The 7th Ring of Hell: Part 1

All I can say is, I won't be doing that again.

I woke up early on the 24th and put the finishing touches on my packing, able to get all the Christmas presents I was hauling to Phoenix and my clothes and stuff in one suitcase. I only had to carry a purse and a couple of framed prints onto the plane. I'd made a reservation at the Park-n-Ride and got there in plenty of time, despite the desperate dash to Denny's on the way to the airport to um...well...let's just say I had a very pissed off tummy and thank god for Denny's and their clean and available bathroom. (This always happens when I fly and I just know one of these days I'm going to crap my pants going through security which would serve them right for making it such a fucking hassle!!)

I got up to the gate without a problem and figured it would be a good idea to hit the bathroom since approximately 40 thousand people decided to fly Southwest out of San Diego before 10:00 on Christmas Eve. There literally wasn't any more room to stand with all the people hogging the chairs and sitting all over the floor. And wouldn't you know it, the line for the 5 stalls in the ladies room was 50 bitches deep. I took my place and was only there for a minute when a man pushed a little old lady in a wheelchair right onto my heels and said "this is far as I can take you" and fucking walked away!

Of course I couldn't not do anything so I leaned over and told the sweet grandma that I'd help her get into the narrow and crowded restroom. She was so nice and continued to thank me profusely. My gesture seemed to spread as we got closer to grabbing our own stalls and people were making sure I could get her and her chair in there and get a handicapped stall, although I did politely decline her invitation to join her in there. I might have been having a moment of altruism but I ain't watching some strange blue-hair pee.

I made sure she knew I was right next door and would wait to help her wash her hands and get back out. We did just fine and I resisted the urge to light my jacket on fire after it fell onto the bathroom floor because, ew, public lavatory floor. While we were drying our hands another stranger told the lady that I was a Christmas angel and I thanked her but gave an assurance that I was only making up for all the rotten things I regularly do all week. I pushed the wheelchair past the line that had grown even longer while I was performing this feat and was again thanked for my efforts by the woman and completely ignored by the dude that dumped her at my feet. What a dick.

Anyway, I slalomed through the throngs for awhile then was able to snag a real chair, only to hear an announcement that my flight was at least an hour delayed. Fuck. And this is where I swore to never do this particular travel plan again. God damn Southwest. I called my mom and delivered the warning. Hoping we'd find each other without a problem.

After an uneventful flight I landed in Phoenix, quickly gathered my suitcase and went to the North curb where my mother and I had planned on meeting. I found my mom's car and opened the door. She didn't even say hi but quickly shouted, "where's your father??". Fuck. He had gone into the cavernous baggage claim area in the hopes of finding me. Jesus Christ. Now I have to go find him because bless his 80 year-old heart, he'll fucking sit in there until midnight unless I find him first and I knew he wouldn't have a clue where to go.

I hadn't eaten anything all day and I'd been up since 5:00 a.m. I could feel my sugar levels start to crash and new I was going to hit the deck if I didn't collect the old man and throw some food down my face. I roamed the baggage claim and went back to where my flight was listed on the giant overhead scrolling in bright red letters on the huge screen that my father insisted DIDN'T FUCKING EXIST. He wasn't there. I looked high and low, left and right, at this cute guys righteous ass. Finally, as I was heading out back to the car I glanced over to the exact opposite place I had been in the entire airport and there he was.

I called out "Dad". He didn't hear me. He started to walk away. I started running. I yelled again, "DAD!!". He was still walking. I yelled out again. Damn man won't admit he's deaf as a fucking stone. He kept walking. Now people are staring at me. I ran a bit more, hauling my fat ass as fast as it would go and then screamed his actual name. This he heard and finally stopped. Then I fainted.

OK, not really. But I was all kinds of out of breath from my 50 foot trek across the carpet. We tried to say a quick hello but I needed to get his wrinkly butt back into the car before my mother blew a fuse. We climbed back into her 4 acre SUV and started to drive slowly away, since my mother has somehow mastered the ability to press the gas peddle but only go about 3 miles per hour, you know, so slow that it doesn't even register on the speedometer. It's actually physically painful to ride in a car with her.

And then she yelled at my dad for going into the airport and he yelled that there was no such damn thing as a sign above the baggage carousel that shows the airlines and flight numbers and then my mother got confused about which exit to take and stopped in the middle of a median and almost got us smashed by another SUV then she slowly got onto the freeway while screaming at my dad that she needed help because she's all turned around you know and my dad told her that if he stopped on a freeway onramp she'd take his head off with a rusty spoon and they yelled some more while I shoved m-n-m's in my mouth because I was so hungry I could have eaten a kitten but we couldn't go out to lunch because my mom was now irritated threat level orange and I could just get some cottage cheese back at my brother's house even though I've been lactose intolerant for about 10 years now god forbid she remembers anything about me and then she almost missed another offramp and nearly crashed us into one of those giant yellow barrels full of rancid water and dad yelled look out and she yelled well I don't know where I'm going and MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS!


to be cont.

Christmas 2005

Well. That sucked.



More to come...

Merry Friggen Christmas!

Well, I'm leaving for the 7th ring of hell in the morning, or as it's more commonly known, Phoenix. I was summoned, once again, by my mother to join my parents at my brother's house. The same house that I've only been to once back in the summer of 2003 when he and I got into such a huge row that we had to leave each other's general vicinity because shit was about to be thrown down. I think our screams of FUCK YOU! NO, FUCK YOU! were heard somewhere around Madagascar. It was not good, times infinity.

Since that fateful fight, my brother and I have only spoken a few times, even when our small family was together last Christmas and for a week this summer at my parent's house. The story behind all of this is long and tedious, but he is one crazy mo-fo mamma jamma butthole and me doesn't like hims very much. And he's my mother's favorite. Can you fucking believe that? Me and all my fabulousness and she likes the poopy kid more.

I'm really hoping the next 3.2 days doesn't suck like donkey dick. We'll have 4 cranky adults, one puppy, and one spoiled 8 1/2 year old. Parrrrrtay. But I'm sure I'll survive. They might not, but I will.

Dear Santa,

I'd like a dolly that pees, diamond earings, and a industrial sized bottle of Ativan.

Love,

Betty.

That being said, I hope you all have a lovely holiday and I can't wait to read about the melt downs and food fights sure to come. I shall leave you with me at 4. I knew even then I could take the fat man down if need be so I wasn't a'scared like all those other kids wailing at the sight of a deranged stranger in a red suit. And please ignore his apparent inappropriate hand placement. It was the early 70's, we didn't worry about that shit. Merry Christmas everybody!



P.S. Rascal says fuck Christmas too. (Not pictured, Boo, who had a fit when I tried to put the Santa hat on her.) I'm a naughty mommy.

Ack!

Can't post. Server at work crap. Have to make it quick.

Proof that I've nearly lost my mind. Yes, nearly. Shut up.

Said in a scarily parental sing-song voice perhaps channeling my own mother holy crap kill me now to my fat kitty while she was munching at the food bowl for the 29th time that day who eats too much then pukes sometimes actually in the bowl itself:

"Better watch your consumption!"

The hell?

There is something very wrong with me.

Still stewing in my stew

You'd think I'd be over that total and utter RIP OFF of a party gift from last Friday, wouldn't you?

BUT I'M NOT!

Not even close.

Feh.

I told you!!

Didn't I tell you? Didn't I say I would get totally ripped fucking off? Yes, I believe I did!

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It was my 4th daytime "Holiday" party with these idiots. A stupid white-elephant gift exchange which I DETEST by the way, because I always bring something really cool and I always get ripped off and end up with something heinous. This year I brought a stylin' martini set. OK, it was slightly gay but it was a thousand times better than the K-mart bullshit I'm going to take home and accidentally throw away tonight!

We'd already enjoyed our lunch of sweating cheese and bone-dry tandori chicken skewers covered in congealed sweet-n-sour sauce that tasted more like the sticks peirced through them than meat and it was finally time to pick numbers for the gift exchange/rip off. Or what I like to think of as the one chance a year to say naughty shit to your bosses and get away with it. (Which I did when my boss eyed something in front of me and I sneared "bring it on, bitch").

I was hoping for something in the middle of the pack. That way I might be ensured a coveted prize that hadn't been stolen enough times to be owned, or maybe, just maybe I'd open something that I actually wanted.

The hat went around the entire room and I was one of the last ones to choose. I reached in and shuffled the folded papers. Picked the one that felt right and took a look. Number 17. Not too darn bad! Right there in the middle. Woot.

Then it came time to start the game. The first gift was unwrapped showing a pile of pine cones, or pine "corns" my obnoxious foreign co-worker said, and a bunch of lottery tickets. YES! That's exactly what I was going for. Please Jebus, let me get those tickets and win enough money to escape from this corporate hell.

Gift after gift, some enviable like booze, and some complete klinkers like a used Mr. Potato Head with a mystery sheen covering his bald noggin. It was coming close to my turn and even though I could have taken one of a few different bottles of spirits, I ran to those lottery tickets and snatched them away like a tiger taking down a gazelle. Ah ha! Take that!

And then, the bitch who hasn't said 2 words to me since she joined our office 6 months ago promptly stole them.

But. BUT! There was some rum available. Ah ha! Take that again! I ran to the Coconut Bicardi Holiday Gift Package with the Roll-y Glasses and sprinted back to my seat, giving a hearty warning to all who dare take my prize away. There are a few who are either brave to my warnings or too dumb to realize my ability to curse you like a zombie master, but alas, my alcohol spent about 2 more seconds in my possession before it was again stolen for the final time and out of my reach forever. Damn. It.

I had to choose again and the pickin's were slim. A giant 40 pound 2 foot substandard chocolate Santa, um, yea, no. A CD of William Hung singing your Christmas favorites. Not on a bet. A soda can organizer for your fridge, ha, enjoy that sucker. All the good alcohol was formally owned and I had no interest in the animatronic dog that sang fucking Barry White.

