Roses and Shit

I know that post title is a little icky. But, so what. I try to name my posts so as to give a body some kind of idea what they might be reading... or not. Actually I just amuze myself by doing it. Both the words ROSES and SHIT will appear in the body of this here text.

So, the majority of my ramblings come from ridiculous shit and silly conversations that happen within my newly formed family surroundings.

Me and Big T have been together less than 2 years and only married for 3 months next week. Awwwww. Newlyweds. Even though we have spent alot of energy getting to know each other, there will ALWAYS be plenty more that the other doesn't know.
I reckon that's considered, the learning and growing process within a marriage.

Well, Big T knows the silly, mostly redneck, totally laid-back Diva. Don't get me wrong, he's seen me act all professional when dealing with these hoity-toity types with my job, but for the most part, he sees me as I am on a daily basis at home.

I'm sitting here trying to figure out how to write this crap without sounding like I have multiple personalities... too late.

Anyway, the last holiday season, we were together, but we both had our respective families to deal with and holiday functions to tend to and we did these things solitarily. OG (who is my friend and boss) is all about having a kick ass social life. We generally have a couple of company social dinners around the holidays, which includes folks from her husband's company and other highly edu-ma-cated types from the local scientific community.

I suppose that would be the set-up. This is how roses and shit tie in...

Big T is a wonderfully simple, extremely laid back total redneck with excellent social skills and exquisite manners. He's a blue jeans and long sleeve camo t-shirt kinda feller. He is totally not used to dealing with multiple people he doesn't know in a social setting. Which is cool, because as I said, the man has top notch manners.

Well, this holiday season, we be hitched. So, now he been thrown into this situation where he has to come with me to all of these functions. Last Friday night, after OG's gradumawayshun, we had our company Christmas party. There were OG, her man, me, Big T and 14 other people (all of whom Big T didn't know).

Actually, of all the 14, I only scarcely knew one chick and her man. I was in the same boat as he was on the knowing yer neighbor.

Now, in this type of new situation, Big T tends to clam up. He watches everybody and hears everything... but he says precisely ZIP, nada, nicht.

I on the other hand could make some shit up about anything and talk to any-damn-body about it. At the table were several Ph.D types along with many, many masters' of science types. Whatever. I am who I am, regardless of my surroundings.

Anydiddle, we ate, drank and I was super social and then we left to go home.

On the way, Big T had an epiphany about my social skills...

Driving down the interstate he says, "You know, you could fall into a bucket of shit and come out smelling like shit."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I seriously had no clue it was a compliment.

"Shut up and lemme finish. You could fall into a bucket of shit and come out smelling like shit. Just like you could fall into a bunch of roses and come out smelling like a rose."

"Hmmmmm. And this is a good thing?" Still not sure it's a compliment.

"Why yah. You can talk to anybody, anywhere about anything whether you know them or not. You're comfortable around everybody."

After a little thought, I figured he was right. I talked to a bunch of people about a bunch of stuff that night and never thought about who they were or how "hoity-toity" their life style is:

I was talking to a professor of chemistry about how I despise touching the door handles to get out of a bathroom because people are disgusting.

I talked to a librarian about my wildest drinking binge on a business trip in New Orleans.

I talked to a government contractor dude about how many Christmas lights are too many Christmas lights.

I talked to a labrat (a lil chick who does nothing all day but pipette samples into a tube for testing) about all of our collective children.

So, I'm happy Big T found me to be as socially acceptable as shit and roses. He should know by now I don't put on a front or act hoity-toity for anybody. I is who I is and I'm completely comfortable being me.

yay! Gotta go. I'm thinking way too much for my own good.


What Jiggles & Floats, But Refuses to Bounce?

First here, I wish to extend my warmest and deepest heartfelt wishes for this wonderful and joyous holiday season to each of you, my newest and bestest friends, here on Blogger's Lane. You are a blessing and each one of you has touched me with your stories. I've giggled with you and cried with you. Thank you for making every single day something to look forward to you.

How was that for mushy** gushy stuff?

Onward and upward... So, what jiggles & floats, but under no circumstance does it bounce?

Big T is long gone for work. He is a prince. He gets the coffee going for my anticipated awakening to the new day a dawning before he leaves every morning. It's 6:22 in the A.M. and the alarm has been going off for 2 minutes before I crawl across the bed to slap the snooze button My general M.O. is to hit snooze until around 7ish but I have to let Big T think I wake up earlier than that.

So, I slapped the snooze button and drop back down on his side of the bed, and off to zzzzzz-land I am again in mere miliseconds. I experience my slumbering bliss for another seven minutes when that bitch starts to scream at me again.

Welllll, I hopped up on all fours fixin to crawl across the bed to slap the snooze button again. Only problem with this scenario is the fact that I'm not on my side of the bed, I'm on his side and I don't have any bed to crawl across.


As of today, I have scientifically proven that fat does not, in fact, bounce.
One paw in front of the other, off the bed I went. Like a cat, I managed to land on all fours, but my knee crunched and so I was laying flat on my face.

Yah, fat jiggles, fat floats, but it certainly doesn't bounce.

Ass Scratchin', Booger Pickin' & Other Forms of Nasty

Ahhh, the things I did for public knowledge in the quest for excellent grades... Since I started working here and subsequently enrolled in my biology courses in college some years ago, I've been a total germ-a-phobe. Sad, but true, I'm 100% horrified to shake a stranger's hand because after the research I performed for one statistics term paper, I came to realize.... EWWWW... You just never know.

I mean folks might have been picking their crack:

Picking a booger *gagging*

Wiping their boooty after a rather scary dump session:

In addition you never can tell if a one has been wigglin the willy or spankin the monkey. Not that there's one damn thing wrong with Lovin Yaself... Not at all. You just never know.

Oh, back on task here....
I make such a big deal of this that people close to me are scared not to do it for fear I'll grow horns and fangs and break ninja on their ass.
But, it's all in the name of simple personal hygeine, kids. Kill the cooties!

What am I bitching about today, you're askin? The simple task of washing one's hands.

I was a super, nay, excellent student throughout my college career.
I did all kinds of nasty shit just so I could get an "A" on term papers and research projects. Call me an asskisser if you want, but all my professors loved it and I graduated pretty damn close to the top 'o me class.

This specific semester led me staking out the big handicapped stall in the ladies bathroom of the Clinton Hwy. Wal-Mart for more than 2 hours on a not very busy Saturday mid-morning. Sweet mother of all things Holy and not... the lack of sanitary personal hygiene was (to say the very least) disgusting, pathetic and totally lacking.

I hid out, acting as if I was in there for the obvious reason, making tinkle. What I was really doing is standing there with my little note book, peeking out towards the area of the pottyroom where the sinks are.
I would put a mark in one section everytime someone would enter one of the bathroom stalls. I would place a mark in the column for people who didn't wash hands if they didn't wash hands. I would place a mark in the column for people who half ass washed hands (less than 30 seconds) and a mark in the column when someone would finally properly santize hands.

In the two hours I suffered in order to get that almighty A on my research paper I made note of the following:

23 people entered a pisser.
11 people didn't bother to wash hands at all.
8 people half ass ran water over hands and dried.
4 people... ONLY 4, actually used soap and stood there washing hands.

Of the 19 people who did not bother to wash hands or didn't do it up right, 7 of them were employees of Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart DOES have signs that say: "For good health, please wash your hands before returning to work".

Ok, now I don't know about y'all, but that is just the ickiest thing I've ever seen or heard.

Being as obsessive and compulsive as I am by nature, my lil mind went wild. These 19 people would be touching shopping carts and money that will be for public use..

Then I thought, this is Super Walmart... what if they are touching the fresh fruit and/or vegetables?????

*gasp* OH GOD!!! What if one of them works in the deli/bakery!!!!!

By the time I turned that research paper in, I was so completely grossed out that I wouldn't touch anything without slapping GermX all over it first.


Kid Rock, Chippendales & Clapping Monkeys

What do Kid Rock, Chippendales and Clapping Monkeys have in common? They have precisely nicht in common, other than the fact that these are the types of things that decorate my office at work. I have all the pictures and what not that everybody else has, but

There is no wonder why I love my job so much. Since nobody ever comes in our office other than our super sexy UPS fella, my boss could care less about anything I do as long as we're gettin the job done. Fact of the matter is, she picked some of this shit out.

