Ghosts of Boyfriends Past Part II

The Rocker

The Rocker is a beautiful man. He is the only guy I've dated that falls into that "pretty" category. Technically speaking, I do not find guys that are prettier then me attractive. He wore me down though...lol

He is tall, 6'4 to be exact. When I met him he was long and lean with green eyes, long dark hair, and chiseled features. To this day he still has the sexiest smile I have ever born witness to, including all those pretty celebrity boys. The drummer for a popular Chicagoland band, he had no problem in the women department. That is, until he met me.

An old friend from High School, H, was married to the lead singer of this band. We ran into each other one day, and she invited me out to hear her hubby's band play. Oh, how grateful I was for this invitation.

It was about 9 months after the infamous slap from The Hero. When you have been with someone as long as I had been with him, your friends are pretty much mutual. I of course had the circle of soul mates, but most of them were just married and into the whole newlywed thing.

Any mutual friend that we had that still had contact with him was gone. It took me 6 months to finally escape the stalking, and I didn't want to chance him finding me. My whole world had been turned upside down, and I had crawled into a safe little hole.

I agonized over what I was going to wear that night. The Hero was real good at being passive aggressive, especially when it came to what I wore. I realized what I was doing, and said Fuck it. I put on a lil baby doll dress (1994 people) and dolled myself up.

Oh, I noticed him immediately, even though I pretended I didn't. That one is trouble, I thought. He was surrounded by a half dozen or so groupie type chicks, and enjoying every minute of it.

He left the groupies to pout and came over to my old friend H and I. "Where have you been hiding her?" he asked while flashing that damn smile. H didn't skip a beat. "She's not a groupie, and she's nice. Stay away."

We proceeded to get a couple of cocktails as H's hubby called The Rocker up to the stage to begin their set. They were phenomenal. Definitely one of the best live bands I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot of bands. All of them were versatile, and they took turns singing and playing different instruments.

At the end of the first set The Rocker took the mike. "We usually don't do covers, but for tonight I want to sing "Brown Eyed Girl" for my new friend Kelly."

Ok, so that was really fucking cool and smooth. I'll admit it got to me just a bit. Judging by the angry stares from the rest of the women in the club, I had reason to think it was cool...

I told him over and over that I didn't want a boyfriend and that I had just gotten out of a really bad relationship. "That's cool, we'll be friends," he said.

So we did. Become friends that is, and we had an absolute blast together. We were like a comedy team or something. We could play off each other like nobody's business, and soon after we started "hanging out" people would beg us to come to their parties, as we were always the life of the party.

I don't know how he did it, but somewhere in there he managed to turn us into boyfriend/girlfriend. This is still one of the great mysteries of the world in my book, because I don't really even remember it happening. It just happened.

So there we were. The fun couple. Everything was quite good for awhile there until I realized that I was still carrying a cart load of luggage from my past relationship. That, and his best friend was a total scum bucket.

You see, one of the reasons why The Rocker and I clicked so well was we were in a similar situation. I had not gotten used to my new body and looks, and as it turns out, he was a rather pudgy, short, braces and glasses wearing dork in high school.

He understood! The one problem in all of this was R. R was his best buddy from school, and he was the "cute" one before The Rocker hit his growth spurt, thinned out, got contacts, and had the braces removed. I don't think R was very happy with this new situation, and he was always trying to one-up The Rocker.

One night I had a few friends over, and R showed up. The Rocker was not feeling so good, and he went to lay down for awhile. Everyone left a bit later, but R stayed.

I'm sure you can see where this one is going from a mile away, but my dumb, naive ass didn't have a clue.

R told me how he found me attractive. I said, "Thanks, that's nice of you to say." The next thing I know, he has his tongue half way down my throat. I pushed him off of me, and started yelling at him. "Shhhh! Shhhh! You'll wake up The Rocker!" he kept whispering over and over. He apologized, chalked it up to drinking a bit too much, and promised it would never happen again. He begged me not to tell The Rocker.

I didn't have much choice, as he told him the very next day. The only problem was he told the story with me attacking him and begging him not to tell The Rocker.

I tried calling him all that next day, but all I got was his machine. I just figured maybe he still didn't feel well, and he'd get a hold of me when he was better. Another day went by with no word from him. That night, he showed up on my doorstep.

The poor guy looked like he'd been through a war. I figured he was still sick, and invited him in. He came in and laid it all out for me. "That's not true!! It was the other way around!" I pleaded.

He didn't believe me. We argued back and forth over it. He went to run frustrated fingers through his hair and I didn't something that freaked him out even more: I dodged. "Do you think I would HIT YOU?"

Too much baggage, too soon, too little trust. It was so over, for both of us. I was hurt and angry that he didn't believe me, he was hurt and angry because he thought I cheated on him.

This all happened probably in about a 4 month time span, which might not seem like enough time to consider someone a serious part of your life. The difference with The Rocker is I dated him after boyfriend #3 and #4 also.

Other things drove us apart then. His only child syndrome. My reluctance to sit in a bar weekend after weekend listening to the same songs. We are incredible as friends, but not as lovers.

So what happened to his best friend? 6 months after the incident with me he was caught cheating with another of their good friend's fiance. He confessed to the whole deal with me, and The Rocker came crawling back.

It was too late, as I had already met The Director

We now interrupt the regularly

scheduled blog. I see lots of people with "donate" buttons on their blogs. I've even had people ask me how they can "donate" to me because they heart my blog.

I have plenty but there are some that don't. If you would like to "donate" to my blog, then head on over to Spirit of America and donate under the TTLB EcoTeam.

The ex boyfriend extravaganza shall continue tomorrow.

The Ghosts of Boyfriends Past Part I

THE HERO


I first met The Hero when I was 16 years old. He was 20. This age difference may scream Pedophile! but things were a bit different back in 1987.

An acquaintance of mine was having a party, and The Hero was her cousin. When I first laid eyes on him, I was instantly smitten, as most girls/women were. He had an uncanny resemblance to James Dean, with the attitude to match.

The Hero was also in the military. Not only was he in the military, but he was in the special forces, an Army Ranger. He was worldly and knowledgeable. By the end of the night, we had become fast friends. His current girlfriend, a Cindy Crawford look-a-like was not amused. She started throwing a colossal sized tantrum about how she was being ignored and was bored.

You have to remember that at that time no swan transformation had taken place, and I was still a chubby girl who was very insecure with her looks. Just the fact that someone like this was so interested in what I had to say blew me away. He asked if I would write to him as he was being deployed to Germany, and I agreed.

We wrote each other over the next 6 months, and we really got to know each other's hopes and dreams. He would joke (or so I thought was a joke) that one day we could get married, I would write, he'd be a General, and we would travel the world together. I didn't realize that he may be serious about any of this until he came home and made his intentions quite clear.

He was everything I could ever want: brave, loyal, trustworthy, smart, funny, sexy...I thought he was the best thing since sliced bread.

While our relationship was progressing, he didn't feel like I was ready for anything to heavy (i.e. sex) and was extremely patient with that. He would come home about every other month for a couple of weeks, and that was enough for me. It gave me space, but I knew where his heart laid.

It was a weird situation when we would do things together. It's almost embarrassing to admit, but I always felt like people looked at us like what the hell is he doing with her? I wouldn't say that I ever obsessed over my looks all that much, but when you are a chubby chick with a really hot boyfriend, it puts crazy thoughts in your head.

As I turned 19 things started to heat up a bit between us (not that much), and our relationship began to take on new levels. Then he learned he was being deployed to Iraq. I watched in horror on January 16, 1991 as CNN showed the first signs of war. He was in the middle of that.

He was gone almost a year in total, and letters were few and far between. I remained totally loyal to him, and I also found out a scary thing: I was diabetic.

When he left he had a chubby, awkward looking girlfriend. When he came home, he had a girlfriend that could be on Baywatch.

This, surprisingly enough, this did not please him.

He came home with buckets of medals, but chose to quit the Army after Desert Storm. He was very, very angry. Angry that we didn't finish the job. Angry that we gave those people hope and then left. He didn't want any part of that Army.

For the first time in our 3 year relationship, we could see each other every day. It was wonderful at first, but the first signs of trouble began around the time I turned 21.

He would go out with his friends some weekends, and that was great because I had a lot of family responsibilities with my sister's children. It gave me time to care for them, and he got to spend time with his boys.

One Saturday night he wanted to go out, as my sis's kids were coming over for the night. He went out, and low and behold, my sister actually stayed home with her children. A friend of mine called, and we decided to go out.

It was the first time in my adult life I had ever been in a bar without The Hero's watchful eye on me. We had a wonderful time, as I hadn't been out with my friends very much since The Hero's return from war.

That night he decided that he didn't want to hang out very long, so he swung by my apartment. I was not there. He went ape shit looking for me. When he finally found me, a huge public fight ensued (which I never, ever do) and he threw me over his shoulder and took me home.

I honestly didn't see what the big deal was. "Women who go to bars are usually just looking for one thing," he told me. "You don't know how it is out there, how men are, and I worry about you," he told me. I didn't buy it either.

I started to feel smothered. If it was ok for him to go out, why was it not ok for me? A week and a half after this incident I was given a gift. It was a pager.

This should have been my first clue.

Obviously, I was clueless as to how men are.

The more I tried to establish any independence, the more he clinged to me. He started complaining about the amount of time I spent with my niece and nephews. "They aren't your kids," he lament. "Your sister will never do what she is supposed to do if you keep doing it for her."