I cruised the table. There were only a few packages left. I furrowed my brow and scanned the gifts, hoping for something slightly better than a home-made oven mit. I picked the biggest bag left, it's shiny red paper calling my name.

I was buzzing with anticipation. Please Santa, let it not be complete and utter useless shit. Please let it be something I can pour down my throat and make the bad people go away. Please let it not reak like Anna Nicole Smith's crotch on a Saturday night.

I reached in the bag to find a box of considerable weight. Hmm, what could it be what could it be? Paused for a moment of anticipatory joy, unwrapped the paper and with a huge smile of hope on my face, saw this...

Behold, my gift of TOTAL CRAP.



Fucking. Robbed. Again.

Bah to the Humbug

Today I'm not going to talk about the doctor's appointment I had this morning with yet another sanctimonious prick who would make a nice bookend to the other poop sniffer I saw last week. I'm also not going to bring up my unrelenting fears that something really wrong is going on, again, and I'm being swept under the proverbial rug with the rest of most women who are deemed hysterical and silly then end up in a casket for their 40th birthdays. Their guts rotted from the inside out with some horrible disease. I'm also not going to mention that I'm afraid I'm giving out some violent skunky pheromone making medical professionals hate me upon sight.

Nope. Gonna keep my lip zipped about all that today. I just need to mention one teeny tiny thing and then we'll all move on.

God damn mother fucking condescending unhelpful know it all smug stupid contemptible asshole buttwipe selfish prick superior god complex flippant no regard for patients feelings or well being lazy forgetful negligent fuckface preoccupied pre set agenda prejudiced dickwad irresponsible unreliable untrustworthy uncaring apathetic giant steaming piles and pieces of shit dickhead tightass ignorant preoccupied jackfucks who should be kicked in the twig as soon as they open their arrogant fat mouths sucking a new level of dickless wonder mother humper bunghole stink suckitude times ten to the nth power infinity fucking fuck fuck doctors .

____________________________________________________

I like cheese.

____________________________________________________

Company Christmas parties.

~blorp~

Oh, excuse me. I just mini-puked onto my keyboard.

Yes, I will be subjected to a Chris...oh, my apologies, A "Mandatory Holiday Non-Denominational Gala Celebration Please Only Refer to the Decorated Tree as Festival Foliage Since We're in No Way Singling Out Any One Faith" tomorrow complete with white-elephant everyone always steals my gift exchange and lovely appetizers provided by our very own crapateria. Last year they served liver wrapped in wiggly bacon. It was yummy.

Without getting too detailed, since I'm being oh-so-secretive today, I fucking hate this party. I also get jacked every year and end up with some shitty gift like a wooden moose made from some fuckers kid's 10th grade shop class that shits jellybeans or a brick of plastic wrapped mystery meat that does not require refrigeration. I'm forced to spend 2 hours with 25 people I can't stand and watch everyone kiss our big bosses ass. And they even don't serve booze!

I have to go buy my contribution to the gift-exchange tonight and I really want to bring something horrible like a hand made toaster-oven cozy bought at a church bazaar made from pink and gold yarn with little plastic baby Jesus' sewn in. But no. I'm an attention whore and get off on bringing the best present so I won't rip anyone else off and further screw my tainted Karma with an electronic fart maker. I'll go out tonight and get something awesome in hopes that someone will recognize my awesomeness but will probably be glossed over by the asshole who out-impresses me with the remote control car that launches rockets from the roof rack.

I hate this stupid party. Bah.

Tis the season

I'm feeling a bit melancholy today. I've been hit by a wave of wistfulness like rogue spray coming over the bough of a boat when you didn't expect it, the icy water stunning your face and making you blink and sputter then get bummed out because fuckity, you're all wet now.

The holidaze are a weird time. We're entering into what I like to refer to as the Holiday Trifecta of Hell. Christmas, New Years, and Valentines Day. When your self-worth is all about being a couple thus proving someone out there wants you and you can avoid those awwww isn't that sad she doesn't have a boyfriend for this special day total bullshit. Some people would be perfectly content being alone.

I wish people would keep their yappers shut tight and save their condescending comments to themselves and not make singles feel like boiled crap for being unattached. You'd think I'd be able to avoid stupid comments now that I actually have a boyfriend. A man whom I love very, very much and am so grateful to be sharing my life with. We happen to not be spending Christmas together for the second time since we've been together and that's fine by us. It's no big deal, except to other people. My mother keeps using that tone. You know the one. The one that says "Ooooooohhhkaaaayyy. If you saaaaaaaaayyyyyyy sooooooo". Yes, mother, I say so. And she's not the only one who's done that.

So, on top of some people trying to plant this seed of depression in my already depressed head, I'm having a bit of heartache today about ghosts of relationships past. I was logged in to IM a little while ago and an old friend popped up. This person and I aren't talking anymore and it was a very painful "break-up" for lack of a better term. I don't know why I haven't deleted his name from my list. I just haven't. I guess I wonder if he'll ever say anything to me ever again. So far he hasn't.

I understand that whole friend for a reason, friend for a season thing, but sometimes a person comes through your life and leaves a hole behind. Circumstances make the thing go sour, or they move on, or it simply fades. Sometimes the person had too many broken things about then and it would have never worked but it still hurts. And this is making me think about all the people who have had a special place in my heart who are no longer in my life.

Like my friend of 30 years who stopped talking to me when she found out I had cancer. That one still stings fresh. I didn't just lose her, I lost her whole family. The ones who cause a scar always come back to haunt me, especially this time of year, and it has made me sad today.

Really, really sad.

I'm a hundred million years old

While watching the finale of Survivor last night;

me: That chick looks like Sigmund the Seamonster.
him: Who the hell is that?
me: Are you fucking serious?
him: Yes. Who is Sigmund the Seamonster?
me: Are you telling me you don't know who Sigmund the Seamonster is?
him: Yes. I'm telling you I don't know who that is.
me: Holy shit.
him:...
me: Seriously? You don't know?
him: No, I don't know who that is.
me: What about H.R. Pufnstuf?
him: I think I've heard of him.
me: Unfuckingbelievable.
him:...
me: ~bitterly~ You probably don't even know what a Sleestack is either.
him: ~clearly getting irritated~ No. I don't.
me: ~immediately subscribes to AARP~

My arsenal runneth over

Are you all sufficiently suspended? Great. Now I feel all of this pressure to tell a great story and you all might think it's a total dud then I'll get all verklempt and anxious and will have to take a pill and go shopping and stuff 14 pounds of chocolate down my gullet to make myself feel better. In other words, it'll be a normal day for me.

______________________________________________________
It was a dark and stormy night ,another exciting weekend packed with fun and frolic, an average Saturday night sitting around in jammies staring at the idiot box trying to find something better than rotting road kill or the Lifetime all-Tori-all-the-time channel to watch. Or, dog forbid, something that involves paint swatches and an endless supply of the word "space".

I was fading fast and had nearly given up on any speck of entertainment I might encounter. Bored stiff I was. We decided to buy a movie that musn't have kept my attention for more than 3 seconds cause fuck if I can remember what it was. And we kept having to pause it because one, we didn't care since it wasn't grabbing us by the balls, and B, stuff kept having to be done like smoking and drinking and teasing the cats.

About an hour into it whitey got up for the 10th time and headed for the bathroom. I thought nothing of this since he was enjoying some beer and has the bladder of a field mouse when drinking so it's not unusual that he takes a pee-break oh, every 9 seconds. I thought I'd be nice for the one minute I allot to not being a raging bitch every day and paused the flick once again so he wouldn't miss a millisecond of enrapturing footage. This is important to the story, trust me.

Normally, I wouldn't be paying attention to the myriad of sounds emanating in my house. Half the time I don't even hear the cat puke anymore, which is nice, but since I was sitting in front of a frozen screen with nothing to do but ponder my own thoughts (yea, right) I heard a muffled comment coming from the hallway bathroom where my beloved was taking a whiz. And also, we've gotten to that horrible point in our relationship where the bathroom door does not get closed all the way and even sometimes left completely open and I'm just waiting for the day when we actually take a crap in front of one-another which will be a sad, sad day because that shit is just wrong.

My ears perked up a little when I realized there was some chatter coming from the crapper and I quickly assessed what I thought I'd heard. Yep, I think I was right. I heard something akin to "Aawwww, man. Fucking hell." Now what could this possibly mean? Did the TP roll fall into the water with a pee-pee kerplunk? Did someone shake it too hard and splash his wee eye? Did a cat sneak up and tongue the bung? I didn't hear any more comments and figured all was well.

Then I heard the shower running.

Now what the fuck is going on. I have a movie sittin' on pause here and we're out of decent food in the fridge for me to raid in the meantime, and the internets had been boring me all day, and my new People was lame. The cats were hiding so I couldn't torture them and I had nothing to do but sit there with my thumb up my butt and now he's taking a fucking shower? The hell?

I got up and walked to the almost-shut bathroom door, creaked it open a little, got hit in the face with an odor that was decidedly not roses, and said "Baby? You OK? Why are you in the shower?"

There was a purposeful pause. A deliberate delay. An obvious omission of information.

And then, with an edge of self-disdain and slight annoyance although absent of any embarrassment he said, "I fucking sharted!"

*The author needs to take a break to finish laughing like a moron because 5 days later it's still so god damn funny that she cannot contain herself and must wait until the tears streaming down her face are dried and she gets the strength back in her hands to type.

O.K. I'm O.K. now.

Of course whenever anything of this nature happens to someone, even strangers, I must have every dirty detail. Had a horrific experience giving birth? Tell me all about it. Had to have a cyst the size of a baby's fist lanced off your hoo-ha? Sister, come sit by me. Shart your pants so badly you have to GET IN THE FUCKING SHOWER? It's what I live for!