Now I would like to guide you on a highlight tour of my Monday-Friday home. My office is like a teen-aged girl's bedroom.

The door to my office is tastefully decorated with 25 cent hula lai's and a stolen Chippendale's poster from my graduation party. (The girls took me to see them, but that's yet another story). Boys aren't the only ones who can have tacky, tasteless eye candy on their walls. Equality.. I love it.

Come on in... next we'll see my favorite reading material displayed proudly on my book shelf. This was a donation from OG. She realizes how happy Happy Bunny makes me. I appreciate her sarcasm.

Next to Happy Bunny is my pill crusher, pharmacy style baby!! I crush my aspirin and motrin and make a wicked cool combination in that bad boy.

On around to the filing cabinet... not only does my office have it's fair share of beautifully tropical plants, but it also has my daquiri glass from Excalibur where me and OG saw THUNDER FROM DOWN UNDER in Vegas. This was a helluva night. I was drunker than dammit and vowed to keep my pennies in this glass until I had enough to go back and see them again. REOW!! Ladies, we highly suggest you save your pennies too... it's worth every one...

Onward, shall we? Here we are at the wall of shameless shit. It's in plain site, so everybody that does happen to stumble in here, gets a gander at Kid Rock's sexy self. Mmmm, mmmmm, mmmmmmmm. In addition, please note the Van Halen 2007 Tour Schedule along side my pink teddy bear Big T gave me for Valentine's Day.

My "Grow A Pirate". Me and OG are waiting for the opportune moment to sling his ass in a 2-liter bottle and see how BIG he gets.

Lastly, but not leastly, my clapping monkey. He provides hours of entertainment and cures of the dead silence of some days. I used to wind him up often, but he has dusty bunnies in his ass. *hang on, I'm windin' him up*

Go monkey, go!

Finally, The piase de la resistance... this was found by OG in her boy's old crap in her basement. She found it soooooo adorable, that she brought it to me to proudly display. Oh yah.... your eyes are not playing tricks on you.... it's a penis flower vase and I dig it. Thanks to lil OG for being a perv in training.

So, that's my office. Hope you enjoyed finding out what a dork I am.


Gettin Hooded

I haven't been around since approximately high noon on Friday. Yes, folks, I've been one busy beeeyach. Because I chose to be a holiday sloth, I'm officially paying for it now. Unorganized would be the word for it I suppose. I buy, I wrap and I remember yet someone else I forgot to get a lil sumpin sumpin for. Dammit! I got sick of the cycle last night, broke down and made of list of nasty lasty gifts I have to fight the crowds for again tonight. But this will be it. Finito. Done. No mas.

But, enough bitching. Leave us get to the topic at hand.

My girl, OG, who has been my life partner for damn near 7 years, took on a MAJOR life altering challenge a short 18 months ago. In addition to her multiple master degrees, she decided she needed one more. YOU GO GIRL!

Anyway, all the pain and suffering of having absolutely zero time to go drinking or anything else has finally paid off!! The lovely OG has finally reached the destination of grad-u-ma-way-shun. I shared with she and her man the joy of the University of Tennessee Hooding Ceremony for the ProMBA graduates, class of 2007.

So what does an uber educated, top-notch executive look like after 18 months of scholarly hell look like?

Congratulations, lil mama!! You did it!!! Now... go get a high-level, senior executive position and take me along as your beeeyach!!


Parkin spaces, Bargain hunters & Chatty Kathy

Ok, before anybody goes and indicts me on charges of being a hateful, Christmas squashing skank, I am going to attempt to defend myself. I have officially pulled the Grinch out of my ass and found the holiday spirit, somewhat at least. I put two trees up and lit the outside of my house up with an ill flashing duck. I should really get a picture of it, it's ugly as hell. But since my daughter absolutely hates that cheezy duck sooo much, I find an added bit of joy when I plug the lights in and it starts nodding. Heh. She's since learned not to tell me when she doesn't like something as I go out of my way to rub it in. (But that's another story).

I've finally figured out what the hell has made me need liquid happiness the past few years. It's the complete commercialization and exploitation of a HOLY season by corporate assholes banking on us spending every last penny we don't have.
But being broke ain't the real problem, kids. Nah... Robert has already said he was gonna tell Jesus I'm broke, so I'm not worried about all that so much. I'm all caught up on the credit card bills by say mid-July of the following year. Nice, eh? Whatever...

Oh shit, I'm supposed to be defending myself against Bah Humbug Syndrome. Right, so here we are. I swear I'm in an awesome holiday mood. I'm just pointing out the obvious. Let's discuss all of the little things that make this season so jolly and bright.

- The parking situation. This time of year is a nightmare worse than Freddy Kruger chasing me in my unbuttoned button-up oxford shirt and panties through a lonely, dark street whilst I fight to wake up from the dream before he kills me. With people playing drag race down narrow parking aisles in an attempt to get that one spot that opened up close to the door.

I nearly got taken out three times in two parking lots Saturday while trying to get to a semi-non-populated part of each parking lot.
Since I drive Big T's big truck every chance I get, the front parking space means precisely dick to me. I'm not one who minds to walk to and from the store, even if it's pretty far. I park toward the back of the lot where all the asshats wouldn't dare park as it would mean they have to actually walk more than 20 steps to enter the shopping establishment. Which means it's less likely that a NASCAR slide into the parking space I have chosen is not very likely.

- Bargain hunters. Those ladies will run you down and put you into the wall, like Dale Jr. comin up on Gordon in the final few laps at Daytona, with their buggy full of goods to get that one thing that's on the other side of you. "Look! It's a tube of KY Jelly discounted 25% for the holidays!!!!!" she squeels as you feel the buggy ram your hip and said bargain beast rolls through the already packed aisle to get .

I really think shopping buggies are in dire need of horns, brakes and blinkers. No shit. I think I might just market that. There's cause for it as Wal-Mart and my local Food City are the spawn of satan year round anyway.

- The talker. Now, I admit it, I talk on the phone whilst cruisin the warzones (also known as Wal-Mart, Target, Bed Bath & Beyond, Goody's, etc, etc...). But I never have, nor will I ever, be so inconsiderate as to stop dead still in the middle of a friggin aisle to continue my conversation, creating a backlog of people waiting to pass by my fat ass. Look it sister, if you're gonna take about the corns on the big toe of your left foot, do it somewhere else. Don't stop mid-step, put your hand on your hip and share about it where all of your fellow shoppers have to hear it. I personally don't care about your corns or any of your other podiatric flaws. You are doing nothing more than creating an angry mob behind you, who (if held up too long) will pommel you to the ground stampede style.

So, that was my shopping experience from the weekend. Swear to all that's Holy, I'll at least consider Christmas shopping around the 4th of July next year.
Thank goodness I'm nearly done with it except for the "mystery gifts" for the Dirty Santa festivity with Big T's family on Christmas Day. (Blog on that one to come.)

xoxoxo Love all ya'll. xoxoxxo


Foraging for Pizza, Wish Lists & Comparisons

I got home from work yesterday afternoon to find Big T building a big ass fire in the fireplace down in the love den. He takes pride in his fire building abilities and I respect that. Without his love of fire, I'd freeze my ninnies off.
He'd just got that bad boy blazin' strong when the boy came down stairs to find out what, prey tell, I intended to make for dinner because dammit, he was hungry.

"Why don't you just order pizza??" He asked with actual hope I could detect on his desperate teenage face.

"Oh hell, no. I'm not ordering pizza." I take such joy from raining on his happy parade.

"Fine. I'm goin upstairs." He gets all snappy when i rain on his parade.

"I'll be up in a minute to sling some soup on for ya, pal. Wanna lay the can opener out to expedite the process?" Inside I was gigglin like a school girl.

Eyes all rolled back in his head, "Why don't you ever make anything I like??"

That's all I needed to hear. "Um, who's fault is it we are such a picky eater? Who won't eat anything if it's not chopped, processed, formed and them flash frozen, only to come out of our freezer when you get hunger pains? Who won't eat anything that isn't a breaded piece of fake chicken, pressed and deep fried??"

"God. You are wicked." And off he goes, stomping up the stairs, making enough noise that you would think it was a heard of friggin cattle.

I win.

I smile at Big T, who remained silent throughout the pizza banter. Mmmhmm, he has to come to bed with me, he knows who's side to be on.

