Uncle An

While travelling behind a car yesterday, I saw a regrettably dirty vehicle with the words “uncle an forever” scrawled beside a tiny hand print.  My eyes welled up a bit as I began to envision someone’s dear Uncle Andy or Andrew or Anthony….  I thought of how a sweet little kid must really be missing their uncle and how the holidays would be particularly tough.  I pondered this…. and as luck would have it, we both pulled into the gas station.

I looked with sympathetic eyes at the man pumping gas.  He looked at me a bit confused, but gave me a half hearted smile.  I said, “I’m sorry about your Uncle”.  He furrowed his brow and ignored me.  I figured it was a touchy subject, so I finished filling my tank and then it hit me.  I had been so horribly wrong about what the sign had said.  It wasn’t a dear Uncle An, rather it was “unclean forever”.

And that my bloggies is why I can never visit that gas station again.  And also why I should stop binge watching those dang Hallmark Christmas movies because they are making me more emotional and wholesome than usual.


Taylor’s Faux Pas

My beloved Taylor is having a rough month.  The cat has a wax belly and the dog peed on her Chistmas deer.

I had the pleasure of meeting up with Taylor for dinner, where she shared to stories of her week.  Enjoy.

Bad Dog!!!

If you’re single, we all have that item of clothing (or outfit) we wear for comfort and would simply die if anyone saw.  For me?  It’s a pair of blue pants I wore after back surgery.  The elastic in the waist is worn out so it gives me continual plumber crack.

Taylor hasn’t felt well lately, so she put on her comfort attire (which I will define shortly in detail).  I was envisioning her comfort attire as….well…. nothing heinous honestly.  She seems too put together to have comfort wear, but I suppose they say the same about me.

Anyway – Taylor’s comfort outfit is a salmon color tshirt that says ARUBA in nasty turquoise blue letters.  No bra.  Tucked into grey sweat pants with an elastic cuff, and big blue socks that have little balls on them.  Observe:


Now THIS is sexy….

Taylor was laying on the couch trying not to die when her doorbell rang.  Mortified that she was in her comfort wear, Taylor weekly made it to the door and squeaked “Who is it?”  Turns out it was a concerned co-worker there to bring meds and soup.  Awww.

Taylor told her to leave the materials at the door and she will get them.  No one would see Taylor in this outfit if she could help it!

A few minutes later, Taylor opens the door to get said items.  Call it slow reactions.  Call it bad dog.  Call it fate.  But something made Taylor’s dog Max make a mad dash for the outside world at this point.

Max is young and is not an outside dog, thus Taylor had to plow down the street of her neighborhood….. in her comfort-wear.  Here is how she said it went down, verbatim.

Taylor: YOU FU*&ING BASTARD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! GET BACK HERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Max: yelps and runs – this is a game for him now

Taylor: SON OF A BITCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Max: gives her a look like… um actually? Yes.

Taylor: STOP! BAD DOG!!!!!!!

Max: cuts through a neighbor’s yard and proceeds to poop on said yard

Taylor, winded from having run and scream, while sick, scooped Max up, pulled some toilet paper from her pocket (apparently she has a cold), and cleaned up best she could.  Max seemed pleased, but Taylor feels she now has to move because her street has seen her comfy wear.

God Bless Taylor.


A few days later, Taylor went back to work.   At lunch, Taylor went to the little grocery by her office where all the earth-friendly people go.  People were giving her the once over, and she thought it was because she hadn’t brought in her re-usable grocery bag.  She felt guilty, but kept perusing.  After many scowls, Taylor began scowling back.

At the check out, Taylor’s checkout guy was also giving her the eye.  Then he asked if she’d like to buy a bag. And then this happened:

Taylor: THAT’S IT!!!!!!!!!  No.  I don’t want a bag.  I’m sorry I forgot to bring my reusable bag in, but I feel like crap and I’m on cold meds.  Whatever.  Just give me my stuff.