Then the real zinger. "What is going to happen when we have kids?" I told him I didn't even know if I wanted kids.

He thought that was just silly. Of course I wanted kids.

Most people who were close to me did not like him, even though I didn't really know it at the time. Then, around my 22 birthday, he popped the question.

I couldn't breathe. I'm sure he thought I was delirious with happiness, but in reality I was probably having a panic attack. As I looked up into those big blue eyes I just couldn't tell him no, even though I really, really wanted to. Even when he was being an ass, I still loved him so.

So I decided being engaged didn't mean you had to be married right away, right? Wrong. He wanted to plan the wedding immediately. My Mom said we should live together first. I found out later that my Mother couldn't stand him. She is a wise woman, my Mom.

He moved into my apartment, and we had a daily battle on the wedding date. We had a daily battle over my sister's kids. We had a daily battle over my job, which he wanted me to quit. I finally told him I was not going to set any wedding date until we stopped with all the fighting.

He was settled. He was going to school and had a great job. He wanted to buy a house and start having children, which I still didn't know if I wanted. To him, that was just silly. Of course I wanted children. All women want children, right?

I complained that I hadn't done any of the things I wanted to do. He had seen the world. He had experienced different cultures. I hadn't been anywhere.

The claustrophobia of the situation intensified. The more I pulled away, the more he held on.

This is when the jealousy reared it's ugly head. He became insanely jealous. Soon after this he started accusing me of things. At this point in my life, he is the only man who had ever touched me. You would think this would be enough to give someone trust, but nooooo. If I wanted to do something with my friends, I must be out looking for someone else. Even if it was just to go to lunch.

Then there was the whole issue with his friends. It wasn't that they didn't like me, but quite the opposite. We had all became very close while The Hero was in Iraq, as they felt it their duty to watch over me. He was half Greek, and for the most part, Greek people are the most loyal bunch you could ever find. Most of his friends were Greek, as they had went to private school together their whole lives.

He thought this was extremely cool at first, as they all hated the Cindy Crawford look-a-like. Towards the end of our relationship he started getting suspicious of them. Why did they like me so much? Why did they want to hang around me all the time?

The straw that broke the relationships back happened over his best friend Nick. He accused me of sleeping with him. This was the first direct attack on my character. Before he always put it as I was naive and didn't know men's intentions. This time, he made it clear that he thought I was a part of it.

To this day I don't remember what I said to this statement. It had to have been something really bad, because the next thing I knew I was picking myself up off the floor, the receiver of a hard backhand to the face.

Any love I had for him died the minute his hand made contact with my skin. I remember the fear I felt as he trembled with rage and tried to get a hold of his emotions. I remember being afraid, so very afraid at what he would do next.

Then I remember going absolutely insane. I ran around the apartment, grabbing anything that was his, and threw it over our balcony. He snapped to and began apologizing and saying he loved me and swearing it would never happen again.

He was right. It wouldn't happen again. Because.that.was.it.

I went to work the next day with a pile of make up on, trying to cover up my bruised, swollen cheek. I felt such shame. It didn't exactly work, because people kept asking me what happened all day.

"My blonde ass ran into the door," I lied. There eyes showed worry, and I was sure everyone knew what happened.

How anyone lives with this on a daily basis...I just don't know how they deal with it...

For me, this was over, but it took him quite a long time to realize that I was serious. He followed me around for at least 6 months. He begged, pleaded, sent flowers...I finally moved in the middle of the night to a new location, not sending a forwarding address or telephone number to anyone that had contact with him.

I threw the pager into the Chicago River, and I never looked back.

Coming tomorrow:

The Ghost of Boyfriends Past II: The Rocker

This and That...

I can't believe that Bratz dolls got such a response. I got twice as many emails as comments on that one. This gives me faith in humanity people...

Overheard while surfing Blog Explosion: My nephew fighting with his girlfriend. Oh, I really tried not to hear, but it is kind of hard in a 1600 square feet house.

She didn't understand why he didn't want to spend time with her today. Now people, just so you know, they spend EVERY day together. They are inseparable, more on her side then his.

He had told her he had things to do today, that he would see her tomorrow when he got off work. A huge fight (I'm assuming since I only heard his end) ensued, and she ended up driving over here, demanding to know what he was going to do today.

What he is really doing today is going shopping with me to pick out there One year anniversary present. I'm leaving early for work today so that I can help him. She wants a locket really bad, so I photoshop-ed up some pics for it, and we are going to pick it out today.

He FINALLY broke down and told her what he was going to buy her present today, and she replied with, "How long can that take? Why can't you spend the rest of the day with me?"

Red flag...Red flag...Big marching parade full of red flags...

I just don't know about this girl. She hasn't minced her words about wanting to get married and being a "mommy" (yes another one of those.), and is so dependent. They are only 20 for fuck's sake!

I will bite my tongue and listen to his bitching today, because saying anything just makes matters worse when it is about the heart. Ok, so I'll agree with him more then likely and ask him what the fuck is he thinking?

All this drama has reminded me of boyfriends past. I declare this week here at For F*ck's Sake! the ghost of boyfriend's past. Over the years I have had 5 serious boyfriends, and each day I will dedicate a post to each one of them.

I bet you can.hardly.wait.

Rather Disturbing

There is something out there that I find rather disturbing. I noticed it about a year ago, and this year I think I know why. They represent all that is evil in this world.

Bratz Dolls.

Have you seen these things? Anyone out there with a sister, niece, daughter or granddaughter between the ages of 3-12 have I'm sure. I ordered my youngest niece the winter collection for Christmas from Toys R Us dot com. My beautiful UPS Man delivered them Wednesday.

They are HOTT with 2 T's in the tween set.(If anyone can tell me where that saying came from I will love you forever and a day.) They are "cooler" then Barbie, with hipper clothes and a more current sense of style.

Now I know some people find it totally acceptable to dress their 9 year old child up like a 23 year old club slut, and that's their perogative, even if it is Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Did I say it was wrong?? Don't even get me started on this topic. I guess now they want their dolls to look like 23 year old club sluts too.

Anyway, even this isn't the lingering why are these dolls familiar looking? They are strange, with oversized heads and little tiny bodies.

Here is Exhibit A:


Now let's take a look see at Exhibit B:


Exhibit C:


exhibit D:


exhibit E:


Do you see what I see? Women that have made their self so skinny that their heads look extremely large compared to their bodies.

For fuck's sake, why don't we just give them red Anna bracelets and sign them up for one of those pro anorexia sites when they hit 8?

That, and those dolls just creep me out. I think I'm going to keep them in my shed until Christmas.

The Day After

The Original Party People have left the building, and high tailed it back down south where there is no snow.

Yesterday was wonderful as usual, as we spent the day feeding those way less fortunate then ourselves. It is not an easy thing to do. I volunteer at this place on "normal" days, but it is especially hard to see that some people literally have no one on a holiday.

I believe it sucks out just a bit of your soul, and that is a gift to those people. I hope it gave even just a spark of hope or love to people that have none.

Some there were not coherent enough to express thanks, but you could see it in their eyes. They are the ones that people talk about-oh the homeless, they are just strung out, drunks, or mentally ill.

These people are sick. The last time I checked, sick people deserve our compassion, our love. They deserve our charity and our patience. They deserve help and understanding, not contempt and intolerance.

Some of the people were none of these things, and they are just down on their luck. The deserve all said things too. They are humans, they are hurting, they are in trouble, and they need help.

God, fate, or whoever you believe in has blessed me in countless ways. I have been overly blessed. I truly believe you never know just how blessed you are until you see those who have so much less. Those that have so little you wonder how they survive.

I am so thankful, oh yes I am.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Original Party People (my parents) are going to be back in town tonight for the celebration that is Thanksgiving.

We celebrate in an unusual way, and it is sad that it is unusual.

Every year my family goes to a soup kitchen and feeds the poor, the tired, the sick, and the lonely.

It wasn't always like this, as when my Grandmother was alive she was the Queen of all things Holiday. She had big outrageous parties for family, friends, random people walking down the street...It didn't matter, because the more the merrier was her philosophy.

When she died, people in our extended family assumed that my Mom would inherit the thrown. She did for a little while, but many of the people didn't appreciate all the hard work or offer to help. Hell, they didn't even bring anything.

My parents volunteered at a soup kitchen a couple times a month and heard how hard it was to get volunteers on the holidays. Being half Native American, Thanksgiving is a bit of a sketchy holiday for us anyway.

So my parents decided that we would spend Thanksgiving there one year, and everyone that usually came to our house could come and help.

It was no small surprise when none of them showed up. This turned out to be the best Thanksgiving ever, and we have done it ever since.

While it is heartbreaking, I walk out of there knowing exactly how lucky I am. All the little things that I crab and bitch about on a daily basis just seem so...so....small.

I have a roof over my head, food in my stomach, people who love me, a job that affords me the opportunity to help those who need it, and I'm a citizen of the most powerful and successful country in the world.

There are so many people out there who are lacking any one of those things, and some who are lacking all of them.

I am so thankful and humbled to live the life that I lead.

Mid Life Crisis

I certainly hope this isn't a mid-life crisis, seeing how I am only going to be 34 on December 19th.

34. Thirty four. Thiiirty Fooour.

I do not like the sound of 34.

It is the first age to bother me, even a little bit.

34.

I think it all started when my wonderful ex called me to give me shit about my birthday. "I'm still in my early thirties," I told him. "No your not, you'll be in your mid-30's," he reminded me.

Shit. The bastard is right.