"Ya wanna go get a pizza?" I asked. He knew I was just dishing out a load of shit on the boy. That's how I get along with said boy. If I'm not being semi-evil with him, he thinks I'm mad. So, really I'm keeping the peace by being my bitchy self.

"Yah. I'm hungry. I'll tell the boy to come on."

Big T had been seeing commercials for CiCi's Pizza (which makes me gag and spew) and he wanted to go there, as it was on his list of things to do before he dies. *rolls eyes*

It's about 25 minutes to either location of CiCi's in Knoxvegas, so off we went.
We were tooling down the speedway in on a pizza quest at warp speed.

"What do you want for Christmas?" Big T's been on me for months about what do I want from Santa.

Always one to give a good answer, I reply...
"Baby, I got all I could ever want this year already. I have my girls, I have Lil T and now I have you, the boy and a dog. What I want didn't cost anything."

"Whatever. What do you want?? I have everything, but I still always want something. So, just tell me what you want!?!?! I've been listening, I swear to God I have and you haven't said anything or dropped any hints." He's getting frustrated.

"I'll think on it and get back to ya, ASAP." Conversation over.

I really wish he'd just go get me some kind of sentimental, mushy, big ass diamond like they show on the Kay Jeweler commercial, but I'm not gonna tell him that. He'd do it and we'd be broke until Jesus comes back.

Out of the backseat the boy comes up with this, "I think you guys act like Al & Peg Bundy. Well, except you work and don't have flamin red boofy hair."

"Do what? Al & Peg Bundy? Married with Childrens like? Have you lost your goofy teenager mind, boy?" I adjust the rearview to get a good evil look at him eye to eye.

"Well, dad comes home and sits on the couch and just listens to your crap." The boy had an opinion. Nice.

"You're dad does lots of shit around the house. I don't know where you come up with that. Look at the big ass fire blazin'. He's good at makin fires and he doesn't do that from the couch. He's all the time doin somethin to one of the cars and he doesn't do that from the couch."

"Whatever.. I'm right and you know it." He's gloating now.

"Like hell you are. If you're gonna compare us to anybody, I'd say we're more like Dan & Roseanne Conner. I work, I have an opinion about everything and I'm always right. And your dad is always tinkering around with something to look busy, works hard to provide for us, and lets me say and do what the hell ever I want."

Big T chimes in, "Besides, I look more like Dan than I do Al."

I wondered if what the boy was saying is true or not. So, I took a poll within our family. The results are as follows:

4 said we are like Al & Peg.
7 said we are like Dan & Roseanne.

My opinion is that we are some jacked up combination of the two, which is cool. Life will never be boring.

I reckon I should be glad he didn't go and compare us to Homer & Marge.


Compliments of Mr. Underhill - Quite the Snappy Thinker

When I have a mental block, brain fart or other such phenomena that interupt my otherwise snappy, quick witted and generally sarcastic train of thought, what do I do? Play MEME.... that's right. I was nosing through Mr. Underhill's page and found this little ditty that he came up with all by his lil ol self... Good for you, man. You're keeping me occupied during this time of crisis!

1. Post a picture of your cat. Don't tell me you don't have a cat - you are a blogger for fuck's sake. Just post it!

Rather than just a picture of my cat that has a major identity crisis and personality disorder, I thought I'd give you a picture of my cat molesting my infant chihuahua puppy. She has no clue.

2. What meds are you taking? Again, you're on blogger.I know you are on pills. Now spill the beans!
I am a Midol addict. When I can't get Midol, I will take Premsyn PMS. Hell I'll even take Pamprin. Those are, of course, accompnied by mega-doses of Motrin or other OTC pain relievers. PMS is a hateful whore.

3. What/who did you eat for lunch?
I damn well didn't eat lunch because my head is pounding and I was afraid I'd yack.

4. Do you knit?
Hell no, I don't knit. I'm a young whipper snapper. My hobby is taking naughty, dirty pictures and scrapbooking them.

5. What song do you intend to listen to when you commit suicide? And don't choose freebird. That one's mine!
Bittersweet Symphony - The Verve (super great depressing mo-fo of a song).


Drunk Wine & Sleepin on the Job

We generally have friends over on Saturday nights. Not because we don't dig going out, because we do. But going out all the time does tend to get old, plus you have to worry about the PO-PO pullin your ass over in the middle of the night.

Of course, I'm a spoiled, lucky girl. I have a designated driver at all times and I dig it. Regardless of that, it's nice just to stay in, cook a smorgassboard of tasty good stuff and drink hot toddies or beer or wine or Jack....

Well, on tap for the past weekend's buffet was pork tenderloin, rosemary potatoes, steamed snow peas and a variety of other crap.

I must say, I've never cooked a tenderloin before and I rocked the balls out of it.
Baked it sloooooow in the oven, double wrapped in foil filled with every herb you can think of. After being on slow bake for 3 hours, I jerked that badboy out of the foil and slung it on the grill... G-R-U-B!!

Everybody ate way too damn much.

I, of course, was no exception. Quite the contrary. I started drinkin whilst cooking. The flavor of the day was Meridian Chardonnay, mighty good.

I asked Big T to open me the first bottle and it was on. Between me and Taucha, we polished off close to three bottles. A little much.

I paced myself, like a professional New Orleans drinker. Sipping all night long. It's hard to tell how much wine one has consumed when one's glass never quite gets empty before somebody happens by to freshen it.

So, it's 1:00am, and everybody is leaving. I had been giving Big T the eye and making obscene gestures toward him all night. REOW... come here big daddy.

He was sitting on the couch in the love den, when I crawled up in his lap and made close up obscene gestures at him before departing with my clothes and heading toward the bed. I knew it was a matter of 1.8 seconds before he'd be following me that way.

Woooo! I was feeling my oats. I was gonna tear his ass up. I was gonna make him scream my name and write bad checks. I was gonna make him beg for mercy.
Let the makin out and major league cannoooodlin begin!

I kiss my way down into a desireable spot. Somehow, don't ask me how... I passed out. His goodies right in front of me and I pass out. Of course at first, he thought I was thinking or taking a breather....

He taps me on the head. "Baby, are you ok? If you're gonna go to sleep, release that and get on a pillow."

"I'm not asleep. Swear I'm not." As I sit up and leave a drool puddle on his belly. "Ok, so I might have been asleep."

"That's ok, baby. Go to sleep."

So I did.

Well, I woke up to him staring at me. "Gotta hang over?"

My head was spinnin, "Hell ya. I'm dehydrated and my head's spinnin."

"Why don't you go back to sleep?" He picked. "You do remember falling asleep last night, right?"

All day long, kids, I had to hear him slip in little comments about my inability to handle my alcohol and still be sexually fucntional. I mean, granted, it was all in fun, but how embarrassing is that?

"Sorry, baby. I swear I'll never drink again." Rolling my eyes. "Gimme some aspirin."

"Yah. Yah." He gets me aspirin, "You know you got yours and you were done, ready to go to sleep. Sometimes I think our roles in this marriage are jacked the hell up."

"I know, huh? I spit, burp, and fart better than you." Smiling at him like the cat that ate the canary.

Pick on me again some more.


Fiestas, Gigalos and Beeeeyaches

There's nothing Diva digs more than a fiesta. Well, unless beer is involved. And what would ya know... I got both over the weekend. My bestest friends Holly, Mario and Tausha heard through the rumor mill that I was making enchiladas and such for dinner Saturday night and that was enough for them. Holly said she'd bring some good stuff and we'd have a fiesta. Complete with rice, beans, salsa and chips.... and BEER. Yay! Come on over boys and girls. There were all us adult types, 6 teenager and 2 munchkins. So, I was cooking my ass off listening to the VOLS get spanked. (Sorry drifting off, a little annoyed it didn't go any better than it did... interception throwin mama's boys)... Anyhoo...I made Chicken enchiladas and homemade red sauce (mmmmm) And beef enchilada casserole Rice n Beans (refried beans just aren't pretty, so there's no pic). And Holly's grub-ass homemade, garlic filled, spicy as hell salsa

We were playing kamakazi karaoke in the lair when "Just a Gigalo" came on. This is the point where Lil T (the 2year old grandson) informs me that he is, in fact, a gigalo. Big T confirmed to Lil T, that it's ok to be a gigalo.

