I like my noodles on the al dente side

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

So my thoughtless, evil sibling calls me up yesteday and leaves me the following voicemail: “Mom’s been rushed to the hospital again. She’s bleeding profusely (he actually used the phrase “bleeding like a mutha-fuckin’ sonofabitch”) from her nose and ears.” Click. The end. No explanation. No follow up.

So naturally, I’m freaking out. I’m thinking, “It’s a toomah!” I’m thinking brain hemorrhage. I’m thinking alien parasites. I’m thinking nanite-sized Hobbits are using their big-ass crusty, hairy feet to turn me mums noggin of al dente spaghetti into soggy pasta pudding. (Sounds like Orc mischief to me!) But mostly I’m thinking, “I don’t wanna drive 4 hours! Waaahhhhh! I’m tired!”

Does that make me a bad daughter? Yeah. I thought so.

By the time I arrived, it was nearly over. She had lost 3 pints of blood (from her nose!) and looked like a homicide victim. Turns out it was a ruptured blood vessel in her nose, and her new arthritis med (which shall remain nameless, but is in the NSAID category) was keeping her blood from clotting. And she was NOT bleeding from her ears. My brother is a squeamish drama-queen.

Aside from losing a new robe & nightgown to unsightly stains which will NEVER come out, the mumster is fit as a fiddle. She even got a nice set of scrubs out of it.

What did I get? Nothing. Nada. An aching back from driving 4 hours there and 4 hours back. Well, that and my mom’s okay. So I guess that’s something. Heh. Bad daughter!


Happy Misjudgement Day!

Sunday, May 22, 2011

Greetings!

If you’re reading this blog, you’re like me: a big, fat, warty, nasty, vile sinner, who eats babies for breakfast! Congratulations! Welcome to the club! Have some cake! It’s free! We unrepentant heathens looted goodies from all of the empty bakeries! Because, everyone knows, all bakers go to heaven. Where else would someone who knows how to make cake, pie, and pastry go? Hell hath no need of sugar! Or so the scriptures sayeth.

What’s that? No one was saved? God didn’t drop by for tea? Are you sure? Because it was a preacher who said he was coming today, and well, you know, men who claim to be of God are never wrong. Or so the scriptures that they themselves wrote sayeth.

Seriously, could someone please tell the religious nutbars of the world to just man up and drink the punch? It would be totally awesome if there were fewer asshats getting my hopes up about the post-rapture looting. Sigh. I sooo wanted a new flat screen TV. For FREE.

I thought my mom, being the devout Christian she is, would have jumped on that shit-wagon holding high the cross of Christ, but apparently, once 6pm rolled around and she discovered that the Jesus Train had passed her by, she saw the sham for what it was, and finally laughed at my “don’t drink the koolaid” message on her answering machine.

This Rapture, it would seem, was a quantum faux pas. Like this blog.

You wanna know what the true Rapture is? It’s this life. It’s this fucked up, messy, hard, emotional shit we all go through on a daily basis. It’s family who loves you even if they think you’ve screwed up your whole life, and possibly theirs, too. It’s my totally amazing cat, Princess Fuzzybuns Beardlicker, who I love with a fierceness that rivals that of any parent, and who loves me just because I pet her and feed her, and makes me smile every single fucking day just because she’s awesome. It’s friends who love you unconditionally, even if you fight and argue more often than not, and won’t abandon you even if you can’t agree on something as mundane as who should win American Idol.

That’s TRUE Rapture. Fuck anyone who says it isn’t.

Ahem. I really didn’t mean to get all serious, but I’m celebrating my rapture with Jagermeister, Guinness, and pancakes. I think it’s the Jager (diva!) talking. I know it’s not the pancakes ’cause they’re all fluffly and shit.


Parts is Parts

Friday, April 15, 2011

In talking with my co-workers a couple of weeks ago, I discovered that I have to have my birth certificate in order to get my drivers license switched over to this state. Yes, I’ve been living here for over a year and this is just now coming up. I’m a procrastinator. I’ve admitted as much on my “about me” page. So shut it.

I was worried because I was going to have to ask my mom to send the original to me.

First of all, the sweet, old broad has cataracts and can’t see worth a shit anymore, especially close up and far away. So her finding my actual birth certificate (as opposed to a recipe card, knitting pattern, diagram for world domination, blueprints for the apocalypse, etc.) and getting it into an envelope with the correct address on it was pretty much gonna be a crap shoot.

Second of all, she was sending me my ORIGINAL birth certificate. Like from the year I was born and stuff. Which was during the time of free love and junk. I’m pretty sure they didn’t laminate important documents back then, and if they did, you probably don’t wanna know with what. And, well, I was worried that if the mumster did indeed find the BC, and if she did indeed manage to get into a correctly addressed envelope, was I going to be getting an envelope full of dust? Or potting soil, if it rained? But it all turned out okay. I’ve got the BC and will be getting my license switched over within the next 2 years. Maybe five.

