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Hows ‘Bout a Cup A Tea, Gub-ner?

28 Jul

Do you know what you get when you put a bunch of drunk adults who are on vacation, camping, after having spent the entire day at the lake, their stomachs full, and the kids asleep? 

Besides a few who refuse to quit (quitting is for losers), and end up passed out on their camping chair with their mouths open, you get a bunch of drunkies who’ve reverted backed to their 16-year-old selves, and who think that tea bagging those poor passed out souls is hilaaaaaaaaarious.

Pinkies up, ladies and gents

 But, you also get the deep thinkers, like myself, who watch these drunken shenanigans and think, how can we make this better

I leaned over to my friend and in my completely inebriated state said:

Me:  Why do the guys get to have all of the fun?  I say we start meat curtaining people.

Friend:  HAHAHAHAHAH!  Right?!  Let’s do it.

Me:  Yeah, we can get a chair, stand behind them and position ourselves so all you see is a nose.

Peek-a-boo
Friend:  GET OUT OF MY HEAD, YO!
My friend and I must have been talking and laughing a bit too obnoxiously, because when Hubby heard the words “meat curtains” come out of my mouth, he immediately stopped what he was doing, calmly walked over to me, gently grabbed my arm, and sternly told me it was definitely time for bed. 
 
That’s it.  Party over.
 
Geez.   You’d think that he thought I might actually go through with it or something. 
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Are You There God? It’s Me, Dumbass

26 Jul

Due to a nasty storm which resulted in hail damage, the house is getting new siding.  I’m excited, but due to my almost constant state of annoyance, the whole things has been a bit….annoying.

I had worked myself up into an annoyed tizzy just thinking about it while watering my flowers the other morning when I heard a buzzing in my ear.  Thinking it was a bee getting ready to fly into my ear, have millions of bee babies that would sting my brain, and then all fly out my nose after killing me, I instinctively swatted it away.  I used the same hand I was holding the garden hose in.  I ended up spraying myself in the face:

Nice

I looked around to make sure no one *clear throat* Hubby saw that.  I was in the clear, and so continued to water the plants.

I was giving the rose-bush in front of our diningroom window a good soaking when I noticed that the shutters could use a fresh coat of paint.  “I wonder if they would paint the shutters when they replace the siding”, I wondered….out loud. 

*SIDE NOTE:  I talk to myself…a lot.  It’s not really talking to myself.  It’s more like thinking out loud.  The problem is that I tend to ramble.  Imagine what that looks like to a normal person.  A bit cray-cray.

Just then I heard a soft muffled voice say something like,  “I can’t believe this.”  The voice sounded distant.  The neighbors must have had their radio on or something.  Oh well.

I was working my way to the flowers at the back of the house when the hose got knotted on something.  That put me over the edge:

SON OF A BITCH! I hate this g-damn hose!  Why does it always get knotted?!  You would think they would have invented something that stops hose knots.  Actually, they probably have something at Home Depot.  I should look the next time I go.  I think we need AA batteries, too.  And, I think they have a sale on charcoal.  I’ll have to call mom.  She always knows when there’s a sale on something.

My tirade was interrupted when I was startled by “the voice”.  This time the voice was a little less muffled.  It sounded like it was coming from my butt.  Maybe I had butt dialed someone? I panicked at the thought of having gotten my phone wet.  I reached for my back pocket (wait for it)  with the hand holding the hose.  Good news:  My phone was in the house.  Bad news:  My face and my ass were totally soaked. 

The voice:  How long?….Again?  Seriously?

Me:  Hello?  Hubby?

The voice:  …..all day.  Moron. 

Me:  Whatever!  I’m almost done watering the plants.  Keep your pants on…for now. *chuckle*

The voice:  What?

Me:  Did you go to the store yet?  Can you check if there’s something that prevents garden hose knots?  I’ve been having technical difficulties out here.

The voice:  Hello?  Ma’am?

Me:  (Confused)  Hello?

The voice:  Hello?  I’m up here. 

Just then I looked up to see a man sitting on our very steep roof and a very looooong ladder laying on the ground with my garden hose knotted around it.   Then, I realized that it was Saturday.  The insurance adjuster was coming on Saturday to survey the damage on the roof and siding.  He was coming early, was going to climb up, inspect the roof, and leave.  We wouldn’t even notice he was there.

Me:  (Mortified.  Staring straight ahead.)  Hiiiiiiiiiiii.  You must be Tom from the insurance company?

The voice:  Yeah.

Me:   I suppose you need this ladder to get down?