Thirty didn't bother me one bit. I think it was because I was drunk most of the month of December that year.

Since then I haven't really thought about it. I mean, I'm genetically lucky and all. I don't have wrinkles. I don't even have fine lines. My face looks 22, and I still get carded.

So why should the whole 34 business be gnawing at the back of my sub-conscious?

I think I forget that I'm in my 30's. It certainly doesn't seem like I should be in my 30's. I don't look like it, act like it, or feel like it.

Part of my problem is I ran into a couple of people that graduated high school with me the other day. Damn did they look old. I looked in the bathroom mirror about 5 times that day to make sure that no crow's feet had planted themselves on my face.

They were totally tan though. Considering they were total idiots in high school, the leather like appearance of their skin told the tale that they had become a couple of idiot adults.

Damn you 34!

In unrelated news, I had to train someone today that talks like a baby. She said "Potty" at least four times.

These people creep.me.out.

She also called herself "Mommy." I asked how old her kids were. 14 and 17.

For the Love of God, will it ever end?

Sexiest Man Alive

It is that time of year again. The time of year that I anticipate with glee.

Christmas? No. Thanksgiving? No. My birthday? No.

It would have to be the arrival of my Christmas presents from the UPS man.

Not the Christmas present part, the UPS man part.

You see, UPS seems to have a swim suit competition when they hire their drivers. I'm pretty sure they have to submit an 8 X 10 glossy to get the job.

UPS men are.always.hot.

I was at the hospital with my Sister today, as she had her tonsils out. While in the waiting room, I picked up a copy of People and saw that Jude Law is the "Sexiest Man Alive." Bullshit. My UPS man is the sexiest man alive. I wrote up some notes on that issue, which shall be posted tomorrow. Those people at "People" just don't know the good quality men in this world...

Being a busy and Internet savvy person, I order many of my presents online. I am now free of my self-imposed grounding from overstock.com so that I can wrap up my Christmas shopping.

This means visits from my favorite UPS man. He is tall, probably around 6'2. He has dark brown hair and eyes, and one of those smiles that makes my knees turn to jelly.

Just about every woman I know has a UPS man story. My best friend R can't even talk around her UPS man.

When I ordered from Dell my puter was shipped via Fed Ex. What a freaking disappointment. At first I thought it was a man, but it turned out to be a really ugly woman.

So I always make sure I check "UPS Ground" for packages, and anxiously await their arrival.

What's your UPS man like? Are you a UPS man? Do you know someone that is a UPS man? Do they have to do a Chip-n-dale dance to get the job? I just wanna know how the hell they get so many good looking men to do their deliveries...

1995

Being that is November 22, it is that time of year again.

Thanksgiving? Christmas? No, something in between...

The celebration of the birth of yours truly, kj4ever.

It takes a week to celebrate my birthday, as of course it has to be an extravaganza. I usually have three parties: One from the people at work, one from my brother, and one from the original party people.

Last year had an addition to the extravaganza, to the tune of "girls night out."

My birthday sucked a bit last year, as it was the first without my ex boyfriend. We had been together for about 3 years, and it was tough. It didn't end in one of those I hate him or he hates me situations, and if it had it would have been easier. We still loved each other, but both realized it just wouldn't work.

So for the last 3 birthdays I had an extra extravaganza with him that would be missing. My bestest friend in the world R decided that we needed a girls night out.

Easier said then done, considering my birthday is December 19th. The weekend closest to my birthday is always the weekend that companies have their Christmas parties. Trying to coordinate this was not an easy task.

It ended up being just 4 of us, R, my sister-in-law (sil), H, and myself. We decided to

dress.to.kill.

"Where's a cool place to go?" R asked. Hell, I had no clue. I used to be up on that shit, but not so much anymore. We decided to go to a sports bar in the neighborhood, as it was close and cheap (that whole Christmas thing rearing it's ugly head again). My little nephew said he would drive the party bus, aka take our drunk asses home when we were ready.

So my nephew dropped us off. It was a cool little place with a good DJ, pool tables, dart boards, and nice mix of people. We scoped the place out and had our first cocktail.

We grabbed our drinks and started playing darts. A rather handsome young man came up and said hi. His name was Jack, and his friends and him wanted to play darts with us when we started a new game.

He chatted me up a bit and was actually kind of cool. I could see how young he was, but I didn't like babysitting when people paid me to do it. No thanks. During the conversation it came up that we all went to the same high school.

"What year did you graduate?" Jack asked. R, H and I all replied with "1989" My sil, who is two years older then us, said, "1992." Bitch.

He kind of got a funny look on his face and said, "Really? Are you kidding?" I was about to take this as a compliment when he said, "Wow I can't believe you guys are old."

Fucker.

It ended up that Jack graduated in 1999 and was a just a little bit over 21. His desire to play darts diminished as he decided to "mingle."

Fucker.

A third round of drinks made us forget all about the 21 year old who called us old.

Fucker.

Well, maybe it didn't but we were having a damn good time by then. We asked my sil why the hell she said 1992, and she replied, "Women are supposed to lie about their age." We took this as sage advice and decided we would all say that we had graduated in 1995. Math was difficult after the fourth drink, and we argued about how old we were.

Then a guardian angel in the form of an older man (29) came up to our table. His name was Sam, and he decided that we were much to pretty to ever buy our own drinks.

He had a couple of cute friends, all in their late 20's. We informed them that we were not out on the prowl, and he dismissed the idea, saying that he just wanted to enjoy our company because we seemed like we were having so much fun.

One of his friends asked how old we were. "1995!" R and I said in unison. "What they mean is they graduated in 1995. I graduated in 1997," the bitch sil said.

"What the fuck? You got to be younger then us last time!" I protested. Now our secret was out of the bag, but hanging around a bunch of crazy ass early 30's women didn't seem to faze these gentlemen.

So we drank and laughed and had a great time. Music was pumping through the bar, and we decided to dance.

Jack was out there dancing with a disinterested red head. Now I might be "old", but one thing I can do is dance. Soon we took over the dance floor and showed the youngins a thing or three.

All in all it was a great night, and by the time we called up the party bus to pick us up we were pretty well hammered.

My poor, poor nephew got quite an earful on the way home, as you can imagine was early 30 something drunk women night talk about. He's already asked, "Do I HAVE to?" about this year, as we have decided a girls night out is now the new tradition.

Grumpy Old Man

Warning: This post contains a high amount of profanity. Like way more profanity then usual. Really, I swear.

The one really good thing about being stuck on this horrid shift (5:30 pm - 5:30 am) is I am back with my boss, who I affectionately call the Grumpy Old Man.

He's an old Irish Bastard that has built cars for 45 years. The only time he hasn't been here is when he served 2 tours in Vietnam. He doesn't know the meaning of "PC", and I heart him.

I first met the Grumpy Old Man when I became an administrator on afternoon shift 3 years ago. The head chief of Quality took me to him for introductions, as GOM is the head of all things Quality on afternoons. There are 5 people on days that do what he does by himself on afternoons.

GOM slowly looked me up and down and sized me up. "Well well, what do we have here? It's Autoworker Barbie. I knew the bitch could do anything, and you better be able to also."

What.the.fuck?

We are incredibly PC. Over the edge PC since the Mothership was sued to the gills in the mid 90's. This was a very different experience for me.

So I trained for 2 weeks with someone that didn't know shit. Thankfully I already knew a lot about computers, and after about 3 days I knew more then the current admin, who was retiring.

He retired, and I was on my own. I had been on the job about 2 and a 1/2 weeks when I had my first big break down. We weren't selling cars, which anyone who works in a factory will tell you this is a very, very bad thing. My system was the holdup.

GOM was about to flip his gord. He started screaming about money and time and did I know what the fuck I was doing? I stopped, turned to him and said, "Shut the fuck up and let me do my job you fucking Grumpy Old Man."

He walked away, and I fixed the problem. Later that night he came up to me and said, "I figured you were doing some boss and that's how you got the job. You know your shit. You'll be alright here kiddo."

For some odd reason, I took this as a compliment. Once I stood up for myself, he never messed with me again. Oh, I've been screamed at plenty of times, but I realize it is more screaming at frustration then at me.

Why doesn't anyone turn him in for these actions? I get a call from the PC Police at least once a week because of my smart ass mouth. I'll tell you a little story about why no one turns Mr. GOM in...

GOM is at the very end of the plant, where the cars are inspected and go out the door to be shipped to wherever. The section before that is Chassis.

The Chassis management type person and I didn't get along. At all. My system tattled on every bad thing he did, and he took it personally, even though I was just doing my job. He looked for anything he could to say something negative to me.

One day he came up to me and said I committed a safety violation, which I didn't. I tried to explain what I was doing, and he just went off on me.

I slowly walked to the inspection area counting to 10. I would keep myself in check, keep it in control.

GOM must have seen the murder in my eyes, and asked what happened. I told him, and he just said "I'll take care of it."

It would take to long to explain, but he did something that caused the management type person to be in deep shit. He'd need an awful big shovel to dig himself out of it to, I might add.

Management type person came running over screaming, "What the hell is going on? Why are all these coming back?" GOM pointed to me.

"You fuck with my people, I fuck with you. The difference is, I have more stripes and I will fuck you back harder. I will fuck you so hard that your great great Grandmother will be screaming OH YES! from her grave."

The management type person stood there shocked as hell. "You can't talk to me like that!" he said. "I didn't hear anything wrong, did you Blondie?" GOM asked me. "Nope, all I heard was you asking him to please not disrespect his people." I then gave management type person a big, cheesy smile.