I tried to explain to him "You should be a pimp, it pays better. Say pimp." "No! Gigalo!" He screams and runs off. It's true. If ya have a choice, for goodness sake, be a pimp. Look, he could pimp his auntie and her friends out. He's got every one of those girls wrapped around his pinkie finger...

And its official. I crowned my BFF (Holly) my beeeeyach. She's a skank and I love her more than a squirrel loves a nut.

She is now in charge of kitchen clean up every time we drunk at the house. She is quite good at it. Reckon if she would have known I was gonna blog her ass and slap her picture up on the internets that she would have stayed in her PJs? Heh. Again, I say, you are a skank, but you are a damn fine kitchen cleaner upper.


Quick - Main-line Caffeine STAT!

Not only do I need a support group for my klepto issues, but I am also an addict. That's right, kids. If I don't have an I.V. drip of strong ass coffee every morning, then I'm about as useful as a pantyliner is to Bruce Willis.

I consume no less than a pot of the stuff before I even leave my house in the morning. That's just the regular, rut-o-the-mill crap too. The the games really begin when I get to the office. Oh yes, I have it made there. My boss is sympathetic and spoils me with Seattle's Best beans. For Christmas 2 years ago, we acquired a mac-daddy espresso maker that grinds the columbian beans into powder and then spews boiling hot water through it with extreme pressure so as to extract every last bit of the caffinated goodness inside. God bless espresso and the occasssional vanilla latte.

If I don't get my daily dose of good stuff, I become as foul as an 87 year old school lunch lady who's sloppin cole slaw food stuff onto the tray of a smart ass high school kid. It's cool. I don't do without much.

However, I have went on strike from Starbucks. Pisses me off that I have to pay around $4 for a latte that I can whip up here for nearly nothin.
Nevermind the fact that I feel like the total redneck as I am ordering my "Non-fat venti vanilla latte, please" with my thick ass southern drawl. I always feel like they give me my total, ask me to drive around to the window, all the while making fun of the redneck chick with the funny accent.

Plus, I'm highly influenced by what I hear. And I a little squirrley told me that StarSchmucks is evil. He doth spout the truth!

(If you're offended by extremely foul language, I advise you not to click that down there. And I apologize in advance for being so easily amuzed by such profanity. Please know, my mother raised me better than this. I am a black sheep.)

Sugar Queen & Olga Slapped Me on the Ass

Ok, so they really actually reach over and smack my goodies, no. Too bad, huh? They actually cyber slapped with a meme. After they reads my answers, they'll think long and hard (heh I said long and hard... =)

With the fact that I'm pretty boring in mind... everybody knows I love my kids and family and all the good stuff people tend to take for granted, so I shall give insight into who I am on a deeper level.

All Of The Eight Things You Didn't Want To Know About Me

Eight Things I am Passionate About:
1. Widdling down Big T's many collections.
2. Coffee (need I.V. drip STAT!)
3. SEX woooo hoooo! yah, I said SEX in all caps.
4. Taking the boy to see the monkeys the zoo at least once a month.
5. Bill Clinton being first lady gets me hot.
6. Karaoke. I AM DIVA, hear me roar
7. Blogging cuz ya'll put up with my whining and verbal vomit.
8. Ignoring people who are drama freaks.

Eight Things I Want To Do Before I Die
1. Invent something cool that will get my name in the news (any ideas?)
2. Give forth one more mini-me that will in turn drive me crazy like the others do (uh, maybe. It might just be temporary insanity)
3. Route 66 with Big T, a camera, & a cooler of cold beer (Cold beer and the worlds biggest ball of yarn!!)
4. Quit being flaky and actually go to a blogfest (I suck)
5. Join the mile high club (I travel alot and I just want my wings)
6. Lose enough weight to wear sexy slutty tight around the ass jeans (just once)
7. See Van Halen and the Police in concert (I missed it back in the day)
8. Get Dancin with the Stars good at Latin Dancing (reow sexy sexy)

Eight Things I Say Often
- "For fuck sake"
- "Bite me"
- "And you want me to do what about it?"
- "I'm gonna love you forever and ever. Amen."
- "Stop bitchin'. You're goin' to school!"
- "You suck!"
- "Good morning, 'insert company name'"
- "What are you thinkin?"

Eight Books I’ve Recently read
1. It's Happy Bunny. Life, Get One. (only 10 pages with big pictures)
2. Killing Yourself With a Fork & Knife (read half)
3. Elevate Your Life (one month devotional with short stories)
4. Tuesdays with Morrie (still working on it)
5. Herotica

I have ADHD and can't sit still long enough to read a book very often. I stick to recipes, blogs, and magazine articles.

Eight Movies I’ve Recently Seen
- 1408 (kinda creepy)
- Mr. Brooks (extremely psycho)
- Premonition (easily confused me)
- Oceans 13 (I needed a nap anyway)
- Come Early Morning (Jeffrey Donovan makes me wet)
- Elizabethtown (actaully a good movie after I got over Orlando being in it)
- A History of Violence (Ed Harris made me sad cuz he was evil)
- I Now Pronouce You Chuck & Larry (Hahahaha. I highly recommend)

Eight Songs That I Could Listen To Over And Over
* You're In My Heart - Rod Stewart
* Your Man - Josh Turner
* Candy - Will Smith
* Forever - Will Smith
* Rocky Top - Pride of the Southland Marching Band
* Rapper's Delight - Sugar Hill Gang
* Gold Digger - Kanye West
* The Most Beautiful Girl - Prince

Eight Things That Attract Me To My Best Friends
(I'm keepin it real and keepin Sugar's answers to this one. Kudos.
None judgmental

Eight Things I Have Learned This Past Year- You can't merge two families and not expect kaos.
- Don't get pissed, make fun of it.
- I found out who my friends are.
- I went around the mountain ten times but got the wedding planned and executed. I will never plan another wedding, ever.
- My baby girls can accept change and go with the flow.
- No matter how nice I am to my EX, that's he's always gonna be a dick.
- Life is lived one day at a time.
- I need to relax more

Eight People That Should Do This Meme and Not Complain:
- Chuckie @ What's Up Chuck?
- Lenae @ Flat Coke & Flies
- Ms. P @ Fresh Taste of Banana Puddin
- Robert @ Observations from the Back 40
- m@ @ Animal Mind
- Mark @
- Lee @ Vicinity of Obscenity


If Anybody Was Wondering

I know you, my friends on Blogger's Lane, are really getting uptight thinking "What the hell would Diva want for Christmas??"

I'm here to help. I don't want to end up with another toaster.

In no particular order, I will list the items you are welcome to put under my tree this year. We'll have a hot toddie and discuss the fun uses for these lil ditties.

First. The Yodeling Pickle. Anybody out there who wouldn't want a pickle that yodels? I for one am just bubbling with anticipation for Christmas morning! Wake up, all dreamy eyed to a beautifully decorated box... and out pops the pickle.

I'm also amused at the thought of getting this cute little smoking monkey. I think I could teach it to spit, fart, burp, cuss and drink beer too with enough time and training.

Lastly, I want this so I could always have a weinerschnitzel in my hand.
Sick, huh?

There ya have it kids. I promise not to regift.


Hot Toddies, Christmas Trees & Nekkid Bell Ringin

I swear to all that is Holy... I'm trying my bestest to get into the holiday spirit. It just ain't me. But I'll not sit here and spew a bunch of Bah Humbug and tinkle on everybody else's happy happy ho-ho-ho.

Quite the contrary. In my efforts to pull the Grinch out of my ass, I have found that a nice alcolhic beverage can be very beneficial. My drink of choice? Ahhh, a nice cup of fresh brewed double shot o' espresso combined neatly with a shot of Bailey's Irish Creme. Yes, it is tasty. Mmmm, mmmm, mmmmmm.

So, one cup of cheer at a time, I have managed to begin my holiday-ing with relatively little pain and suffering.

I slung up two Christmas trees this year. One in the living room where everyone hangs out and the other in the Den Of Love downstairs.

Wanna see? I know you do... even if you don't... here it is in all it's blinged out glory!! This is the silver & white tree. This sucker glows by the light of the fire even with the twinkle lights not plugged up.

Let's sing...
"Silver balls..... Silver balllsssss... it's Christmas time in the Lair"

This is the wooden tree. Tastfully decorated thanks to JoAnn's craft emporium. Everything on it is made of wood. We like it. Eco-safe, tree parts that will be used for years to come. Poor thing still needs something on top, but I've yet to find me a wooden angel or star or santa...