The voice:  Yeah.  I do.

Me:  How long….

The voice:  A couple of hours.  I hoped to get your attention when I saw you come out to water the plants, but….

Me:  Soooooo…you saw?

The voice: (beyond annoyed and terrified by the crazy lady who talks to herself) Can you just get the ladder, Ma’am?

Thankfully, (for Tom) we haven’t had to deal with each other since that day.  When Hubby asked me why he was suddenly fielding the calls from Tom the Insurance Adjuster, I just told him that Tom was probably being sexist and would rather deal with “the man of the house.” 

Hubby’s not buying it.

I Scream, You Scream We All…Back Dat Ass Up

25 Jul

On Friday night Hubby and I decided to meet Drama at his favorite bar for a few drinks after work before we went to dinner.  Drama’s been working some really long hours so we didn’t think we’d be there long.

Three hours, a bowl of peanuts, three staggering trips to the bathroom, and several drinks later, the three of us are loudly and obnoxiously discussing our favorite of Drama’s ex-girlfriends.  Hubby voted for the woman who used to scream into the phone when she would call, “IS DRAMA THERE?!!!”.  We used to joke that she must be deaf. Then, we found out she really was partially deaf.  Awkward.

My pick was the woman who used to drive the low rider ice cream truck complete with spinning rims, and a noise ordinance-breaking sound system:

She would drive around town in this pimped out ice cream truck while blasting songs such as “Back Dat Ass Up” and Kelis’s “Milkshake“.  But, wait.  It gets classier.  She used to have a penchant for thong underwear, and if some kid was lucky enough to order the Sponge Bob Square Pants popsicle, he would also receive a up close and personal view of most of her ass crack.  It was like two treats for the price of one.   

I digress.

Drama’s newest interest is a woman he works with.  According to him she is beautiful, nice, and funny.  The problem?  We’re not sure if she’s a man or a woman.  You see, the rumor at Drama’s work is that this woman is a cross dresser.  No problem. 

Using Drama’s experience with classy women and my experience with tranny’s we came up with the following comprehensive “Chick or Dick” checklist which we wrote out on a bar napkin.  Keep in mind that Drama can’t get a up close look at this woman because he heard in the last sexual harassment prevention class that getting too close can be “creepy”:

  1. Tell a funny (not dirty) joke.  Does she responded with a Geisha-like giggle or Santa Clause belly chuckle?
  2. Do her hands appear soft and delicate or are you looking at gnarly sausage  fingers?
  3. Is there ever any adjustment of a “package”?

That’s it.  That’s all we got.

I was going to call Drama this morning and tell him he should just follow her to the bathroom, but I decided against it.  I’m curious to see whether or not our Chick or Dick checklist works.  I’ll keep you posted.

P.S.  I missed you guys.

Your Kid is a Genius? That’s….Yeah, I Don’t Care

28 Jun

My sister is currently searching for the perfect preschool for my nephew.  Can I tell you how crazy this task has been for her?  Did you know that your kid can get rejected from preschool?! 

Let me just say that if that were the case when I was in preschool, I would have been screwed.  I don’t think any preschools would have been jumping at the chance to admit a tall, skinny, scabby-kneed, coke-bottle glasses wearing, hair chewing weirdo who often talked to herself and laughed at her own jokes (that hasn’t changed).

The only thing crazier than filling out a 10 page application for a French immersion preschool that serves only organic snacks with vegan options and costs the same as my Son’s private school tuition, are the cray-cray parents vying to get their kids in.

My sister recently attended an Open House for a local baby Yale where she overheard some crazy s*&t

Parent #1:  My child taught himself how to read and write.

Do ya think he could help me wit dis here formz? Der bee a lot of dem fancy wordz and gobbledygook I caint figger out.

Parent #2:  My son was speaking in complete sentences at 9 months.

Really?  What did your baby have to say at 9 months?  Did he tell you, in an English accent, that he appreciates your nipple hair because it meant he could floss immediately after nursing? 

Parent # 3:  My daughter was walking at 8 months.  She currently plays on the Toddler Olympic Soccer Team (she really said this).

Funny.  You don’t look Asian, but “The Toddler Olympic Soccer Team” must be code for Chinese gymnastic team. 

Parent #5:  My child can speak three languages.

Yeah?  Well, your kid is picking his nose right now….and he just ate it.

Parent #6: My twins can read each other’s thoughts.  It’s amazing.

I can read their thoughts, too.  They’re thinking you’re a nerd who is going to raise them to be nerds.  They say, “Thanks a lot.”

