Confetti May 16, 2012

I’m swamped at work, but here’s a quicky from PIC and I.  Remember the glitter story?  If not, read it.  You’ll appreciate this much more after.  Go ahead…. you know you want to.

Ok.  Hope you laughed at remembering that post and/or reading it.  And now, enjoy!

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Me: I’m so tired of this BS!!!  He’s not even good enough to be glittery!!  He’s like… hell… I don’t know… sequins.

PIC: I’m sorry honey.  Sequins suck.

Me: No! Not even sequins.  Confetti. Damn paper confetti that gets everywhere and you can’t get it off of you. You think it’s gone, then you turn around and you find it again.

PIC: No-no-no.  You don’t DO confetti.

Me: And that’s blog of the day.  I don’t DO confetti.

***********************

And so it is.

 

I Wish I Remebered She is Batsh*t Crazy May 11, 2012

It’s not secret.  I’ve been hella stressed as of late.  Apparently, my boss has noticed.  Oh dear God.

Boss: I have a surprise for you after lunch. Take your lunch early and be in my office by 1pm.

Me: Um…..ok?

Boss: It will help you relax.

Me: Oh? Thank you!

I’m thinking massage if I’m lucky, maybe a little aroma therapy and chill music….I wish I had remembered that my boss is batshit crazy.

After lunch, I walk into my boss’ office.  It reminded me of the back bathroom in highschool:  a wall of foul smelling smoke enveloped me (in this case it was incense though, not Camel Lights.) How do you make incense so smokey?!  I cough and swipe at the air.  I hear “Welcome child.”  I hear Gregorian chanting music.  A little weird, yes….but this is supposed to relax me….so ok.  Open heart, open mind….right?

Inside there is an older lady dressed in a robe.  She asks me to sit.  Now, I’m not relaxed. I’m half panicked.  This is NOT cool.  I jokingly say um….ok but I’m keeping my clothes on.  To this she says: “As you wish.”

THE HELL!?!  If it’s not the hot mister so-and-so I’ve been eying, I’m not stripping in my office.  And clearly, a hot man to ease my stress would have been WAY preferred to the robe lady, chanting and intense smokey incense.

My palms are starting to sweat a little.  I feel my throat start to close.  Robe lady comes closer:  Hello child.  My name is Krystel.  I will be your guide today.

Me: hi….

I will attempt to highlight reel the madness.  I blocked a lot of it out, but these are the things I recall:

• Hands acting like strobe lights in my face, I thought I would die. I had to shut my eyes.
• She never touched me, except on the top of my head, but her hands came awfully close.
• Chanting – not on CD, Krystel gave those Gregorians a run for their money.
• Wafting hands in front of my …. unmentionables. (For reals y’all.  I said NO. She gave me a mean look and kept wafting, just further back.  I responded by crossing my legs.  No means no.)
• Squatting.  Krystel squatted a lot.  Guess that’s why she had a robe on.  Maybe she was encouraging me to get buff quads with her.  Aside from that, I can’t understand all the squats.  My trainer would have been proud of her though.

This continued on for an HOUR.  At the end, she wafted at my head and feet.  Then bowed to me.  I left my boss’ office feeling violated, asthmatic and smelly.

Boss: How do you feel?

Me: Confused.

Boss: That’s great! Good!

Me: Pardon?

Boss: Krystel cleans out your spiritual paths and allows emotions to flow freely.  Confused is a good feeling.

Me: Ok.

Boss: Go sit upstairs for a bit and let it all wash over you, then come back and work.

Me: Ok.

Upstairs I began to think that I do not want my emotions to flow freely.  Quite honestly I like them where they are – tied up in a neat box, buried under my daily dose of coffee and egg whites. Lucky for me, this voodoo crazy Krystel didn’t do whatever she was supposed to do….or perhaps I wasn’t receptive enough.  Either way, my emotions stayed in tact, and I had to work overtime to compensate for the supposed stress relief moments I was granted.
I’ll stick with PIC, wine and/or hot men next time thankyouverymuch….

Things NOT to Say and Do During Labor May 10, 2012

Oh my blogland how I have missed you!!!!  I’m an Auntie.  A lot more actually has gone down since, but allow me to start by recounting the tale of how my blessed nephew arrived into the world.

My sister has a husband that kind of reminds me of Shrek.  Really.  Heretofore, I shall dub him Shrek in the blog. Shrek has always been the epitome of what I thought a husband should be.  He is kind, cares about my sister, is so loving – even when she makes it hard.  So as the following transpired, I was…. shall we say….shocked.

Lesson 1: Never refer to a heifer in any way as your wife is in labor.

Sister:  In day two of what turned into four day labor.  AHHHHHH. This SUCKS!!!!

Shrek: Baby.  I want a cow.

Sister and I: heads turn in unison, in slow motion

Sister: Oh hell no you didn’t just say that….

Shrek: Yeah. One of those baby jersey cows.  A mini.  That way we can milk it and make all our cheese and stuff, but it wont’ take up much room.

Sister: You did NOT just refer to a cow, and me in the same sentence…when I’m here, in LABOR with YOUR CHILD???  Did you lose your mind??

Shrek: Baby I think it’ll be great!  We can teach our son to milk him.  What a great life learning opportunity this will be!

Sister: SHUT YOUR $#@&ing mouth.  NOW.

Shrek: shrugs.

