I am now the proud owner of a laptop. Yep. You know what that means? I can blog while I watch tv! I know you've all been dying to have my up-to-the-minute comments on all shows of any importance.
Course right now, it's the middle of the day and I am NOT watching the Gilmore Girls on ABC Family. I am working.
I'll tell ya what else I'm not doing:
1. I'm NOT pondering the fact that the POD turned 16 yesterday and that her therapist called with concerns over her myspace page.
2. I'm NOT working at the kitchen counter because my office is so messy that I don't want to go back there.
3. I'm NOT pondering sending my new slogan for q-tips to Masters & Johnson - "Q-tips...so many orifices, so little time".
4. I'm NOT wondering if the Weight Watchers nazis will actually come to my home to drag my fat ass back to a meeting.
5. I'm NOT contemplating ways to get out of an impending blind date. (And the next person who tells me "You have to put yourself out there!" will get the bitch slap of their lives. If you want out there so bad, you go on a blind date, jackass.)
6. I'm NOT cleaning the house for the termite inspection guy cause he most certainly won't say "Open packages of peeps attract termites like an ice cream truck's jingle attracts you, Fattie".
7. I'm NOT sitting hear listening to the commercial for this afternoon's Oprah which alludes to "the sexual practice you've never heard of!". Well, how the hell does she know? I'm quite worldly. I read. Ummmmm....but is it worse if I have heard of it? Does that make me a whore? DAMN YOU, OPRAH! YOU AND YOUR MIND RAY WILL NOT CONTROL ME! but i will be watching.
8. I'm NOT wondering why the Geico lizard has a cockney accent. Are we more likely to buy car insurance from a British lizard as opposed to an American one?
9. I'm NOT contemplating which Simpsons line is my favorite. I'm NOT thinking about Ralphie saying "She choo choo choooooses me!" or Milhouse saying, "Everything's coming up Milhouse!" or Reverend Lovejoy announcing the hymn, "In the Garden of Eden by I. Ron Butterfly" and then Homer whispering to Marge, "hey, remember when we used to make out to this hymn?" or Lisa saying "Can't talk....coming down" after ingesting water from a ride at Duff Land. NOT thinking about the Simpsons at all.
10. I'm NOT obsessing over the fact that the previous lines excluded all lines by Troy McClure and Lionel Hutz.
No. My laptop is only for working. I am NOT doing any of the above stuff cause that would just be wrong.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
StopYour Breathing...It's Annoying
Okay, okay - I'm slack. I know this - you know this. Stop with the heavy panting. I'm blogging.
Blogging is difficult when coming off a three day bender. I'm hungover. I of course attended the Atlanta Race this past weekend with Kitty and Daddy (Cowboy Dan was playing dutiful farm daughter and was unable to play "giddy up" with us - she was sorely missed).
Of course, I'm not only recovering from inhaling 4 out of 5 cases of beer, one bottle of Jim Beam and one excelent bottle of Sky Vodka - I'm recovering from "Captain-Nutty-came-to-town-to-watch-the-POD" overindulgence.
Since I can only remember about 1/2 of my activities over the weekend, let's talk about Captain Nutty's activities, shall we?
1. She convinced my real estate agent who also happens to be my friend-who-has-done-everything-except-buy-my-house-herself to mow my fucking lawn. That's right, kids. I leave town and my mom cons my pal into sweating over my front yard. How long will it take me to pay back the-most-fantabulous-real-estate-agent-in-the-world? Hard to say, hard to say.
2. She "shared" all of her life troubles with previously mentioned long-suffering-real-estate-agent-who-hopefully-will-remain-my-friend-if-I-ever-sell-my-house which of course resulted in major water works on Nutty's part and a severe longing for a vodka and fresca on my never-will-help-you-with-anything-again-real-estate-agent-friend.
3. She discovered the POD doing flips on the monkey bars whilst wearing a skirt in the immigrant hang-out park down the street. Apparently, Captain Nutty arrived on the scene just in time to disuade two amigos from determining whether the POD was a shaver or a bikini waxer.
