Friday, December 30, 2005

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.

Thursday, December 29, 2005

Christmas 2005

Well. That sucked.

More to come...

Friday, December 23, 2005

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.



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.


Wednesday, December 21, 2005


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.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

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?


Not even close.


Friday, December 16, 2005

I told you!!

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


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.

Thursday, December 15, 2005

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.


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.

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

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.

Monday, December 12, 2005

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.
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.
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~

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

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.

Monday, December 05, 2005

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'.