Bagboy: Gives her the once over and says: Really?

Taylor looks down.

Taylor: Oh shit.

Then she quickly grabs her bag and runs out.

Why?  Taylor was forced to  participate in her office Ugly Sweater party.  Apparently, Taylor forgot she was wearing said hideous sweater and THAT was what folks were looking at…. not her lack of earth-friendly carry alls.

So in the course of a week, Taylor, has gone from pulled together cutie to What Not to Wear.  God BLESS Taylor.  Hope she feels better soon.

Merry Christmas-Happy Holidays! Stay out of the ugly sweaters and off the cold meds.


Like Charlie Sheen Attracts Strippers and Coke

I sometimes get questions of “do you make this shit up” on my blog.  The answer is a tragic NO.  Sadly, I doubt I’m creative enough to come up with this.    I attract crazy and odd like Charlie Sheen attracts strippers and coke.  (Yes, verbatim I was told this.)  This story is one of those gems.  But first, a little background:

I am at this amazing new job.  I love what I do, I love where I am…. but my boss?  He is, bless him, about one nugget short of a Happy Meal.  My coworkers and I have dubbed him Doug E. Fresh.  I’m not sure why or how this happened, but it’s quite commonplace vernacular here now. Doug E. Fresh’s existence, I’m certain, is to make our lives as difficult as possible before he leaves this position.  We have a countdown clock now the we know when he’s leaving.  Tick Tock Doug E. Fresh… Tick Tock.

That being said, Doug E. Fresh tales from last week.  ONE day in my life with Doug E.

Me: Doug E. Fresh, (ok I used his REAL name but  you get me) I need you to sign this time request off form.  I’m taking the day after Christmas off if that is ok.

DEF: Oh yes that’s fine.  You are here all the time.  You need a day…

Me: smile (and think to myself it’s YOUR fault I’m here all the dang time)

DEF: Why did you date this with a smiley face?

Me: Oh! (blush) it’s 12/12/12 and I thought that was cool to write.  Sorry….

DEF: That’s right!  How cool is that!  Oh!  Next year it’s 13/13/13! Oh geez I hope it’s not on a Friday!  (laughter)

Me: (realizing he’s serious) Um… 13?  That’s not possible…. it’s December…12….

DEF: God DAMN it!!!!! Oh well.

Me: I’ll see you in our meeting!

I scurry away and flee to the bathroom where I erupt in a fit of laughter.


DEF: (in the middle of a meeting)  You know some days my whole goal is to just distract you.

Me:  Pardon?

DEF: Yea…. you are SO focused.  You just move right through and stay on track regardless of what I say or do.

Me:  Um…. thanks.  I try.  So, as I was saying, here we have the…

DEF: hummina-humminah (makes weird noises)

Me: Yes?

DEF: (more noises)

Me: Ok, So, as I was saying, you have the…..

DEF: (laughs)

Me: Yes?

DEF:  Really?  Do you take stuff for this? You are incredibly hyper focused man!

Me: I’m not on any medications for anything – I’m just a professional and I’d like to get done before dark.

DEF: hahaha!  Ok.  Carry on.

He left about five minutes later….


To understand this final section, you must understand Doug E. Fresh’s work (haha) schedule.

9am: arrive, fuss about computer, check emails, drink coffee, walk around the office areas and interrupts all head employees

11am: declare hunger and/or may attend a meeting

11:30-noon: leave for lunch

1pm: attend a fitness class or go hit golf balls for a few hours

3pm: back in office, check email, may attend a meeting

4pm: leave for the day
Earlier this week, not surprisingly  Doug E. Fresh declared I had to do a special presentation just for him and include some people via phone. I was already doing this presentation twice on Monday, but Doug E. Fresh wanted it for his on Friday. Fine.  It was absurd, and useless, but I did it.  Then I get this email:

“Yours truly is taking some much deserved time off on Friday. If you need me, I’ll be checking emails”

So, I reply:

“Dipshit.  YOU need time off?  I work more hours in day than you did in two months.  TIME OFF?  You make me pull favors to get a presentation just for you on Friday and now you aren’t even coming?? OR did it mean so little to you that you forgot.  Sweet mother Mary.  You are batshit crazy.  Please, don’t come back….just run away and don’t stop.”