Up close with my fave ornaments.... The sappy but sexy LOVE BELL... When I get lucky, I run upstairs in all my nekkid glory and ring that bad boy... (Scary thought, huh?)

Now just because I have my own forest of Christmas trees doesn't mean that this tree or this tree are safe.

I made a promise to myself that I would go steal them and leave ransom notes for each tree if either tree owner turns their respective back for more than 2 minutes.

Happy Holidays, boys and girls.


Bras, Burritos, Ninjas & Hair Pullin

I have decided on what one of the most annoying occurances in a woman's life can possibly be.

I was at work and everything was coming up roses. I had an super great hair day. I even woke up early enough to slap on some war-paint.
I had a box to pack up for a customer who is in a shit panic to get something done RIGHT NOW, after he had been advised a week ago that he needed to take action.

Whatever. Lack of planning on his dumb ass part, does not constitute a shit panic for me. None the less, I went ahead, as a good colleague would, and got his stuff put together for him and was putting the large part (a 50 pound instrument) into the box when I felt it.... SNAP! The underwire in my most favoritest bra gave out.

That kids, is annoying. My boob popped out of said bra into my shirt, making my the girls look all awkward and crooked. Needless to say, the bra came off and I wore my sweatshirt for the rest of the day.


I made an attempt to be stealth like a ninja this weekend. I did, really. I waited for Big T to get up and go to work, acting totally and convincingly asleep. He was out the door and I jumped up to take a shower. I hi-jacked the truck and snuck all the way to Pigeon Forge to the Music Outlet.

I cried on the sales fella's shoulder about how I had to have the camo Morgan Monroe guitar case, of which they only had one and was already half paid for by some psycho woman.

Being the spoiled brat I am, I tried to talk him into giving me that one and ordering her another one, but to no avail. Kids, I haggled this dude for 20 minutes before his son said, "Dad, I think there might be one upstairs in the storage room."

The waters parted and the heavens opened when I saw the boy coming back down the stairs a mere 30 minutes later carrying the last one they would ever have.

I am such a good wife that I pay attention to all the stuff Big T says. And I specifically remember him making a mental note that he was going to go back and get that case one day. Check. I made a mental note too. I was sure it would get me a free pass for a wicked roll in the hay. Woo!

Anyhoo, I get home and try to get in the house before Big T can come help me in with the stuff. But, I didn't make it. He was out the door before I could fart and run from it.

He asked obviously annoyed that I would have enough nerve to put something back there when he had specifically told me not to.
"What's that in the back of the seats? I thought I told you not to put anything back there, baby."

"I know you did. It's for Natalie (my kid) and it's lightweight. I was afraid it would blow out of the bed if I put it back there." I protested.

He rolled his eyes and said "Unlock the door, let's get it out and take it in the house."

What could I do. I handed him the key. Mind you, he's had a hard-on for this particular item for a little over a year.

He pulls the box out and looks in it. I swear, I thought he was gonna cry. The look of horror on his face that he had found one of his Christmas presents.

Oh well, his bad. He ain't gettin it until Christmas day. I'll wrap that bitch up and put in under the tree anyway. He better act surprised and he better still give me some major league nookie.

So much for being a ninja.


Taco Bell gets a stay of execution for now.
As promised to Ms. P, I went ahead forewent my diet in order to keep Taco Bell in business. I have had a burrito and large Diet Dew two days in a row. There is no need for anybody so sweet to die of hunger because of my vanity. What the hell was I thinkin anyway? Maybe that is why I broke bitch in like 1.3 seconds... maybe it wasn't PMS... maybe it was lack of bean burritos with extra red sauce.
Thank you, Puddin, you saved me from myself.


What is a school zone? A school zone is a place where flashing lights, crossing guards and cops all come together with one goal in mind... to slow folks down in order to avoid mowing down of any munchkins.

I respect the school zone and all of its components. However, some asshat in an SUV, who apparently woke up a little late, doesn't.

I drive my kids to school every single day, as she is too much of a princess to ride the damn bus. Which is fine. I too was a princess. I take into consideration that I might just run into traffic in the school zones, and allow this into my alotted time for the AM commute. Generally I take it for what it is and am a mellow driver. I don't suffer from road rage very often... until today. Today was the day I finally snapped.

Anyway, the forementioned asshat decided that he was in a hurry and as a result his SUV was raping my poor little car he was riding so close... like right up the tailpipe raping. Not like I could go anywhere any faster with the half mile of folks trying to do the same thing I was.

I didn't think about my daughter (16) sitting next to me when I finally got pissed off. I rolled down the window and yelled back at him "If you're gonna ride my ass, at least pull my hair, asshole!"

Ooops. Of course, my kid busted out laughing and looking back at him. He must've been humiliated cuz his boy was laughing his ass off as his dad yelled at him. Good. Back off and don't ride other people's bumper. It's just consideration.


Prayers again, please

They found a lump in my Mom's breast today at the doctor's office. Please send a message to the Big Guy upstairs for her, please. Breast cancer is scary.

12-Step Program Needed

I think I need a 12-step program. I have a major problem that, no matter how much effort I put into it, I can't seem to fix.

Big T comes to my office now and then to visit. One afternoon, he popped by and asked us, "Do you have any string or twine or anything around here. I need about 2 feet of it."

I, forever and always being the helpful & loving wife that I am, say, "Well baby, I have this left over blue ribbon from the bridesmaid bouquets if that'll work."

I toss him the ribbon and think nothing else of it. He says he loves me, gives me kisses and goes on his merry little way.

Fast-forward to 5:15pm, when I get home from work. I come in as usual and Big T gives me my hugs and kisses as I head upstairs to start dinner... when it caught my eye...

That ass-munch had duct-taped the ribbon to his lighter that sits on the end table. The other end of the ribbon was inserted into the slate slabs that make the top of the table. It looked like one of those pens that the bank tries to keep safe by chaining them to the teller spots.

Why would he do such a sarcastic thing?

Because I am Diva. I have a problem. I steal lighters.
Yes, my friends, I'm a kleptomaniac.
I found that I am attracted to steal lighters like a monkey will steal your wallet at the circus. It is bad.

How bad is it, you ask. When Big T asked me to empty my jacket pocket and purse, the lighter count was seven (7). Ooops.

Moral of the story is.. Until I get the proper help, if we're out drinkin' together, please (please, please) keep your lighter in your pocket or at least come get it back from me.

Consider this fair warning. I can not be held responsible.


So, This is Art

Many of you may not know, but the week after I got hitched, I bailed and went to Germany for 10 days. Fun, fun, fun don'cha know.

Anyway, I was in Hannover for a couple of days and managed (between the raindrops) to get out and do the tourist schlep. Grabbed a cab and took in Herrenhausen Gardens. Quite the impressive place actually. One could get lost up in there.

Figured I'd share with you what the German folk consider to be art, as they had an art exhibition in full gear within the garden gates whilst I was there. Enjoy.

Ok, so these are babydolls cocooned in Saran Wrap and hung in trees.
*scratches head* I still don't quite get it, but ok. Kinda creepy in a Blair Witch kinda way.

And this is an exhibit called (surprisingly) "Split Pea Soup & Beer"

In case you're wondering, the lil sign says no drinky the beer or do not touch or something to that effect.

This here is the Creme de la Creme. A Penis made out of a sticky bush. Nice. The exhibit was entitled "Sex".

Imagine that. I certainly could have done with a lil nookie after looking at a seven foot tall prickly penis.

And the grande finale photo is not actually part of the art exhibit, it was just one of the few flowers left that hadn't frozen it's stamen off yet.

It was cold and miserable that day, but the oversized penis... dayum, it really did make the whole thing worth it.

Cherry Poppin, Fart Wars, Makin Babies & Bankruptcy

You perverts!! I know you thought to yourself... "Ohhhh, Diva's done been rollin' in the woods again."

No. I'm a good Christian girl and I don't roll in the woods or anything of that nature. Not anymore anyway, I got married 2 months ago.

Oh, speaking of pervi-ness. It has come to my attention that I am NOT the only one around this place who had no clue what Half Nekkid Thursday was! Go me! Still doesn't mean I'm gonna tack my rack on my page. (Although it is more of a ragin' thing that I thought).