He will take the heat for his people every time. His unfailing loyalty is returned by everyone that works for him. Now maybe his techniques are a bit old school and out of date, but they sure do work.

Now we he bellows "Blondie!" or "Barbie!" or "I don't-want-to-grow-up-I'm-a-Toys-R-us-kid!" yes, he calls me this sometimes and I don't know why. *looks innocent* I smile instead of thinking "What the fuck?" and say "Yes Grumpy Old Man, how can I be of assistance to you?"

Mommy Bloggers Beware

There are an awful lot of Mommy Bloggers out there, and they actually call themselves that. "Mommy"

Mommy did this and Mommy did that. Mommy cleaned up the poop and Mommy made dinner.

I would like to tell all of you "Mommies" out there a cautionary tale of intrigued, shock, and pure embarrassment.

My sis-in-law, or sil from now on because I'm lazy, is 36. She still calls her Mom "Mommy."

Yes. Take that in. Think about it. Think about your child calling you that in public once they are old enough to live on their own.

The first time I heard her do it was right before she married my brother. She was on the phone, and she said, "I love you Mommy."

Oh she didn't just call her Mommy, did she?

Well I figured it was a fluke, or she was feeling sentimental with the wedding and all. She probably didn't think anyone heard her.

Then during a fitting for bridesmaids dresses she did it again. In like public. In front of people.

I told my Mom what happened. She was like, "She did not." I assured her she did.

Now just plain Mommy would be bad enough. She says it how a two year old says it. Mooommiiiieeee.

Yes. Moommiiiieeeee.


Over the years I have enjoyed the shock of others when she is with her Mom and she calls her Moommiiiieeee.

She also encourages her children to call her Mooommiiiieeee, and she almost gets depressed when they call her Mom.

She is one twisted chick, let me tell ya.

I call my mom "Ma" usually, or if I'm in a sarcastic mood "Mother" because she absolutely HATES that. Sometimes I'll call her Mooommiiiieeee, but it is for pure sarcastic laugh at my sil's expense kind of deal.

It's a head turner in public, let me tell you. I have seen some of the most priceless looks ever while hiding behind other people, under the table, anywhere so it didn't look like I was with her.

The most common look is the "What the fuck did she just say" look. A close second is the "What the fuck is wrong with her" look.

I'm sure some of you Moooommmmiiiiieeee's out there are thinking that it wouldn't be so bad. It might even be kind of special if your child called you that their whole life.

It is, and it's not. Trust me. You do not want to be 90 some day and have a 65 year old saying "Moooommiiieee." Cease and desist with the Mommy stuff before it is too late!

Sell Out!!!

My Mom brought up something I wrote when I was in second grade last weekend. She loves bringing it up as one of her proudest moments as a Mother. It is a dissertation that has haunted me my whole entire life.

I have always been a writer. As soon as I could form words into sentences I was writing little books and plays. I won the Young Authors contest for my region every year I was eligible.

So when the principal came into our class with the announcement that there would be a writing contest sponsored by a big newspaper, I was pretty confident that I was a shoo in. It was for Mother's Day, and the topic was "Why My Mom is the Best Mom in the World."

The prize was a dream come true for a 2nd Grader. Unlimited rides at Kiddie Land for one day.

Oh I had to win! I put pencil to wide ruled brown paper and wrote something close to the following words, as I've tried my whole life to forget it.

Why My Mom is the Best Mom in the World

My Mom is the best Mom in the world because she loves me more then anything. She punishes me when I am bad to. If she did not love me she would not punish me. She does it because she wants me to know right from wrong and be a good adult. It is hard for her to punish me, but she does it anyway so that I will be successful when I am grown up.

Cute story right? Did I win? You bet your ass I won. My Mom and I were on the front page of the paper on Mother's Day, accepting my award. My essay was prominently displayed next to it.

My Mom was so proud. I "got" it, right?

Oh how wrong, how very, very wrong she was. I was a manipulative suck ass sell out that told them exactly what they wanted to hear, so that I would get my day at Kiddie Land.

I remember that day. I remember what I was thinking. Adults will be reading this...yeah...yeah...What would an adult like to hear a kid say?? Ah ha! My Mom was always telling me she punished me for my own good. I'll just put that in there...

Kim G was the only one I was worried about. She was pretty smart, and was a natural suck ass. I had to try harder, as it didn't come natural to me. So I sucked as much ass as humanly possible in one essay.

So I deliberately lied in that essay to win. I even drew little hearts for all the dots on the I's. This was a conscious decision too, by the way. Total unadulterated manipulation.

There is a problem with selling out though, and over the years I learned that lesson well. Whenever I wanted to protest about a punishment, my Mom would tell me to remember that fucking essay.

Fuck.

I may have been a manipulative, suck ass sell out, but I wasn't a heartless bastard. To this day I've never had the heart to tell my Mom that I just manipulated the fuck out of everyone to be able to ride the tilt-a-whirl as many times as I wanted in a day.

My Mom had that damn article in the paper framed, and I used to fantasize about burning it in the fireplace. If it went away, maybe she'd forget about it. Anytime I'd get close to chucking it down the garbage disposal, my damn conscience would stop me.

I don't know which was worse-having that damn thing thrown in my face when I was punished, or feeling guilty that my Mom was so damn proud.

I try to remember this when I am working on a writing project. While selling out could have immediate benefits, it's just not worth it if it bites you in the ass for years to come.

Damn Celebrities

I noticed a scary trend at the party on Friday. At first I couldn't put my finger on it. I didn't know what it was.

There were a few ladies there with a certain look about them. It was different, and I had seen it before, but I didn't know where.

Then I realized. Botox. It was that frightened, frozen, only my mouth will move in this Joker-esk type smile. The look that prevails on shows like Desperate Housewives (well, Teri Hatcher at least).

I live in the Midwest For F*ck's Sake. If people here are doing it, it is probably to late to do anything about it, as it is rampant throughout the country.

Then I started to worry. The celebrities have made tackier things fashionable then a frozen face. Take, for instance, grown people carrying around accessories with Hello Kitty on them. Look at Paris Hilton for f*ck's sake. If the damn celebrities would stop inviting her to parties, maybe she would just go away.

You can always hear women making catty comments about fashion choices. "Can you BELIEVE she wore those shoes?" or "That poncho was so last season." What if our catty little comments start sounding like "Oh my god! Did you see her forehead?? It totally MOVED!!!"

Celebrities have made many horrid things cool, like *insert religious person or political figure* is my homeboy/homegirl T-shirts. It'd be a hell of a lot easier for them to make the "Botoxed look" cool then to just grow old and let the younger generation take over.

Be afraid...Be very afraid...

This is absolute Hogwash?

Oh my God am I tired. I went to work yesterday at 4:45 pm, and I just got home now, 6:45 am.

"So why isn't your happy ass in bed?" you might be thinking. I'll tell you why...

As I was getting ready to leave work, which was an absolutely horrid day by the way, someone said something really stupid. I replied with, "That's absolute hogwash."

Who the fuck says hogwash? Why the hell did that come out of my mouth? Is it because I was deliriously tired?

Here's what I need you people to do while I am sleeping. I need you to each say "hogwash" out loud in a sentence in front of people. There are like 300 or so of you that come through here a day, and another couple hundred that do drive-bys.

If you each use hogwash in a sentence while I'm sleeping, and some of the people that hear you say it use it in a sentence while I'm sleeping, it just might catch on and be the new cool word by the time I wake up.

This would go a long way in making me feel a bit less ancient then I feel now.

That is all, and thank you for your support. I'm off to sleepy-ville now. Nighty nite!

The Nice guy that finished last

When you get a big mix of people like we did last Friday, and people that you have known for a considerable amount of time, there are bound to be those people that you just say "Oh shit!" when you see they actually came.

I had two such people at the Soiree Friday, and today I'll blog about the first one. He is the "Nice Guy".

He really is a nice guy. He's also cute, smart, funny, has a great body, and makes bucket loads of money.

You are probably wondering why on Earth I would say "Oh shit!" about someone like this.

I don't like him. What I mean is, I don't like him in that way. I adore him, but not like that.

He adores me too, but like that. This makes for some rather uncomfortable situations, especially because everyone I know tells me what a complete idiot I am for not liking him like that.

I can't help it. I've tried liking him like that and I can't.

When I finally called it quits with my last relationship, which was 3 years long with a good portion of it being long distance, I started seeing "Nice Guy" like that for awhile.

It was nice and comfortable. I knew he would always be good to me and all that jazz, and he sure as hell made it known just how much he adored me. It was very cozy, warm and fuzzy, but it was also a sham.

Oh, I'm attracted to him. I don't know many women who wouldn't be. I could probably love him too, if I tried hard enough.

My way of thinking is that you aren't supposed to "try" to love someone, at least at first.

When I first met Cali man, my ex, it was like someone knocked the wind out of me. I can't help it, I'm a knock the wind out of me kind of girl. If a guy doesn't do that, then they are not for me.

So he stood at the other end of the room making doe eyes and giving me that sexy smile. He makes me feel so guilty. After a couple weeks of dating I told him it just wasn't right.

"What did I do wrong?" he asked with sincerity. "It's not you," was all I could say, full well knowing the poor guy was thinking "It's me! It's me! What's wrong with me?"

In actuality, what is wrong with me, right?

I believe in fate, and I believe in soul mates. How could I not, with parents like mine? Just another way they have fucked me up man...