Ok.  I didn’t.  Well, I did, but I erased it.  What I really wrote was:

“You made me schedule a meeting for you on Friday as a test run presentation.  I have a,b,c lined up for the conference call.  Are you really not attending?”

Doug E. Fresh:

“We can do another on on Monday early if you needed to.  I don’t think it’s necessary on Friday.  I trust you.  You’re the bestest!!!”

Ya’ll!  He did.  He said bestest.  And used three !!!. I can only assume the man was drunk or high as a kite.  What 60-something year old man says that?  I think he’s messing with me.  Wait….maybe he’s the Beebs after all.  Maybe it was HIM messing with me and not… no?  You think?  I need wine…..



My Office Is Possessed

My office has taken on 84 needy children for the holidays.  So sweet right?

Well, the stash of stuff is partly in my office.  Off and on for the past few days I have been hearing things.  I dismiss them to long hours, thin walls and a chef that beats meat.    Last night, however, I for a brief time believed my office was possessed.

I, working late like a good girl, kept hearing a jibber-jabber noise.  A few minutes later, I hear a muffled but distinctly creepy voice singing “Clementine”.

Alright.  Now I’m creeped out, but I’m certain I’m hearing things.

I head over to the piles of gifts and poke at them a little.

Silence in all the bags.

I sit down

Then I hear a different pitch chatter.

I get up to investigate again.


I begin to move the bags I feel might contain said sound out from my office.

When I put down the bags, I hear the most demonic sounding “See you laaaa–ttt—eerrr” I’ve ever heard.

I squealed like a little girl, ran into my office, slammed the door and screamed, “Sweet Mother Of GOD!!!  Leave me alone!!!”

I sit back down and all is quiet for an hour.  I get up to open the door because I fear security will alarm me in if the door is shut.

Sit back down and you know what I hear?  HARMONIZING.

I begin to giggle.  Come on!  Demons don’t harmonize…..

I gather my courage to go investigate, dig under the bags until I find it….open the bag and…. I bet all you parents out there know what I found.

No?  It’s a Sing-a-ma-jig.  Have you heard of them?  Here’s a link to their official video page.  Note: I am not a paid spokeswoman for them, nor do I own one.  It’s just here for you to refer to them and know what creepy sounds I heard.   

Four Sing-a-ma-jigs dolls

Four Sing-a-ma-jigs dolls (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Creepy little bastards.

Enjoy your holidays!



Taylor Had a Bad Day

Remember Taylor?  My sweet little polly-pocket of sass?    Well, she recently went all Martha Stewart on her place and bought awesome decorations, lovely smelling candles, etc.  She also has two pets: a cat named Lila and a dog named Max.  Lila is a devil in a very long fur coat.  She doesn’t mind and she doesn’t care.  Max is young and dumb.  Bless.

Today was one of those days where I’ve done nothing but meet.  I do that here.  We meet to decide when we meet next.  It’s extraordinary what people do with time on their hands…..what they deem important now vs. what they did when they were actually in jobs.  But I digress.  After my meetings I drug myself back to the desk to check my never-ending inbox.   I see this email from Taylor and almost pee my pants.

Re: Saturday plans

Okay-  let’s see how it goes…I may need to crash.  Lila got a wild hair to jump on the microwave.  When she did, her belly hair drug through the candle wax in my wax warmer.  I’m not sure how many times she did this as I was at work.  All I know is there was no more wax in the warmer and Lila’s belly is coated in candle wax.  F*%king a…because I’m going to have to shave her tomorrow…

Max is on my shit list too.  He peed on and humped my Christmas Deer and also peed on my tree skirt, so it’s just been a nightmare at the apartment.  I need a vodka or a Valium.  Maybe both.