At this point I'm now laughing so hard it's difficult to squeak out the questions I'm trying to ask. How did this happen? Didn't you feel anything on deck down there? Were you sitting? IS IT ALL OVER THE TOILET SEAT OH MY GOD WE'RE GOING TO HAVE TO MOVE AREN'T WE?

I was finding it difficult to stand and talk at the same time so I let him finish "cleaning up" and managed to calm down a little. He joined me back on the couch fresh as a little daisy where I commenced my interrogation and relentless teasing. Between giggling I began peppering my conversation with the word shart as often as I could. Most of the time laughing so hard I couldn't sputter anything coherent out of my mouth much more than "sha sha shahahahah", which of course caused whitey to begin laughing again with me and off we went.

I finally couldn't take anymore and had to calm down before I had a stroke. The dumb movie was over so I went into the bedroom to go screw around on the computer and try to get the cramp in my ribs to go away. However, I was still curious about how the hell this could have happened to someone who has so much freakish control over his sphincter he should be studied by science. I have to be within 20 feet of a shitter at all times but he could shut down the poop shoot for a week if necessary and not bat an eye. And I still couldn't figure out how a little shart would cause someone to bath their entire body.

Whitey walked into the bedroom and I hit him with one last question. "But baby, how come you had to take a whole shower?" He stopped. Put his hands on his hips and said, "DUDE! THE SHIT WENT DOWN MY LEG!!".

And then I went completely limp, flopped onto the ground in hysterics, broke my spleen with maximum capacity howling laughter, and peed my fricking pants.

You're just gonna have to wait

Something hysterically funny happened this weekend. So pricelessly comical that I literally fell out of chair and onto the floor with a sound coming out of my mouth that was entirely foreign to me because I don't think I've ever laughed that fucking hard in all my life and my laughter didn't know what to do with itself. It tried to keep up but was clearly ill-equipped and out of shape for the hilarity that had ensued. My normal ha ha ha was all over the map with ha ha's and tee hee's and huh huh huh's and I'm pretty sure a haaaaaaaar.

In addition to the involuntary catapult to the floor from the funny, there were streaming tears and lungs stretched to capacity and aching rib cages and a near drowning in the shower when I was unable to get my giggle fit under any kind of control. It lasted a good hour and I suspect I'll be able to milk this for years if not the rest of my life because the mere thought makes me start to chuckle with the threat of a full-blown torrent and there wasn't a moment the memory passed over my brain since this happened that it didn't at least make me chortle a little.

I have to give this adequate attention to detail and proper accolades so I can't tell it today. But I have been given permission to spill the proverbial beans and intend to do just that. So just hold yer horses, it's comin'.

This is not the time of MY life, muthafuckas

Dear People In Charge of Television Programming:

Hi. I know you're probably busy lining up next weekends infomercials and stuff, since everyone clearly needs a Magic Bullet to keep a 14 gallon supply of guacamole on hand at all times so lets make sure that you play that one at least 4 hours back-to-back on Sunday mornings as I really have nothing better to do with my time after the cat walks across my head at 5:45 a.m. and I'm fucking awake now and the only thing to do at that time of the morning is watch the idiot box and what better to see then that 15 minutes of fame chick from Three's Company who replaced the annoying blond who replaced Suzanne Somers when she got all full of herself and wanted a gazillion dollars to run around in Dolphin shorts and a tube top but you have to admit she had a great rack anyway but that third replacement chick now looks like a bullfrog in a wig and she freaks me out every time I see her giant mouth stretching across my entire screen sipping on a frucking fruit smoothie.

~huge inhale~

But I digress.

The point of my letter is to give you a suggestion. And I assure you, this will make all of our lives better. Like, microwave better. Hybrid engine better. Paris Hilton being shot into space better.

Is it not bad enough that there are eleventy million channels out there and it can take an entire day to find something decent to watch rendering my remote button pushing thumb stiff from overuse? Are we not being teased into a frenzy by HBO who insists on repeating the same 4 horrible flicks on their 8 channels, including the Spanish one and why am I paying extra for this crap? And do you not think some of us have caught onto your immense laziness in your telecasting when some of us who have spent at least 35 out of their 38 years sitting in front of the TV would notice that the endless supply of better theatrical endeavors are probably locked up tight in Michael Jackson's vault right next to the elephant man's bones and some classic all-male "erotica" art?

Well, let me tell you, I've had it. I cannot take it anymore and if the powers that be don't do something about this gross injustice to some of us who spend every waking moment at home viewing the boob tube well, I'm going to write a terse letter. OK, I can barely manage fluffing the pillow behind my head these days so I'm never writing a letter, but I'm surely gonna complain a lot! And yell. Really loud.

WHAT THE BLUE FUCK IS UP WITH PLAYING DIRTY DANCING 14 TIMES A DAY EVERY DAY AND I USED TO LOVE THIS MOVIE BUT NOW YOU'RE RUINING IT!!!

It started out as a lark. A mere "huh, will you look at that, it's on again". Then I started getting a little freaked out that I was managing to flip past Jennifer Grey pre nose-job in her white jeans being lifted over Patrick Swayze pre bad-brow-lift in what I can only surmise was a scummy pond in the Poconos and I'll never stop wondering if families really went away to some smarmy resort together all summer and danced the Cha-Cha with someone named Trixie and why didn't Johnny get arrested for statutory rape since Baby was what, 16 and he was 28 and I always think that dude is gonna drop those two watermelons but he doesn't and do the lift, Baby, come on, you can do the lift!!

BUT HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO SUSPEND MY BELIEF IN REALITY IF YOU PLAY THE FRIGGEN MOVIE ON A FRIGGEN LOOP EVERY FRIGGEN DAY?!?

Next you'll get all obsessed with Grease or something and you'll kill that one too. So quit it already and play something else! Gosh.

Sincerely,

Betty

Let's just get to the pie already

Lance Turdicken the Disco Pimp and I would like to wish you a Happy Thanksfuckinggiving.



I hope everyone celebrating today fills their belly's till the busting point, laughs until you pee a little, spends non-psychotic time with loved ones, and maybe even gets a little sumpin sumpin. When you come out of your tryptophan comas of course.

The color scheme has been chosen, the house is coming along nicely, the food preparations will begin shortly, Boo is feeling much better, I'm looking forward to spending the next 36 hours with the man I love so much it hurts and one of the most riteous bitches in the world, and I'm uncharacteristically calm and happy. Yes, I said happy. Shut up.

Tis not my nature to make a long list of things I'm thankful for, frankly I think it jinxes me, but I will say that I'm so f-ing grateful to have some of the most incredible friends a dumb, grumpy girl can have, for whoever stops by here and reads my ramblings and rants, and especially for those of you who honor me with comments because I love that so much you don't even know. I appreciate it more than this cranky Princess can ever express without getting all misty and embarrassed and then I'll have to punch you in the eye to even things out.

Have a good one people, and stay safe.

Love,

Betty

Martha Stewart, I smite thee

This is all her fault. Or my mother's fault. Or someone else's fault. But it's clearly not my fault because that would mean that I'm ~nervous laughter~ a little crazy and ~wild eyed grin~ we all know that I'm solid as a ~crossing fingers behind back~ fucking rock. Um. Yea. So, anyway...

I'm OBSESSED with Thanksgiving. Normally I wouldn't give a rats ass about a holiday because I've been around for awhile now and the charm of sitting around some table with a bunch of people you're going to get pissed at after bringing up for the millionth fucking time that dumb thing you did when you were ten ha ha yea it was so funny when I pooped my pants on the school field trip to the Museum of Natural History thanks for sharing that little ditty in front of my new boyfriend mother and wearing a pair of pants that get so tight by the time you finish your mashed potato volcano with the gravy lava that you can't breathe without severe chest pains is gone.

This year, for the first time in many, I'm having a guest. A real live house guest who will not only eat Thankgiving dinner with whitey and I, but will spend the night. In my house. And I'm freaking out. Obligatory GAH.

I would have been pulling out all the stops for my man if we hadn't been living together since June but the bloom was off that rose the minute he discovered I am indeed a slob of epic proportions and it was no use trying to fake it with fancy meals and tidy rooms since he's seen the hairballs on my bathroom floor and witnessed me eating spaghettios right out of the can. Sigh. Sorry, baby. My ruse was nice while it lasted.

On Thursday the lovely Ginny (write something already, bitch) is traveling down from the slight north to feast and frolic with us and I'm very much looking forward to it because she's so funny that you'd piss your pants if you didn't keep up with bathroom breaks while hanging with this riteous chick and she's easy on the eyes too. Rowr.

I'd invite more people but I don't like hardly anyone and the pressure of having just one person in my house is driving me batshit insane and I suspect whitey too since, and you men can all do a collective groan now, I've already made a big long list of shit to do, dragged him (not really he volunteered to go with me because he's awesome like that) to buy "prospective I'm not sure they're gonna work out lets take them home and see" placemats with matching cloth napkins, and he cleaned out the fridge. My blowjob tally is now gone into January.

I don't know what takes over my normally lackadaisical (piggish) persona when someone is coming over. I'm compelled to clean like the ghost of Joan Crawford, redecorate the entire house, spend exorbitant amounts of cash on high-brow treats like goat cheese and crackers hand molded by Italian virgins, buy enough liquor to keep Nick Nolte happy, and I clean stuff. This is perhaps the sickest transformation of them all. Right next to buying live plants for fucksake. I can barely keep myself alive. What on earth am I doing buying plants.

Yesterday I was so frazzled with the 40 hundred frillion things I need to do that I was caught imobile and only managed to push a candleholder an inch across a table with my pointer finger. But it's in the perfect spot, now. Sweet Jebus, what has happened to me? I've actually been looking for more perhaps perfecter placemats online. At work. For an hour.