In my own defense I would like to say I am not one of those women who doesn't like nice guys. In fact, if someone I am dating is a jerk, they are dropped like a bad habit. I deserve to be treated like the Princess that I am dammit!

I'd just rather be alone then only give someone half of me. Half of me is all I can give him, and if that makes me an idiot, so be it.

"Internet People"

I would like to dedicate this post to Princessr9, as it never would have happened without her.

Friday night during our soiree, my nephew said, "Hey Aunt Kelly, I forgot to log you out of MSN and someone named Princess said to tell you hi."

A good 15 of the 50 people stopped talking to see what this was about. You see, I am the only Internet nerd type person I know. The people I hang around do the email thing, the eBay thing, the paying bills on line thing, and the shopping thing, but they don't do the "Internet People" thing.

I talk a bit about my Love/hate relationship with the net here, if you missed that post. I have met people from the Internet before. I've made some very good friends from the Internet.

People that I've known for a long time don't quite understand this, and in fact, do not like it at all. As I said in that love/hate post, I became really disenchanted with the net, and God, I probably haven't met any people from the net in 5 years.

My nephew saying this brought up the red flag to certain friends and family of mine.

""Who is that? Do you know this person? What's her name? Where does she live? Are you sure she's a girl? What if it's a guy and he's a rapist and a pedophile and a serial killer?"

It's Princess, no I don't' know her, umm Princess is her name? live? dunno. Pretty sure she's a girl. If she's a pedophile I have no worries, and if she's a serial killer and/or rapist I don't think she can do anything to me through my modem.

Sheesh.

""Well how did you start talking to her?"

"
Ok, this one gets a bit more complicated.
Weeeeeell I suppose because we both read Rance's Blog

"Who is Rance, do you know him? What is a blog? What if he is a rapist and a serial killer?"

Oh lord....

Rance is a person that writes a blog, which is an online type diary thing. I technically don't know if he's a serial killer or a rapist, but he says he's like a celebrity from Hollywood or something.

Roars of laughter fill the room.

So as you can tell this is going real well.

I assured them that all I did was "talk" to Princessr9 and "read" Rance's blog. I could still see they were nervous as in a "here we go again" type deal.

I'm extremely lucky to have so many people care about me and love me, but you would think they would realize that I'm umm what's the word? Oh yeah, not a fucking idiot.

Anytime I ever met anyone from the net it was when a big group of people got together from a chat room or message board. It would be like if there was a big blogger party. Oh, and I always, always, always took a great big man with me. Always. I've never done the "dating" thing or the "hooking up" thing. Ever.

They don't know about my blog. My best friend R does, and my nephew does, and that is about it. It's not that I write anything here that I haven't said or done, and it definitely wouldn't shock any of them. This is my space, with my "Internet People" as they call you all. Hey, that's a Pink Poppy statement I think. call you all...

In the meantime, I am sure I will hear about "Rance the Rapist" or "Princess the Pedophile/Serial Killer" every once in awhile, as my family and friends start worrying all over again about you damn "Internet People."

How about you? Does your family/friends understand the whole Internet thing, do they know about it, and what do they think?

And Princessr9, please don't be offended by this. It was actually kind of funny, and I was bound to be outed eventually.

*Side Notes*

Thanks again to Gus and Annie for filling in for me while I was keeping the original party people in line this weekend.

Gus has offered me either a cut of the blubber or a ship named after lil ole me. I think I'll take the ship, as long as the blubbery bastard doesn't destroy it.

Diversity Extravaganza

The weekend with the Original Party People went exceptionally well, as usual. Since my DNA comes directly from them, it is no wonder why I have such diverse people in my life.

Friday night we had a small dinner party for 50 or so people of about every age, race, gender, and economic status you can imagine.

If you were a fly on the wall at this little soiree, here are some things you might have heard:

"Renee Zellweger gained a bunch of weight for that movie. She weighed 145 when she made it."

"145 is fat????? That's my goal weight."

"Oh the nipple piercing hurt way less then that one"

"Just leave him be. I lived on a rat infested Island in the South Pacific so that he could sound that stupid."

"Woodstock was the about love, peace...coming together. What? Jimmy? Hell, I don't remember, I was stoned out of my mind."

"Gem is truly outrageous, truly, truly, truly, outrageous!"

"First Kerry lost, and now there are no more blue jello shots? Will it ever end???"

"Is it wrong to get turned on by gratuitous puppet sex?"

"That's a cat? It looks like a small pony."

"FMK-George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Keannu Reeves"

For those of you that haven't done this, FMK is fuck, marry, kill. You apply one to each of the three people in the same "class", like Fuck George Clooney, Marry Brad Pitt, Kill Keannu Reeves. This particular group caused the most debate, as we took turns arguing about if we should kill or fuck Keannu or George, but every woman there unanimously wanted to marry Brad.

My least favorite quotes from the night are as follows:

"I just don't see why you aren't married."

"Is it that hard to find a good man now?"

"Why hasn't some guy come and swooped you up yet?"

"I know this guy that would be just PERFECT for you."

Egads...Make it stop...Those damn baby boomers are always trying to marry you off.

After this weekend, it shall be an interesting blog week here at FFS I.

Guest Blogger Annie

When KJ asked me to guest blog, I said sure. Then she told me I was following Gus. That worried me because Mr. Openshaw is a tough act to follow. But, in the spirit of her blog, I said "f**k it" and pulled something automobile related from my archives in honor of our carmaker friend Kelly. Hope you enjoy...

Evolution of a car owner:

For the love of god people - quit stealing the "Support our Troops" yellow ribbon magnet off of my SUV. They are only about $5 and can be found everywhere. Get your own!

Cars are getting so personal nowadays - it's like lockers in high school. Everyone has one with their own combination but there is still this desire to "fancy" them up. A car is no longer just a car. It is a personality statement on wheels.

First it was the signifigance of whatever you had hanging from your rearview mirror. Garters, tassles, dice, crosses, crystals, sunglasses, air freshners, etc.

Then came vanity plates, specialized plates, bobbleheads, license plate frames, personalized mudflaps, silver car decals, window clings, those suction cup yellow "Baby on Board" signs, specialized paint jobs, neon lighting, steering wheel covers, seat covers, floormats and of course specialized rims. And heaven forbid I forget the people who load up the rearview window with stuffed animals.

And how about those antennae toppers? Next time you are at a stoplight, look around and you will probably see a yellow Walmart smiley face, some Mickey Mouse ears, a Jack-In-the-Box and a multitude of sports related items. Someone is making big bucks off of this idea.

To each his/her own but I must confess to loathing bumper stickers. Come on people - the term "four more years" does not mean that's how long your election campaign sticker must stay on your car. And for the love of god, stop embrassing your kids with those "my son is an honor student" labels. Trust me, the tassles/ropes at graduation will be more than sufficient.

Speaking of tassles, I must admit that when I was in high school, I was one of those people who had a tassle and a garter hanging from my rearview mirror. My boyfriend even had a "monster truck" with his last name painted on the tailgate. (Can you hear the 80's music playing now?) Today my SUV does have specialized plates (U of M Griz) and I have silver "etched" Griz paws on my rear brake lights. But that's it.

Because people keep stealing my "Support the Troops" yellow ribbon magnet...

So readers - what have you got? Have you pimped your ride?

Visit Annie's Blog

Guest Blogger Gus Openshaw

I Got A Fish To Kill
Don't make me relive the details just now. The short of it: a whale ate my wife, kid and right arm. And he got away. For the time being.

Now, there are these Indians in the state of Washington. They have one of those licenses you can get—because of a special religious dispensation or whatever—to kill one whale a year. For probation agreement reasons that I can't get into, I had to get myself one of these licenses before I could go back out on the water—let alone set a toe on a dock—without getting shot at by the damn Coast Guard. So I went up to Washington to pow-wow with those Indians.

Prior to the incident, I worked on the line at a cat food cannery. Literally the worst stinking job you can get. Point is, I was earning just north of squat. But I'd married way better than I deserved. And when she died, I was worth—including everything from the house to my boxer shorts—$515,200. Oddly, the Indian Chief priced the license at $515,000, take it or leave it. I took it, gladly. I later learned that my lawyer had "coincidentally" done some "legal work" for the same Indians that same day, getting him a check $51,500. But I was too busy readying my boat to care about the lawyer. My thoughts were on getting to the neck of the Caribbean where a particularly fat sperm whale had been sighted.

I bought an old wooden cabin cruiser from a geezer in Port Helslop, Washington for $20. Wood boats are a bitch is why. Takes a good couple hundred hours to scrape and paint the hulls every year. Invention of fiberglass made wood boats' asses obsolete. So folks with wood boats they don't use no more are left with this dilemma: "Do I keep paying two grand a year to keep this sucker in dry dock, or do I pay some guy twice that much to come over, chain saw my family heirloom apart and haul it to the dump?" So the price for these craft is zip. The twenty bucks was for the gas in her. And it was a good fifty bucks worth of gas.

A few days later, a few leagues north of the Equator, I upgraded to a 180-foot superyacht that came with this computer I'm blogging on now. I'll get to that next time I blog. Now I got to hit the head.

Please keep on reading so you get caught up and be of use to me and my crew in finding the bastard.



Thanks,

Gus

Veteran's Day

On the 11th hour, of the 11th, day, of the 11th year...

I heart our Veterans, and those Veterans around the world that have fought with us through the years. Thank you for my freedom.

Freaky Linky-Love

With the celebration of Blog It Forward, my post below this one, I started thinking. We all know what a dangerous prospect that is.