4. And last, but certainly not least, let's not forget that Captian discovered a nearly empty "bag of oregano" on POD's person over the weekend. Yep. That's a winner. Of course, POD admitted that she was "holding for a friend". I didn't buy the oldest excuse in the book and dragged her ass in for a drug test (which I made her pay for). And? Well, it was all negative. Don't know whether to be happy or sad. This means she was telling the truth - which means - Great! She hasn't been smoking pot....but also means, Great! She's so damn stupid that she really is holding pot for a friend!
I will never reproduce. And don't anyone ask me what happened to the bag of pot.
P.S. My good buddy over at Tinfoil Viking Science apparently talks to his little friend in his pants. Now, I would like to point out that I did not read this post prior to writing my missive to Sally. So this means one of two things - either Bottlerocket and I are truly soulmates who have yet to meet.....or we are both truly mental and will be living out our days together in a fine state run mental facillity in Harvey, Illinois. Hell, who are we kidding....it probably means both.
Blogging is difficult when coming off a three day bender. I'm hungover. I of course attended the Atlanta Race this past weekend with Kitty and Daddy (Cowboy Dan was playing dutiful farm daughter and was unable to play "giddy up" with us - she was sorely missed).
Of course, I'm not only recovering from inhaling 4 out of 5 cases of beer, one bottle of Jim Beam and one excelent bottle of Sky Vodka - I'm recovering from "Captain-Nutty-came-to-town-to-watch-the-POD" overindulgence.
Since I can only remember about 1/2 of my activities over the weekend, let's talk about Captain Nutty's activities, shall we?
1. She convinced my real estate agent who also happens to be my friend-who-has-done-everything-except-buy-my-house-herself to mow my fucking lawn. That's right, kids. I leave town and my mom cons my pal into sweating over my front yard. How long will it take me to pay back the-most-fantabulous-real-estate-agent-in-the-world? Hard to say, hard to say.
2. She "shared" all of her life troubles with previously mentioned long-suffering-real-estate-agent-who-hopefully-will-remain-my-friend-if-I-ever-sell-my-house which of course resulted in major water works on Nutty's part and a severe longing for a vodka and fresca on my never-will-help-you-with-anything-again-real-estate-agent-friend.
3. She discovered the POD doing flips on the monkey bars whilst wearing a skirt in the immigrant hang-out park down the street. Apparently, Captain Nutty arrived on the scene just in time to disuade two amigos from determining whether the POD was a shaver or a bikini waxer.
4. And last, but certainly not least, let's not forget that Captian discovered a nearly empty "bag of oregano" on POD's person over the weekend. Yep. That's a winner. Of course, POD admitted that she was "holding for a friend". I didn't buy the oldest excuse in the book and dragged her ass in for a drug test (which I made her pay for). And? Well, it was all negative. Don't know whether to be happy or sad. This means she was telling the truth - which means - Great! She hasn't been smoking pot....but also means, Great! She's so damn stupid that she really is holding pot for a friend!
I will never reproduce. And don't anyone ask me what happened to the bag of pot.
P.S. My good buddy over at Tinfoil Viking Science apparently talks to his little friend in his pants. Now, I would like to point out that I did not read this post prior to writing my missive to Sally. So this means one of two things - either Bottlerocket and I are truly soulmates who have yet to meet.....or we are both truly mental and will be living out our days together in a fine state run mental facillity in Harvey, Illinois. Hell, who are we kidding....it probably means both.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
An Open Letter To Sally
Dear Sally,
First, let me start off by saying you've been a great noonie. A downright world-class va-jayjay. Hell, I'm some circles, you're downright famous. And well, frankly I haven't been treating you right. And NOW, well, let's just say after yesterday's events, I owe you a big old apology.
Let's be clear - you certainly had your fun times, your popular days. You enjoyed college and you really hit your prime in law school. Nothing wrong with that. But lately, you've had trouble making friends through no fault of your own.