Today's current infatuation is my color scheme. Should I go with an orangy thing or go back to my blue stuff because that matches my good china so much better but I really like the yummy pumpkin pie candles I bought and we can always use the everyday white plates but that sort of looks stark against a nice autumnal linen and what about the sterling silver my mother gave me no that needs to be polished and I'm not going to have the time what with the flower planting and the dusting and the laundry and the light demolition because holy shit my kitchen sucks and I CAN'T HAVE SOMEONE SEE MY CRAPPY COUNTERTOPS.

I need help. Please send medication.

Guess what I did today?

"Can you scoot down a little more? A little more? Just a little bit more? Thanks"

Yea, you know what I'm talkin' bout.

Gah.

My mind is like a steel sieve

I had a great post planned for today. It hit me while I was driving home last night and I jumped a little in my seat and I smiled and said to myself, yes, that is pure genius. I shall pen it after I wake and the people, they will laugh. And the ire, it will be clear. And I'll be adored. And envied. And loved.

I floated home on a cloud of stardust with the birds of brilliance gaily fluttering over my obviously talented head thinking, it will be the most clever thing anyone comes across today. Perhaps this week. Nay, the year.

The masses will smack their foreheads and think, "why am I such an enormous idiot? Curse the Gods and my inferior brain for never considering that". The children will print my pages and take them to their mummy's and tell them they want to be just like me when they grow up. Full of piss and vinegar and fabulous shoes.

The men will contemplate sending me steamy e-mails of invitation then dash the idea after they realize I am far to good for their common souls and they couldn't possibly measure up to the Princess and her needs. Conversely, the women will contact me with reverence and veneration and beg me to reveal just one small snippet of my personal wisdom so they may too someday be as dazzling and clever as I.

And so today I sat down in front of my computer, poised my dainty fingers over the keys, ready to share with the entire world the most intuitive, original, humorous, passionate, biting, shrewd, sassy, and life-changing thing anyone in the history of the world has ever written...


...and I fucking forgot what it was.

By Thursday she was better

Even I, Princess Crankypants ruler of Crabbytowne, her Royal Highness of Snippyville, and the raven-haired favorite daughter of Poutyburg, cannot be a depressed mess 24/7. The last couple of days have been relatively asshole-free, until this afternoon, but I'm only slightly warm over that one. One Ativan with a diet Dr. Pepper chaser and I'll be right as rain. And tonight is a fresh episode of Survivor, so I have that going for me. Not to mention I've been on fiah with the funny. Cracking my shit up, I is.
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After a retardedly disastrous appointment at my GP's office on Monday, I wanted nothing to do with anyone resembling anything in a white coat. Not a doctor. Not a gay mechanic. Not the cute butcher at my market. I know I was all bawling and shit but I was wearing a scratchy germ-infested blue gown open up the back and it barely fucking fit. Shoving more drugs down my gullet is not what I was after. And I meant it when I said no 15 fucking times in a row. Jaysus.

I managed to look beyond the idiots I keep encountering and took a gamble to find someone who might be able to help. Even just a little. I called my company's mental health line and got an authorization number for the whopping 3 free visits they allow. We're apparently on the sitcom plan for resolving problem's. All of your life's issues handled in 23 minutes plus commercials and a free laugh track. So. Stupid.

Anyway, I called the first name listed since he was close to my office, had expertise in my particular afflictions (being koo-koo), and answered the phone himself. He was cool and calm and could get me in this week. I went to his office yesterday and opened the door with trepidation. I think I've made a mistake by not talking to a professional about my adventures in cancer-land these last 2 years but I just couldn't handle one more commitment of the doctoring kind. Or the financial drain. But now it's time. Sigh.

There were 2 girls behind the glass and neither acknowledged my presence. Oh shit, I thought, here we go again. One finally turned towards me and I was quickly told to have a seat and my head shrinker would be out in a minute. I managed to not saying anything snotty after being ignored, although I really wanted to bean the smarmy girl who saw me walk in with a jolly rancher from the candy bowl.

Doc. G. appeared from the hallway with a warm smile and an outstretched hand. He looked sort of like a throw-back from the 70's, judging by his feathered hair and office decor, but no matter. If he can help me get my head straightened out I don't care if he lives in a van down by the river.

We spoke easily for an hour. Our conversation peppered with nonconsequential subjects having nothing to do with my constant and pending anxiety attacks or my general hate for everything, although that was covered too. Just wait until we talk about my mother!

He also mentioned that he's a puppy raiser for a local assistance dog program and could arrange things so I have appointments when the puppy is in the office, if that was OK with me. God damn, dude, why don't you just offer me a chocolate IV drip and Johnny Depps penis while you're at it. With this kind of therapy he won't even have to be in the damn room.

I was only able to briefly mention my idea of taking a leave from my job (he's familiar with my company and its uncanny ability to turn their employees into angry mutants), but we'll talk about it next week. Or at least I'll try to blurt a few words out inbetween kissing all over that puppy! He seemed supportive considering the stress I've been under and I think almost said "no shit" a couple of times, but not in the no shit I know that way but no shit you're stressed you poor girl let me call my old friend Johnny Depp right now!

I don't think I've given myself enough credit for spending the last 7 months walking around not knowing if I have cancer growing in my neck and what my fate will be. I nearly lost my mind waiting the 2 days for word after my biopsy in the beginning of all this mess, I guess I thought waiting for another scan 6 months after that bad scan last March wouldn't be a big deal. Um, yea, WRONG.

I compared being diagnosed with cancer to being an innocent victim in a bank robbery. The kind where the robber grabs you and holds the business end of a gun to your head for 3 days while his accomplice negotiates with authorities. You spend what seems like an eternity not knowing if your brains are going to become part of the industrial art on the walls or if you'll walk out fairly intact. Then left with the uncertainty that you might not ever again sleep through the night without a nightmare that wakes you up soaking wet and gasping for air.

These last 7 months have been more like being a prisoner in a third-world country. Or at least I keep picturing that bad movie with Clare Danes where she and her friend get popped for smuggling heroin and end up in a hell hole prison for women in Laos or somewhere. Sort of the same, sort of not. But the anxiety never ends.

But, but, but. I won't give up. Even when I want to. I won't. I might be at the end of my rope and someone's pissing down the threads, but I haven't dropped yet. And one day I'll figure out the right combination for the kind of catharses I need. And let's just keep Johnny Depp's penis on the list for now, alright? I know I can work that in somewhere.
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In order to keep myself from going fetal, I make an effort to let myself be entertained, spoil myself with certain luxuries, and take the time to have some quality me-time every day. Since my last post was such a fucking bummer, I thought I'd share. Maybe we can make this a regular thing. What do you think?


The Funny

Laughter is the best medicine, blah blah, yes we know. I think a big fat valium is the best medicine sometimes, but I must admit, I love to laugh and it does send out those good endorphins pumping through my brain. (See you stupid cunt doctor, I don't need more drugs I just need more funny. Stupid bitch). If you haven't caught any episodes of the American version of The Office, I highly recommend that you do that right damn now.

I simply adored the British version and a pox on those limey bastards for only churing out 2 season's worth. This shit is comedy gold. Both of them. Rent the DVD's for the episodes made over the big pond and please, I beg of you, start watching The Office on NBC, Tuesday nights, or fucking record it. I didn't have high hopes for a remake but I was wrong wrong wrong. This weeks episode had whitey and I laughing so hard last night (see, I recorded it) that we nearly choked on our burritos. Literal screaming occured.

Also, if you haven't caught onto this yet, please swing by stuffonmycat.com. I've mentioned it before and it's been on my side-bar for awhile now, but I just can't get enough. Watch your spleen, seriously, you might damage it from the laughing. And crap, I need to send my pictures in because you know I stacked some shit up on my cats for that site. Ha.

The Luxury

I'm a makeup freak. I'm a die-hard M.A.C. fan and only use a few different high-end brands for things. I'm not a slave to department store brands but after being on the planet for 38 years and spending a great deal of those buying crap at the drugstore, you have to admit, the nicer stuff is better. In most cases. And if you're anything like me, an oversensitive freak inside and out, you can't mess around with cheap shit when it comes to your skin.

One thing I'd heard about a long time ago but could never justify was this. We are all so bombarded with choices and choices and more choices. Who the hell knows what's the best of anything? But let me tell you, if you're one the majority that shaves your legs, and do not live in France, then I can't applaud this Sweet Satin Shave cream enough. It's pricey, but the jar is huge. You can make it last a loooooooooong time.

It doesn't smell the greatest, but the consistancy is nothing like I've ever put on my body before. It's not greasy but it moisturizes your legs better than any lotion I've tried, and I hate lotion. It makes your legs smooth as a baby's butt and I swear my leg hair doesn't grow back as fast. Go get some or order it online. The whole Benefit line is pretty cool too. Just spend the fucking money. You'll thank me.

The Me Time

Almost every night without fail, I turn off the TV and pick up a book. I do this for 3 reasons. To enjoy reading, which I do, to let my brain relax, and to fall asleep. It's about my favorite time of the day and I've found myself turning off the idiot box earlier and earlier so I can dive into one of my books. Problem is, I have reading narcolepsy and sometimes I can't get past 2 pages without snoring. Then I wake up at 4 in the morning. Wide awake. Fun!

I just finished a book that I was given a couple of years ago and now I'm positively kicking myself for not reading it sooner. I had no idea it was in the same genre of Sedaris and Burroughs. A Girl Named Zippy is another book of memoirs written with an artistic flare, sharp wit and incredible recall. I'll admit that when I've read all 3 of these authors I questioned their ability to remember whatever happened on the third Thursday in 1973, but if you can get beyond that then you'll really enjoy the read.