Lesson 2: Don’t go MIA for hours on end

Shrek left me with my sister for hours.  Daily.  Why? He wanted food that wasn’t found in the cafeteria.  This meant I was there when she needed the trashcan.  I was there to bathe her back.  I was there to get her to the bathroom, fetch her ice chips, talk to the doctors about her (it turned out fine) very delicate health condition.  Shrek?  MIA.  He’d always come back and say “I feel so much better!”  This, after I had been up for almost 48 hours living off the smell of vomit and a few ice chips that I confiscated from my sister’s cup. (I had no idea labor was so glamorous.)

Me: We had a really big problem.  I called you 15 times!!!

Shrek: You did? Oh.  Well she’s ok right?

Me: Yeah… but you should have been here.

Shrek: I had to eat.

Me: That clearly ranks above your wife and future son….

Shrek: It’s not like I left her alone.  She had you.  You’ll totally take care of her.

Me: That’s not the point.

Shrek: Yeah, it kind of is.  If you or your mom are here to do it, why do I need to be here?

Me: pulling it together so I didn’t beat him to death…. Your wife. She needs you.  It’s your turn to hold her head.  I’m out.

**I went to see PIC.  She helped.  We had wine.

Lesson 3: Shrek is a wannabe Amish

Shrek: So after our son is born, and we get the cow, I want to start growing all our own food.  We already make our own laundry soap.  It’s super economical that way. I also want to build some turbines to wind power the house…oh. And your mom will totally homeschool our kid.

Sister: writhing in agony….

Me: Can you help me get a cold towel for your wife?

Shrek: totally ignores me So yeah. Think of all the money we can save.  Then, your sister and I only have to work like two days a week.

Me: trying to hold it together

Shrek: I want to build in some solar panels to the house too.

Me: CAN YOU PLEASE get me a cold towel.

Shrek: I know your mom is retired, and she has her hands full with your dad and his issues….but she’ll be a great homeschool teacher. He’ll only have to go to her the days we work. The rest of the time he can help out and get life lessons around the home.  You know – stuff that actually matters….. how to make cheese, how to grow corn, how to take care of a cow.

Sister: tenses up and starts to cry a little

Me: in my protective voice If you say cow ONE more time…..

Shrek: Oh. Sorry baby.

Sister: GET ME A COLD TOWEL.

Shrek: All you gotta do is ask…

Me: I want a lynch mob.

**I really am convinced that he wants to be Amish.  Nothing against what he said, but his timing sucks.  I fear that all he wants for his kid is a little farm hand.  I think I may have to kidnap my nephew.

My nephew was born a little over 3 lbs (he was early) on Saturday via c-section. Mom is home now with her Shrek.  Baby is still in NICU. Thanks for all the warm wishes and prayers guys! Love to you all!!!

Me

The Sprout, Bianca, Bryce and Me April 28, 2012

Hello Blogland!  I did not get taken by gangster squirrels or the Eat Me lady.  No, I’m currently in the hospital waiting to become an aunt for the first time!  Sprout is early, 34 weeks, but he is strong.

So, to pass the time – we are on day three of actual labor right now – I have pulled out an old draft post.  After the birth of Sprout, I promise to blog more.  I swear you won’t believe what all has happened. And, I’m relatively sure PIC and I are going to create a lynch mob to handle it.  It’s a terrifying fun fact we came up with last night….we actually can create a lynch mob at a moments notice.  We have several people in our lives that love us enough to respond without question or hesitation to “bring a weapon and meet me at the bridge at midnight”. 

So Beast, all you men that glitter….best beware.  Piss off PIC and I?  A lynch mob will ensue.

Now, without further ado, here is the post from before all hell broke loose.  Love to you all!  Please bring me vodka in a water bottle.  I need it.

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Bianca is Brain Dead

Bianca struck again.  For reals y’all!

Me: Hey Bianca- what’s wrong?

Bianca: Um. Why do you always answer the phone like that? Nothing’s wrong.

Me: Because it’s work.  During my busy time.  You know this.  We discussed…do you seriously not remember???

Bianca: Well, yeah but I just miss you and I’m totally bored at work. And I thought you were just having a hormonal moment.

Me: silence…

Bianca: Um. Hello! I said I missed you.  And really, why don’t you ever call me back?

Me: Bianca. Sweetie.  I need you to listen closely to me. Get in your car and drive to the ER immediately.  When you get there, have them put you to the front of the line because Bianca, I’m relatively sure you are brain dead.

Bianca: What?

Me:  Last time I said you are either completely stupid or completely selfish…and I didn’t know which.  Now? I know.  Because you called back.  In my busy work day. To say you are bored.

Bianca: So.

Me: Wow Bianca.   Do not EVER call me again while I’m at work.  I simply will not answer….emergency or not.

Then I hung up on her….again.  You think it’ll stick this time?  Was I too mean? Maybe.  But she kinda deserved it.

Baby Shower from Hell

I didn’t imagine a baby shower could be bad, but here’s how it went down.

1) I got sunburned.  On an overcast day.  I was supposed to be there to referee the two pregnant and due within a day of each other sisters, so I was relegated beside the 100 year old neighbor invited out of pity because she was midway between them both.  She smelled like bourbon and mothballs.  Between silent gags, I would smile and nod at her.  Turns out?  She wasn’t talking, rather she makes noises that SOUND like talking in her sleep.  I looked insane.  Thanks for the heads up people.