We all find blogs by links on blogs we like, or through link exchanges like Blog Explosions.

If you could get some freak linky-love going with any site in the Blog-o-sphere, what blog would it be?

Would it be Dooce, because secretly you want to get fired for you blog too? Would it be Widget, because you are a uber-intellectual/secret hit whore that KNOWS a link on that site would bring huge amounts of traffic? Would it be Rance, because you just know you are a star dahling, and it's about time everyone else knew too? Is it mine, because you know flattery will get you everywhere?

Tell me, big or small, what blog you just wish you could get linked up with.

I know I don't have halo whatever comments and I have the suck ass blogger comments, but I allow anonymous posts. Make sure you put your link in so I can share some freaky linky-love with you!

Oh, and don't pass up my Blog It Forward post. There are some mighty fine blogs listed there that might just be a freaky linky-love match made in heaven with you.

Blog It Forward

I ran across this post about Blog It Forward Day, or BIF for short.

Basically, you have a post describing some of the blog links on your page and why you heart them. Hopefully people will go visit them, thus Blogging It Forward. Here we go:

Tall Poppy Diaries: I heart Pink Poppy because she has all the greatest fashions and trends going. She has great shopping links, hilarious pictures, and heart-felt stories.

There are many trend type blogs out there, but the Poppster infuses hers with heart, laughter, and class. She's also my Blog Explosion Pimp, and a hell of a lady.

The Bulgy Bit: I heart this blog because it's author gives many different perspectives to things in life. She's an ex-pat from Canada that lives all over the world. She was in Africa, but recently she has moved to Egypt. You get a unique view of how things work all around the world, and she's a damn good writer.

Pound: I've hearted Pound for years. She started out as a diary, and became a blog a year or two ago. The old diary entries are still there, and she discusses everything from Pop Culture to her struggles with weight loss.

She's a great writer, which is apparent as she is about to publish her first book. Go take a look-see, and you can say you knew her when!

Annie in Montana: I heart Annie in Montana because of her honesty. You can tell with every post that she is letting you in on just a bit of her life and showing even more of her heart. She's a natural born storyteller that brings you into her tales like you were there right along side of her as it was happening.

She is working on Hollywood via Montana, and if anyone can do it, Annie can.

Gus Openshaw's Whale Killing Journal: I heart Gus Openshaw's Whale Killing Journal for it's creativity, humor, and artwork, or scrimshaws as they are called there.

It is about a man who's wife, kid, and arm were eaten by a whale, and he's out seeking revenge. You need to start from the beginning to appreciate this blog, but it is time well spent. He's a great guy too, I might add.

The Zero Boss: I heart the Zero Boss because well, he's the Zero Boss. A man living with all those kids gives such a refreshing perspective on life. I also found him through Blog Explosion, which made every minute spent with BE well worth it.

If I didn't list you here, please don't be hurt. I'm on a time limit here, and the original BIF said to do two or three, but I went with six because I'm an over achiever like that.

Happy surfing!

Random Extravaganza

A few updates to my week thus far:

We found out my Cousin B will be joining us for the weekend of debauchery with the Original Party People (my parents). This will make things at least four times more interesting, as he is a professional gambler.

He plays poker, and people pay him to do it. They like give him money to gamble, and he goes, gambles, and gives them a percentage of what he wins.

Just so you are straight on this, he goes to exotic locations all over the world, doesn't pay for a damn thing, drinks, eats, and stays for free, and someone else pays for it.

I don't know about you, but we didn't have a Professional Poker Player at my Career Day in high school, otherwise I wouldn't be building freakin' cars right now.

Then again, I also didn't know that you could get paid to pick out expensive clothes. I'm already good at that. But I digress...

In other news, my shithead nephew found my blog. Oh, he knew I had one, and he has a Blog Explosion account because he likes reading blogs, but he never knew the location of mine.

Until, that is, he surfed right onto my site today. I'm not sure how I feel about this, but I guess there is really nothing I can do about it now.

About his only reaction was the way that I say words like "fuck" and "shit". "You barely ever say anything like that, if ever," he told me. He's right actually.

My Mom pounded into our heads that only people with a limited vocabulary curse. Then she turned 60 and started cussing like a trucker. Go figure. Maybe I'm going to start earlier then her, say 34ish, which is just around the corner. I'm not liking the thought of 34, but that's another post altogether.

Hey Joey! Get off my blog you little shit!

I won't be able to post Friday and Saturday because of the Parental Unit Extravaganza, but I have two talented guest bloggers lined up. Gus Openshaw, a man who's wife, kid, and arm were eaten by a whale, and Annie from Montana, one of my fav cyberspace type people. I'm all about variety dude.

Yo Dudes!

I got around to checking my Stat Counter today, and there are a ton of you out there in cyber space that have linked to me. I don't have much time to see who is linking to me, so let me know so that I can return the favor.

Shoot me an email and let me know so that I can share some of that linky-love with you in my link swap section over there---> to the left, to the left, to the left...

*Update*
Reader Amy correctly pointed out that my Linky-Love section is indeed to the right. In my defense I would like to say that I am blonde. That is all.

I Miss My Door

About a year ago, I was forced to give up my door at work. They were going for this new concept. Yes, the dreaded cubicle.

It's not really a cubicle, as we do not have tall walls around us. There are short walls around us. So that we can see each other and *share*...

This has got to be about the worst way to work ever invented. People are freakin' rude. They will see me sitting at my computer, busily working away, and will just STAND there behind me, or worse yet, start asking me their question, even if I'm on the phone.

All of this forced me to make a sign that read, "Please let me stop what I'm doing so that I can handle your emergency!" This prompted the PC Police to swoop down on me, as someone found it "offensive". The funny thing was, the person that found it offensive is the worst offender of interrupting me when I am busy.

My job does require a lot of contact with people. Everyone that works in the plant uses the system that I run. I'm in high demand, and being that visible is not a good thing.

I have now taken to acting like people are invisible. Oh, and mute. If I'm obviously busy doing something, I act like they aren't there. Rude? Oh yes, it is very rude, but I'm beyond the point of caring.

The longest someone ever stood there while I pretended they were invisible and/or mute? 9 and 1/2 minutes. What an idiot.

It's also really loud. I do things like dissect the whole electrical system for a car into graphical form. This, my dear readers, is a rather daunting task, as most things I do are. Programming is also involved, and anyone that has ever done either of the things will tell you that you need absolute quiet.

The guy next to me loves to blast his music. The guy on the other side of me has a crush on the girl two desks to the other side of me, and is always joking around with her, talking over me and the dude with the loud music.

I.just.want.to.scream.

This is one good thing about the horrendous shift I work, 5:30pm to 5:30am. I forgot how nice it is to work in peace and quiet. Barely an interruption, I am at least 10 times more productive.

So what brain child came up with this concept? I guess our European counterparts have this concept going on, and our company thought it would encourage people to communicate and work together.

I asked one of said Europeans that visits our plants on a regular basis if this really works over there. He told me, "Yes, it works quite well actually. It is not such a good idea here as Americans tend to be a bit more boisterous."

Translation: We are loud as hell.

So any of you Americans out there that might be considering going to an "open" concept at work: DON'T DO IT. Keep your door, and window if you are lucky enough to have one.

I've finally lost it...

Yes, your eyes are not deceiving you. You are witnessing a Christmas extravaganza here at For F*ck's Sake.

Break out the straight jacket, as it is still two weeks from Thanksgiving.

In my defense, I would like to say that I work like 12 hours a day 7 days a week, so when I got the opportunity to upload the Christmas junk I made I jumped on it.

Actually, it really is only 42 days from Christmas. Have you started shopping yet?

For the love of God NO!

I received some bad news today.

My friend is getting married.

This is probably good news for her, but bad for me. I just cannot be a bridesmaid again.

For the love of God NO!

You have to understand, I'm a professional when it comes to being a bridesmaid. I have stood up in like 9 weddings. I've paid my dues, bought the ugly dresses, and hired the strippers.

Most of all, I lived through the Mother of all Bridezilla's two years ago with wedding #9, and I still suffer from Post traumatic Stress Syndrome as a result. I slightly twitch around big white dresses or anytime a group of people wear matching clothes.

It's been my experience that the older the bride is, the worse the time preceding the wedding will be, especially if it is her 1st. My friend that is getting married is 34, so it shouldn't be as bad as Bridezilla, since she was 42.

Bridezilla had dreamed of being married since she was a little girl, and had planned it out way before she was ever asked. She was finally asked at age 40, and she continued to plan for two years.

Now I didn't even have to take most of the blows, considering I wasn't in the original wedding party. We were friends before she was engaged, but not close enough that she'd ask me to stand up in her wedding. The closer the wedding got, the more horror stories I heard from her about her awful best friends and how unsupportive they were.

God I'm such a schmuck, as I signed on after two bridesmaids quit. Yes, they quit. I didn't know you could quit being a bridesmaid, but she had two, count 'em two, quit. You would think this would have been my first clue as to the hell I was about to face.

So I was drafted about 6 months before the wedding. One of the AWOL bridesmaids sent me an email that just said, "Good luck!" Curious, very curious.

It was ok for like a day. Then I had to get fitted for my dress. She was all worried about my dress not coming from the same exact material as the others. When they other dresses were made, she insisted that they all came from a continuous sheet of fabric, so they would be perfect. I heard the word perfect so many times that I can barely speak it to this day.

She wanted me to use one of the AWOL bridesmaid's dresses, but there was a problem. One of them was really big, and one was really small. You would either have to cut half the dress off from one, or expand on the other. The people at the dress shop tried to assure her that we needed to just order me another dress, as neither of the dresses would look right.