I hope you have a good day and I will see you later.


I’ve tried several times to reply and all I can do is sit here and laugh til tears stream down my face.  I picture Lila with a shaved belly looking pissed off.  I picture Max (a small-medium dog) thinking the Christmas Deer is now his girlfriend and being all sorts of mad when she no longer smells like him.  But most of all I picture Taylor coming back to a home she left looking like something out of a magazine shoot.  Fully believing it would be as she left it, but instead, seeing a cat with a wax belly and a Christmas Deer that wreaks of pee and Max.  I picture the look on her face.  The grasping of the pearls.  And the string of obscenities that inevitably flew from her lips, followed by a mortified look around to ensure no one heard her utter such words.

God bless Taylor.  She’s had a rough day.



And That’s Why I Can’t Go Back to Wyoming

In keeping with my birthday week theme, here is the tale of the day I turned a whole decade old.

That summer, my parents, sister and two grandparents all packed it up Griswold style and drove cross country.  Note: my parents are teachers, so they have the summers off, and they decided this would be the an education we would never forget.  They were right…..but for reasons they didn’t envision.

On my birthday, we were in Jackson Hole, Wyoming.  A lovely town for skiing I hear, but dead of summer?  Not so much.  I was greeted by an arbor of antler horns, which totally creeped me out, and my poor kid sister thought they belonged to all of Santa’s reindeer…so she cried incessantly, and thus my birthday began.

We decided to go eat at a local diner.  When we finished, my sister pitched a hissy fit because she wanted more dessert.  I had to go to the bathroom.  I told my parents this, then went on.  When I was gone, my sister got louder.  They scurried her to the car and went on to find a hotel.

I came out of the bathroom, ready to go and couldn’t find my family.  I went to the parking lot to see if they are there.  They are not.  At this point, I realize I’m all alone. The only person I know?  Our waitress, who was probably all of 20 at the time, named Lucille.

I walked into the restaurant, reconciling the fact that I have been left behind….on…my…birthday.  This is well before cell phones and internet were standard. And, of course, I had no idea what hotel they were going to choose.  I walked up to Lucille and tugged on her apron, big tears spilling down my freckled cheeks.

Me: Lucille?

Lucille: Yes honey?

Me: Can I stay with you tonight?

Lucille: Er…um.  What? she says with a slightly flushed face

Me: My family left me….and I don’t know anyone else here.

Lucille: On your birthday!?! she had generously brought me cake and sung to me just moments earlier

Me: Yeah… guess so. sniff sniff snub

Lucille: Where are they?

Me: I don’t know….

Lucille puts her hand on my shoulder and leads me to a booth.

Lucille: There there…. let me get you some chocolate milk.  Does that sound good?

Me:(crying big crocodile tears) Yes, please, ma’am.

While Lucille was gone, I began contemplating how I would make it home.  I envisioned calling my other grandmother, who was miffed that she wasn’t on said trip and being relegated to spending my summer in her house, shucking corn.  I laid my head down on the table and sobbed.


I was flooded with joy, tinged with anger – it was my mom!

Me: MOM!! You came back for me!

Mom:She flew to me, tears flowing, hugging me tight…Sweetie did you think we’d left for good?

Me: Well….yeah. snub snub

Lucille: returns with my chocolate milk, shoots my mom an evil look

Here sweetie.

Then she stands beside me like a protective mama hen.

Mom: All I can say is I’m sorry.  Your sister….

Me: IT’S MY BIRTHDAY! YOU LEFT ME!  I DON’T CARE! I say as I dramatically throw my head back down on the table

Mom: I’ll buy you anything you want.

Me: NO.

Mom: Please honey….

Me: I want my OWN hotel room tonight….and tomorrow.  ALONE.

Mom: Done.