2) Bryce.  Bryce is three and is a special kind of child.  He requires a lot of attention.  I’m pretty sure he may be a serial killer one day and I can be interviewed by the show Dateline and tell this story.  Sister 1 goes storming into the house during the shower.  I go in to do damage control.  I find Bryce.  In the back room.  With matches.  Bryce is, with the dexterity of someone at least double his age, striking matches and throwing them in the floor.  The floor is carpet.  It’s beginning to smoke.  His eyes are alive with excitement until he sees me.  Then Bryce proceeds to dash like a freaking gazelle into the bathroom and slam the door.  I put out the fire, it smells like singed fur, I put all flame producing materials in a shoebox in the top of the closet….and I go to get Bryce.  Bryce is in the tub, pouring stuff down the drain.  I’m not sure what all he found, but it smelled like eggs. Again with the defeated look, Bryce sees me and tries to flee.  This time I’m on to him.  I pick him up football style and haul him to the basement with the other kids.  I put him in his play crib thing and he proceeds to squall like I’ve removed his left leg.  This brings in mom, finally.  He points to me and says quite definitively, MEAN.  Nothing like being called mean by a potential serial killer to bring down your whole damn day.  Note:  Other things Bryce did that day?  Pulled a girl’s hair out….in a tuft.  Bit a dog on its back leg. Attempted to stab the old neighbor woman’s arm with his spoon.

3) Feathers.  I’m allergic.  I think I mentioned that once.  Romantic encounter at a fancy hotel turns almost deadly?  Yeah, that’s me on my first grown up Valentine’s Day with a guy one year.  Apparently, that fact skipped the mind of the sisters I stayed with during the shower.  I was so exhausted from leaving my house at 3:30am, chasing planes and children and refereeing the sisters all day that all I could do was crawl into the bed and fall over…on to what I learned soon was a feather pillow with a feather comforter.  I admit.  Part of that is my fault.  It felt suspect, but I was so tired – and had such faith in my friends that of COURSE they would remember – that I just fell over.  In about half an hour, I woke up to the choking sadly familiar feeling….I couldn’t breathe and it was probably due to feathers.  I lived, thanks to some handy epi pen work and a shower.  But, I didn’t sleep for crap the rest of the day….and I had to be at the airport heading home way too early.

Delay Delay Delay

I was supposed to be home the afternoon of Sunday.  I got back early Monday morning. Why? I had the layover from hell at the world’s busiest airport. Along the way, I met the world’s most boring man. I really tried to find him interesting, but I just didn’t.  And when you’ve been sitting in the airport for eight hours, and you STILL find someone boring?  That’s bad.

After the boring guy, and after exhausting all contacts on my phone, I had to go find power.  Turns out? Power outlets in the airport are like freaking GOLD.  I was relegated to sitting outside a magazine store like a homeless person, huddled up with my knees under my chin, duffel bag, purse and neck roll beside me, stealing power from the outlet on the side of the store, whist trying not to get trampled from people running to their gates in, as I said, the world’s busiest airport.  I was met with looks of disgust, pity and eventually, hatred.

I don’t think I’ll ever fly again….. anytime soon.

So that concludes my fun weekend.  Hopefully yours was better, or at least didn’t involve potential serial killing children and a brush with death.

Miss Fix It Blows a Gasket April 12, 2012

This pretty much sums up my week.

Yeah…. that’s about right.

You know how you always have that one go-to person.  The person you call if shit goes down because you know, regardless of how he/she feels about you or the situation you got yourself in, this person will pull it together, fix the situation and calm the storm.  Case in point, bail me out of jail at o-dark-30 am.

This week, it seems all I exist to do is spin gold out of poo.  That’s my week.  Actually, who am I kidding…in my profession? With my personality? That’s sort of my life story.

Thankfully it was not as bad as the “I can’t tell… might be dead or OD’d ‘lady friend’ in the hotel room of a prominent client” night that I had to handle once a few years back…. but here’s what went down this week….and the resulting meltdown.

1) I have been placed in charge of my sister’s baby shower.  Mom was supposed to do it, but for reasons I’ll leave out for now, she has kinda checked out.  This leaves me with the planning.  Great, right? Not at all. My sister can’t agree on anything with me for the blessed event except that she wants food there…lots of food.

I plan events.  It’s kinda my thing. I realize she has a different style. (Seriously, her wedding was pot luck, no alcohol, no music except my old jambox from 6th grade playing a mix tape, no speeches/toasts/etc., there were no centerpieces, flowers, table covers or decorations…and no wedding favors for guests.  Oh.  And I was forced to wear the most hideous bridesmaids dress on the planet.)

That aside, knowing that I am paying for this shower and people sadly DO expect more from me because of my reputation and skill set…. I am having a hard time working around being told finger sandwiches are “too uppity”; punch and tea are “stupid” and the only party game she wants to play is the disgusting one where you melt candy bars in diapers.  I was also told I’m jealous because this isn’t my shower….and that since I’m so “old” and “picky”, I’ll probably never have a shower of any kind.  Ouch. :’-(  I’m trying to behave with grace.  I just really wish mom would check back in for five minutes and let me breathe.

2) Work…. I have a new title and no raise.  I’ve worked no less than 50 hours this week, and it’s just Thursday. One of the things my boss tasked me with this week?  Getting a life size cut out of her deceased husband. She mentioned it before and I was always able to slide it under the rug and ignore her.  However, this week it has been brought up four times.  She wants this to take with us to our organization’s biggest event.  She plans to charge people to have their pictures made with it….then prop it up in her office.

Boss: And if you can make one that I can transport back and forth in the car like a human, that’d be great.

Me: only in my mind, but I thought DEAR GOD.  What the hell. Someone pour me a tequila.  She’s lost it.