Zippy is a spitfire and the author manages to put an unexpected twist to her stories over and over. And her imagination is enviable. I was jealous and in awe of her writing talent and completely entertained throughout. She manages to write the entire book in a child's voice without being contrite. The style was a little quirky, but I always admire anyone who breaks the rules and gets away with it. This was a breath of fresh air and I suggest you put this one on your book list. Laugh outloud funny.
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OK, kids. That's all I've got today. Time to go home and squeeze the cats. And that's is not a euphemism for sex, although it would be funny. I'm on FIAH!

And my hair looks like shit too

Hello internet. How have you been? I've been slowly going insane, thanks for asking.

Thank you for the comments. It's nice to know people are thinking about me. Things have been pretty darn shitty for an extended period of time and I seem to be wearing a stink on me much like a dog in the rain after rolling in a pile of cat shit laced with hair perm solution and Texas road kill.

It's all gotten rather serious and I'm sort of hanging on by a thread. Shit is stressful, yo. Lot's of crying and hair pulling and feeling like a caged animal being poked by sticks through the bars. Bah. My faith in the human race is at an all-time low and my attitude matches. The lightbulb at the end of my tunnel burned out. Depressing, ain't it?

A short list of just some things that have happened to me in the last 4 weeks:

1. A jackhole fuckface apparently did a jig or sat their fat ass down on my brand new fucking hood and put a fresh dent in it.
2. I'm post-poning my scan because 99% of the medical field is employed by incompetent pricks who don't return calls, order the wrong tests, spell my name incorrectly, are frothing cunts, and fuck with my health.
3. I have to find new doctors, see #2.
4. I went to my GP begging for help and was pushed towards drugs, again.
5. My home PC was invaded by some new virus resistant to every spyware, ad-aware, anti-virus checker known to man and someone is probably now buying whores in Taiwan with my credit card and no I don't want to play that online fucking casino game, thank you.
6. I'm $1800 in the hole trying to fix my kitty with the mystery disease and one more trip to the vet's doesn't have us any closer to a reason why she's skin and bones and now I have to go back to shoving pills down her throat every day and it's broken my heart because she's my baby and how long will she hang on?
7. I might get fired because I pissed off a dick who treats everyone, especially women, like shit and I don't take kindly to misogynistic buttholes and mouthed off after he growled at me like a rabid dog but he's practically untouchable and has a very big title and my boss has let me dangle since last Thursday not knowing my fate and I'm an anxious mess.
8. My asshole hurts. Don't ask.
9. Number of migraines: approx. 5
10. Days feeling like broiled shit: every damn one.

I'm trying to get in as much appreciating the small things in as I can, but it's a daily struggle. Thank god for whitey and I managing to laugh at something every day. I just feel trapped and miserable and overwhelmed and am tired of being an over-sensitive pussy. Which has been a theme for me for far too long. I need a hug from Oprah.

I'm considering putting in a leave of absence with my job, but they don't have to hold my position for me. I could end up a janitor, or worse, a security guard. I'm considering quitting and taking some much-needed time off. But there goes my bank account. There's no guarantee I'll be approved for time off for my scan, that will hopefully happen in December, and it's pretty much a given that I'll need more radiation too. Suckfest.

And the questions that keep swirling in my addled brain are, how much of this can I control? Is it hormonal? Is it my attitude? Is this permanent? Will I be trapped in crappy jobs for the rest of my life because I'll never be able to get private fucking insurance ever again? Should I move out of state? Should I get a dog? How do I start over? Should I go to grad school. Am I qualified for anything? Is this all worth it? Am I worth it? WHAT. DO. I. DO?

Man, I wish I had something funny to write about, or even a good rant, but I'm drained to the last drop. Sorry. I'm sure everything will work itself out, but right now it's all in panic mode. And I apologize to my friends who shouldn't have to worry about anyone or anything this much.

I don't even want chocolate. And it has nothing to do with the 29 pieces I ate yesterday.

She who is tardy

I know it's been 2 weeks. I'm a wee bit angry, a'ight? Too pissed to post.

Like, I'd make Bjork seem perky.

Don't hate me because i'm mad.

OK, I'm not just surly right now. I'm also so fucking tired and stressed out that I can barely think and I'm slightly verklempt that I am a loser with a loser blog, but I'll try to come back soon. God, don't you hate it when people write shit like this?

p.s. Don't Google "pissed" in images without your strictest filter on. I'm just sayin'.

The good, the bad, the Boo, + 1

Spent the day yesterday at Disneyland with whitey and our friend Ginny. We had a most excellent time. I even got to visit with my friend Chris and her husband, who popped over for a bit, although it was too short. We had so much fun. It was a perfect end to the birthdaypalooza I'd managed to stretch out for 2 whole weeks. Go me! The day was awesomely great but I'm so, so tired. Will write details later. And please skip misspellings and bad grammar, I'm too tired to proof.
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We got caught in some bool-shit traffic on the way home. There's nothing like going 2 miles in a hour. So fun. It was suckass but I'm sure not as bad as it was for the people in the 2 vehicles that looked as if they'd been sent the junkyard, smashed in one of those crusher things, then dropped back onto the freeway. We had sobering thoughts for aabout a minute then went back to bitching about how we'd be delayed by a friggen hour in getting home. So, so tired.
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Boo is still not doing well. :( She seems to be on a steady downfall physically while getting more and more sweet with the purring and snuggling. Figure that one out. My heart is being held together with a ratty old bandaid I found in the bottom of an old box under the sink and the glue is losing it's sticky hold. The smile I had all day yesterday is back in my pocket for safe-keeping since I'm worried sick and feel horrible for the pain she's still in and the not knowing if she's going to make it.

We had our fifth trip to the vet's on Saturday on a please-squeeze-me-in-right-now basis since it looked like the cornea on her left eye had ripped. The vet was super nice and assured me that her heart sounded good and her gums were pink but yes, she's way too thin and damn, they don't know what the hell is wrong with her and we're all so sorry. It's so frustrating and awful.

Boo already had an appt. for the eye specialist scheduled for this morning to do a re-check, but now she'll have yet another new something to look for. And poor baby, the right eye did the same wrinkled, painful hazy thing yesterday. More money, more drugs, more pain and scary car rides for her. She's down to less than 11 pounds and started out at 14 lbs, at least. It sucks and I don't know what to do differently. -sigh- It's all so sad. Hate it hate it hate it. I'm trying to love her to health, but it's not working.

This is all I have in me today, kids. Thought I'd leave you with a little diddy I wrote the other day. A flashback from highschool, which pretty much all of my memories from those 4 haunting years are. Blinding and uncomfortable. This is one of the exceptions. Enjoy.

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The Best Chick Fight I Ever Did Saw

It was a blistering day on the quad. School had been back in session for about a month and the kids would be looking forward to a sweltering Halloween night suffocating in their Freddy Kruger masks. This being Southern California and mostly desert, even though you can't tell because of the bright green 4 acre lawns that must be sustained by intricate sprinkler systems and all of the Colorado river, it was fucking hot. In October. HOT.

Everyone but the 4H kids were sweaty and cranky. We didn't have the benefit of an indoor school pumped frigid with air conditioning like some of you kids living in the east or the square states in the middle, and the 30 year-old AC units sputtered forth not much more than musty, tepid air. It was like an old man breathing on your neck. These conditions lend to quick tempers and us being teenagers anyway, an excuse to blow any kind of evil steam was easily obtained and pure entertainment.

The lunch bell rang promptly at 11:44 and close to two thousand students dispersed across campus to their respective safe zones to shoot the shit and have some sub-standard grub. We did not have quality tots, yo. I was melting with my drama buddies at our usual wall near the theater, which just happened to be directly across from the main offices. It wasn't the best place to claim on the first day of school, since it was home-base for the yard dogs and authoritarians in charge, but it was our version of home for 3 times a day.

On this particular day, we could do hardly more than weakly chew our e-coli baloney and carefully sip cans of warm Hawaiian punch making sure we weren't swigging a swimming yellow jacket with our sugary swill. We certainly weren't prepared for the show that would soon fall literally at our feet. Without nary a warning or warm-up, blasting before us like a double-human tumbleweed, a whirling dervish of white jeans and bleached blond hair came flying between our 2 groups who were split by the walkway. It was a wonder none of us were sucked into the screaming vortex of what we soon realized was a honest to goodness chick fight!

You see, chick fights in my town were few and far between and therefore the excitement level was especially high. We could count on some scrotum scuffle between the boys at least once a week, but as we all know those mostly consist of 2 testosterone poisoned dudes staring each other down, circling occasionally and pumping their clenched fists at the ground. A connection is made more by accident than not and they're pulled apart by their buddies in record time. A chick fight is viscous and wild, like 2 wet cats in a cage, all claws, hair pulling, and shrieks.

Although the cat fight being played out right in front of us was over practically before it began, it was brutal and awesome. Both girls had long hair and had managed to entagle a fist each with her opponents scalp. They were both bent over at the waist and attempting to pummel each others faces, occasionally going down to a knee then yanking each other back up with violent force. There was much scratching.

Grunts of "bitch" and "whore" were peppered between the screams and one perfectly connected slap was heard across the city. None of us could move a muscle from shock and we were smarter than to get in the middle of that. Plus it was the coolest thing ever. Before we knew it, the principal and vice principal were on top of the situation and plucked these 2 brawlers apart, requiring more effort than they'd obviously thought.

The girls were finally stopped, given a little shake by each man and a brief moment for everyone to catch their breath, then quickly led away towards the offices to face their impending punishment. Just when we thought it was all over, the bigger girl pulled a slippery eel Ninja move I will never forget.