Anyhoo... the cherry I refer to is the Christmas song cherry. I am a complete and total karaoke junkie. Why, I dunno. It's not that I'm any good at it. I think it's the fact that I can go get hammered and make an ass out of myself and it not bother me.

So, I made the rounds over the long weekend to my favorite waterin' holes to partake in cold beer and greasy food whilst listening to all the other drunk monkies attempting to sing their own renditions of many-a-song. Sometimes can be scary, sometimes can be totally awesome, sometimes I need earplugs to keep from bleeding out my ears.

It's after Thanksgiving and not a single holiday ditty had been krooned. WTF? It's time to get in the spirit and make people accept the fact that they are going to spend more money than Hugh Hefner does on his playmates.

At both Ronnie's and Coyote Joe's, I popped the cherry on the beloved Christmas tune, by belting out Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. Actually, I only sang it because I felt the need to pull the Grinch out of my ass. I'm not sure if it worked yet.


Me and Big T called a truce on the fart war as he was getting way too serious and thinking of ways to smoke me out. I waved the red flag sometime on Saturday night when he was kicking my ass by close to 10 farts, er points.
Besides it was costing me too much in candles and air freshner to keep the house smelling fresh with that much shit flying.


I have been a really good girl the past couple of days. And Big T has been very cooperative! He's even trying to cut back and eat healthier with me as a show of support. Not sure how long he'll last before he caves and sneaks to Burger King for a grease bomb, but he's got my undying gratitude for not doing it in front of me.

I have sucked down ungodly amounts of water rather than Diet Dew and Diet Coke. I have kicked Taco Hell to the curb (last I heard, they're about to file bankruptcy). The fridge is filled with healthy crap like you'd find at a fat farm and we're actually eating it. My ass has even managed to hoof out 3+ miles a day on the treadmill at increasingly increasing speeds. Go me.

Swear to God, there is no way my ass is buying new fat clothes after I gave all the old ones away and done went out and bought all new smaller clothes last year. Not gonna do it.


On the baby makin' front, we gots a big fat strike out. No bun in the oven over here yet. I reckon since the doctor said my fat ass needs to lose a few pounds before actively pursuing baby makin. I have to admit I was sort of bummed out when I had to make my way to Walgreens for Midol, tampons and bon-bons (actually I got Diet Dew, not bon bons...).

I can only assume that I knew I wasn't pregnant because I had a wicked mean bout with PMS this week and felt like I was going to strangle several people for relatively small and mostly harmless offenses.


HNT - How much fun is that?

Hot damn! Even though I'm still relatively new at all this blogging stuff, I just figgered out what HNT means! Go me! HALF NEKKID THURSDAY!

If I wasn't such a pansy ass prude I'd slap a big bold picture of my ta-ta's up on this here website. But alas, we are not plucky enough to do such a thing. Although I'd consider it, because afterall Bottle Blonde swears it's ok to do and that's how she gets the traffic back to her page when things get a little laggy on her end of the world.

So, for now, I'll just be excited that I actually figured out what it means (cuz I was nozing around this page). All the web lingo kinda throws me off most of the time, so I get all giddy when I finally learn and retain something new.

Who knows, maybe one day when I'm all growed up I'll get a little more daring.


Only at THE Waffle House

There are some things that you just expect when you are on a 3am-after-party-food expedition. Granted at 3am, choice are limited to few establishments.

After partaking in my fair share of cold brew and closing down Coyote Joe's on Wednesday night, the whole load of us decided food was in order as it was late & we were packing a cool buzz. Never mind that my ass had to get up at 7:00am to finish brocolli casserole. So, personally, I was in need of coffee.

Where else would ya go at 3am on Thanksgiving morning for a little sobriety effort? Why, Waffle House, of course.

We wandered in giggling and cackling about anything and everything. All it takes for me to get tickled is enough beer and somebody else starting to laugh. No shit, laughing & yawning are contagious around me.

We finally played musical chairs long enough, got seated and our waitress came over. She was obviously annoyed that she was working and she was obviously even more annoyed that she was dealing with us. If you have to work that shift, at least make an effort to enjoy it.

Whatevers. This poor chick had the personality of a wet-sweat-sock. She took 2 of our orders, not speaking between, just sort of grunting at whoever happened to be next.

Just as she grunted toward #3, her cellie rang. The fact that she had her cellie on her was no big deal. Even the fact that it rang while she was waiting on us was no really big deal even. But when the bitch cut me off mid-order to answer it, now that just pissed me off. Her side of the conversation went this-a-way.

"I gotta answer this." She grunted as she lowered her head, still facing our table(presumably so her boss wouldn't see).

"Hello? Who is this? Who is this?" She acted like she didn't know who HE was.

"Who the hell is this, I'm at work and I have customers." Why the hell would you tell somebody you don't even know that you are currently at work and are waiting on them?

"Jesus, Robert. No, I'm not talking to anyone else." She DID know his ass.

"How can I be cheating if I'm working?" Apparently, Robert didn't have any faith that she was truly working. I guess that Waffle House distinct waffle and bacon smell being emitted by her apron wasn't enough proof.

Taucha, my drunk monkey friend, decideds she wants to talk to Robert. So, the waitress obliges (and takes another little bit of our order). After only 2.7 minutes, Taucha hands her the phone back and says to our lovely server, "Lose him, girl. He's a dick."

Mario getting on the phone didn't help. It made Robert believe that she really was in the cubicle of a bathroom bangin' the customers.

We all figured Robert would show up waving a semi-automatic threatening to blow up the Waffle House and everyone in it because in his head he believes that his girl was fucking us all.

Get a grip, pal. Let the girl bring home the bacon in piece you loser.


Turkey Porn and Giblets

Giblets. Who the hell named all the yack in a turkey "giblets" anyway?

And it's not that giblets aren't around any other time of year, but this would be the only time of year that I will actually touch and prepare an actual bird.

A note to all you kids who aren't savvy when it comes to turkey porn... When looking for the giblets, it is required that you stick your hand up the turkey's ass. There you will also find it's neck (please know I'm gaggin' over here just thinking about this). If you find a neck but no giblet package, pull your hand out of the turkey's ass, turn the turkey over, and shove your hand down it's throat. There you are sure to find that lovely little package of turkey gutz.

Trust me on this one kids, it happened to a really close friend of mine. You DO NOT want to bring your beautifully golden, perfectly tender turkey to the table for the ceremonial carving only to find a baked, crusty, brown bag full of nasty turkey goodies. It's just not a pretty sight.


Piss Off, Buzz Kill

I've finally figured out that most of my knee shaking epiphanies hit me while my ass is firmly planted on a bar stoll. This past weekend was, without doubt, no different.
I finally realized why, in fact, my past few months have been, how shall I say, like stink on shit.

Although I'm extremely happy with Big T, I feel like I have lost myself somewhere along the way... I've packed on 20 pounds since I got married and my clothes are too tight... which has led to me being severly annoyed at everything... which led to my lack of tolerance to drama in any circle in my life. I got enough drama dealing with my ever expanding ass to deal with anybody elses bull-caca.

I've decided that all the petty bullshit and disharmony must be flushed from my life like a Biore strip removes the blackhead on a super model's ass.

I was in the midst of three different people, on three seperate occassions, having three separate issues during the long weekend, who, for whatever their reason, seem to tote sadness, misery and all out drama in their purses.

Swear to God, after number 2 acted up, I was seriously considering becoming a recluse and avoiding all humanity until these three got it together. Jeez.

My advice to them, get happy. Nobody wants to be around somebody who can't smile and just share in the happiness. The world does not spin on its little axis simply for you to be in the center of it, no. Your problems are no bigger than anybody else's. Get a grip, get a job. It's life, get one.

There is absolutely no sense what-so-ever in all this crap.

How's that? I just needed to get that off my chest. I'll put on my hater blockers, go have some Chai Tea and meditate.


They've Recalled the Butterballs!

For those of you that don't know, Ms. Pat (Big T's mom) had a severe brain aneurysm on our wedding day. Then brain surgery 2 days later on October 1st. On October 5th, they called in the family with the grim news that they (the doctors and such) gave her less than a 50% chance of making it. She was placed on a ventilator and was being fed by tubes, basically surviving on life support. There wasn't much in the way of response at all. The awesome thing is, nobody gave up hope.

Now, on with the good stuff...