She also asked me, again, to make sure I “record my time donated” to our non-profit arm of the organization so that I can take it off taxes next year. Key word here? DONATED.

3) I found out that I’ll be in a new city this weekend.  I fly out at 5am one day.  Will be back at 9:30pm the next day.  Fun?  NO. I’m being flown in to run interference.  Two siblings are having a baby.  Both boys.  One is her first kid, one is her second kid.  Both are due within days.  Cool right? Nope.  Sibling rivalry is on a whole new level.  I’m there to be sure one doesn’t take down the other.  To ensure both ladies have a good time and that both feel equally loved and attended to….even though the baby shower is only for ONE sibling and the other one is fuming mad about it.  For some reason, the parents think I can help.  I’m not sure.  But I AM SURE  that I will have wine.  Lots of wine…in a flask or two…that is TSA compliant because be-damn if I check a bag for a 24 hour stay.

4) I was called to deal with a 14 year old boy who lost his mom to suicide.  Last night he was over the edge crazy and his dad admitted he was emotionally checked out.  I went in, talked the kid off the ledge, literally, played basketball with him for hours, helped him cry, then put him to bed.  I didn’t eat dinner, but apparently I was emotionally drained enough that I did get four hours of sleep in.

This is a small insight into my week.  There’s more, but I don’t have the time nor the energy to write it.  A few minutes ago, I got a call from a “friend” and I think I may have had an aneurism, a stroke…. or possibly just a fit of rage.  I’m not sure.

So this “friend” is “oh that person” to most of my girls.  We all have one…the girl who is always whiney, never happy, and is uber selfish and clingy.  That’s her.

The rule amongst my friends? Unless we’ve said otherwise, don’t call me at work unless you are bloody, broken (hearts, bones and cars apply here) or need bail.  Email me.  Text me.  I swear I’ll answer quick as I can.

Well, this “friend” I shall now refer to as Bianca.  No offense to the readers out there that have or care for a Bianca, but I’ve never met one that didn’t make me want to claw my eyes out and shove sharp objects in my ears to dull the pain.

Bianca moved out of the state, but still has a home here.  I am supposed to water the plants and let in realtors as needed.  Bianca called last week saying she is “bored” and we had words about when it was appropriate to call me and when it was not.  I thought I was crystal clear.  Apparently….my don’t call unless its an emergency rule doesn’t apply to her.

Me: Hey Bianca – what’s wrong?

Bianca: Um. Why do you answer the phone like that? Nothing’s wrong.

Me: Because it’s work.  During my busy time.  You know this.  We discussed.

Bianca: Well, I just miss you and I’m totally bored at work. I miss my **married and has two kids who I told her never to mention in front of me because I think the whole thing is fully horrible** boyfriend- its our one year anniversary; and I have no friends up here; and I have nothing to spend my money on and the weather here sucks and I am just losing my mind I’m so bored….. So how are you?

Me: silence….I can literally feel the heat coming up in my face.  Y’all.  I think I blacked out for a second.

Bianca: Um. Hello! I said I missed you.  Why don’t you ever call me?

Me: BIANCA!!!! You are either completely stupid or completely selfish.  For the life of me I can’t figure out which.  You KNOW I’m busy.  You KNOW not to call unless it’s an emergency because I answer.  GOD HELP ME, I care about people and I answer. You want to know how I am? I am F***ING FANTASTIC!!!

I work overtime all the time for a boss who’s batshit crazy.  I make less money now than I did when I graduated from college and I just found out I owe $600 in taxes.  Where in the hell is that coming from? I have no idea! I have a dad who’s got dementia, a mom who’s checked out, a baby shower to plan IN ALL MY SPARE TIME for a sister who is acting like an ungrateful witch, my heart is actually breaking in my personal life, last night after a ten hour day I dealt with a 14 year old kid who’s mom just committed suicide and this weekend my motion sick ass has to be on SEVEN F***ING PLANES in 24 hours because I can’t afford the flights that are more direct so that I can referee two sisters who have no idea how lucky they are to both be married with kids and instead want to rip each others throats out.

Bianca: Wow. You sound busy.  And did you just say f***? I’ve never heard you say that.

Me: Wow Bianca.  That’s what you took from this? Yes. I’m busy. So unless it’s an emergency – and I mean a my body’s lying in a ditch emergency – send me a F****ING email or text like EVERYONE ELSE DOES.

Then I hung up on her.  And I must say.  I feel much better.

I need a shot though.  I’m really lucky that I took my call in our boardroom.  No one was able to hear my rant… the boss is gone for the day and the other staff was wherever the crap they go when they hide from working….aka not at their desks or on premise that I could surmise.

Cheers…and let’s all get tanked tonight. Ok.  Fine.  Just a glass or two of wine.  I promise.

HGN with PIC April 4, 2012

PIC and I have girl nights, dubbed HGN.  Do you know why? If not, here’s the cliff note version.  PIC’s phone auto-corrected “Hurray Girls Night” into “Horny Girls Night”; thus our outings are now dubbed HGN, which is WAY cooler than GNO (Girl’s Night Out).

Epic as always, here are the events of our HGN Saturday….and something from Sunday.

Adventures in Dog Grooming

PIC has two big dogs.  These two big dogs are usually very well behaved.  Usually, they listen.  Usually, being the operative word.  We planned on having a ten minute visit to the groomer.  That did not happen.  I’ll keep this short… but the cone of shame, big dogs and first day on the job groomers do not mix well.   It was traumatic for all of us – dogs and people.