I mean it certainly isn't your fault that the psyche has decided to eat it's way through the last year. I know from your vantage point, all you can see is the stomach overhanging your roof but let me tell you, the rest of the body ain't looking so hot either. But the stomach can certainly be blamed for many of your latest difficulties in "getting out". You used to be a "daylight, strobelight, spotlight" kinda gal but thanks to the ass and thigh department, you may have to spend the rest of your days as a "lights off and blackout shades" kinda player. Still, I'm sure you simply hope to play at all.
There has been neglect, Sally, and I'm the first to admit it. You've been ignored. I suspect it has been you that has been pushing the body into consuming vast amounts of alcohol in order to let you out a little more. I can't blame you for that - that old trick has certainly worked in the past. But for some reason, now when we drink we seem to skip the "let's play" stage and go straight to the "gonna hurl if I'm naked" stage. A sad, sad turn of events....but nothing compared to the greivous insult done onto you yesterday.
Sally, I was in a hurry. I was vacuuming and being a little careless. You see, left foot stepped on the cord but did not communicate his intent to right foot. Right foot continued on his merry way...and well, as you now know, we walked you right into the handle of the vacuum cleaner. The whole body heard your indignant cry of pain. Hell, the little man in the canoe went upstream and we may never hear from him again.
Sally, on behalf of the rest of the body, we are sorry. We promise that as soon as the swelling goes down and you lose that blackeye, we will try to get you out more. We're making no "George Clooney" type promises but there has to be some blind fella out there that the rest of the body will be willing to let you visit.
I promise I'll get to work on it. In the meantime, keep your head down and soldier through the pain.
Your pal,
Floyd
P.S. Please for the love of all that's holy, don't let today be the day that Daddy decides to start reading my blog again.
First, let me start off by saying you've been a great noonie. A downright world-class va-jayjay. Hell, I'm some circles, you're downright famous. And well, frankly I haven't been treating you right. And NOW, well, let's just say after yesterday's events, I owe you a big old apology.
Let's be clear - you certainly had your fun times, your popular days. You enjoyed college and you really hit your prime in law school. Nothing wrong with that. But lately, you've had trouble making friends through no fault of your own.
I mean it certainly isn't your fault that the psyche has decided to eat it's way through the last year. I know from your vantage point, all you can see is the stomach overhanging your roof but let me tell you, the rest of the body ain't looking so hot either. But the stomach can certainly be blamed for many of your latest difficulties in "getting out". You used to be a "daylight, strobelight, spotlight" kinda gal but thanks to the ass and thigh department, you may have to spend the rest of your days as a "lights off and blackout shades" kinda player. Still, I'm sure you simply hope to play at all.
There has been neglect, Sally, and I'm the first to admit it. You've been ignored. I suspect it has been you that has been pushing the body into consuming vast amounts of alcohol in order to let you out a little more. I can't blame you for that - that old trick has certainly worked in the past. But for some reason, now when we drink we seem to skip the "let's play" stage and go straight to the "gonna hurl if I'm naked" stage. A sad, sad turn of events....but nothing compared to the greivous insult done onto you yesterday.
Sally, I was in a hurry. I was vacuuming and being a little careless. You see, left foot stepped on the cord but did not communicate his intent to right foot. Right foot continued on his merry way...and well, as you now know, we walked you right into the handle of the vacuum cleaner. The whole body heard your indignant cry of pain. Hell, the little man in the canoe went upstream and we may never hear from him again.
Sally, on behalf of the rest of the body, we are sorry. We promise that as soon as the swelling goes down and you lose that blackeye, we will try to get you out more. We're making no "George Clooney" type promises but there has to be some blind fella out there that the rest of the body will be willing to let you visit.
I promise I'll get to work on it. In the meantime, keep your head down and soldier through the pain.
Your pal,
Floyd
P.S. Please for the love of all that's holy, don't let today be the day that Daddy decides to start reading my blog again.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Putting the Spring in Spring Break
WOOOOHOOOOO!!!! It's spring break, my homies! And you of course know what that means? The POD has left the building!