She had a freakin' fit in the middle of the shop. I stood in shock, wanting to run, but afraid she'd have a tranquilizer gun or something. It was then decided to order my dress, but keep the other two just in case it didn't match perfect.

The dress came in, and we went to look at it. It took her an hour and a half to inspect it, matching it to the other 5 dresses, to be sure it would work. I stood there like a child waiting in the dentist's office. Pure, unadulterated torture.

She finally gave it the thumbs up, and I slipped into the dress to see how it fit. She looked on in horror as it was way to big in the waist and the hips.

I have really big breasts. Sue me. This is what happens when people like me get a dress. We have to get it like 4 sizes to big, and then they cut a bunch off the waist and hips. Another temper tantrum ensued, as she was sure it wouldn't look perfect once they did all the alterations.

She then came up with the brilliant idea of maybe I could bind myself, and we could then order a smaller dress with less alterations.

Bind myself? Is this the fucking little house on the prairie days or what? I had been pushed to my limit at this point, and told her in no uncertain terms that I would not be fucking binding myself or buying another dress. If the twins presented that much of a problem, perhaps I shouldn't be in the wedding at all.

There was hope. Maybe she would kick me out now. Instead I saw the fear in her eyes, as she had experienced dissenting bridesmaids before. She immediately started crying and apologizing. Ha! While it sucked that I wasn't thrown out of the wedding party, at least I knew her weakness now.

The next four months crawled by, and I tried to side step any unnecessary conversation that might take place. Caller ID became my savior, as I would not answer if she called. Usually there was some fucked up message left by her about if the cake should be a half inch taller or not. Shit like this. It was unbearable.

She left a 911 message about how she had to see me one day, and I went to her house before work. She was making these little flower things for the shower, and she just didn't know what to do! She had two different shades of Burgundy and couldn't decide which one was more perfect.

I'm a fucking autoworker. They breed all that girl shit out of you by the time orientation is done. I honestly could not tell a difference between the two. "You're not trying!!!" she lamented.

By the time the wedding rolled around not one of us were really talking to her except for when we had to. We stood in that receiving line like soldiers who had been through a war together. It was absolutely the worst experience ever.

These are just a couple of experiences to give you just a taste of what she put us through, and I could probably write a book on the experience. There were just that many horror stories involved with it.

I swore off weddings after that. Nevah again! I haven't talked to her since when she first got back from her honeymoon. The really sad part is a good portion of her family stopped talking to her also, as the hell I went through probably didn't compare to what they went through.

So now my other friend is getting married. I'm not doing it, no I'm not. I will stand firm this time. I give a firm No! so that she doesn't ask me again.

And then I'll go out and by the ugly bridesmaid dress, and hire the strippers.

I'm Itchy

That's right, I said Itchy. Not in a poison ivy kind of way, or in a mosquito bite kind of way.

It's just as annoying as those two though.

If my life had turned out different then it has, this itchy feeling would probably make me move to a different state or even country. It would have made me switch jobs or even careers. It would have been some kind of change, some big upsetting event that made everything in my life different.

I, unlike most of the population on Earth, despise things staying the same. I hate feeling like I'm in a rut.

When I was younger I wanted to be a writer, an artist, a CEO, a sculpter, a small business owner, a lawyer, a publicist, an editor, and a director.

Like all of them. In one lifetime.

So far I've been an Optometric Technican, a writer, an assembly line worker, a web developer, and a systems coordinator. I've fallen off the track somewhere I think...

I fell off the track the day I was diagnosed with Diabetes. That put an end to probably what would have been a fly by the seat of my pants life. Even though I was needed to help my family those late teens to early 20's years, I still would have went a path less traveled if I wasn't in grave need of health insurance.

Itchy.

Some of the things I have done in the past during major itchy moments were write for a local rag mag, start a web design business, get another degree, fall in love, and bought a house.

Anything to throw my life in complete upheaval and turmoil. Anything that would bring me new people, new places...

I know part of my itchy-ness is brought on by the fact of how many hours I am working. It's not all of it though, as I'm sure that when I first started writing this blog 95 posts ago that it was the beginning of my itchy-ness.

So let's spin the Roulette wheel, shall we? What will it be? Start a new business? Find some guy and fall in love? Move? Go back to school? Finally get serious about my writing?

Finally get serious about my writing. This is what I know I need to do, but it doesn't scratch the itchy-ness good enough. It doesn't spin my life 360 degrees in the other direction in a heart beat.

If I did get serious, do what I know I'm capable of doing, it could give me some of the freedom I so badly desire.

Why does that thought scare the hell out of me at times? I have a real good excuse right now on why I am not where I always saw myself being. What if I gave it 100% and failed?

I haven't really ever failed at anything. I supposed that sounds pretty damn arrogant, and reading it again, it sounds real damn arrogant.

Part of the reason is shear drive and determination, and the other part is total luck. I'm like the luckiest person on Earth. I fall into things. Anything totally bad that has happened to me in my lifetime has ended up enriching it to the better three fold.

If you believe in Karma or past lives, I must have been a Saint in my past life, because I have the best friends and family in my life. My Guardian Angel is on speed dial, if you will.

So the whole being afraid of failure thing is just not like me. Not.at.all. Usually, if someone says I can't do something it makes me want to do it 10 times more, and I'll die before I give up.

Why is it different with writing? Is it because it is something that is totally me, something totally from my creative soul?

Itchy...

My Mom is an Addict

A friend of mine sent me a program with all the old Koleco Vision games on it. Mr. Doo, Pepper II, BurgerTime, Ladybug, Miner 49er, Frogger, BoulderDash, Defender....On and on the list goes...

If you know any of these, you, like myself were a child of the 80's. Before PlayStation and XBox we had Atari and Koleco Vision. The very first video game system we got in our household was called Odyssey.

My parents were adamant about us not having one of these in our house, but said if we could pay for it we could get it. At this time, you could probably buy a decent used car for the price of a video game system. I'm sure they figured we would never do it.

You would think they would know how stubborn their own children were, wouldn't you?

After a winter of snow shoveling, Christmas Caroling (we had no shame), paper delivering, raffling of my older sister's bike (she never rode it anyway), and dog walking (Donder and Blitzen two huge dogs that really walked us), we had the money for our precious video game system that spring.

We had enough money to buy one game, so we got KC Munchkin. KC Munchkin was a Pac-Man rip off. My brother and I excitedly hooked it up to an old 13" TV, as my parents wouldn't let us hook it up to the regular TV.

My Mom came into the room shaking her head as we started to play. Then something happened. She started intently looking at the screen. Then she started barking orders at us. "You should have went right!" "Go get all the wafers at the bottom first!" "Don't eat the magic pellet until half the screen is gone!"

Finally she ripped the controller from us just to "show us" what to do.

We haven't ever gotten the controller back.

She played and played and played. We finally started whining about how we worked for the money for it and it was ours. "Get me my purse," was her answer to that, and she gave us the money back for the game. I'm pretty sure at that moment I saw how a person trying to score their second hit of coke acts.

Within the next couple of days it was hooked up to the regular TV, and my Mom was getting better with sharing. We had gotten some two player games, so at least we got to play once she got killed. There was only one problem with this though-she was good, real good. Way better then us. The balance of power was way off kilter.

The good thing about this is when the gaming industry picked up and new systems came out, we were always the first ones to get them. Atari, check. Sega Genesis, check. Nintendo, check. She even managed to get my Father semi-addicted, so we pretty much gave up on video games considering there were no controllers left for us.

My Mom even melted a MegaMania tape in the Atari when she finally turned it over. That was classic.

She also learned about the local arcade. One time when she was dropping my brother and I off she decided to come in. There she was, slowly walking through the arcade with her Farrah hair and tight Gloria VanDerbilt jeans. Being a small child I always assumed she gathered a crowd because of how she always beat everyone's high scores, but as an adult I realize it probably had more to do with the Farrah hair and tight jeans.

After that we would go about once a week to make sure that "Suzy-Q" was listed as the top scorer on most of the games.

It's 20 years later, and she's still a video game freak. She has PlayStation II and XBox. They have a video game room with the new games and also the old Odyssey, Atari, Sega, and Nintendo. Nice big screen TV, too. She still gets the highest scores, and my nephews think it is coolio that their Grandma can whip their ass at almost every game there is.

An Eye for an Eye

I heart Blog Explosion.

They just came up with another new feature that is absolutely fantastic.

You can see who rated your blog, and what they rated it.

The reason this is such a good feature is I think some people were abusing the rating system. For example, I was checking out the Blog Directory and was pleasantly surprised to find not only myself, but my BE Pimp Poppy on the top ten rated blog list. I was at like 7.6 and Poppy was at 7.9.

It updates like every hour, so the next time I checked we were both off the list. I fell to a 5, and Poppy to a 6.

Bastards. That's just not right.

Now you can see the low ballers! Not only can you see them, but you can turn around and rate them the same way they rated you! I don't plan on doing this, but I just might if someone keeps doing it over and over. eh hem...

I'm not saying my blog is a perfect 10, but considering my current ratings that show (anything before Nov. 3rd doesn't show) I have a 10, 10, 10, 9, 9, 7, 6, and a 1, I'd tend to think that the 1 was an on purpose kind of deal. Some people won't dig my blog, and I can understand that. But a 1? Come on...

To Date or Not To Date Part Dos

Ok, so one post wasn't enough on this topic.