The home team scored one this weekend when Tony's mom got to come home both Saturday and Sunday on a "day-pass".

It works like this... they don't do any of the therapy sessions on the weekends, so they send her home to break her back in slowly to life with husband and puppy. They start the time clock around 10AM (I think) and she's allowed to be at home all day! Yay!

Only catch is, the rules and regs state the she has to be back at Patricia Neal by 9:00 PM. No exceptions, no excuses. If she didn't show back up by precisely 9PM, they send the dogs and lynch mob out to hunt her down and bring her back for multiple lashings with a wet noodle.

Anyway, me and Big T went up to see her while she was in her own surroundings, eating her own home cooked food. I don't give a shit what they say, there is no place like home to make one snap back to theirself.

When we got there, Big T told him Mom the joke of the day. Which made her cackle like a hen.

So, the women folk were sitting around the kitchen table as women folk commonly do and the men folk were congregated in the livingroom around the t.v., farting, burping and scratching their balls as men frequently do.

The phone rang and Ms. Pat answered it. It was T's neice Christine. Ms. Pat is back to her self. She decided to tell T's joke.

"Christine, honey, don't buy a Butterball Turkey this year. They've recalled 'em. Yah, they've been recalled. They forgot to butter the turkey balls."

In all seriousness, she's come so far in the last six weeks that they are actually kicking her loose today.

So, here's to Ms. Pat, getting out to enjoy the drama and stress of the holiday season!!! I honestly couldn't think of anything that sums up the Thanksgiving holiday, like the near loss of a loved one turned upside-down by an obvious miracle.

Give thanks, Kids. You never realize how important your family is to you until an eye-opening asskicker happens.


I'm Cookin with Gas Now, Baby!

I'm officially cookin with gas now... No, I don't mean the fumes that burst periodically out of T's butt from the fart war. No, I'm actually steppin in high cotton now, kids. T acquired me a new, gas grill yesterday. Ain't it cool? I pity those ladies who get flowers and jewelery. Sheer chicken perfection came off that bad boy last night. Beautifully sliced for fajitas which I shall scarf down for lunch today.

In other flatulent news, Me and Big T have been in a fart war for a little over a week. Yah, I know, that's not lady like and totally sick. Just so you know, he started that shit...(hahaha). It has been scientically proven that, in fact, my shit does NOT stink and his could peel the paint off the walls. Please don't look down on me for being childish and obscene. Thanks!
Running score: Tony 5, Me 4

How do you keep a marriage fresh? Make time to go on a date together. Get rid of the kiddies and get 'r dun. After Big T and Me saw his mom Saturday night and dropped the boy off. We were feelin a little froggy. We went to Shoney's for their sinfully rich-half frozen tasty treat... Hot Fudge Cake. Actaully it wasn't a bona-fide date, but I told him I was goin for something sweet and yummy and that I wasn't driving not even 1/10 of a mile farther until I got loaded up with some coffee.
Still yet, we had some alone time to make fun of all the people making mountain sized salads.

The Holiday Spirit kicked me right square in the ass over the weekend. I got all holly and jolly and started up with the Christmas decorations. No, I'm not redneck enough that I'm going to light them up just yet. I'm just pre-decorating in an effort to be the tackiest, most well lit house in the neighborhood. Go me! I've got more than 3,500 little twinkle lights and I fully intend to utilize every single one of them. (Once I get in the running for Tackiest Decorations of 2007, I'll post some pix).


S.O.S. (Taco Bell's a-goin bankrupt)

I lost 70 pounds last year. I gave away all of my "fat clothes" and went on a serious shopping spree. Then BAM! All of my newly acquired, smaller sizes are officially snug to the point that my eyes feel like they're gonna pop out when I try to button my jeans. I've packed 30 pounds back on.

I went down to a sexy, curvy 16. REOW. Ooops, I've managed to get back up somewhere between a big 18 and a small 20. I'd be totally fine if it wasn't for Taco Bell and chinese food.

No, I don't want any cheese to go with my whine... LOL. I swear to Larry, Curly & Moe that I'm not whining at all. I'm just letting you kids know that if you hear me talking about bean burritos, custard Krisy Kreme donuts or sesame chicken w/eggroll, you can kick my ass for me and remind me that I should be in step class, not the fast food line. See how it works?

I'll be honest, afterall, I'm amongst friends. I'm flat lazy and wussed out of going to the gym like I should have.

I loved the gym and looking at all the hot dudes with well defined legs and massive arms. Hell, I even loved looking at the hottie girls that have dedicated their gym time to maintaining that hottiness. I know that ain't right, but remember I'm being honest here. Whoever says people don't pay attention to the other people in a gym is full of shit.

So, today I started out very well. I got up this morning, packed my bag and went to the gym immediately after work. I trotted at a leisurely 3 to 3.5 MPH on the treadmill. I managed to crank out just under 3.5 miles before I decided I'd had enough. Made me want to throw up on the extremely fit fella right next to me that was running his ass off and didn't even get out of breath. But, then again, who's fault is that? I think I cursed myself to gain the weight back when I wrote that friggin blog about gluttony.

So boys and girls... Wish me luck. Wish me back into a sexy size.

Prayers for my PooPooPeDoo

Howdy kids. My daughter called me last night and told and asked me what she should do with Tyler, my lil angel of a grandson. She said he was spiking a bigtime temperature and he couldn't catch his breath. Turns out he was taking 50+ breaths per minute, which is way too much for a 2 year old.

After spending the evening at the ER, they told us he has pneumonia. Apparently, a kid can go from slight sniffles sans snot and goo to pneumonia in no time flat.
So, his right lung is kinda jacked up and he's taking a shit-pot of munchkin strength anti-biotics and breathing treatments.

Of course, no pneumonia epidemic is gonna get him down. Absolutely not. He was still raisin' all hell in the waiting room and wasn't diggin that nurse trying to take his vitals during check-in. It was all over when Natalie tried to strip him down to get him in a sexy, midget sized hospital gown. It pissed him off even more that he was getting a draft on his ass.

Keep my lil angel in your prayers, please. Even though he's still full of piss and vinegar, pneumonia is an ass-kicker.

Somebody Please 'Splain This To Me??

How in the hell do folks roll in a vehicle when the music is so damn loud I can hear it from inside my office when they are a mile or more away??

Why am I concerning myself with such petty bullshit on a Friday afternoon, you ask?

Well, friends and neighbors, I'll tell ya why. I just got set off like I have a fire cracker up my ass and it's the 4th of July.

We have had our office location for nearly 7 years. We are located between Fade to Black Barber Shop and Vogue Hair Salon. Our only source of entertainment here is to watch the old ladies wander in and out of their weekly hair appointments and listen to the drama/comedy coming from the barber shop next door.

But,what really pains me like a full on titty twister in cold ass weather is when the good 'ol boys next door come driving up with that shit blarin' so loud that it rattles the windows in my office, not to mention their whole damn car.

I've even had customers (mind you I work with Doctors and Researchers and other esteemed individuals worldwide) ask me why I don't turn my music down before I bother the answer the phone.

I've busted out the front door of our office and sneered dirty looks that way. How fucking hard is it to have a little common sense and public decency to turn that shit down to the point where your whole car isn't shaking along with the ground under it.

I've come to the conclusion that these kids have something to prove to one another. In addition, the music gets cranked way loud right in front of said barber shop, because I reckon they feel it impressive to the rest of humanity.

Personally, I think the louder and more abnoxious the music is, the smaller the dick of said music master is.

Asshat of the Day: Timberland

I am the type of person who requires some sort of white noise in the background at all times. The news on while I'm cooking, the stereo on while I'm scrubbing the toilet, or even just the radio on while I'm driving.

I was transporting my 16-year-old daughter to school today when Timberland's, "The Way I Are" came piping through the speakers. Have you ever listened to the words of this song? It's a duet about a scrub and some skanky chick's acceptance of his scrubiness.

I would like to take a moment to address Timberland and clear the air about what is acceptable, and what is not.

It goes a little somethin' like this:

*Verse 1* (Timerland)
I ain't got no money
I ain't got no car to take you on a date
I can't even buy you flowers
But together we'll be the perfect soulmates
Talk to me girl

Ok, first, if you have no money and no car, what are you gonna do? Are you gonna walk to my house with the intentions of gettin' a little lovin'? And trust me, even if you were lucky enough to hitch a ride with a homey, even if you hit the bell with flowers in your hand, you still ain't gettin none. And to even consider that we might be soulmates is blasphemy. Soulmates are connected. I gots a job, I gots a ride. Accept your destiny, pal, walkin and beatin off.