While they were all beginning to walk away, the larger girl and obvious instigator of the fight twisted like a circus contortionist, and while still in the principals grip, in one swift move reached out and plucked my friends full but open carton of warm milk off the wall, leaned back and with her left arm, rocketed that carton behind the vice principal and pegged her opponent square in the head. Causing her victim to lurch forward from the force and soaking her and the VP with curdled milk. We would have cheered but our wide-eyed, gaping mouthed, stunned silence was appreciation enough.

And we never saw those girls again...

Purse shmurse

I did not get the furry purse. I got these instead:




SQUEEEEEE!!!

Yea! I know I live in California! SHADDAP.

Dumb things I think about

1. Is wearing fake fur as bad as real fur since if you're an anti-real-fur person is it not also still bad to be donning something that looks like real fur?

Cuz there's a really cute faux fur handbag at Target that is cheap and trendy and I really want it but not if it makes me a hypocrite and puts me at risk of being pelted with a bucket of red paint by a spazmodic PETA person screaming "filthy murderer" at me while covered in a lettuce bra and cabbage panties.

2. How do you dudes handle walking into public bathrooms and whipping out your junk in front of strangers all the time?

I know about the unwritten rule of spacing an empty urinal between you and your fellow pee-er, if possible, but are you also not allowed to look? Because if it was standard that women had to flash their tits as soon as they entered the potty, I would totally look.

3. What the hell are those people on LOST using for toilet paper?

If I was stranded on a desert island I'd be totally screwed. It's all about the bathroom for me. Fuck no food, I want Charmin.


And these are the dumb thinks I'm thinking about today.

Survivor Recap - 2

Tonight’s Survivor definitely didn’t have the same exciting flavor as last week. It was unsalted butter on toast. A steaming cup of decaf. A monotone ‘I love you’. Why. Even. Bother.

After some aerial shots of breathtaking scenery, complete with several alligator eyeballs which would prove to be quite the foreshadowing since mine nearly fell out from rolling them. Episode 2 begins with a brief recap of last weeks show then we quickly join Nakúm as they limp their way back to camp in the dark after voting Jim out.

The men still looked beaten and exhausted and everyone is visibly unhappy for being the first group at Tribal Council. Well, what do you expect when all of your men puked their dehydrated brains out the previous day and were all weak as kittens? ~eyeroll~

The next morning finds some of the men slightly improved except for Blake, who is the male version of Stephanie I swear look for yourselves I do not lie



who’s sucking wind and being babied by Margaret, which does not set well with Judd who proceeds to whine that wah he wants to be the hero or Brandon who proclaims how tough he is while sitting on his ass wearing the same hat I wore to 6th grade camp in 1979. ~eyeroll~

Tribe KumbayYaxha was basking in their victory and about one minute away from a group hug as they proclaimed themselves a family after enjoying each other’s bodily stank for 4 whole days. ~eyero…aww you get the point~

Both tribes received tree mail for the reward challenge which eluded to something to do with spiders. I was so hoping the producers would get all X-treme Fear Factor on their asses and make them eat some roasted turantulas dipped in bat guano, but I was totally robbed. Both teams would have to sprint across a ramp and a net run then spider-crawl on the underside of a giant web made of ropes hanging above the water. The kind of ropes that rip all of your skin off, so I guess I got that.

Tied to the spiderweb were bags, one for each tribe member in their respective buff colors. Each person would have to untie a bag, drop into the water then race back the way they came to the starting point. The first team to get all 8 bags would win the reward of fishing gear that was total crap because it wasn’t a fishing pole but a piece of bamboo with fishing line attached and a pile of hooks. Big whoop and ~eyeroll~

Both teams were neck and neck for most of the race until Rafe morphed into Raggedy Andy and lost his team about an hour of time. Lucky for him there are some kick-ass chicks to pick up the slack and Yaxha caught up enough for a photo finish. But alas, Nakúm were the victors and relished their bowl of worms and string.

Back at their respective camps, Nakúm took their canoe out and caught a few fish while Blake continued to hyperventilate. Dude, Judd is going to stuff you into a gopher hole, or sloth hole, or whatever the hell animal they have out there, if you don’t get up. Rafe talked Gary into eating a pile of ants. Does he even realize the number of carbs those things have? Lydia the fishmonger trapped some minnows using her fishmonger wiles and everyone got a bit of protein.

Immunity was up for grabs again the next day where both tribes would meet at the mud pit for a grueling and extremely anti-climactic tug-of-war. Both teams would pull with all their might, which seemed unfair since Nakúm is made of mostly of bulls and Yaxha of poodles, but hey, there was mud. The teams had 15 minutes to pull their guts out and grab a flag. 15 minutes later and no one had moved more than a few inches and Bobby John nearly busted a blood vessel and that boy cannot spare a brain cell, let me tell you.

Since this was a stalemate, 2 single tribe members would then compete by being tied together and pulling in opposite directions towards their flags. Whoever was closest after 5 minutes, or was able to grab their flag would be declared the winner. A tribal triumph would require 3 flags. Nakúm quickly grabbed 2 then battle number 3 looked like a sure victory for Yaxha when Judd the ox dug deep and yanked Jamie about 10 feet through the sludge limp as a rag. Yaxha would be heading to the vote later that night.

Back at their homestead, the Yaxha’s began feverishly plotting for a torch to snuff. Gary got lucky when someone brought up the fact that Danni totally busted him for being an x-NFL quarterback, which could have pegged him as a liar sooner than he’d like, but he managed to successfully fib his way out of it while doing an awesome imitation of Lurch. Bahhhhhhh.

Lydia’s name was thrown into the ring and it looked like she was going home, but in a last ditch effort she campaigned herself and managed to swing the vote towards the magician’s assistant, who wasn’t pulling her weight around camp. And why the fat was Rafe not even considered? He fucked that first challenge all to hell.

Bu alas, Morgan is gone. Ta dah!


Here are the remaining teams.

Tribe Nakum
Brandon
Blake
Brooke
Cindy
Danni
Margaret
Jim
Judd
Bobby
John

Tribe Yaxha
Brian
Rafe
Jamie
Amy
Gary
Brianna
Lydia
Morgan
Stephanie

Don't tread on me

I haven't done a good old-fashioned bitter rant recently and thought it was time. In actuality, something that I read by Amalah planted this seed in my head a few days ago but since I'm still in the middle of birthday bliss I wasn't in the mood for a bitch session. And frankly, I'm pretty darn chill today but I thought I'd throw this out there and we'll see if I can muster up some really good ire. Plus I just had a piece of ice cream cake and the sugar is making me a little tight.

You see good people of the internet, there is a misunderstanding being perpetuated in the cybersphere that just isn't jiving with me anymore and watching people having to fight against blasts of shit being sprayed their way is not only getting tiring but it's time to tell some of these assholes to fuck right off.

Yes, I know we're all dealing with mere words on a screen, but there are people behind the virtual text and a community in any form does have power over evil. Even though for the most part, unless you're one of those webcam freaks, our voices are imagined yet we can still be heard. And I realize there will never be an absence of dicks in the world, but there is a way to Lorraina Bobbit them down to size. Bitching and slightly threatening education is my method of choice.

WTF is she talking about, you might be saying, well kids, I'm talking about unsolicited advice, or assvice which I refuse to use because I think that word is lame. Specifically, unwanted contributions to strangers delivered in a manner meant to intimidate, harangue, attack, browbeat, bully, badger, insult, disrespect, shame, taunt, ridicule, aggravate, and hurt. I'm talking about fuckwads leaving shitty comments on people's blogs and dickheads sending totally inappropriate and psychotic fucker e-mails to bloggers. Not people offering well-thought opinions in a rational and friendly manner.

And if you are one of these people who haven't been able to control themselves before you hit publish, post or send, I have a message for you. FUCKING STOP IT YOU LOSER WEIRDO ASSHOLE!!

This whole mentality that if it's on the internet it's public domain is crap. It is not a direct invitation to say or do anything you damn well please. Let me break it down for you since I have a sneaky suspicion that the blaring TV you're watching showing a re-run of Stacks in the background is distracting you from my brilliant testament. Just because it's on the internet doesn't mean it's fair-game for your brand of crazy.

Let's take real life as a 'for instance'. Unless you're confined to four walls, I assume you make your way into public occasionally. This puts you in the presence of other people. Say you're feeling a bit peckish and decide enjoy some ice cream on a warm summer day. You purchase a double-scoop of chocolate mixed with roasted almonds, caramel and hot fudge (what?) and go outside where you proceed to squeeze your slightly overweight ass into a plastic chair under an umbrella ready to consume your frozen treat and do a little people watching. Sounds normal, right?

Now, close your mouth and stay with me. As you're licking and relaxing, someone who's seen you at the local Starbucks a couple of times but who doesn't know you from Adam walks up, leans over into your face and screams "YOU SHOULDN'T BE EATING THAT YOU FAT PIG YOU AREN'T EVEN EATING THAT THE RIGHT WAY YOU'RE GONNA GET AN ICE CREAM HEADACHE AND YOU DRESS LIKE PARIS HILTON ON CRACK WHICH I REALIZE IS REDUNDANT BUT YOU LOOK LIKE A WHORE AND YOU NEED TO BE EXACTLY LIKE I WANT YOU TO BE. I HOPE YOU DIEEEEEEEEE".

Hey there innocent person minding your own business , why do you cry? Was it not totally fair that a stranger came up to you and offered their opinion? Did you not appreciate being blindly attacked by someone you don't know? Were you offended that someone picked on your physical appearance and fashion choice? Was it completely shocking that another human being would wish harm on you? Was it not obvious that this uninvited information was perfectly reasonable? You were in public after all...

Are you getting it now?

Just because you build your house with windows doesn't mean it's cool for someone to stand in your bushes and watch you scratch your balls. Just because you are privy to someone's inner thoughts and personal info DOES NOT mean you get to harass them like some creepy stalker via e-mail or comments and puke every demented-where's-my-tinfoil-hat thought that has crossed through your pointy little head. It does not open the floodgates for you to be as ugly as possible because you cannot see the recipient of your damage.

