Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Gnaw on a leg for me, will you? Oh, and you should have some turkey as well.

Lest you think that I'm an ungrateful brat who only gives her thanks when tips and/or pardons from the State are involved, here are a few things a gal like myself can be thankful for this year:
  • Still being gainfully employed, despite my deep, deep desire to be a stay-at-home mom to my furry turdlets.
  • Discovering I actually have some willpower by surviving a rather extreme digestive "cleanse"
  • From what I can tell, I have no more wrinkles this year vs. last.
  • My underpants all still fit.
  • The Mr. hasn't sold me on Ebay yet.
  • I managed to singlehandedly keep that struggling small business, IKEA, afloat.
  • I haven't had to go to the ER for foreign objects stuck in places they shouldn't be in a very long time.
  • I finally figured out what that funny smell was.
  • My ability to adapt to living amid construction, something I obviously am veeerrryyy comfortable with, given the complete standstill of "Operation Fix this Fucking House" (crosses fingers for 2010)
  • I've read at least one whole book this year. Woo!
  • I haven't had any teeth or toenails fall off in a while.
It's good to be thankful for the little things, right?

Have a good "eat until you fall asleep in the mashed potatoes or get explosive acid reflux, whichever comes first" day, my little nuggets of roasted birdy goodness. Happy whatever the hell day this is.


Friday, November 20, 2009

Zen and the art of bad poetry

Those who can, do.

Those who can't...haiku!!

Almost got hit by a car

On my way to work

Pay attention, you dumbass!


Bubs snuggles with me in bed

Butt shoved in my face

Please don't fart, Bubs. Please don't fart.


Oh, Mall of America

Your song calls my name

I assault you tomorrow.


Neighbor uses leafblower

Early in the morn

May he get penis herpes.


The deli dude flirts with me

Sorry guy, no go

I like men with ALL their teeth.


Happy Friday, my little seven-five-seven pieces of farty goodness. Happy Friday.


Thursday, November 19, 2009

Is it December yet? Is it December yet? Is it December yet? Is it...

It's official: In December I will be jetting (or Southwest Airlines-ing, but that really doesn't sound as glamorous now, does it?) to Chicago for a one-night stand with my bestest twatmonkey, GWEN!!!!!

Remember last time we met up?


I'm so freaking excited I could pee...

...oops. Nevermind.

(And Gwen, just because I called this a "one-night stand" doesn't mean you can roofie me and leave me in the dumpster with the feral cats like you did last time, OK?)

Hmmm...I wonder how many costumes I can fit in my carry on?


Sunday, November 15, 2009

I bet Emily Post never used a receipt at the bottom of her purse for kleenex, either.

I thought today would be a good day to brush up on my etiquette skills, given that my demeanor this weekend was starting to resemble one of the better episodes of the "Anna Nicole Smith Show".

I've been curled up on the couch all day reading Peg Bracken's 1960 gem, "I Try to Behave Myself", which pretty much has been my own personal mantra for the last 20+ years.

I try to behave myself, I do.
"Try" being the operative word here.

I love, love love Peg Bracken's books. Think of her as Martha Stewart meets Emily Post meets Lucille Bluth meets Kathy Griffin. She was sort of the "anti-housewife" housewife of the 60's & 70's, and she wrote a bunch of books, all still funny 30-40+ years later. Her "I Hate to Cook Book" is priceless, but we'll cover that another day. She's also Matt Groening's (creator of "The Simpsons") mom, which is all sorts of awesome.

Her brand of etiquette is one I can hitch my discount, one-eyed pony to. Try to be good. Try to do the right thing. Try to not make an ass of yourself every day.

A few of Peg's gems:

" is unwise of Victoria Goodhost to try a new recipe on guests, or to try any faintly out-of-the-way operation she's not wholly sure of. If she serves the Old English Pudding with Flaming Currants, but the currants won't flame, or Cherries Jubilee, and the cherries won't jube, the guests will be very embarrassed, as though they were watching their child flunk a piano recital, and they will wish they were elsewhere."
  • I once (and only once) had a sit-down dinner for 22 people at my house. Not having Ms. Bracken's advice firmly implanted in my head, I decided to "improvise" the menu. Not my best effort. Nope. But the eleventy-hundred bottles of wine strewn down the table made it all a bit more palatable, I hope. And, even though none of the invitees had gone to "finishing school", if it all sucked balls, they were very, very polite about it to my face.
"Actually, whether or not a woman should sit at a bar depends on the cut of her jib. If it is a wide one, it won't look so good on a bar stool, and she'd better take a table"
  • This makes me wonder- how does the "cut of my jib" look on a bar stool? Know your ass, ladies. Know. Your. Ass.
(on people who forget they've already met you):
"Once, on being introduced for the fourth time in five weeks to the same woman, I did this: "Look at me," I said. "Find some identifying trademarks. I wear my hair like this, you see. My ears are pierced, and I usually wear gold button earrings. My name is_______" and I pronounced it with great clarity. "I'm pointing this all out," I said, "in the hope that we'll never have to be introduced again." And we never were."
  • I've been introduced to one of the higher-ups at work probably 4-5 times, and they see me in the halls at work 2-3 times a week. Each time I encounter them they look at me with a blank face and no recognition whatsoever. I've even said "hi!" and they just walked faster and ignored me. I'm debating wearing clown shoes and a cowboy hat, or deeply picking my nose the NEXT time we're introduced in the hope of being more "memorable".
(on childless couples):
"They (couples with children) are, unfortunately prone to ask, 'Why don't you have any?' Now, there are, of course, many possible reasons- physiological, financial, professional, and just plain personal. (some childless couples regard the lives of childful couples as being dull beyond belief, bounded on three sides by Pablum, plastic pants, and Whinnie-the-Pooh, and on the south by Disneyland.) But childless people are more polite and don't say these things, nor do they ask questions like, 'Why in the word did you bother to produce a little creature like that?' which would be just as courteous."
  • Lord, how many times have I wanted to counter the "Why don't you have kids?" question with "because seeing how horribly yours behave and what they have turned you into made my ovaries shrivel up into raisins- thanks for asking!" Seriously- it's like asking someone how much they make or how often they have loose stools- you just don't do it, people.
(on throwing cocktail parties):
"What to Do if Someone Gets Slugged (schnockered) Anyway: Actually, the Goodhosts should have seen this. After all, they've known Chuck for a long time. Unfortunately, though, the traits that get you into a situation usually prevent your solving it. The Goodhosts' warm hearts were responsible for including Chuck in the first place, and now these same warm hearts keep them from calling the cops."
  • I'm pretty sure there have been a few times where it would have been easier to just call the cops to get someone to leave, especially at some of my friend's and my more notorious parties in the early 90's. Hell, just a few years ago at my friend Waffle's yearly Christmas debacle, a guy we've known forever not only got so wasted he was talking about blowing up her house, but he passed out and got teabagged (and not in the Earl Grey sense of the word), peed his pants on her couch, then ignored his pee-pants in the morning and hung out for a few hours before he finally decided to go home. Good times.