Psychic …Psycho… Dining

PIC and I had some much needed wine, then went to our favorite restaurant for dinner.  Here, the adventure ensued.

It started the moment we sat down beside two eccentric ladies.  The music was a little too loud for PIC and I to converse, so we resorted to texting because… that’s how we roll.

PIC: These women next to us are talking about what their psychic said they did in a former life….  The hell?

Me: The hell?? Did they say **insert name of small town I grew up in**? Since when did that place get a psychic? And they must be friends of my boss since she gets that done at work all the time.

PIC and I listen in and learn one of the ladies was told she was a blacksmith in a past life.  I don’t know about you, but really? Couldn’t that psychic have come up with something more fun? How about…Dragon Slayer.

After we stopped listening to them, we began to notice a plethora of plaid to our other side.  A throng of men were gathered, all wearing stinky, wadded up plaid and/or flannel.   PIC and I exchanged looks and began texting again.

PIC:  But I pulled my best flannel out of the clothes pile and it smelled ok…

To this, I begin laughing.  That high pitched laugh where I begin to wheeze and cry.  This makes PIC begin to giggle.  Now we are both wheezing. And then we full stop.

PIC text: He just called him Mr. Clean…really?!

The irony was not lost on us.  He was balding, not bald, but badamn if he was anything clean.  He was the smelliest one of all.  We are almost falling out of our chairs laughing and the waiter comes over.

Waiter: Can I damage you any further tonight?

PIC and I exchange glances and say no.  He leaves and we both give a WTF look. Damage us? We decide its time to exit stage right or else be cut into tiny pieces and served to the flannel Mr. Clean.  I’ve never seen two girls scurry so quickly.

No Shoes No Shirt But We Still Get Service (Kinda)...Wa!

At the next bar, you’ll have to understand what I was wearing to appreciate it all.  I had on a very low cut silk shirt that shows off (in a classy way) my attributes. This is usually my “prompt service”, “free drinks” and/or “no cover charge” shirt.  Tonight?  Not the case.  We couldn’t get a bartender’s attention for a drink to save our lives! As PIC and I are attempting service, my shirt gains the attention of a young man.

Perhaps it was the wine from the first bar.  Perhaps it’s because after a long week at work, I just don’t even attempt to be subtle.  But the first thing out of my mouth?

Me: What happened to your face?

PIC looked at me and gave me the same eyebrow raise she did the night I exclaimed “starving children from China”.

In my defense, the boy had one eyebrow. He had some sort of bandage thing over his missing brow and on his chin.

To his credit, he didn’t miss a beat.

Eyebrow Boy: Car accident.  But I’m still cute aren’t I?

Me: *give him my own PIC eyebrow raise*

Apparently, I was distracted at this point.  Here is what PIC endured from Eyebrow Boy.

EB: pokes PIC’s arm repeatedly – Does your friend have a boyfriend?

PIC: eyebrow raise

EB: Do you have a pen?

PIC: Do I LOOK like her receptionist?!

**two minutes pass**

EB: They are so pretty…. are they real?

PIC: *PIC shoots him a look with wide eyes and an eyebrow raise that says ‘Boy you best be speaking about her eyes or I’m going to smack you.’*

EB: Her eyes are so green! Are they real?

PIC: *relived eyebrow raise* No. She got ‘em on Ebay.

EB: Do you have a pen?

PIC: If you want her number, grow a pair and ask her.

EB: *nods like he’s been given the key that unlocks the secrets of the world*

Side note: Eyebrow boy did give me his number.  Then he fled the scene like he was on fire.  Bless.

You Did What?

PIC and I migrate to the next bar, hoping that we will have better luck.  We hit the restroom and here’s what we hear.

Girl 1: I rub it in my hair.  Is that gross?

Girl 2: No! Not at all!

Girl 1: haha I just wondered if it was weird.

Girl 2: Nope! You look fabulous.

PIC: The hell is she rubbing in her hair???

Me: I have no idea??

PIC: What kind of friend lets her girl rub things in her hair that could potentially be considered gross and/or weird?

Me: A bad friend – not a PIC.

The rest of the night included men who wore fedoras;  me blurting out the word CHUNG (I tend to read random labels out loud when I am tipsy) in the middle of the grocery store – and PIC subsequently falling over laughing at me because it made absolutely no sense to her why I exclaimed CHUNG.

The next morning PIC and I went to visit my mom. The trip was lovely, but we made a very important discovery.

Squirrel Butts

After lunch, PIC and I were in the glider watching the wild life around Mom’s house.

PIC: Tree rats

Me: Where?

PIC: OH MY GOD.  That is the FATTEST squirrel I have ever seen!

PIC and I do the RCA dog look, heads cocked sideways.  We see the squirrel do an amazing hold and twist on a bird feeder to grab his grub.

Then we both say: THAT SQUIRREL HAS AN ASS!

Me: Like. He has literal BUTT CHEEKS.

PIC: I have never seen such! It has an ass! It’s so fat it has an actual ass.  With cheeks.

Me: My mom overfeeds everything, even the squirrels.

PIC: Now I feel bad because my squirrels don’t have asses.  I clearly don’t feed them enough.

PIC and I watched not just the one squirrel with ass; but all the squirrels with protruding, baby-got-back style booty. I wished desperately that I’d had a camera…. And I really want to pit the booty squirrels against the gangster squirrels that infest my office.  I think the booty squirrels would win.  They would probably sit on the gangsters and smother them.  What do you think?