Mom let me feel justified for a minute as I sat there with my new friend, Lucille, and sipped my chocolate milk as slow as possible.  I did get my own room that night, though it adjoined my parents and the door remained open the whole time between us.  But, I was free from the flailing arms of my sister and had my own TV.  I spread out like a princess, and slept like a rock.  And my mom?  Paranoid.  Never let me out of her sight again, even as a teen…and even now as an adult.  I can count on one had how many times in my adult life I’ve been cleared to go to the bathroom, buffet line or dressing room without mom coming too.  Mom’s even worse with my poor sister.

I am certain that Wyoming is a lovely state, but this tale, bloggies, is why I can never return.  I get a little panic flutter when I think about it….although I do wonder what ever happened to sweet Lucille.  I like to imagine she won the lottery, has an amazing husband and three great kids…and that she named one after me.

The upside to this story, aside from the fact that my parents came back, is that it provides me with endless fodder for winning arguments.

My sister doesn’t get her way?

I say: Well, at least no one left you for dead….ON YOUR BIRTHDAY.

Mom gets mad at something I did?

I say: Well, at least I didn’t LEAVE YOU, on your birthday, with strangers…clear across the country!

There really isn’t any retort to top that in my family.  Used sparingly and at the right times?  I can ride that gem forever.

Here’s to you Lucille….wherever you are,



Birthday from Hell

It’s my birthday!  Well….not really.  It’s my birthday week….er…

Funny Birthday Ecard: Happy Anniversary of Your 29th Birthday.

This is the first year I will be celebrating completely and totally scum free (aka glitter, confetti, etc.)  I am pretty sure this will be the best birthday ever.  I am sure I will blog about it next week, but this week, I thought I’d give you a taste of a birthday gone bad.

Paul (the ass hat that I dated for ten years) decided to take me to Jamaica a couple of years ago. This was, I thought, potentially a romantic and fun time.  Not so much.

Morning, Glory

I wake up on the day of my birthday because I am itchy….everywhere.  The hell??  Turns out, during the night, any flesh exposed was bitten by a rabid mosquito from hell.  I had welts all over me! I couldn’t stop itching. This was NOT the way I wanted to look for my birthday. Scratching like I have fleas?  That’s never sexy.

What’s worse?  The welt marks were huge, bitey bruise like things a little larger than the head of a push pin.  I looked like I had really bad purple freckles.  No one can pull that look off.  Not even Giselle…and I am far from a Giselle.  And, since it is SUMMER IN JAMAICA, it’s pretty much the temperature of hell.  It isn’t like I can wear pants or long sleeves to cover it up.  And, there wasn’t enough concealer in the world that could have helped me.

Quote of the day from a Jamaican concierge:  Oh mon….  What happen here mon? You got kinky last night?

Me: No such luck.  Mosquitoes.

Man: That look nothin like a mosquito bite I seen…. raised his eyebrows and walks away

I thought….thanks for confirming I look like I have leprosy. Happy freaking birthday to me.


Holy F*&k!

That’s what I screamed.  Yeah…..sweet, genteel, debutante me. And not in a good way.  But we’ll get to that.

I come in from lunch and start towards the shower, dejected and itchy. I hear a noise….a gentle flapping.  I think it is the curtains that are blowing in from the deck, so I disregard.  I take my shower, get out, dry off and head naked to the suitcases for clothes.

That’s when I yell:  HOLY F*&K!!!


There is a big ass crow perched on my suitcase.  Glaring at me…nay… leering at me.  I’m in a tropical paradise.  There are probably hundreds of birds that are pretty, dainty, tropical…. what flies in to my room?  A damn crow.  Really???

And here’s a thing to know.  I have a love/hate with birds.  From afar?  Pretty.  Close?  Oh hell no.  I think I was pecked to death in a former life.  I get all sweaty and creeped out when a bird comes near me.  And a big ass bird like this? No no no…that isn’t ok.

The bird, unfortunately, is people trained and/or a bad ass.  He doesn’t fly away at my shrill screaming of expletives.  Instead, said crow flaps at me, shits on my suitcase, then walks to a different section of suitcase daring me for my next move.

