I hope that cabana boy is worth the $5k

Sunday, May 15, 2011

I took out a loan on my 401k in order to pay off some bills. I’ll have a little over $5k left after paying off those bills (check!), getting a sweet new computer (check!), and getting some work done on my car (almost check!).

Now, the goal was for me to put any extra cash toward my student loan (yes, I’m still paying it off! shut yer pie hole, mom!), but I’m not sure I can make myself do it. When I close my eyes, I see islands, and cabana boys. I see mountains, and camping with cabana boys. I see cruises, and cabana boys holding my hair back while I puke because I forgot to take my dramamine. Ok, not so much on that last one, but you get the drift.

I haven’t had a REAL vacation in years. When I say real, I mean one in which I go far, far away and forget about e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g I’ve left behind (except Princess Fuzzybuns Beardlicker – she might have to come with) – especially work. My last semi-real vacation was in 2008 (I think?) to my friend’s awesome vacation home in Sarasota, but I got calls from work while I was there, so even though I enjoyed it immensely (that house is AMAZING!), I don’t count it as a REAL vacation.

I want a REAL vacation. I NEED a REAL vacation. But I also want to be free of debt, and my fucking student loan is the last of it. I should really just hold off on the vacation and do the right thing. Right? Sigh. I need a sign. I really need a sign.


Does someone walking by in a green hat count as a sign? Yes! I thik it does! Huzzah! I think Ireland just stomped the frikka-frakin’ student loan’s arse! Hey, Blarney Stone! I’m coming’ to kiss you on the lips! (Not really – that thing hasn’t been cleaned in, well, ever. And I do have SOME standards. Sort of.) Put down that shillelagh, you half-baked leprechaun! I just paid $5k for a crack at yer pot o’ gold! This is gonna be the best vacation EVER!

Gasp. Do they have cabana boys in Ireland?


Sunday funday? Not so much.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

I hate it when someone promises me something and then backs down. I especially hate it when the broken promise was to come in early for work in order to relieve me. I’ve been here for over 10 hours now, after less than four hours of sleep, and I WANT TO FUCKING GO HOME ALREADY!!!

Aaaand… just as I was typing that she called and said her alarm didn’t go off and she’s on her way. Awesome. No one has to die.

Here’s some haiku to honor all you muthas!

(the first one’s dedicated to my brother who had to spend the day with preacher mom – better him than me! snort!)

preaching on sunday
does not a happy day make
pass me the muzzle

(and this one’s to me mum)

only mom i know
you didn’t give birth to me
you gave me much more

Bunnies! (with a side of taters)

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Happy Easter, Blogiverse!

I hope you’re enjoying your food induced coma while I’m slaving away at work on this beautiful Easter Sunday. You’re probably watching TV, too. I think you suck sooo much for not being here to share in my misery. I’ve been debating whether or not to use my corporate powers for evil and leave early. But I’ve got vacation coming up next week (WOOT!) so I’m trying to stick it out. Sigh. It’s hard. I really want to leave. I’ve got a terminal case of the ITIS. If you loved me, you’d pull the fire alarm. But you don’t love me. I want a divorce. Chocolate might make me love you again.

the bunneh cometh
and bringeth candied delights
he makes me arse fat

i like colored eggs
and bunnehs taste like chicken
or so kitteh says

One more week ’til Beltane! Anyone up for some sky-clad pole-dancin’? No?

may day approacheth
put ye celtic accent on
feeleth medieval!

lighting a bonfire
in the navel of ireland –

Chirp. I feel all eggy now.

Faces of FIRE!

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Earlier this year, I self-diagnosed myself with Rosacea. I’m sure when I next go to the doctor, she will confirm my expert diagnosis, because I researched the shite out of my symptoms… and if you saw my face without makeup (sometimes even with), you’d have to agree.

It’s not pretty. When it flares up, I look like a pizza-faced tween. In fact, I originally thought I was suffering from adult acne. But all of the products designed to treat acne burned my skin (more than they should have), made my color an even brighter red, and caused the bumps that I thought were pimples to multiply. Soooo not cool.

In researching this condition, I found that there are certain foods, conditions, and products that can trigger flare-ups. Here are some of those things.

Cheese. Just knowing that makes me want to eat a whole block of sharp cheddar – by itself. I hanker for a hunk of, a satisfying chunk of, I hanker for a hunk of cheese! Stinky!

Chocolate. Huh. Expect a flare up, like, now.

Beer. Sigh. I will forever look like I’m going through puberty.

Spicy foods & vanilla. Is vanilla not the polar opposite of spicy foods… AND chocolate?! WTF?

Sun. Wind. Cold. Humidity. When the fuck is it okay to go outside? And who’s gonna tell my boss I have to work from home now because the outside is bad for me?

Hot baths. So are cold showers okay? Nope. THAT can cause a flare up, too. Of course, not being able to bathe pretty much cements the need to work from home.

Excessivley warm environments. Hello? I live in the deep south!

Stress & anxiety. So much for working from home. Or working period.

MENOPAUSE. Can someone please tell me how to avoid THIS?

You can see I’m gonna be a whiny little beyotch about this this is going to be a nightmare for me. Sure, it’s not some terminal illness, but, right now, it feels like a too-mah.

That said, there IS a shining beacon of hope in this otherwise dark and dismal time. There is yet one more thing I must avoid in order to limit flare ups. And that thing is… EXERCISE!!

I have a legitimate, medical reason for not working out now! I have a license to be a fatty-fatty-booma-latty! I can be a card-carrying member of the honkey-tonk ba-donka-donk club – guilt free! My face might look like a Santa suit on fire (after all that chocolate I just ate… along with the beer to wash it down), but I feel like I just hit the jackpot.


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.

Bathroom Curtains

Saturday, April 9, 2011

Crappy (pun intended) bathroom curtains.

Everytime I make a visit to the executive cubicle in the elimination oasis (that’s the handicap stall in the crapper), this is what I see. Looks like someone thinks all the ladies at work are horny lesbians thirsting for an unimpeded ogle at a bare naked va-jay-jay. Better cover your lady parts! If a lesbian gets a clear view of your nether jungle you’re sure to succumb to her homoerotic wiles! Hey, I wrote a haiku about your homophobia, dumbass!

peeking through my stall
if you see you might make me
want to lick carpet

Wait… maybe the decorator in question isn’t afraid of lesbians. Maybe she has a super-powered snatch. Maybe she’s worried someone will find out that a radioactive spider bit her down there (what was she doing naked in a roomful of experimental spiders?) and gifted her with the ability to shoot sticky, spider spooge from her lady cave! Ewwww! Keep those curtains closed, you webbed wacko! Haiku rewrite!

bug done bit my bush
maybe i’ll catch a manwhore
in my nether webs

I never take down the curtains. I’m not sure what that means.

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