************

I hope you all had a great weekend.  Cheers and happy hump day! :0)

The Things you Learn at Lunch March 14, 2012

Today, I had lunch with my sister, which in and of itself is blogworthy since we don’t hang out that much.  However, it was made even MORE blogable because of what I learned from our past.

Note: My sister has the mouth of a sailor.  I’ve taken out the f-bombs, but I kept the rest to be true life to her.

Sister: Dude. Your car smells like strippers.  Holds her throat and makes fake vomit sounds

Me: I’m aware.  Roll your window down, we aren’t going far.

Sister: Seriously, did you drop a vat of vanilla musk in this car? Or are you pretending to be 15 again?

Me: **glare**

Sister: I’m sure the men love it.  I’m not judging.  You lift vaginas, so this is expected.  Just make sure you mark your men with sparkles.  They love that.

Me: For the love of God – it was creamer.  It spilled.  And, I’ve had no man in this car since it happened, which is for the best because you are right…it’s putrid in here.

Sister: You have shit taste in men sis, so I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.

Me: Bite me.

Sister: Seriously!  You are the only person I know who looks like you, with your brain, and dates complete assholes.  They are all pretty, but all massive effing assholes.

Me: Thanks… I think?

Sister: giggles to herself  Remember when I cut Nick?

Me: What? No. Model Nick?  Or Nik who liked to pronounce it like Mike with an N?

Sister: Model Nick.

Me: You did not!

Sister: Did to! Don’t you remember the scar on his left cheek – under his eye?

Me: That was you? But he said…

Sister: He didn’t tell you?

Me: Oh do tell…..

Sister: Well, he came in after the first time he cheated on you.  He came straight to our house after his plane landed.  He brought you two dozen roses, candy and a mix tape. Remember that?

Me: Yeah. Good Lord that boy loved apology flowers….our house looked like a funeral home toward the end of that relationship.

Sister: See.  Shit taste in men Sis.  Anyway, you were in your room crying.  I answered the door because mom and dad weren’t home.  He came in, you screamed you didn’t want to see him and locked yourself away.  He was trying to put the flowers in water and needed something to cut the flowers down.  I pulled out scissors.  Then I looked him square in the eyes and asked him if he cheated on you.

Me: And?

Sister: The jackass was brazen enough to say he did, but it was between you two, not me.  It made me really mad.

Me: And you flew at him with scissors??

Sister: No dumbass, I was more suave than that.  I made him lean down to help me find the vase first….and then I stabbed at him.  Got him right under the eye.

Me: **eyes bugged out of head, speechless**

Sister: He said, “You cut me? My perfect face is ruined! YOU DO KNOW I make a living with this face right???” And then I said, “Jackass! You cheated on my sister.  She won’t stab you, but I sure as hell will.  I am sure she wants to.”

Me: I kinda did want to….

Sister: Right? And then he said, “I’m going to report you!”  And I said, “Shitface, I’m 12!  To who? And, what are they really gonna do about it?”  That’s when he backed up and ran to your room.  He almost broke your door down.

Me: I thought he was trying to get in…but he was really trying to get away from you??

Sister: Damn right.

Me: I’ve never been more simultaneously proud and terrified.

Sister: Why did you think I kept saying, “I’ll cut you boy.” When he came close to me?

Me: Wow.  That makes so much more sense now.

Sister: What did he tell you happened to his face?

Me: He said he hurt it on the door trying to get in – that he put his career in jeopardy to get to me because I meant that much to him.

Sister: GOD and you fell for it?!?! I should have taken the bastard’s eye.

Me: Wow…. again, terrified, but I loved you.

Sister: I was 12.  Imagine what I can do now at 30.

Me: Oh dear God I’m going to be single forever.

Sister: Asshole free, not single.  Be an optimist.

Me: Wow.  So… did you do anything to Paul I’m unaware of? Or any of the others?

Sister: Probably.  But that’s for another day Sis…another day.

***
I’m intrigued and scared. I’m not sure I want to know what else she’s done. It’s good to know she’s got my back though.  I suppose I should warn B and any other man that decides he might want to chat with me that my sister is hormonal (she’s pregnant) and has a stabbing proclivity.  God.  I really will be single for life.

Clown Down March 13, 2012

Quick follow up.  My car smells like a stripper.  However, my hair is all better and the jacket is saved.  The shirt…I will bury it.  RIP silk blouse.  I loved you.

This story from my past has come up three times in one week.  Who am I to keep this story from y’all when fate CLEARLY wants me to share?

Confession time: I’m terrified of clowns.  Like….go into a panic, start shaking and act like I’m five years old terrified.  Why, you ask? Well, it’s simple really.

EVERY time I was at the circus with my family, the one child plucked from the audience to play with the clowns? Your girl here.  Every. Freaking. Time.

I can still smell the clown makeup, feel the fake hair tickle my skin… it makes me cringe.  And because my mom always taught me that when in public, you behave with decorum and grace? My sweet little girl self summoned all her courage to hold in the tears.  Shake? Yes, I would shake, but I’d fake a smile brighter than any big city lights.

They would stuff me in their car, squirt me with water guns, and pass me around like I was a sack of potatoes.  Funny?  Funny my ASS. Every time they would finish, I would run back to mom half hyperventilating.  She always thought I was over-reacting, or scared to be in front of so many people.  Really??? If you read this blog, you know I love a stage! I was scared of the clowns, not the people.

When I grew old enough to pitch tantrums and care less if I was punished, I stopped having to go to the circus.  I thought that it was all behind me….until…

I went to a famous haunted house.  It was one of those where you can only go through two at a time and had to sign a waiver about heart conditions. Yes.  It had some jumpy moments, but I had yet to cry from fear as the ads all promised.