And you are damaged if you actually take the time to draft a letter dripping with venom, bile and run-on sentences when it's completely unwarranted and send it to someone you've never had a personal fucking exchange with.

It amazes me that this happens. Doesn't surprise me though because I get it. I get that the people who do this have something going on in their lives that keep them trapped and the only way to release the festering ooze of their brains is to explode on others who can't haul off and punch them in the face. It's done by those who are so cracked under the surface that the only balm to soothe their sores is losing control against a stranger. It's someone who needs to be awful. When it's not contructive but rather contemptible the point is wasted anyway. It's an exercise in lunacy. And trust me, I know about the crazy. I've picked a fight with the bitch at the DMV when I was really mad at my husband and I'm not proud. (Yes, I see the irony in that).

The phone used to be the device cowards hid behind, and then the fax machine but that was really only abused by Phil Collins when he faxed his x-wife a divorce request. What a tool. False bravato and nasty attitudes were so much easier when transmitted across Ma Bell. Now, with the invention of the uncontrolled internet, those who can't handle their own shit and must take every angry, stifled, crap life moment out on others can take mean to a new level. Mix mean with crazy and you have half the freaks online.

I guess I'm lucky. I haven't experienced this before through my blog. But boy-o-boy have I had my fill of internet crazies through other means. And it sucks. No matter what the method of communication. So, for any of you who've commented on someone's blog or written to them with blatant malice, unsolicited nasty advice and hatred, let me tell you this, get a fucking life.

Think before you write that stranger and think to yourself, would I like to get a letter from someone telling me I'll go to hell if I don't breast feed my baby? Hmmm, I think not. You might know personal info about me but you don't get to treat me like shit. You don't have to like everyone or everything they say, you don't have to agree, you don't even have to ever read that person again, but check yourselves before you act like an asshole.

Or get your own fucking blog where you can be as stupid as you want to be and I promise I won't e-mail you how much you suck.

I'm not taking this crown off yet

The birthday was nice and mellow and cut short by my don't do Monday's policy of being super cranky that the weekend is over and tired from work. I think Monday's poison me because really, there were 2 naps in a row and relaxation so why am I so bloody tired on the first day of the work week? Who knows.

But since the previous day was filled with animals and ice cream, the actual day of my birth didn't need to be the 4-day extravaganza of last year. And there's still Disneyland which will be my official official birthday celebration and I'm milking this fucker as long as I can.

Thank you to everyone who left salutations here and especially to my friends who sent flowers (thank you Tru!) and e-cards and e-mails and phone calls. It really made my day which I topped off with more ice cream.

The precursor to Monday was a very nice weekend spent doing some of the things I love. I had a great ride on Saturday with lots of jumping on one of my favorite horses who tried to kill me straight-away by spooking over a dandelion or some such lame thing, but being the most excellent horse-woman I am I thwarted the situation and laughed if off while silently vowing to change my pants later. Cuz that ascared me a little. I made up for it with a shopping trip for cute & comfy pants appropriately low in the rise and a kicky new shirt.

We woke early on Sunday and found the kitty to be slightly improved. It's still a touchy situation and all breath is being held, but I'll take what I can get. Even if it is her normal behavior of yelling at me for looking in her general direction without permission. Awww, she detests my existence. What a relief.

Whitey and I decided that a trip to The Wild Animal Park was in order. The weather looked decent and we had a free pass for the boy, since I'm a member and get in for free. Hoity toity me. I took a crap load of pictures but only 3 turned out nice, in my opinion. I must have sweat on the lens or something since even though the temperature was doable we ended up walking like 25 miles uphill and I pour like a pig just from brushing my hair let-alone hauling my butt across the African freaking plains.

We had a great time feeding some Asian deer-type things and I think the little critter was an antelope. One was missing an eye, ew and aww, she got extra treats. We watched meerkats wrestle each other, looking like spry old men, then freak out at a helicopter passing overhead. They had WTF looks on their faces clear as day. Too funny. We also got to see a couple of the new lions and I think the male was looking at me picturing my juicy ass in his mouth, but hey, who doesn't.

We fed some very, very noisy, beautiful birds and didn't get shit on once. These are called lorakeets but they should be called lorascreaminyourears.


click

We tried to spot the new baby elephant but he must have been put away so the workers could scoop the poop in the enclosure. Not a job I'd like, thank you, and dammit, I wanted to see the baby. We saw a cerval up close and personal and had some excellent timing to watch the always-hiding cheetah come up for some wads of raw meat. She was beautiful and had a decidedly Garboesque quality as she finished her meal, posed for a minute with her held head high then retreated to her private quarters. She vanted to be alone.

I'm telling this all out of order but it's because the very best part of the day was the giraffes. When we arrived at the park and scanned the map, which I thought I didn't need since I've been there a zillion times, I was surprised to see "giraffe feeding station". A what? You mean people get to feed them? I had to get a load of that.

We could see the giraffes from the lion camp and they were obviously very close to people so we decided to hightail it over there. What should have been a 200 yard trek turned into god knows how long since the park forced me to exercise by making us walk a bigass long trail. By the time we made it to the feeding station all the giraffes were full and gone. I was royally bummed. We saw a bunch of other cool stuff and took a snack break and relaxed a bit. I decided to give the giraffes another try and I'm so glad I did.

When we approached the spot we saw people lined up buying leaves and a bunch of long necks hanging around. I was so friggen excited. I shoved some money at whitey and garbled something about getting food for me and walked up to the "white line". I guess giraffes are shy and don't like people too close to them or making sudden moves. A kid even got shushed by a trainer for loudly whining and generally being a pussy for not wanting to feed the giraffe.

I found this fact of their timidity to be weird since they're HUGE. And I don't mean, wow, that's a big animal like when you're looking at a 100 pound dog. I mean, these things are freaky freaky HUGE. But I guess size really doesn't matter in this case.

One of the biggest males was hanging his long neck and giant head over the railing and gingerly taking leaves from people one at a time. I was blown away by his beauty and bizarro head. Who the hell put these animals together anyway? It's like a bucket of random body parts fell on the floor and 4 different animals were mashed into 1. Somebody had a sense of humor. Another case in point: moose.

I've seen giraffes in person many times, but had never been eye to eye with one. I couldn't get over how big his head was and how breathtakingly gorgeous they all were. They are regal creatures who move with grace and purpose. Blinking thoughtful eyes. Viewing the world in silence.

When it was my turn, he reached for the leaf I was holding, his long purple tongue lightly brushing across my hand and quickly backed off making sure I wouldn't try to sneak in a pat to his nose. Which I so wanted to do. So, so bad. I could have watched him for hours, but soon after I'd taken 14 more crappy pictures, he'd had enough and mosied over to his group to feast on a large eucalyptus branch.

These are the only shots I liked. The rest will have to live in my head.





I was positively high from that experience and after picking out a souvenir, we both decided our feet were done and so were we. The car trip home was a short one since I live closer to this incredible place than I usually remember, and we walked in the door before 5:00. There were hours left in the day for a cold shower and a nap. The perfect end to an awesome day.

I can't wait for Disneyland. I told you I was milking this fucker.

Happy Birthday...

to me!

Survivor Recap - 1

I am a reality TV whore. Thank whatever technology nerd for inventing the DVR because I'm having a hard time managing all of them and my addictions must be fed. My equivalent of doing a 6 inch line across a hookers ass is recording all of the horrible reality shows I'm into and squeezing the watching and catching up and hootin' hollerin' inbetween Oprah making me cry. That crack ho bitch.

So of course, I'm a yoog Survivor fan. YOOG. I've watched almost every season religiously with the exception of I think Taiwan and I don't know what was going on in my life at that time but it left a hole, yo. A big old fat hole. And no, whitey, I do not own any buffs. Not that I haven't thought about it...

Every season seems to have a different flavor of contestants. I'm sure that has a little bit to do with editing. Those scamps on the production team know what they're doing. There have been meanies and soft porn and vamps and hunks and hook-ups and overwhelming dumbassess (hello Surivor Pulau. Jebus they were stupid). This show has born some of the greatest reality stars we love to hate and make fun of ever. Almost as much as The Real World.

This season looks promising from the start. It's too soon to get a good read on anyone yet, but one thing's for sure. The men are giant pussy's! YOOG GIANT PUSSY'S. Ha. They don't even need to do another men vs. women thing, because the men fell apart straight away. And there seem to be some pretty strong personalities. I'm already salivating. And I thought I'd share the little write-ups I do for a message board I'm a captive victim of, I mean, where I post. Hope you enjoy. For those of you who already read this on the board, read it here and tell me again how brilliant I am! Thanks!

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Survivor Guatemala – a.k.a. – Someone Will Die

Sweeping aerial shots of lush jungle. A blue sky darkens and rain pours over the earth. A sparkling lake ripples by a gentle wind. A screaming banshee freak mutant monkey thing opens its giant gaping maw, throws its pointy head back baring huge sharp teeth and screeches the sound of hell. Welcome to the 11th installment of Survivor!

~music~

Oh wee oh wee ohhhh…

~music fades~

Without much fanfare or introduction, our Survivors suddenly appear before Jeff Probst in the middle of a Mayan temple. After quickly surveying their foreign surroundings the Survivors gather around where Jeff procedes to give them the lay of the land and warnings regarding their surroundings.

They are in the middle of jungle that will kill you. Filled with poisonous snakes, bugs, killer animals, crocodiles, fucking lizards, torrential rainstorms, unbearable heat, stifling humidity, and landmines. OK, I totally made up the landmines. But the rest is real. And the last person to finish alive wins. OK, that’s a lie too, but I tell you they’re trying to kill these people!