Parent #7:  My son has been playing the violin since he could walk.

That’s nice.  My son can thrash on the drums.  He’s going to be way cooler than your kid and will probably sleep  with your son’s girlfriend someday.

Needless to say, my sister’s search for the perfect preschool continues.

The Importance of a Safe Word

27 Jun

Someone found my blog by searching “spanking nipple twisting your girlfriend”. 

Interesting. 

First of all, although I don’t mind a firm smack to the ass in the right situation, I’m not a fan of rough sex.  Scratch that.  I’m not a fan of the nipple twist/pinch. 

My safe word is "Back the F&*K off, F*$&ER."

I’m reminded of an interesting story that happened to a “friend” 

*giggle*

Let me skip to the moral of the story:

Guys, when a woman says she likes it rough, always, always, always, start things off with a gentle nipple pinch.  She’ll let you know right away with either a coy laugh or a punch to the nuts what she means by “rough”.

There’s no need to thank me.

Oh Niner, Niner. I Sound Like an A-Hole. Over.

17 Jun

A client called this morning for my email address.  My email address contains a few “M’s”, some “C’s” and a “D”.  These particular letters are oftentimes mistaken for other letters of the alphabet which means I usually have to use the phonetic alphabet to spell out my email address. 

I can’t stand doing this because I don’t know the phonetic alphabet.  I get really nervous having to come up with something, and I always end up sounding like a complete:

I– as in, ummmmmmm……ice cube?

D– as in dog (easy).

I– as in (long awkward pause) intervention.  Yes, intervention.   (You’ll note that I didn’t use “ice cube” again.)

O– as in (OMG!  I can’t think of anything that starts with an “O”) Oklahoma.

T– as in toe-ma-toe  (classy).

See what I mean?  Over and out.

R.I.P. Manny Lopes

14 Jun

There was a homicide in Milwaukee the other night.  Homicide is not funny.    I realize this.  But…

Hubby sent me a text message early Monday morning which read:

Manny Lopes killed @ eastside bar early Sun a.m.  Was a musician. early 30s.  Weird.

My heart sank.  My brother-in-law’s best friend’s name is Manny.  He has two young children.  He plays the drums.  Occasionally, he’ll check out local bands at area bars. 

I immediately called my sister and left the following message:

Hi!  Sorry for calling so early.  What am I saying?  You have two kids.  Of course you’re up.  Anywho, got a strange text from Hubby this morning.  I guess someone named Manny Lopez was shot at an Eastside bar last night.  He’s in his early 30s, has two kids, is a musician.  Weird, right?  You don’t think it’s N’s (her husband) friend, do you?  Anyway, call me when you get this. 

Also, I need my cake stand back.  I think I’m going to make bakery-pretty cupcakes tonight.  Treats always look prettier sitting on a cake stand. 

I then went about my day and headed to work.  I soon noticed I had 3 missed calls from my sister and thought, “She can’t find the cake stand.”, but then remembered about Manny.  Oops.  I thought I had better call her back. 

Sis:  Hello?

Me:  Hi!  What’s up?

Sis:  What do you mean, what’s up?  I’ve been trying to call you about Manny all morning.  Where did you hear about it?

Me:  Hubby texted me this a.m.  Do you think it’s him?

Sis:  I hope not.  I’ve been Googling it all morning and can’t find anything.  What are the chances, though?  Same name, occupation, I feel sick.   I have your cake stand by the way.  You should’ve taken it when you were here this weekend.

Me:  I totally forgot about it until I decided I was going to try to make beautiful cupcakes.  Bakery pretty.  Don’t tell N until you know for sure. 

Sis: I already left N a message.  That’s him on the other line.  Making pretty cupcakes requires patience.  You will fail.  I’ll call you back.  I’ll call you back. 

At lunch, I call her back.

Me:  Sooooo.  What did you find out?

Sis:  Nothing!  I can’t find anything about the shooting online.  N called back.  He’s really worried.  He’s called Manny about 100 times and there’s no answer.  His wife doesn’t answer, either.  I feel sick.

Me:  Let me check Facebook.  If anyone knows anything it will be all over Facebook.  I want to make the frosting for the cupcakes from scratch.  Buttercream.  Mmmmmm.  I’ll call you back.

Later that afternoon, she calls me back:

Sis:  What the H?!  You were suppose to call me back.

Me:  I’m at work.  I got busy. (I got totally sidetracked searching online for a really delicious buttercream frosting recipe).

Sis:  Check now.  I’ll hold.

Me:  Damn it!  We’re not friends on Facebook.  I can’t see his page. He has a really cute profile picture, though.