POD retired to Chicago to scare the beejezus out of Captain Nutty and the Consort, otherwise known as the POD's-parents-who-should-be-raising-her-but-are-too-moronic-to-do-so. And yes, they are one set of my parents too, but let's not get into that right now.
Sooooooooo, what are the broader implications? I will be drunk for a whole week. Yep. Every hour is happy hour, my friends. If your a client, you'll be getting your work back tommorrow or whenever I sober up. If you know me at all, I think you know what that means.
No waking up at crack-o-dawn for driving child to school. No arranging plans around picking up child from school. No arguments about one's completing or not completing one's homework. Hot damn, this is going to be fan-fucking-tastic.
Of course, after 2 days my liver will be begging for some relief and thus, the POD will be welcomed whole-heartedly back into the nest.
Now, I AM expecting a never-ending string of weeping phone calls from my mother asking me what to do in certain situations. That is par for the course. For instance, Captian Nutty asks POD to empty the dishwasher and the POD tells her to "go lick Satan's balls". I clearly envision this type of exchange happening on a frequent basis.
But perhaps we should talk about what POD has been doing since she got home on Friday night, shall we?
She's already had a "talking to" with the local police. She thinks she was called down by the fuzz and is thrilled to be getting a little street cred. What she doesn't know is that the whole damn thing was orchestrated.
Y'all remember Krystal-with-a-"K"? For the newbies, Krystal with a "K" is the POD's former girlfriend (the POD considers herself a bit of player for both teams at the ripe old age of 15). Anywhooooo, Krystal with a K and the POD have been broken up for quite a bit now but they still talk (Hooooray! Keep those friends close!). Krystal with a "K" is also a former latino gang banger - cause when your kid is swinging with the other team you soooooo want her to be hooked up with a gang member. Krystal with a "K" got mad at the POD and thus has called out a "whooop up on her if you see her" request to her suburban gang-banging friends. This of course scared the ever-living-medicated-shit out of Captain Nutty who called Officer DoGooder at the local station. An entire production has been made where the POD was called down and given a stern talking to. So now the POD is properly forewarned about potential violence.
Sounds good, right? Sounds like as a 15 year-old, you would be scared shitless? Not so much the POD. She's loving it. She's "down wid it" and "rockin it old school"- none of which she actually said but I hear it in my head. What did she honestly say? My hand to God - the kid said to Officer DoGooder, "It's okay - I like to live on the edge."
Yep.
At that point, my mother was seen scouring the surburban phone book for priests that conduct exorcisms with less than 24 hour notice....and we aren't even catholic.
Can't wait to share this story at the reunion! Folks in Mississippi gonna eat this up!
Barkeep - keep those Bud Lights a coming, please!
POD retired to Chicago to scare the beejezus out of Captain Nutty and the Consort, otherwise known as the POD's-parents-who-should-be-raising-her-but-are-too-moronic-to-do-so. And yes, they are one set of my parents too, but let's not get into that right now.
Sooooooooo, what are the broader implications? I will be drunk for a whole week. Yep. Every hour is happy hour, my friends. If your a client, you'll be getting your work back tommorrow or whenever I sober up. If you know me at all, I think you know what that means.
No waking up at crack-o-dawn for driving child to school. No arranging plans around picking up child from school. No arguments about one's completing or not completing one's homework. Hot damn, this is going to be fan-fucking-tastic.
Of course, after 2 days my liver will be begging for some relief and thus, the POD will be welcomed whole-heartedly back into the nest.
Now, I AM expecting a never-ending string of weeping phone calls from my mother asking me what to do in certain situations. That is par for the course. For instance, Captian Nutty asks POD to empty the dishwasher and the POD tells her to "go lick Satan's balls". I clearly envision this type of exchange happening on a frequent basis.
But perhaps we should talk about what POD has been doing since she got home on Friday night, shall we?
She's already had a "talking to" with the local police. She thinks she was called down by the fuzz and is thrilled to be getting a little street cred. What she doesn't know is that the whole damn thing was orchestrated.
