A Tactical Error

Time to pity me. On Friday while my best buds were in Daytona celebrating the advent of the racing season, I was sitting in a legal seminar as the state bar requires us to attend from time to time. And not only was it LEGAL in nature, it was about freaking bankruptcy. So, I spent 6 freaking-want-to-stab-myself-in-the-eye-with-a-fork hours learning about changes in bankruptcy laws. Jealous?

So, I'm crammed into this ballroom in downtown Atlanta with about 200 of my closest legal pals, sitting ass cheek to ass cheek cause god forbid they waste one precious money-making inch. I "listen" to some dude drone on and on about an area of law that I intend to never practice again. Good times.

Well, by the time lunch rolled around, I was visualizing stripping down to what the good Lord gave me and running up and down the aisle screaming "I've got your Chapter 13 Plan in my pants!!!"

Needless to say, I thought that spending lunch eating rubber chicken with these numbnuts might possibly mean the end of my legal career (or at least the end of my life free of straight jackets).

So, free lunch or no free lunch, I thought it best to venture out. And this, gentle readers, is where I made a tactical error.

You see, previously mentioned hotel is in the part of "nobody-comes-here-except-tourists" Atlanta. My luncheon options were limited. However, I spotted the Hard Rock Cafe a couple of doors down and thought, "well, a $12 salad is still better than rubber chicken with the brain dead bankruptcy bar" so I journeyed forth into tourista land.

Now, let's be clear - I've never been to a Hard Rock Cafe but I clearly expected overpriced food, tacky decor, loud rock music and JoeBob/BettyJane from out-yonder who is just in the city for a spell. Fair nuff.

I took a seat at the bar which overlooked the whole restaurant and at noon wasn't crowded (apparently Atlanta tourists dont' drink until a more respectable hour and therefore are real Sallies). Well, I ordered a quesidilla (no one really bought the salad line, did they?) and began to enjoy the "ambience".

Now, let's talk music, shall we? The name of the place is HARD rock....I get the Foo Fighters, I get the Green Day....but Will Smith getting jiggy wid it? Not so much. But whatever floats their hard rocking boat.

Do you feel the turning point coming? Cause it's a coming!

The waitres brings me the Hard Rock version of a nouveau, art-deco quesidilla and I prepare to strap on the old feebdag.

And then I hear the Village People. The old familiar strains of Y.M.C.A. that makes everyone under the age of 50 throw their arms in the air with spastic gay glee.

Still. I'm good.

But then I realize that 3 waitresses have taken all the surrounding bar stools from my side and lined them right behing my back so that they are facing the entire restaurant down below. Then they proceed to shimmy on up those bar stools so that they can lead the restaurant in the Hard Rock version of the Y.M.C.A. which I swear included a little shoutout to the Batusie. Said waitresses who will now be referred to as those Fucking Whores, were doing their prearranged boogie right behind my fat ass.

Now in general, I'm not against an exuberant display of disco Sally. I'm cool. I'm all J.J. and "DY-NO-MITE!" . But give me a freaking break. I DO mind when said retro-doings are occurring directly behing my broad Batusie butt so that the whole restaurant patronage can watch me taking my first big old bite of my meal. I could practically hear the calls of "Who gave the Fattie guacomole? Was that really wise?"

I silently stewed and thought "I'll just eat my $20 lunch and get the hell out of Dodge". No worries.

But of course that was when the junior high cheerleading squad just off the incest bus from butt-fuck Georgia pulled in for some fun. Apparently, a little event they like to call Cheer Georgia was happening and every 70 pound, 13 year old felt compelled to dine out in their flannel pajama bottoms and their fake birkenstocks. They, of course, were all about the atmosphere but even these little prepubscent monsters refrained from dancing. Unlike the dork in the short sleeve dress shirt sitting next to me at the bar. Seriously, I wasn't sure he needed medical intervention or not but decided he was simply getting his groove on.

Still no worries. I'll just eat my $30 meal a little quicker and retreat to the safe dry world of bankruptcy. (And right now, if you can hear Revrend Lovejoy going "Constancy....sweeeeeeet constancy" in your head, give yourself a gold star cause I'm a hearing it)

What was the breaking point? Well, let me tell you. It appeared in the form of a gaggle of college boys who joined me at the bar. They all decided it was "beer-thirty somewhere! wooohoo!" and franky, I gave them a mental "attaboy!" cheer.

However, to my dismay I quickly learned this gaggle was a passle of "country cousin come to town" kinda rubes. They all got really, really excited that there was beer on tap. Lots of high-fiving and "git-r-dun's". But then the startling moment of exultation! They realized that the bar had.....BUDWEISER ON TAP! MY GOD! THE JOY! THE SHEER UNADULTERATED JOY! I MEAN REALLY WHEN DO YOU EVER SEE THAT! WE NEED TO HOLLER! WE NEED TO SHOUT OUR JOY OF DISCOVERY!

That's right, gentle reader, these butt buddies got excited about a Bud being on tap. I haven't seen such celebration since the wall came down.