We went in to the last room.  At this point, my friend jumped in front of me and protects me like she’s shielding me from gunfire.  I peep around.  I see it.  A jack in the box.  A big one.  I hear the creepy music.  We both knew it was coming and I couldn’t run away fast enough.

The creepy clown pops out and I enter total fear mode.

Clown: grabs my right wrist Oh come with me pretty!

Me: turn away You LET GO.  You aren’t supposed to touch me!!!

Clown: Rules are made to be broken. Hahaha... sick, twisted laugh…still holding my wrist and tugging at me

Me: LET. GO. NOW.

Clown: Hahahaha

Me: I’m warning you…..

Clown: Hahahahaha….Are you scared????

At this point, I haul off and punch the hell out of the clown with a left hook.

Clown goes DOWN. 

I caught him right on that spot in your jaw…the one that totally knocks you out. It was the first and only time I have ever punched anything that wasn’t in a gym-sanctioned kickboxing class.  I broke every nail on my hand and was bleeding, but I didn’t care. Clown was down.  I was safe.

My friend fled to fend off security, who was coming to get me for punching the clown.  I put my hands up – you are supposed to do that right?  Tears, streaming down my cheeks.  All I can get out is: He. Wouldn’t. Let. Go. I. Told. Him….

Security throws me over his shoulder like a caveman.  Was that really necessary??? And carries me, friend in tow, out of the building.

Security: He had it coming ma’am.  I wouldn’t worry….but, we do have to remove you from premises and tell you not to return.

Me: sobbing Ok.

Friend: Dude. You totally knocked his ass out.

Me: Mmhm. sniff sniff

Friend: Remind me not to cross you…you’ve got a hell of a left hook.

Me: sniff sniff  But I’m right handed.

Friend and Security: Damn…

Moral of the story: I still hate clowns.  And, I’ll knock your ass out if you don’t let go when I ask nicely.

Vanilla Zombies March 12, 2012

I think the Monday after a time change should be a holiday. Today has been a comedy tragedy of errors.

Last night I spent the night with the folks.  This means I got up at an ungodly hour to drive in to work.  Mom, being the sweet woman she is, always sends me off with a goody bag of sorts.  I picked it up, ran out the door, flopped it and my purse on the front seat of the car.

As you know, I’ve had the plague.  I’m still not breathing properly.  In fact, my nose has been quite bitchy lately.  For instance last week, I smelled that gross, heavy, bubblegum smell for 24 whole hours.  Then, I smelled blueberries for a full 24 hours.  I don’t get it.  So, when I smelled vanilla this morning, I thought oh great…here we go again.  WRONG.

I get to work and pull my goody bag out of the front seat.  Holy hell.  There was what appeared to be milk pooled in the front seat of my car….blocked in only by my Prada purse.  And, since I had just picked up the goody bag? It was all over my cute black pants and silk top.

Immediately, I scream and drop the goody bag AND my coffee; it splats to the ground and goes all over my boots.  I pull out the Prada from it’s milky bath and that sends the liquid streaming back into the seat further. Instinctively, I throw myself on the spill to try and catch the liquid from reaching the far recesses of my car.  This, of course, soaks into the sleeves of my jacket and into the tips of my hair.  I realize it’s much more sticky than milk and most certainly smells more vanilla.

So here I am.  Hanging out of the car, milk all over the place, ruined outfit, sticky hair and a milky purse.  It can’t get much worse?

I hear a grunt.

I turn to see that zombie homeless woman from a while back!!!!  She was in the same Eat Me shirt.  Same vacant stare.  And now? She’s grunting at me.  I’m faced with two options.  1) Stay and be eaten by the zombie lady or 2) grab my purse and flee

I opted for 2.

I released the liquid, which seeped quickly into the seat (they are cloth, not leather) and deep into the recess of the seat that I can no longer see.  I’m pretty sure that car seat will never move the way its supposed to again because how DO you clean the parts you can’t see???

I grab my purse and say, “Hi there” as I back slowly away.

She lunges at me, “Uuhh!”

I scream and run, leaving the beloved goody bag behind in a pool of milky liquid.  My purse, drowned in the liquid, is leaking all down the side of my jacket and pants….marking my trail as I run.

She walks over to my goody bag, picks it up and flees.

I look down at myself.  I smell vanilla again.  The hell was in that bag???? I sniff my jacket sleeves.  I sniff my hair, which is now lovely and matted into gummy strands. I see the white stains all over my boots, pants, shirt… I looked like a victim of lactation gone very wrong.  This is NOT the look I was attempting today.

On cue, Mom calls.  Turns out? It was coffee creamer.  Mom bought a mega container, didn’t like the flavor and packed it for me.  I let out a little sob when she said, “I had a hard time getting the lid closed.  I hope it traveled ok.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her what happened.  I just thanked her.

Currently, I’m still washing stains from my clothes.  The jacket can go to the cleaners, but I think the shirt is a goner.  My boots seem fine, but my hair is now half straight, half curly…and you KNOW how my hair gets without conditioner….The purse smells like a stripper, but I think it will live.

Is it Wine-o-Clock yet?

Blame the Meds 2 March 8, 2012

Here, by special request, is another installation of crazy college stories I wish I could have blogged about at the time – but my college pre-dates blogs….so thankfully I have a great memory and friends that remind me.  All. The. Damn. Time.

In case you missed it, Me + medication = a lot of fun for everyone but me.

This glorious moment involved muscle relaxers.