Y'all remember Krystal-with-a-"K"? For the newbies, Krystal with a "K" is the POD's former girlfriend (the POD considers herself a bit of player for both teams at the ripe old age of 15). Anywhooooo, Krystal with a K and the POD have been broken up for quite a bit now but they still talk (Hooooray! Keep those friends close!). Krystal with a "K" is also a former latino gang banger - cause when your kid is swinging with the other team you soooooo want her to be hooked up with a gang member. Krystal with a "K" got mad at the POD and thus has called out a "whooop up on her if you see her" request to her suburban gang-banging friends. This of course scared the ever-living-medicated-shit out of Captain Nutty who called Officer DoGooder at the local station. An entire production has been made where the POD was called down and given a stern talking to. So now the POD is properly forewarned about potential violence.
Sounds good, right? Sounds like as a 15 year-old, you would be scared shitless? Not so much the POD. She's loving it. She's "down wid it" and "rockin it old school"- none of which she actually said but I hear it in my head. What did she honestly say? My hand to God - the kid said to Officer DoGooder, "It's okay - I like to live on the edge."
Yep.
At that point, my mother was seen scouring the surburban phone book for priests that conduct exorcisms with less than 24 hour notice....and we aren't even catholic.
Can't wait to share this story at the reunion! Folks in Mississippi gonna eat this up!
Barkeep - keep those Bud Lights a coming, please!
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Put Away the Sharp Pointy Things
No need to come after me with your spears and other sharp objects, gentle readers. THIS time, my absence was legit - you see, despite the commercials, sometimes Comcast isn't so COMTASTIC! and your Internet decides to go all "let's see how long she'll actually wait for me to check her email". However, thanks to Julio (who IS by the way, COMTASTIC!), we are now right as rain and I'm sure you've forgiven me similar to the way an abused woman forgives her asshat husband for making him hit her- I've got you bitches trained!
I received a lovely little letter in the mail the other day reminding me that my 10-year law school reunion is rapidly approaching. I'm flat out dying to go to this shindig. In fact, all of the usual suspects (i.e. Kitty and Fat Baby's Mamma) are planning a big "let's pretend we can still drink for 12 hours and then pose a legal theory in front of the whole class" kinda trip. I'm all for it.
However, I am a little unsure of myself. I mean, let's be real - it's be TEN FUCKING YEARS and where am I?
Well, let me recap for those of you just joining us - I'm poor as hell and no lawyer ten years out should be this poor unless you're working for some sanctimonious do-gooder place. I'm raising my 15 year-old nutbag sister (POD) who worships the devil when not plotting to kill my parents. I'm coddling my nutbag mother(Captain Nutty)who frankly makes me want to worship the devil and plot her painful demise. I'm fat. Let me repeat that one, I'M FATTER THAN KIRSTIE ALLEY AT A HO-HO CONVENTION (with apologies to Kirstie considering her recent lesbian affair with Jenny Craig). And, oh yeah, let's not forget this little nugget of joy - I'M STILL SINGLE.
As far as I can tell, there are only 3 single people left in the class of 1996. Me. Kitty. And criminal law buddy, Rob. Kitty and I are waging a full out war to convince Rob to come with us to said reunion - you know, the old "misery in numbers"....or really, "kitty and i have already spent a lot of time drunk and bemoaning our fate and we need new blood in this pissing contest".
To answer my concerns, I believe I've come up with a full-proof plan. Lie. Yep, lie and lie big. Hell, I didn't go to law school for the fucking t-shirt. I learned to lie with the best of them (frankly, law school merely polished my already gifted natural ability but that’s just bragging).
I've decided that I would like to tell everyone at the reunion that I'm pregnant. No one ever blames a pregnant woman for being fat! They consider it down right cute! I'll get myself some nice maternity duds, slap on a little self-tanner for that "pregnancy glow" and bammo, no fat embarrassment. Trust me, I’ve got the gut that screams “get this woman to a doctor before her water breaks all over my weejuns”. This could make drinking a tad touchy but no one really would be surprised that I can't give up the sauce. Let’s be frank, these are the same people that have witnessed my finest moments…..if only I could remember them……anyhooooo.