Sis:  What does that mean?!  You know I don’t have Facebook.

Me:  You should really get it.  You don’t have to friend people you don’t want to.  You can friend just family if you want.  People only read what you put on there.  Besides, there are pictures of you all over Facebook anyway.  You might as well join.

Sis:  It’s the principal.  I just use N’s.  I gotta go.  The baby is stuck under the couch.

The minute I walk in the door from work I give Hubby the third degree about where he got his information.  What time? What channel?  Why is he listening to that station?  They’re morons.  I’m making cupcakes.  I want them to be very pretty.  I’m going to take my time.  Make my own frosting.  Doesn’t that sound sooo good?

After spending about an hour on my bakery-pretty cupcakes, I check my phone.  One missed call, and a voicemail message:

Hi.  How are the cupcakes going?  *snicker* So, just wanted to let you know that Manny Lopez is alive and well.  He and his family were at the zoo all day. Make sure you send your Hubby my thanks for the heart attack he gave us.  Geez.  *chuckle* I gotta go.  I can hear the baby, but I can’t see him.  He’s probably stuck under the couch, again.

I hesitantly check my text message from earlier that morning:

Manny Lopes killed @ eastside bar early Sun a.m.  Was a musician. early 30s.  Weird.

 Oops.  My bad. Let me make it up to you, Sis.

Soooooooory.

♫♪ Hoppy Bearthday Dear Wuelita, Hoppy Bearthday To Joooo ♫♪

7 Jun

A new thrift store opened up last week and Wuelita is dying  to go.  I know she wants me to take her, but whenever she brings it up, I quickly change the subject. 

Wuelita loves thrift stores.  She sometimes finds really cute stuff.  In fact, one of my favorite summer clutches is a Wuelita find.  But, if I didn’t re-donate 97% of what she buys me at thrift stores, they would go out of business.  Just this weekend she gifted me a pair of white sweatpants, a black sweatshirt with “Cape Cod” stitched with silver thread, and a blue baseball cap and insisted I try it all on for her.  It was 90 degrees outside.  But, that’s not why I don’t want to take her to the new thrift store.

Our last outing to the local Goodwill started off completely normal.  I grabbed a cart and followed Wuelita around as she searched every.single.rack., and when she wandered off to the shoes, I quickly rummaged through her cart to make sure everything was…appropriate.  

*SIDE NOTE:  Wuelita once bought a t-shirt featuring an iron-on Burt Reynolds on the front (she thinks he’s sooo handsome).  Turns out, “Burt” was really just some random 70s porn star with a really thick mustache.  The back of the shirt read “Free mustache rides”.  Needless to say, I now own that kick-ass shirt.

We were in the car pulling out of the thrift store parking lot when I dropped my phone.  When I leaned over to pick it up, I noticed Wuelita had on what appeared to be a brand new pair of Nike walking shoes. 

Me:  Wuelita, are those new shoes?

Wuelita:  Watch dee road, Sweedy.

Me:  Did you just buy those?

Wuelita:  Do joo like?

Me:  Yeah.  They look brand new.

Wuelita:  I know!  Eets a goo deel.

Me:  Wait, I didn’t see those in your cart.

Wuelita:  *stares out the window*

Me:  Didn’t you have tie dyed flip-flops on? 

Wuelita:  Joo hungry, Sweedy?  Joo wanna ham-bear-gair? 

Me:  WUELITA!!  Did you steal those?!

Wuelita:  NOO!  I jus leeb my ole shoes dair and I poot dees shoes on.  Any whey, eets dee same.

Me:  Ummm, I don’t think–

Wuelita:  Eeets no goo to bee nosey!  Joo hungry or no?!

This is my grandmother, and I love her.

Happy Birthday, Wuelita.

I’m No Michael Vick, But Still….

17 May

I ran over a dog once.  It was a traumatic experience for a couple of reasons.

I was driving my old piece of shit Ford Bronco. (It should be noted that I hated this car so much that if it were a person I would have challenged it to an MMA fight wherein I would have mercilessly wrassled it to the ground, punched it in the kidneys, head butted it, gauged its eyes out, and then stomped on its nuts.  But, I digress.)   

Our neighborhood is full of kids who like to dart out into the road at any given moment which is why I was white knuckling the steering wheel and going about 2 miles an hour.

Sure enough, I saw an empty skateboard fly out from a driveway, and quickly slammed on my breaks while I waited for Joey Deathwish to run out and grab it.  It was then that I felt a very subtle “bump”.  My heart quickly fell to my stomach.  I knew I hadn’t run over a child (thank God), but I definitely hit something.  