At this point, I realize I’m fully naked and have squealed louder than I thought because there is a knock at my door.

Thickly accented housekeeper: Hey Ma’am? I hear screaming.  Are you ok?


Housekeeper: opens door wide to my very nude, very bitten up body.

Me: AHHH!!!!!

Housekeeper: Begging your pardon!  OH! My! You ok? What happened to you?

Me: trying to cover my parts with my hands and arms and see that she is totally distracted by my bitey body and the door is still wide open

Housekeeper: And OH! You got a bird in here love?

Me: Um…. can you please shut the door so I can get changed?

The housekeeper radios for help as I get dressed.  30 seconds later, a crew of three men arrive.  Then, hilarity ensued.  This bird flew and shit on everything it could find.  Three adult men couldn’t capture it.  After a lot of swearing and a lot of fails, the bird politely flew out the door it came in…leaving his lovely shit marks behind.  Bastard.

We switched rooms.  The poop was way too much.


The Jerk

Warning:  This section is kind of gross, but it ends well.

In true Paul fashion, he gets rip roaring drunk.  And angry.  And clumsy.  Instead of slapping me in public, which I did appreciate, he got up from the table and decided to go back to the room.  3 minutes later I hear the following:


The entire restaurant leaps up to view what has happened.  Did a car drive through the lobby?  Did a plane crash through the windows? No.

There is my ass hat Paul, lying amongst the broken pieces of a rather large, expensive looking vase. Mortally embarrassed, I run over and clean him up.  Take him back to the room and put him down for bed.  I go back to apologize and drink myself something to calm my frayed nerves.

When I turn to leave my room, I am escorted down by security.  I find out that this vase?  It really was very expensive.  $5000 expensive.  And it had been in a display, which was secure, which means he crashed through the plate glass AND the vase, so we are liable.  It’s amazing the boy only had minor cuts.  Looking back, I am convinced that was a sign he was demon spawn….but I digress.

They wanted me to pay $5000 to replace said vase.  So….I worked my magic, tears and skill set…got the fee reduced.  I had to go back up to the room to get his credit card though because the hell if I put it on my card.

I walk back up to the room and over by the bed to get his credit card.  Whilst crouched over, rummaging through his pants, I look up  just in time to see the joyous sight of Paul puking off the bed, onto the marble floor…and my cute white skirt, legs and shoes.  Did he use a trashcan?  Attempt to get to the bathroom? Oh no.  He just rolled over and retched off the side of the bed.  And let me tell you…. it was gross.  Jerk chicken smells and looks horrid when mixed with whiskey.

All I could do was stand up, run outside and close the door behind me.  Had I stayed, it wouldn’t have been pretty.

Half covered in jerk chicken and whiskey vomit, half covered in purple bug bites, I had to go down to the lobby and explain that, again, I needed assistance.  And…that I couldn’t give them the money we owed right then because it was covered in …well…you know.

To the resort’s credit, they looked at me- bitten, puked on… and they offered me a complimentary bath robe to use after my shower in the spa area while they cleaned up my room.  Apparently I really did smell and look as awful as I felt.

Turns out?  We had to switch rooms again.  Apparently Paul got belligerent and began vomiting exorcist style all over them when they tried to move him.  So much so that they slapped a lovely fine on the room for “intensive cleaning” and threatened him with jail for the night.

So, I spent the night in the lobby bar, in my bathrobe, with De’ron, my super patient, sweet bartender who kept me company with free champagne, food and fun facts and stories about Jamaica until I was ready to sleep.  He said something that hit me close to home, and I keep with me til this day.

No lady should have to spend the night alone on her birthday, but she shouldn’t spend it with a jerk either.

True that De’ron.

So….here’s to a birthday filled with glitter that sparkles to its core, champagne that tickles you toyour core, and friends that you love even more.

Birthday Week Me