*Bridge* (The chick)
Oh, baby, it's alright now, you ain't gotta flaunt for me
If we go there, you can still touch my love, it's free
We can work without the perks just you and me
Thug it out 'til we get it right

Now, I'm no gold-digger by any means. But, if the boy ain't got a job, money, or car, what hell would he have to flaunt in the first place? And to think she's gonna consider "going there" with him... for free... without the perks? What perks? Massage oil? Happy Jack Rabbit? Sweet Jesus. I am going out on a limb here... she's got to be very horny and/or very desperate to reproduce.

Let's skip her part from here on out. It's repetition of the previous desparation and her forgiveness of his slackeristic nature. Let us explore the remaining 2 verses of this mockery of man-li-ness.

*Verse 2*
I ain't got no Visa
I ain't got no Red American Express
We can't go nowhere exotic
It don't matter 'cause I'm the one that love you best
Talk to me girl

I wouldn't care much that there is no plastic, so long as he has a J-O-B that results in some sort of cash flow. It's nice if a man has the money to give birthday and Christmas presents that aren't from a Cracker Jack box along with small tokens of his affection through-out the year.
No exotic trips? It's mandatory to go somewhere to have sex, other than ones own bedroom, at least occassionally. A trip to the Keys. A trip to Vegas. Sex is good in Vegas. But, still he spouts that he's the one she loves best. Again, most likely her poor self image. Get therapy.

*Verse 3* (The finale)
Baby girl, I don't got a huge ol' house I rent a room in a house
Listen baby girl, I ain't got a motorboat but I can float ya boat
So listen baby girl, once you get a dose of D.O.E. you gon' want some mo'
So listen baby girl, when I make it I want you back, want you back, yeah

He rents a room. Nice. A room in a house where other people live. Which means either the home owners are going to hear the headboard bangin' and the naughty sounds coming from the room or we'll only be gettin busy in my house. Uh. No.
No boat floating from you until you get a job, a car, flowers, some select pieces of jewelery.

They Grow Up So Fast...

My youngest clone is 16 years old. She and her friends are so much more "grown up" than me and my friends were at her age. All we really cared about was ditching school to go to the beach, sneaking a cigarette now and then, and other stupid crap.

These guys talk about saving the world, like the little tree huggers they are.
They talk about saving the rain forest. They talk openly about so many things.

I guess I'm the type of mom who, for better or worse, never kept any secrets from my kids. I've never pretended that smoking, drugs, alcohol, or sex don't exist in their worlds. I took the preemptive approach of actually telling my kids the pros/cons - good/evil of these things.... and from a young age.
All of these things were unthinkable and taboo in our house when I was growing up.

Don't get me wrong. I don't encourage my kids to smoke it up, drink it down and knock boots. Quite the contrary. I encourage them not to do any of it, at least the youngest one and her friends (who still listen).

I just think it to their advantage if they know they can talk to me about anything and that I will be there for them and they won't be treated as if they have the plaque and be banned from my sight for being human.

With that in mind... the youngest and her lil friend designed and baked me a penis for my bachelorette party. Dear Lord.


Telemarketer - The Tables Are Turned

** The name of the company in question has been changed.

Ok, kids. I have been doing my bestest trying to be nicer to people. This has been going on for some time now. However, nothing gets the better of me than those annoying ass automated phone calls from Joe Solicitor. Or the calls you get from Sally Salesperson where they ask for you by first name and try to act like an acquaintance... Dayum. I thought that shit was borderline illegal on a harassment level.

Anyway, today I turned the tables. I got an automated call from "Kelly". She was offering us the moon and stars and possibly the sun too if we would "press one to stay on the line for a representitive".

So, I press one. I hold for a brief 20 seconds or so, expecting "Kelly" will pick up personally and explain to me this great pitch of hers. A pitch I intended to let her waste her time giving before asking to have all of our business numbers removed from her bullshit auto-dial system.

All that went out the window, when rather than "Kelly", some deep voiced, crankity, old british dude picked up.

"You're not Kelly." I say to him, agast that the wool was pulled over my eyes.

"No, that was a recording. Are you interested in learning more." He blurts out in harsh monotone.

"Uh. No. Actually. I'm really, really tired of you people calling us and would like you to remove our number from your database."

"Done." He said as he disconnects my call.


God bless *69. I annoy the shit out of many-a-telemarketer when I can actually get my hands on the number they called from.

So I dial *69 and get the number. I press each digit and the little british weasel that hung up on me answered.

**"First Asshat" He answers.

"Yah. I was connected to you to be removed from your call list and you hung up on me." I lament.

"Well, I didn't hang up, but you have been removed." He sneers.

"How the hell am I removed when you only called one of our numerous numbers, sir? Can you explain that? Do you have a list with every company that notes every number within that company?"

I'm ready to fight with him by this time.

"We have them." He hangs up again.

So, me (being me), I dial them up again.

"First Asshat" It was some uptight manly sounding british woman this time.

"I'm calling to be removed from your call list."

"Yes, that's why I answered, I heard the conversation with my employee." She says.

"It's pretty simple. Remove all of our numbers, now, or I will call you 500 times a day until Jesus comes back." I tell her.

"They will be removed." She retorts as SHE hangs up on me.

Needless to say, I have spent the last hour randomly picking up the phone, dialing the number and saying...

"Hi it's me. Only XXX number of the promised calls left today."

I kind of wonder if I can get in trouble for it. If anybody would like to have the same big ball of fun as I am, and help me annoy the shit out of these people, I'd be glad to share the phone number with ya.

Happy dialing!



Or not. It might just be my man snoring as he sleeps. I was blog browsing today when I came upon a blog by Zoning Out Again - Can A Uvuvla Be Cut Out While Someone Sleeps? and it brought back memories of nights that border on semi-insanity.

First, I am so glad that I am not the only person who has a semi-glazed look on her face sometimes from a lack of a good nights sleep.

Second, Anthony still swears I'm insane because he's never heard himself snore. But he does. He must be deaf if can't hear that.

Actually, he was a sport and went to the sleep clinic to get it all checked out after this particular night.

When Tony and I first started dating, we generally would see each other when we could. Then we progressed to staying weekends at one another's house, since we lived nearly an hour away from each other.

We had went to bed after we had watched a movie and cleaned up the kitchen from dinner. We lay there all snuggled and quiet when it started. At first it was just deep, deeep, deeeeeeep breathing. But after about 5 minutes, it sounded and felt like an earthquake. After lying there for a few minute and assessing the situation, I realized he would breath in really deep, quit breathing then exhale. This attibuted to the volume of the snoring itself.

Well, the snoring set off the dogs, which are caged at night. The two dogs took turns howling and barking. I got up, opened the door and they barked even louder.

So, there I am, in fairly unfamiliar territory, in my PJs, standing in a scary dark hallway with two caged and barking dogs.

I covered my ears and closed my eyes, but when I opened them, I was still there. It's not a dream. He'd snore in really loud, the dogs would freak and bark like crazy. All of this at 1:30 am.

I made my way down the hall to the couch only to find his son sleeping there instead of his bedroom. So, I went in his room to find my daughter had called claim on the bed, which is why the boy was on the couch to begin with.

By this time, the symphony of loud snoring and dogs barking was making me insane. I really thought I was losing my mind, since all this racket didn't seem to be bothering anybody else.

I had no other choice. I had to escape. I fumbled around and found my way back to the bedroom. Somehow I located my purse and shoes by the side of the bed. I grabbed the small throw blanket from the bottom of the bed and took off. Back down the dark and scary hallway I went. Feeling my way along until I made it to the back door. Yes! I made it! This was December and it was cold out.

I found my keys in my purse and got in the car. I fired up the car, cranked up the heat, pulled the blanket over my me. No sounds but the sound of the radio as low as it would go and me still be able to hear it.

Somewhere around dawn, Tony realized I was gone, but saw the headlights shining through the livingroom window. He came outside to find out what had happened, so I told him.

Needless to say, he made the appointment and went to the doctor over it. He told the doctor he had to fix it or I'd never marry him.

Ain't that the sweetest thing you've ever heard???