So, as I was trying to de-ass the area, they ordered about 7 buds.....and 1 Long Island Iced Tea (I didn't spot the token closeted gay guy but he must have been there somewhere).

That was the proverbial straw. I made my way back to the sweet, dry world of law and scolded myself for not taking the free lunch.

And worst of all? The damn seminar didn't even serve any after lunch cookies. Cheap ass bankruptcy bastards. I shall never stray again.

Oh Joyous Holiday

So I just wrote a full post about a client and it was lovely. Full of sarcasm and venting. However, just as I was wrapping things up, it occurred to me that certain people would know exactly who I was talking about and therefore I was probably crossing some sort of "attorney-client" privilege ethical line....and well, dammit, as much as I like to deny that I have such lines, apparently I do have a few. As much fun as it would be to skewer this person, I suppose it's not worth my license (which is printed on really nice paper so it might be worth a buck or two).

Of course, that leaves me with one and only one topic for the day. Valentine's Day.
Yippee. But what can really be said, that I haven't already said? Not much, my friends, not much.

I think we all know that I have a particular animosity towards Cupid, that fat little bitch. Howevever, today, I declare Singles Day. That's right, I'm celebrating the fact that I am single and not sharing my life with some snoring, bleching, hairy ape man (Stella, my black lab, looks slightly offended).

So, the following are reasons why it's great to be single:

1. I fart. Loudly and often. No worries about offending anyone (though the POD would beg to differ).
2. I eat chocolate for dinner. No need to fix no pot pies or no HungryMan dinners.
3. I still sleep in flannel pajama pants that are 4 sizes too big and have candy canes all over them.
4. I take off my bra as soon as I get home. No one to impress by their gravity-defying tricks anymore.
5. When I find hair in the bath, I know it's mine.
6. Speaking of hair, I won't be sharing how long it's been since I shaved....my legs.
7. I pee with door open.....I actually do a lot of things with the door open much to the POD's dismay.
8. I only have to deal with MY family, not some boy's mother who's life goal is to get him back on the teet. And as I think we all know, my family is enough for all to enjoy!
9. I only watch the sports I want to watch. I don't have to sit through Canadian, midget bowling just because it's on ESPN (unless I want to....I do sort of have a thing for midgets....ummm.....little people....they really do some mean bowling).
10. I have total, unadulterated control of the remote. No if's, no and's, no but's. This means a lot of Gilmore Girls, Grey's Anatomy and Oprah watching (though she bugs the ever-living crap out of me).

So today I will not be receiving any flowers, no cheap-ass teddy bears holding hearts, none of those awful candy hearts with happy little sayings on them. I will receive no sappy cards (one from Captain Nutty doesn't count) and I won't have to dress up to go out to dinner with a 2 hour wait. I will not have to eat all the bad pieces of candy to find the one decent one with toffee in the center from a heart shaped box.

Instead, I will be wearing candy cane pajamas, eating pizza, watching the Gilmore Girls and probably passing more wind than a hurricane. Envy me, people....envy me.

Look At Me! Look At Me!

Well smack my ass and call me Sally....February 1 was my anniversary! As very appropriate for my life, I seemed to have celebrated by putting my dog down. Do I know how to party or what?

On a much better note, I also celebrated with a new look! I mean HOLY CRAP! Do I look fan-freaking-tastic or what? My old pal Zoot designed a whole new look for me and let's be clear - she totally rocks. I love her with a love that is slightly embarassing and most assuredly wrong by baptist standards.

I feel like I should have some wise words of wisdom or at least something witty to say on this auspicious occassion but as usual, when I need the words, they simply won't come (Kinda like my sex life! HA! Get it? Won't come? Sex life? Thank you, folks, I'll be here all week!)

Anywhoooo, so I went back and looked at my very first few posts....and wow, the fact that you people are still here amazes the ever-living pee out of me.

Perhaps some reflection on how life has changed in the last year would be appropriate at this venture. I do sense a bit of a pattern - which might be new for y'all but really doesn't surprise me at all. When I make some changes, I make some big ass changes. Nothing small for this kid...including the size of my ass but that's another post entirely.

Okay, sooooooo in the last year.....

1. I quit my job. There's a biggie for you! Quit job and started own law firm. Yep, also related - applied for that frontal lobotomy.
2. I became abundantly poor. See number 1 above.
3. My ass has gone from the size of a small third world country to the size of unified Europe. And I'm not even going to mention what the France part looks like.
4. I'm trying to sell my house to enmesh myself further into surburbia. See number 2 above.
5. I've had to substantially cut down on my racing time as my duties with POD have intervened. POD has met my "I will not change my social life to care for this child" mentality with her "I will do everything in my power to make you crazy and fear for my life" actions. Parenthood...it's a bitch and despite never having conceived, I have the stretch marks to prove it. See number 3 above.
6. Working from home means no more concern about surfing porn during work hours. (not that I do that because that would be WRONG and would basically make me a guy but it's nice to know I have the option).
7. Regular blogging becomes more difficult when you're not doing it behind a boss' back on the sly. I mean who am I screwing here? Where's the fun in that?
8. I've learned that the mortgage company will wait three months before foreclosure and a car company will wait three months before repossession. I won't say how I know this....let's just assume it's for a client, shall we?
9. I've learned that I'm a blogger stereotype in that I think I can write a book. And really who are we kidding there? Have we seen my spelling and grammar skills? Have we seen my inability to pull together a cohesive topic? Have we seen how much I like to use profanity?
10. I've learned it's possible to have blogging friends....and that you just might like some of them a little better than in person friends. (No offense intended toward Kitty, Cowboy Dan, Fat Baby's Mamma and the like).