This whole license thing sparked another conversation this evening. I found out that if you’re an organ donor, you don’t have to pay as much for your license. The conversation went nothing something like this.

Me: “Well how much do you have to pay if you’re a donor?”
Co-worker: “I think it’s like $4.”
Me: “So how much is it if you’re not a donor?”
CW: “I think it’s $8.”

And I just sat there for a sec thinking about the price tag on my body.

Me: “So my innards are only worth $4??? WTF? I think they were worth more in SC. I feel very undervalued and do not think I will be sharing my parts with people from a state that thinks I’m more inexpensive than I really am.  Because I’m already pretty fucking cheap.”
CW: “But woudn’t it make you feel good if you were a donor and someone who was blind got your eyes?”
Me: “I’m pretty sure I won’t give a shit if I’m dead. And any blind person who was gifted with my eyes would probably want to stab me. I mean, I know my vision sucks ass, but it’s better than not seeing at all, right? Ungrateful wretches.  And hey, speaking of dead donations, you do have to actually be dead before they start strippin’ you for parts, right?  ‘Cause it would piss me off right good and proper if I was in a car accident and some transplant doctor decided to steal my stuffing while I’m still kickin’.”
CW: “… Ummm…”
Me: “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ve made my decision. If I can’t enjoy my parts, then NO ONE will. Especially not for four fucking dollars.”

And that’s that. I will not be donating my sauced liver, my smoke-filled lungs, my legally blind eyeballs, my black & empty heart, my sub-par grey matter, or my cellulite-pocked arse to science or to YOU. My parts is my precious!  So back off, Frodo!


Poisonous Progeny

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

When I was a kid. the neighborhood in which I spent most of my childhood was filled with kids my own age or close to it. All of us kids played together after school, and spent our summers catching fireflies (shiny!) and rolly-poly bugs, riding our bikes in the streets, and playing in the nearby creek (which has since been filled in – fucking developers!). We climbed trees, made mud pies, made leaf forts in the fall, made sheet forts using tables and chairs (you know what I’m talking about, I know you do) when it was raining outside, and swung on tire swings that made us believe we could fly.

My next door neighbors went to the same church as my family, and their daughters and I went to summer camp together. Their youngest daughter, lets’s call her Lulu, was my homegirl at that time in my life. We were besties, so when one of us was “attacked” by the other kids, the other would come in swinging. It was a great time to be alive, and it pains me how much I miss it when I think back on how easy life was.

Speaking of pain, let’s talk about Lulu. She turned into Frankenstein one night and I was forever scarred. So was she.

Since we lived next door, sometimes we’d meet at the chain link fence to share barbie dolls or candy or make fun of my brother (still easy) or whatever. One evening, just as the sun set, I was walking from my back door to meet Lulu at the fence with a pez dispenser, when I noticed the rather large, dark gash on her forehead. I froze for a second, my eyes rounding into saucers. I thought, What the hell happened to Lulu? She looks like a monster! I’m not sharing my pez with no goddamn Bride of Frankenstein! Except, of course, I didn’t say “goddamn” in my head because my mother’s god would have sent me to burn in the eternal flames of hell if I had.

I started backing away slowly, so as not to alarm Lulu, the creepy creature of the night. She cocked her head and was looking at me all funny… like she was hungry for brains. I had brains (still do – mostly), so I froze again. I knew Frankenstein couldn’t fly, but what if she was something else? Could she fly? Did she have superspeed? What if all she needed was to use her mind control powers to fling a hammer at me to get to those tasty noodles in my skull? There was a hammer laying on one of my dad’s work tables in the back yard. I glanced furtively at it, and that’s when Lulu made her move. She held out her hands and opened her mouth! I was terrified! I had to get away from her before she unhinged her jaws and swallowed my head whole! Aaagh!

My mom must’ve been watching from the kitchen because she chose that moment to come out and save me ask me what was wrong. “Looks like Lulu wants to share her candy with you. Why don’t you share some of your pez with her?”

All I heard was, “Blah blah blah, Lulu wants to gnaw on your innards.”

I screamed bloody murder. I pointed accusingly at Lulu and said, “Lulu turned into Frankenstein! She can’t have my noodles!”

Lulu’s mouth opened wider in shock, which I mistook for her jaw unhinging in preparation for the “me” feast. I ran inside shrieking, my mom following me with an apologetic my-kid-watches-too-much-tv look on her face for anyone who might have been watching. I ran to my room and hid under the covers for at least 10 minutes.

I found out later that Lulu had fallen down some stairs and gashed her forehead and had to have stitches. I also found out that she picked out the stitches that night after I called her a monster, and would forever have a scar (like Harry Potter, so it’s okay, right?!) on her forehead.