I looked in my rearview mirror and saw a black lump sitting in the middle of the road.  I pulled over, tried to get my shakes under control, and walked over to what I thought was a cat.  It wasn’t.  It was a little black dog, and it was definitely dead. 

I immediately broke down.  I searched for the family. I fought the urge to vomit as I realized I was going to have to introduce myself to these people as  the evil bitch who  just killed their dog. 

I found the family outside the apartment building down the block, and through tears and snot told the first person I saw that I had just hit a dog.  Just then I heard a woman scream “NOOOOOO!” as she frantically looked around for her dog.

I was a mess.  I apologized and tried to explain what happened.  Just then the woman’s husband came marching over to me and chewed me a new a-hole.  I would have been scared if I wasn’t such a basket case.  I was a dog murderer. I deserved it. 

A neighbor who had witnessed the whole thing came to my rescue.  She explained that it was an accident, that I had immediately pulled over, that I found them, and that I was done talking.  She walked me back home where I relived the entire nightmare a second time for Hubby.

After a few days the nightmares started to fade, and I tried put the whole thing behind me.  Then, one night, on the 10:00 local news, I saw what looked like “the” apartment building down road.

I watched through tunnel vision as the heavily made-up news anchor pointed to “the” apartment building down the road while saying words like “dog” and “abuse” and “beaten to death” .  My heart was beating a mile a minute as I waited for the police to kick in my front door.  Could this be happening?! 

As it turns out, the grief-stricken family decided to dispose of the poor dog’s body in the apartment building dumpster instead of bury it.  The body was found by a tenant who thought the dog had been beaten to death.  She called the police.  Apparently, people don’t like the thought of a dog being beaten to death.  Who knew?

I ultimately relived the nightmare a third time when I called the police station to explain what had really happened. 

Readers, this is an example of how things in my life have a tendency to snowball.  It’s why I write this blog.

Someone Else’s Junk Is Pretty Much Still Junk

16 May

Old people love other people’s things.  Wuelita‘s building has plastic bins in the lobby where people can bring their thrift store donations.  The local thrift store is supposed to then send someone over to collect the donations once a week.  I’m pretty sure that they’ve never had to come.  As soon as someone brings something down, someone else is right there picking it up and hauling it back to their own apartment. 

Wuelita and I were watching her favorite novela at her apartment the other day when I suggested we go out to get something to eat.  Before we left she  shuffled over to the television, followed the cord to the outlet on the wall and gently unplugged it.  I knew right then that the television must have been one of her “finds” at the thrift store donation bins.  I gave her a hard time about it: 

Me:  Let me guess.  You found that TV downstairs?

Wuelita:  Jes!  Can joo be leeb it?!  It’s bran new. Dee only ting wrong is dat it don turn off.

Me:  Umm, you have to unplug it to turn it off and there’s no remote.  Can you even adjust the volume?  Also, how did you get that thing up here?

Wuelita: (laughs).  My fren Esteve/Kiley.

Me:  Steve and Kiley?  Who are they? 

Wuelita:   No “day”.  Eets Esteve/Kiley.  Juan pear-son.

Me:  What kind of name is Steve/Kiley?  Is his first name Steve and last name Kiley? 

Wuelita:  Nooooo.  Es sometimes Esteve and sometimes Kiley.  Any whey, let’s go.  I’m es starving.

As we are walked down the hallway to the elevator I noticed a rather large woman in a house coat and slippers struggling to carry a laundry basket. 

Me:  Let me help you with that.

Old Lady:  (deep Barry White voice)  Why thank you dear.  I’m right down the hall by your grandmother.  (Waves to Wuelita).

You must be Esteve/Kiley

 Wuelita:  Hi !  Joo look beddy preedy too-day.  Do joo like dee lipsteek I buy for joo?

Old Lady:  (very, very excited deep Barry White voice) Oh yes!  Thank you so much, dear.

I dropped the basket off at “Kiley’s” door and ran walked back to the elevator where Wuelita was waiting.   I could hear her giggling as I turned the corner. 

Me:  That must have been Kiley?

Wuelita:  (devilishly laughing) 

Me:  You could have warned me. 

Wuelita:  Why?  Den eets not phone-y. 

Me:  Yeah, well, I was going to take you to Goodwill after lunch to look around.  Now, forget it. 

Wuelita:  (Bent over her cane, tears streaming down her face, victoriously laughing)

Touché, Wuelita.  Touché.