using it's and its correctly?)
But she and her (boyfriend? I think they use "partner", but that carries a different connnotation in the US...), Errol are coming to visit, arriving in Atlanta this coming weekend. Why is there no "happy dance" emoticon? MySpace, you have failed me.
(OK, I have been stressing over this for months...am I using it's and its correctly?)
But she and her (boyfriend? I think they use "partner", but that carries a different connnotation in the US...), Errol are coming to visit, arriving in Atlanta this coming weekend. Why is there no "happy dance" emoticon? MySpace, you have failed me.
They will be here for my 29th (yes, the very first 29th) birthday, and I get to have four whole days off from work in a row that weekend. That'll be like a damned vacation. So, I'm excited, woohoo, yee-haw, hot-doggit, dadgummit, yippee, wooha! I like my mom. A lot.
However, as I look around, I am discovering that maybe I've become a teensy-eensy, tiny bit of a slob. My mom already knows this. Confession alert: I used to make my bed (only when it was demanded, by the way) over my laundry that I didn't want to put away. Now, I just don't make my bed. I also have inherited the awesome trait of being a pack-rat from my Granny. So, there's some work to be done. Even though she knows (not to mention, subscribes to my blog), I wanna throw some crap away, and it's just not good hospitality to ask someone to sleep in a bed that utilizes Avon boxes for a headboard.
OK...so...I'm doing housework and beyond for the two days I have off this week. I just wanted to let you guys know what was up. I do have a real blog in the works. This just ain't it.
Oh, and I submitted my WalMart blog for a blogging contest. I don't know that I am loving that decision now that I've made it. I have a fragile ego.
AND!!! My friend from school, Genna, is trying out for American Idol in Birmingham today! Please, cross your fingers, pray, or whatever you do for luck, and send good vibes her way. Chick got pipes. Go, Genna...Go, Genna!
Random thoughts:
-I need razor blades.
-My comforter isn't as soft as it used to be.
-CNN never reports on any of the things I want to know about. I think I may prefer MSNBC. No...definitely Jon Stewart.
-William Shatner mostly didn't look amused. And do you have to be 500 years old to be in the Friar's Club? Jason Alexander is so hot.
-I have nothing to read. Dammit.
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