Lulu never shared her candy with me again. Bitch.


School is for fools! (Not really. But sometimes really.)

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Firing people sucks.

Firing people who suck does not suck.

Here’s a really moronic way to get yourself fired.

Him: Hey, I’m gonna be late today. And I might need you to change my schedule.

Me: Ooook… why? (I’m thinking: “Oh, sure thing, guy! I’ll get right on that schedule change! You know, since you need it and all! What schedule would you like to have? Hey! Maybe you could just make your own schedule! How’s that sound, guy!)

Him: I’ve got class til 5pm on Mondays & Wednesdays.

Me: Uhhhh… since when?

Him: Since I signed up for classes 2 days ago.

Me:

Me: Let me get this straight. Knowing what your work schedule was, you signed up for a class that conflicts, and you’re telling me that every Monday & Wednesday from now until December you’re going to be 3 hours late to work? And you expect me to work around this because you asked nicely? Even though you never consulted with me or said anything to anyone about taking classes? And you think it’s okay for me to screw up everyone elses’ schedule to make this all work for you? Does that about sum it up?

Him: Yeah. Thanks.

Me: No. Thank you. (snort)

He doesn’t know it, but his last day is tomorrow. I thought I’d write a crappy haiku (or two) about him in honor of his unemployment.

gotta get to class
working for a living is
not my cup of tea

badge don’t work no more
dat bitch fire my stupid ass
unemployed i is

Poetic injustice at its worst best. You’re welcome.


The end of the world as we know it. But probably not really.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

You know that doomsday bunker you’ve been thinking about buying? Well, maybe you should take some time and rethink that purchase. Just because someone on the MPR told you the world was gonna end don’t make it so, hoss.

What if the Mayans were like burned-out bloggers? They invented this kick-ass calendar widget, and then nobody was carving witty, clever remarks into the comment section of their rockin’ (snort) blog so the guys who figured all that cool shit out decided to go on a hiatus, right? And their arms were so tired of the time and energy and muscle it took to publish anything on their blog that they just made a verbal announcement instead of engraving it in stone. So, like, there was no “written” record of why they stopped blogging, see?

And then – BOOM! – something catastrophic happened to their civilization. I will now present you with the most likely catastrophes.

  • They lost all their pointy tools.
  • They ran out of rocks.
  • Enemy spears + Mayan Flesh + Stabbing = Bloody Dead.
  • Uber-plague!
  • So with all of the killing and dying and lack of pointy things and rocks, the Mayan bloggers were wiped out before they could make their most awesome return to the ancient, stony, blogiverse (which, if it had happened, would have been met with Xena-like war cries from all of the nekkid womens). So they never got to update their superior and completely accurate calendar widget. Hence, no more dates.

    So, just say NO to doomsday bunkers. And even if you don’t trust my completely excellent and perfectly sound theory of how the ancient Mayan civilization ended, think about this: Do you seriously believe a concrete bunker the size of Wal-Mart could stop the apocalypse if it truly arrives? Do you? Really?


    Clandestine Confession

    Friday, April 24, 2009

    Disclaimer: If you don’t want to hear about my (almost, but not quite) sex life, you should click away.

    I went out Tuesday night (through Wednesday morning – I’m on vacation so shut up!), and before the night (morning) was over, I was making out with one of my hot bartender friends. And let me just say, he’s a total package. Smart, funny, very likable… and skilled in the art of kissing. Laws yes. Very skilled. We’ve always been dangerously flirtatious with one another, but never as much as that night. When I got up to leave (and I was the last to go becaue we sat around talking for about a half-hour while he did his close-out thing), he came from behind the bar and said, “Before you go…” and then he just laid one on me. Yum.

    Now, my best bet is to chalk this up to both of us being drunk and horny, but this was a serious make-out session, and I want more, damnit! It both sobered me up, and made me more intoxicated at the same time. My entire body tightened in all the right places, and I’m pretty sure angels were singing. I’m tellin’ y’all, if there’s a next time, I’m doing him on one of the pool tables. Or all of them.

    But enough about my almost-brush with coitus, and on to other news that you don’t care about! I’ve got two new gaymos in my life! A gay pirate, and another hot (gay) bartender! After my make-out session with hot (straight) bartender, I met some friends at another all-night hang out, and ended up having breakfast (more like lunch) with the bartender (not the hot one or the gay one), the bouncer (serial-killer creepy), and other bartender (hot, but gay), who actually bought my meal. I love it when someone else picks up the tab. I’m not used to that because I’m a control freak.

    That night, I had a dream about a huge flock of ducks flying over my yard. One stopped to poop on the ground right in front of me. He pooped a lot. I’m sure my subconscious is trying to tell me something, but I’m all out of toilet paper.


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