I threw out my back during a particular rough set in dance/cheer practice.  No stranger to back pain, I went straight to the health center, where they prescribed me muscle relaxers.

Me: How many do I take?

Dr: How bad does it hurt?

Me: Scale of 1 – 10, I’ll say 8.

Dr: Take two for anything over 7, take one the rest of the time as needed.

I pop two muscle relaxers and head off to class. At this point, it’s probably important that you know I was not a very healthy lady at the time.  I had not eaten anything solid in 24 hours and was living off coffee and sheer will.

This is the second day of my college career.  I’m a freshman, valedictorian of my HS, child of educators…..  I can’t miss class!  It’s in my blood to be studious!  So, I decide to go to class.

In class, I begin to feel tingly.  I chalk it up to being hungry. I sit and pull out my book.  I try to get out my pen, but I can’t hold on to the damn thing. I keep dropping it… and it’s making me giggle.

I attribute the giggles and inability to hold the pen to lack of sleep.

Class starts.  I realize I can’t sit up any more.  My ass is slowly creeping down the chair, inching ever so slow and steady towards the floor.  This also makes me giggle.

Luckily, the professor was a nice guy.  He ever so sweetly comes to my desk and asks if I am ok.

Me: No. I’m on drugs!  I begin to laugh really hard and pretty much slide into the floor.

Professor: Ok then.  I can see….  Which ones?

Me: These. Want one? I point to the bottle in my bag and giggle.

Professor: How many did you take?

Me: Two, handsome….  fit of giggles

Professor: Why do you have these?

Me: I threw my back out. But these help because I can’t feel it anymore.

Professor: Why did you come to class?

Me: Because my mom said I couldn’t miss class or she’d have my ass.  Oh shit I said ass.  clamp my hand over my mouth, eyes wide.

Professor:  has knelt down beside me at this point, his hand is on my shoulder.  Well, let’s not tell her.  Right now, you need to get back to your dorm.  Where is it?

Me: I don’t know….   I say in the sing-songy way while twirling my hair…clearly attempting to flirt.

Professor: stands back up.  Ok. Class.  I need your help.  Do any of you know this girl? He stands me up best he can, arm around my waist.

Me: pageant wave

Professor: She’s had a bit of an accident and she needs to go back to her dorm.

In the back of the room, there was a football player. A cute football player. He lived in my dorm. And, he was, apparently, a saint.  Note: I lived in a non-governed dorm that alternated a suite of boys; suite of girls. There were no RA’s or whatever in this specific dorm. Why my parents agreed? Wow. They must totally trust me….

Hero: I know her. She really did throw her back out at cheer practice, I saw her. She lives on the floor under me.

Me: You’re cute….. I attempt to flip my hair.

Hero: I’ll take her back to the dorm safe, Sir.

Professor: Sit with her until someone gets there ok?

Hero: I’m on it.

Me: giggling I bet you are….

Hero: Ok. This is probably going to hurt, but I can’t think of any other way to get you back across campus.  He hoists me over his shoulder like a caveman. My backpack goes on his other shoulder.

Me: scream in pain and pass out

I have memory of what I just described, but have no idea how we managed to get back across campus, or the looks we must have been given.  My brain clearly is protecting me here because I also don’t remember telling him I had no idea what suite was mine.  Or the fact that he had to try, God bless him, every door until he found the one that my key fit.   I don’t remember that he put me down on the bed and I attempted to undress (because I don’t sleep in pants I kept telling him).  I also have no memory of throwing up the moment he sat me down, then saying, “I swear I’m not drunk.” What I do remember is that I woke up and he was there….with my suite mates….looking down on me.

Me: Am I dead? I can’t feel my face.

All: exchange glances and giggles

Hero: No hon, but you’re probably gonna wish you were.

Me: Oh hell.  Please tell me….. oh my God… memories begin to flood back   Did I…. oh freakin a…oh GOD tell me no….

Hero: Yeah.  That all happened.  And probably some stuff you don’t remember.

Me: immediately look down and see I still have pants on, to which I say Oh thank God!

Hero: You did try to take those off though. nods towards my pants

Me: Oh hell… oh hell….this is bad. grabbing my head

Roommate: When did you eat last?

Me: blink blink

Hero: That’s what we thought.  Eat this sandwich.  Then we’ll take your next dose.

Me: Ugh…eff me….this is worse than bad…. I want to die.  I pull the covers over my head.

Hero: Yeah…we thought you might for a minute.  You didn’t look like you were breathing baby girl.  pulls the cover off my face. And…you might wanna change out of that class….just sayin.

Me: grunt and pull the covers back over my head.  Smother me. It’ll be a mercy killing.

Roommate: Do I get all A’s if you die this semester?

Me: I think I kinda hate you. This began a very close bond between my roommate and I that continues today. We say “I kinda hate you” a lot.  It really means I love you, but it all stems from this moment in time.

I made one hell of an impression on my suite…my class…the professor…and that poor boy upstairs.

I did transfer out of that class, after a deep, heartfelt apology to the professor.

My suite mates heretofore randomly yell “I’m on drugs!” or “I swear I’m not drunk” as they did the pageant wave at wildly inopportune times.  I’m relatively sure that at my funeral, the whole of them will stand there, do the wave and maybe even roar for me.

I did date the Hero boy for a little bit, just not that year.  He transferred junior year and we lost touch.  It’s probably for the best.   “Mommy.  Is it true you were on drugs when you met Daddy?”  Kill me now.  Y’all know my kids would totally ask that…..