However, this is Mississippi we're talking about....so the unmarried thing might be an issue. Not to mention, if I show up pregnant with Kitty and without a ring, the lesbo talk will be a deafening roar of condemnation (all have witnessed Kitty's undeniable attraction to me).
And that dear, Robbo, is where you come in. Instant husband. Nothing like a fake marriage to make a reunion fun! I'll supply the rings and you pick the sex of the baby! Hell, I'll even allow for conjugal rights with Kitty! We will tell everyone how ridiculously happy and famously wealthy we are and they will all upchuck their crawfish with jealousy! A more perfect scheme was never hatched. I'll even throw in a "Rob is sooooo HUGE we're worried about him dimpling the baby's head!" comments.
Just think about it, oh Swami Rob...it just might work.
Here's to the class of 1996! May you all want to be me!
I received a lovely little letter in the mail the other day reminding me that my 10-year law school reunion is rapidly approaching. I'm flat out dying to go to this shindig. In fact, all of the usual suspects (i.e. Kitty and Fat Baby's Mamma) are planning a big "let's pretend we can still drink for 12 hours and then pose a legal theory in front of the whole class" kinda trip. I'm all for it.
However, I am a little unsure of myself. I mean, let's be real - it's be TEN FUCKING YEARS and where am I?
Well, let me recap for those of you just joining us - I'm poor as hell and no lawyer ten years out should be this poor unless you're working for some sanctimonious do-gooder place. I'm raising my 15 year-old nutbag sister (POD) who worships the devil when not plotting to kill my parents. I'm coddling my nutbag mother(Captain Nutty)who frankly makes me want to worship the devil and plot her painful demise. I'm fat. Let me repeat that one, I'M FATTER THAN KIRSTIE ALLEY AT A HO-HO CONVENTION (with apologies to Kirstie considering her recent lesbian affair with Jenny Craig). And, oh yeah, let's not forget this little nugget of joy - I'M STILL SINGLE.
As far as I can tell, there are only 3 single people left in the class of 1996. Me. Kitty. And criminal law buddy, Rob. Kitty and I are waging a full out war to convince Rob to come with us to said reunion - you know, the old "misery in numbers"....or really, "kitty and i have already spent a lot of time drunk and bemoaning our fate and we need new blood in this pissing contest".
To answer my concerns, I believe I've come up with a full-proof plan. Lie. Yep, lie and lie big. Hell, I didn't go to law school for the fucking t-shirt. I learned to lie with the best of them (frankly, law school merely polished my already gifted natural ability but that’s just bragging).
I've decided that I would like to tell everyone at the reunion that I'm pregnant. No one ever blames a pregnant woman for being fat! They consider it down right cute! I'll get myself some nice maternity duds, slap on a little self-tanner for that "pregnancy glow" and bammo, no fat embarrassment. Trust me, I’ve got the gut that screams “get this woman to a doctor before her water breaks all over my weejuns”. This could make drinking a tad touchy but no one really would be surprised that I can't give up the sauce. Let’s be frank, these are the same people that have witnessed my finest moments…..if only I could remember them……anyhooooo.
However, this is Mississippi we're talking about....so the unmarried thing might be an issue. Not to mention, if I show up pregnant with Kitty and without a ring, the lesbo talk will be a deafening roar of condemnation (all have witnessed Kitty's undeniable attraction to me).
And that dear, Robbo, is where you come in. Instant husband. Nothing like a fake marriage to make a reunion fun! I'll supply the rings and you pick the sex of the baby! Hell, I'll even allow for conjugal rights with Kitty! We will tell everyone how ridiculously happy and famously wealthy we are and they will all upchuck their crawfish with jealousy! A more perfect scheme was never hatched. I'll even throw in a "Rob is sooooo HUGE we're worried about him dimpling the baby's head!" comments.
Just think about it, oh Swami Rob...it just might work.
Here's to the class of 1996! May you all want to be me!
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