However, most importantly, I've learned that it is possible for me to piss away and entire year's worth of time without ever really saying anything meaningful! Woooooohoooooo!!!!

Here's to you, gentle reader! I thank you for being here. I thank you for commenting. I thank you for not running from your computer screen screaming "MY EYES!! MY EYES!!!".

With much love,
Vladimir Poopshoot

Farewell, Old Buddy

My dog Ben had to be put to sleep yesterday so I thought it about time I broke the “stop talking about your pets” rule and let you know a little about him.

Ben was my law school graduation present (notwithstanding the green marble bookends with my initials on them – egad!). I found a breeder in north Illinois that had a big old litter (and for those of you who feel like giving me shit for going to a breeder, you can kiss my ass – I’ve also been a foster mom for more rescued labs then I can count so bite me).

I sat down on the floor and all these puppies came flying out at me – crawling everywhere like someone had jacked up their mom’s milk with a crack cocktail. All except for one. This big fat one (twice the size of the others) comes moseying on out and yawning. He walks over to me – curls up next to my leg and falls asleep. He had an underbite. This dog was soooooo for me. He slept the whole car ride home while I had heavenly visions of our future times together. You know those times - the ones where I would be reading a book and he would quietly lie at my feet chewing a bone. The ones where I could walk with him through neighborhood and he would calmly greet all passers-by and they would comment about “what a good dog!” he was.

And then we got home. That car ride was the last time Ben was calm for about the next 5 years.

I had purchasd the holy terror of doggiedom. The Canine Anti-christ. The reason people will tell you that they're a "cat person". And I have the scars to prove it….and I mean that literally. In his first year of life alone, he plowed into me leaving a scar on my inner thigh (I tell the boys it was from rough sex but truly it was from the dog….but not rough sex with the dog, you sick bastards!) .

He also managed to pull my dad down a flight of stairs (Daddy still blames Ben but I blame the 30 year old flip flops my father was wearing combined with his good friend, Mr. Smirnoff).

I am the only dog owner I know that has the number to animal poison control memorized. I’ve had to call three times – and they charge you $30 a pop. Ben ate a canister of air gun oil, the packet of chemicals that come with fresh cut flowers and the little packet of silica gel that come with your new shoes and reads “DO NOT EAT”…..Ben didn’t read so well.

And that was just the poisonous stuff. He also ate 3 remote controls, 1 cordless phone, 1 daybed mattress, 1 couch, 2 windowsills and 4 bars of soap. Needless to say, he blossomed out to a good 107 pounds of dog. He was a BIG boy and I loved that about him.

Of course, he was a 107 pound dog that was afraid of all toys that had eyes but nevertheless, he was a tough looking guy at times. A stuffed monkey that I brought home scared the bejeezbus out of him.

Once I came out of the shower to discover that he had managed to open a new box of 1000 q-tips. He artfully scattered them throughout the entire apartment and still had about 50 of them sticking out from his gums when I caught him. He looked like he had eaten a colony of little tiny q-tip people.

If you didn’t continuously throw his tennis ball, he barked at you. If you were on the phone, he barked at you. If he saw a fly, he barked at you. If he felt your mind was on anything but entertaining him, he barked at you. And then sometimes, he just stood in the middle of the room barking at you.

One night he farted so loudly that he woke himself up. He spun around and started barking at whatever had snuck up behind him. I could never get him to understand that he had been startled by his own bodily emissions…Ben didn’t understand Biology too well.

No one even really liked my dog for the first 4 years of his life, except for me….and hell, for me at times, “liking him” was pushing it. But he did get older and did somewhat mellow.

He still had his moments though. He was at least 7 years old when in the middle of the night, I heard him downstairs drinking an entire bowl of water. I soon discovered that he had gotten an unopened jar of peanut bar off the kitchen counter…..a jar from Sam’s Club…..a jar of about 5 pounds of peanut butter. He had managed to open it and eat all that he could reach before his snout got caught on the rim…..and then he licked the sides clean.

Needless to say by the time I discovered him, he wasn’t feeling so well. Of course, about 15 minutes later, he threw up every bit of peanut butter along with that entire bowl full of water all over my bed…….and you might think you have an idea of how bad that smells but you would be wrong. The human mind can barely comprehend that smell. However, sitting here, I can still smell it.

He developed diabetes in his old age and became almost totally blind. When he started having seizures, I knew it was time and I don’t regret letting him go.

But he was my best friend. He was the first thing that was ever simply ALL mine. He loved me a lot. Which is only a portion of how much I loved him.