Jeff breaks the 16 contestants into 2 tribes, Nakum (pronounced Nah-coom) and Yaxha (pronounch Ya-sha) and tells them that the 18 players will…wait…what? Did he say 18? But there’s only 16 people here! Well I’ll be a screaming banshee freak monkey! They done tricked us! The survivors look around perplexed and Jeff introduces the 2 additional “surprise” tribespeople. It’s Bobby John (pronounced Babbie-Jawan) and Stephanie (the most kick-ass chick to ever kick-ass) from the last season.

Everyone acts all happy and surprised except for Jamie who whines that with Stephanie here how the hell is he going to win the million bucks. Don’t worry Jamie, you’re gonna DIE anyway. Stephanie is sent to Yaxha and Bobby to Nakum. Jeff, who gets more and more snotty with every year, mentions that these 2 are full-fledged players and feel free to vote them out first. Thanks Jeff! Everyone fusses over the new players and despite a couple lame comments it looks like this season might be a good one, because they're trying to kill them. Seriously.

The tribes are briefly briefed that they will competing immediately for their first reward. The tribe who finishes the challenge first will get the better camp with some supplies and the precious flint after they complete a grueling 11 mile hike totally uphill through the jungle and murderous wildlife, one vicious branch, 120 degree heat and carrying a thousand pounds of crap, one broken compass and oh yea, YOU WILL DIE.

The hike through the jungle kicks everyone’s asses, but mostly the big strapping men on Nakum. I don’t know what these guys did the night before the show started but they must have all dined on salt licks and coffee. These boys started dropping like flies. The cramping and puking. Oi. Then one of them gets nailed with this needle-branch thing that spears his shoulder and da widdle baby tarts pooking cuz it hoots doe bayad. Suck it up and rub some dirt in it ya puss!

Everyone ends up spending a long day being half lost and fighting their way through the jungle and a very scary and wet night. They all resume this exercise in brutality at first light where I would have sat down and refused to move until they airlifted my ass to Rio. The two tribes actually find each other and it looks like it’s going to be a close race, but of course Lydia Midgeta and Amy fell behind and slowed up their (my) tribe who never managed to catch up.

Nakum emerged from the underbrush and after a canoe paddle and another short climb, arrived at yet another Mayan temple and snitty snooty Jeff announced them trimphant, thus winning their camp, which is the actual ruins. Umm…yea…thanks for the big camp of rocks. Super. Yaxha showed up a few minutes later and was swiftly sent back to their boat to paddle their loser butts all the way across the lake to their camp. Where they found a pile of pots and nothing else. But they started to rally together to build some type of shelter so good on them.

Once the challenge was officially over the boys of Nakum got even worse. They were all barfing, very loudly barfing, and laying on the ground in various levels of pain and problems. Margaret the nurse was running around trying to help and keep Bobby John from passing out. The women are strong like bull. Go girls!

The next day both tribes received mail giving hints for the immunity challenge. They gather at the beach looking tired and beaten to learn of the next game. The teams would have to row their canoes around a buoy, grab a torch hanging from it, row back, drag the boat onto the beach then 4 members would pull the whole damn thing over some rolling logs with a rope while 3 members continually moved the last log to the front and one person would be the keeper of the lit torch. Whoever hauled their boat to the end and lit a cauldron would win the immunity idol, which looks like a hollowed out pygmy, and be safe from the first Tribal Council.

It was a neck-and-neck race with grunting and sweating and girls getting caught under the logs. But alas, there could only be one winner and Yaxha took the fugly idol home, their own piece of flint and Stephanie burst into tears for finally being a member of a team that doesn’t lose every stinking game. The women all gloated just a wee little bit for being in better shape than the men and Jim admits back at camp that he has snapped a muscle in his left arm and it's basically useless. Golly, I wonder who’s going home.

Nakum makes their way to tribal council, light your torch, represents life, yada yada. And despite all of the men going down like a ton of dehydrated baby bricks, it was an obvious and unanimous vote. Jim and his busted bicep was sent home. I’m just glad the dude didn’t die.

Here are the remaining teams.

Tribe Nakum
Brandon
Blake
Brooke
Cindy
Danni
Margaret
Jim
Judd
Bobby John

Tribe Yaxha
Brian
Rafe
Jamie
Amy
Gary
Brianna
Lydia
Morgan
Stephanie

This fucking kills me

KILLS me!

Thith too hath pathed

OK, y'all. Let's not call homeland security on my ass, alright? I don't need to be handled with SWAT gear. Don't be a'scared of the angry. I'm good. Well, better. Yes, we'll settle for better.

Sorry if I freaked some of you out, but you need to remember that most of us aren't one-celled organisms that only emit 3 controlled emotions. Like Brook Burke who in actuality only has 1. That being zombie. I'm convinced she's a fembot and if you peeled her face off you'd find circuitry and lip gloss. God damn she's a monotone nightmare in a miniskirt. I am not wrong. Still love Rockstar though. Go Mig!

As I've said before, this is my blog and I get to say what I want, how I want (not that I do 100% anyway), and last weekend I was pissed. Super duper pissed that had surpassed the depression and I needed to let some of it out. It wasn't funny and I wasn't in a funny mood. I can actually get way madder than that. Heh. But it was a time to vent and it felt good. I highly recommend it.

And ahhh...yea...umm...been really mad lately. I don't know why it won't go away. I know I have a zillion reasons to be livid, but I can't seem to let any of it go. It piles up and piles up and before I know it I'm all jittery and yelly and hate everything. With extreme hate. I just can't seem to catch a break. At least that's how it feels right now. But I am trying to figure out how to fix it since life is never going to be without problems. And don't say fix it with Vodka, cause I have a sad story about that.

When I'm like this I need space. I'm like a wet cat in a cage and please don't poke your fingers through the bars. I handle really serious shit better on my own. To sort stuff out or just disconnect until I can get a grip. And sometimes I need to scream. And whitey is fine. He's being a saint and understanding what I need. Just another reason why I love him.
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San Francisco was great. Not a whole lot to tell. Did some partying, puking, lame pedicuring. Brunch. A little shopping. Wicked was excellent, please go see it, and more brunching. I ran out of steam like normal and puked my stupid brains out not like normal. And I hardly drank anything! I had 2 glasses of wine at the condo and 2 Vodka cranberries at the bars. I think someone slipped me a rufie (sp?). I got so sick it was sick. -HUGE POUT- No more hard liquor for me. Hmf. Now do you see why I'm so pissed? And I regret that I didn't buy the t-shirt that said "Ouch is not a safe word". How funny is that? Love the gayborhood.

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It's my birthday next Monday and I have no idea what I want to do. Officially we're going to Disneyland in October. I'd be there on my actual birthday but the stinkers have closed down the Haunted Mansion to turn it into a gigantic version of The Nightmare Before Christmas for the Halloween season. And since that's like my favorite ride, right after Space Mountain and Pirates of the Caribbean, I don't want to miss it. And my girl Ginny says it's worth the wait.

I love Disneyland. I even went to Disneyworld on my honeymoon. It's not like a psychosis or anything. I don't have the Seven Dwarfs tattooed across my inner thighs. I just love it. And I don't care how old I get, I'll always love it and squeal like a little girl and giggle and eat cotton candy for lunch but not one of those frozen chocolate-covered bananas because those are the dumbest dessert invention ever. You can't bite through a fucking frozen rock-hard banana and it hurts your teeth and gets chocolate all over your face and makes it look like you just gave sloppy head to the Easter bunny or something. Cuz the Easter bunny is all about chocolate and stuff...nevermind.

Ginny is supposed to meet whitey and I up there and I'm making everyone wear mouse ears. Don't think I can't pull that off. We all know how angry I am right now. Don't piss off the birthday girl. JUST WEAR THE DAMN EARS!

But what to do what to do on the actual birth day? I usually take the day off, when it falls during the work week, and go get a massage and pedicure. But since I've spent eleventy bajillion dollars on the poor cat, I don't really have the cash. And yes, she's still hanging on and they still don't know what's wrong with her and I'm still worried sick because she looks terrible and hardly eats. But we're still hoping she'll recover.

I guess I'll work all day and we'll go out to dinner. Damn thing though, it falls on a Monday. I don't do Monday's and my favorite sushi place is closed on Monday's. Stupid. Perhaps if I eat a piece of chocolate about every 5 minutes it'll be OK. Lord knows people at my company don't give a flying fat about birthdays so that'll suck too. Ah poo. I'm a little bummed about it. Last year was a 4 day extravaganza but I guess it can't be like that every year. If you have any suggestions, feel free to throw 'em my way. Thanks.

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Dear Breast Center - thank you for your reminder letter that you noticed it's time for my annual mammogram. Even though I've only had one in my entire life, you managed to get your sweaty mits on my health history and now I have to go have my tits squished in a high-tech digital torture device every year.

I look foward to disrobing from the waist up and sitting in a narrow hallway trying to keep my open in the front putrid pink half shirt made from burlap weaved with hay from opening letting my well-endowed chest to flash everyone in the vicinity. I anxiously wait for the stranger sporting icy hands to stretch my 38-DD boob flesh across the room and smash them into the size of English muffins while I have to stand on my tippy toes holding my breath and trying to imagine the skin connecting my arm to my chest isn't slowly ripping off.

I can't wait to be handled like a raw Christmas ham, turned this way and that, while my girls are exposed sans bra, in front of someone I've never even had tea with. It will be my pleasure to spend quality time with another medical professional who has the sense of humor of Charles Manson. Watching my nipples flatten out between 2 thick pieces of glass is my favorite part.

I've laid down in front of my garage and let the doors slam down on my rack a few times in anticipation of my next appointment. And maybe, If I'm feeling really adventurous, I'll schedule my pap smear and mammogram on the same day. Just like I did last year. That was FUN! See you soon.