Commenter MaxedOutMama made a fine point by asking:

Why don't you ask the geeks you like out? If you're attractive, they're probably not even thinking they should give it a shot. A lot of women think geeks are boring, and most of them know that.

Dude. I so can not ask a guy out.

I know what you guys are thinking. I'm the outgoing person, and I am, except for that.

I have no man radar. I'm clueless when it comes to if a guy likes me or not. After spending years working with 3,000 of them, you'd think I'd know them pretty well, eh?

Truth of the matter is I don't. I have so many friends that are guys and work with so many that I always just assume they want to be my friend, because that is what most of the men in my life are.

I asked a guy out once, and I almost needed valium for a week afterwards. He said yes, but I practically had a panic attack while I was asking.

Oh.my.God.

How do you men do it? I am so extroverted, you would think it would be easy. Not.at.all.

I would be so screwed if I were a man.

Really, the worse that can happen is they say no. Well, really the worse is your ego will be pounded into the dirt, and you'll feel like an ass every time you are around them.

I have asked people out on accident, and it went well. They thought I was asking them out, but I was really just like, "Hey dude, let's do this," in a friend kind of way. When they kissed me at the end of the night my clueless ass was like, "oh!"

Duh.

My last relationship actually started that way. He said he had always wanted to learn how to play craps. I was like, "Let's go Saturday, I'll show you." He took this as me asking him out, I took it as cool I get to go play craps.

He didn't technically fall into the "geek" category, but I don't know if "geek" is a good description of my type. Intelligent. That's probably better. Someone that will challenge my mind.

Looks are just icing on the cake for me, as I could really care less. Someone that starts a good conversation gets my motor running way more then someone who is just good looking. I'd get bored with that real fast.

I'm doomed. I'm doomed to be a bad boy tamer for the rest of my life.

Better yet, maybe I'll just get one more of these:



and become a crazy cat lady!

To Date, or Not to Date

This is the dilemma.

I can't remember the last time I went on a date.

Oh wait, it was September 12th. Thank God for blogs...

I don't think it counts as a date if it is a booty call, does it?

The dilemma is coming into play as I am finally, after about 6 months of working 12 hours a day, 7 days a week with the sporadic and rare day off, am going to start having at least one day off a week.

Maybe two.

This means I can date.

No more excuses.

I.suck.at.dating.

Meeting people is no problem. I'm a bit outgoing, if you haven't gathered that from my writing. I'm also what society deems "attractive" I guess, so there usually is no problem filling out my dance card. Oh, and I don't lack in the confidence department. *snort*

I used to be a certified bad boy tamer. I could turn a bad boy into a model boyfriend in a month flat. It's a gift.

I don't have that kind of patience anymore, and really, I'm attracted usually to the more geeky type? I guess you could say. Geeks never ask me out. Never.

Then the whole sex issue comes into play. I'm very picky about who is good enough to touch me. My sexual partner number is lower then most 15 year olds, and I'd like to keep it that way. Most men do not understand this coming from a 33 year old woman, but then again, I really don't care.

I have to know someone really, really well before it would ever get that far. If you have ever dealt with a loved one having AIDS, it changes your whole attitude towards sex, and exactly how important the act is compared with what can happen. I am disease free, thank you very much, and plan to stay that way. 1% chance is to high for me, as I've seen the disease ravish someone very close to me.

The boy toy was my first foray into the whole sex without strings, and while I'll admit it was great, he was also someone I knew for a long time, and someone who had an AIDS test.

So let's review. I like geeks who never ask me out. I end up with a bad boy that needs tamed, and then he doesn't understand why I won't do the deed until he is professing his undying love and dropping by the local clinic for a little blood test.

I.suck.at.dating.

So if all that wasn't enough, then they find out I'm not normal. I don't bitch, whine, or complain. If I am to that point, your ass will be long gone. You want to go out with your friends? Great! Then I can go out with mine! You don't want to snuggle all night? Wonderful...

I do all the things that men say they want, and guess what? It pisses them off. Men don't know what they want anymore then women do. I get accused of "not caring" enough or being "unemotional"... For F*ck's Sake...

If all that wasn't bad enough, then I have my rules. Oh yes, I have my rules for the guys in my life.

Thou shalt not forget to open my car door, or thou shalt not go out with me again.

Thou shall have a job of some kind.

Thou shalt not drink everyday, with seldom being the preferred answer.

Thou shalt never do drugs.

Thou shall have ambition and wish to better your life.

Thou shall have compassion and empathy for those less fortunate then yourself.

Thou shalt not be a whiny complaining little bitch because I do not cling to your ass like Saran wrap.

Thou shall be taller then I.

Thou shall have a family that I can stand to share a room with for more then five minutes.

Thou shalt not bitch because I work a lot.

Thou shalt not be insecure because I make more money then thou.

Optional Rules:

Thou shall have big thighs.

I don't ask for much, do I?

Yeah, I'm fucked when it comes to dating...

Being Popular's a Bitch

Thanks to my post about my faerie costume looking a bit slut-ish (promise pictures coming soon Poppy, I'm still stalking my friend), a search engine picked up the word slut in my post, and it has brought me some rather undesirable readers.

Here's an example of an email I received the other day:

U R hot. U should put up a full body shot because I bet u r even hotter then.

IM me sometime.

Oooook...I have gotten like 5 people like this who have emailed me. Is it time to take the email down? Is it time to take the picture down? Hell I put a pic up where I don't even have make-up on and my hair looks like crap.

Most of these came from the dubious search engine results, and some may have come from Blog Explosion I guess. I get an awful lot of traffic from there.

This makes me think of two different things. Why do I have my picture up, and why do so many people not have their picture up.

I'm a veteran when it comes to blogging, as I've had several in the past. If your reason for not putting your pic up is so that no one will know it's you, let me tell you one thing. If you write about your life and are true to it, people will know it's you even with name/location changes.

I guess I put my pic up because I'm a visual person. I like blogs that do that, because I can visualize the person who is writing it. The agonizing part for me was picking which one, as I know all to well about the predatory pervs that the net attracts like flies on shit.

This is no way means that I think a photo of me is the shit. These people are not picky. If you are half way attractive and do not weigh 500 lbs they descend like a pack of wolves on an unguarded lamb.

Ok, I realize that was lame, but I was up all freakin' night with the election junk and I didn't want to use fly on shit twice. This post just blows.

I'd say while surfing BE one in maybe 10 will have a picture of themselves on it. Why, or why not do you have your picture on your blog?

In unrelated news, the Original Party People (my parents for any newbies) have moved back their visit to the weekend of the 12th, as my cousin is going down there for her birthday. They still have to plan that wedding though, as it is only 2 years away!

OH hell the link is down there somewhere about the wedding. It's the post called "My Parental Units Have Decided to Get Married Again" To tired to do HTML.

I'm allowed to write posts that blow and be lazy today.

Voter's Remorse

Well I did it. I voted. As my 90 year old Grandpa said, "It's sad to say, but in the first time I am voting against someone instead of for someone."

What a sad statement.

He's voting in 16 or 17 elections? Something like that. The first time he voted, who did he vote for? Franklin D. Roosevelt. Fuck he's old.

I was kind of depressed when I got off work last night/early this morning, whatever your point of view is. It was 5:30 in the morning, as I was just dead tired after a long, 12 hour day that required all my physical and mental energy.

Going to vote today weighed on my conscience greatly, as I see it to be a great responsibility as well as a great priviledge. I knew what I needed to do, but didn't want to do it. I was voting against someone instead of for someone.

So as I drove home and thought of the consequences of my vote, I mulled over the fate of what was to come in the next four years.

What if Bush is elected? Will there be more wars, more hatred towards the United States? Will the rich get richer and the poor get poorer? Will we enrage a world by electing the man they hate so much again, even after we know what he will do?

What is Kerry is elected? Will there be big socialist programs that inevitably we middle class will end up paying for with our blood and sweat, no matter how much the Democrats preach about the rich paying for these things? We will be seen as weak and an easy target? Will he do what his history shows and abandon Iraq, leaving turmoil and the perfect setting for another crazy ass fucked up freak to take control?

This is not a very good outlook, no matter who you consider will win. I fell deeper into despair as I wrestled with these thoughts on the drive home. At the point of total exhaustion, I pulled into a gas station to grab something, anything with caffeine so that I could make the rest of the drive home.

That is when my attitude changed. You don't see what I saw in the news, in movies, or on TV shows. You don't see it in the newspapers or on the Internet.

What I saw, was what America really is. At 5:30 in the morning, you see the reality.

You see the people that get up every day to earn an honest wage for honest work. You see the guy that is going to go wade in shit for the next 8 hours so that a family can flush their toilet. That guy in the business suit? He just finished up his Masters, and is dreaming of an office with walls and windows.

There's a single woman with her sleepy kids just trying to pay for her gas and praying that she gets that promotion so that she doesn't have to drag her kids out so early anymore. The man behind the counter is retired from his former job, but working part time to make a bit of extra spending money so that he can take his wife on that vacation she always dreamed about.

Then there is me. One generation from extreme poverty, I escaped this fate because of a Father with vision and a good work ethic and faith. Faith that anyone in this country could be whatever they wanted, if they just worked hard enough. Faith that his kids would have better, and they would never go to bed hungry as he had so many nights in his childhood.

This is America. It is not who wins tonight. This America will be alright no matter who wins. This America will always go on, and their spirit will not be broken. They will clean up the mess, throw it away, and begin again if necessary.

I have faith in this America. I have to.