Peg gives me hope. Hope that I too can be more thoughtful when it comes to the ways of manners and such. I don't forsee a Cotillion in my future, but maybe, just maybe I can learn to resist the urge to laugh at inopportune moments, not address people I barely know as "twatmonkeys", send thank-you cards where I don't use the word "douche" in an affectionate manner, and maybe, just maybe, I'll remember which gloves to wear to the ladies luncheon at the country club.

Um, yeah. My money is on the twatmonkey, if we're betting here.

Happy Sunday, my polite little cherries jubilee ponies. Happy Sunday.


Friday, November 13, 2009

Light on content, heavy on the Bubs.

Random tidbits- much like the orange dust at the bottom of the bag of Cheetos, now clumped and sticky from the drunken sloshings from your glass of Franzia Mountain Chablis.

Now! New and improved! In that bullet form the kids are all so keen on these days!
  • When I was walking Bubs yesterday, he stopped to sniff obsessively and (of course) pee on a fire hydrant. And older dude in a tan trenchcoat walked by us as Bubs was mid-stream. Old dude looks at me, then at Bubs. He then says (still looking at Bubs tinkling), "Yeah, that's how I do it too" and continues walking. Huh. I hope that I don't get what he meant, but nonetheless I still feel bad for his neighbors.
  • One of my neighbors is getting a new roof. When I was walking Bubs a few days ago (seriously- this is all I do anymore), one of the roofers seemed to take a shining to me. I can't say I blame him- really, who can't resist a sexy broad wearing faded yoga pants, tennies so old they are considered "antique", a sweater with used kleenex hanging out of the pockets, no makeup and a mismatched knit hat? He appeared to be of Latin descent, and from what little Spanish I know, he seemed to be expressing his appreciation for my lovely bottom as well as requesting that I help him perform some sort of "job" with him. When I turned and gave him a look of disgust and said "Really?!? Seriously- REALLY??", he then called me an ugly dog. Or he was admiring Bubs. Or something. Really, my Spanish is limited to ordering fancy margaritas and navigating the deli counter at the Mexican grocery, so what the hell do I know- I'm no roofer.
  • Lesson learned: never turn one of your favorite pans on high with olive oil in it and then think you turned it off while you ran upstairs to pee. Also: never stop (after peeing) to snuggle with your kitty cats, put away a little laundry, stare at your pores and then pee again while said pan is still on the stove. We'll just say that my house smelled like a tire fire for three days, and my favorite pan now looks like this (and is currently on day 5 of soaking in the kichen sink):

  • I seem to have developed a bit of a birdseed addiction. I am currently going through about 20 pounds of it a week, and yesterday I tried to give the cashier at Petco a handie in exchange for some "really good seed". Had the cashier actually been male, this may have worked. My devotion to my kitties and wanting only the finest birds for them to bonk their heads against the glass porch door in a sad effort to eat the tweeters knows no bounds.
  • I get my groceries delivered. There, I said it. I'm not one to splurge on extravagant things- up until recently I always cut my own hair, I refuse to spend more than $40 on a pair of jeans, and I use my nail clippings and shed hair in craft projects that I sell on street corners. But this? This, I deserve. I go online Thursday night, tap-tap-tap in my order, and Friday morning a fresh-faced delivery dude greets me (usually still in my jammies, no bra, with serious pillow face) with a stack of green tote boxes filled with everything from kleenex, to eggs, to booze. This is the best thing I have ever done for myself, aside from that one time I gave myself the Nobel prize for snack-food themed literature. Anyways...they ("they" being the grocery wizards) seem to think it's funny to send me the latest issue of "Parent" magazine every few orders. And the answer is no- no they do not mean "animal parent". They actually mean "human parent", which is just plain stupid. I mean, the volume of boxed wine that I order should tell them that I am unfit to be responsible for something that will eventually hate me for not letting them get facial tattoos and move to Europe to join a tulip-farming commune. Wait- maybe the booze is exactly why they think I have kids. Again, I'm confused.
  • Not much else, just work, cooking, wining and dining with friends, thinking about finally unpacking from the San Fran trip, scratching itchy spots, and internet shopping.
Happy Friday, my little feathered nuggets of itchy goodness. Happy Friday.