Me Vs. God/Fate Whatever

So I went out with my good friend C Wednesday night. We had one major thing in common for New Year's Eve, and that thing was we are both going on long distance booty calls.

His booty call was with some chick he just met while visiting with a friend and his wife, and he is going to fly to the East coast to be with her for the weekend. He informed me he was in much need of some lovin', which is hard ot believe considering the man is a really tall Italian boy who is quite easy on the eyes.

I think it has more to do with the fact of the ex on and off again girlfriend that hangs around our parts, and the safest bet is a thousand or so miles away. That, and the booty call chick seems pretty cool and has traveled a lot. I know that intrigues him.

My booty call is a bit more dangerous. My booty call is going to be with The Mystery Man.

I realize this is probably a huge mistake. Enormous mistake.

Anyway, as we lament to each other over a few Jager Bombs and a couple (or more) Miller Lites about the fact that we both gotta travel to each end of the freakin' coast of our great nation just to get laid.

How sad indeed.

Now I have a valid excuse. I have a very low sexual partner number, so having sex with him won't add to it. Almost any chick can have sex just about anytime she wants, right?

That, and I'm real fucking picky about who is allowed to touch me.

And to be quite honest, in a TMI kind of way, I just need to have sex. It's been awhile....................

So while he's driving me home he informs me that it would be his luck that she'll be on her period or something.

Bastard.

I knew it when he said it. I knew the fucker was going to jinx me.

All men who are squeamish about any female junk are free to jump ship now. I promise not to go into to much detail, but I'm givin' you an out.

So today I start packing to leave for the weekend. I know I felt it yesterday, that icky, I'm kind of tired and my back kind of hurts. If I just ignored it, maybe it would go away. I mean really, that is a whole seven days away, and when I start is more dependable then a Swiss fucking watch.

Fucking fate.

You see, I do believe in Destiny and Divine Intervention and all that jazz. I do think we have free will, but Fate/God/Whatever you believe in will bitch smack your ass when you go to far off your path.

So the bitch known as Fate is trying to stop me from going off my path.

I decide the fastest way to avoid this disaster is to talk to God directly.

I promise Him it'll be just this one time. Mystery Man and I have talked about this. We are not going to start anything back up. We know we are wrong for each other.

But we both need to get laid. I mean really God, you are the one that put all these damn hormones in us to begin with, right? Isn't this much better then picking up some random stranger?

Huh? Huh?

So as I sit here typing I'm thinking my pleading with God has not done a damn bit off good. It hasn't happened yet, but it's going to, and soon.

I'll be there by 8. It's almost one now. If I can just by some miracle of GOD (yeah, you, I'm talking about you) hold out until say 11 ish, I shall feel much better.

Actually if I could hold out until Sunday afternoon would be even better, but hey, beggars can't be choosers, ya know?

So if Fate decides to bitch smack my ass, I'm going to kill C when we both return. Not that it's his fault or anything, but all that pent up frustration needs to go somewhere.

That, or I'll make the jinxer have sex with me. Ha! That'll teach 'em all...

I'm sure that Fate would think this is a much bigger mistake then Mystery Man, because I adore the hell out of this man and it would suck if I wrecked it.

So I got me a little bit of a playing card. Hopefully fate doesn't know that I'm bluffing.

Pray to your Diety for me. 8 hours and counting...

Oh, and have a great New Years. I won't be back until Sunday night/Monday morning. May you all have wonderful sex this weekend, and hopefully you think the same for me.

Eharmony Mind Control

So yesterday I told you how I would post the five multiple questions that I can send to these people at Eharmony.

All ten people that requested communication answer my five non-descript multiple choice questions almost identical.

My Questions are:

How often do you lose your temper?

A. Practically never
B. Once in awhile
C. On occasion during a week
D. Probably once a day on average

By some wild coincidence not one of ten people lose their temper!! If I answered that it would probably D, but I work in IT now and deal with idjits on a daily basis, FFS!

Next Q:

If you went out to eat with a friend, which would you prefer?

A. A nice 4-star restaurant
B. A basic Steakhouse
C. An undiscovered hideaway
D. A hole in the wall with great food

Miraculously they all chose to write in the answer with sometime of to the affect that it depends on who they are with. Fuck depending on who you are with. Give me a hole in the wall with great food any day.

Next Q:

Which of the following things would you rather have lots of?

A. Respect
B. Fame
C. Money
D. Power

Another write in deal where they all said "Love". Altogether now...Awwwwwwwww!

Next Q:

Your idea of adventure is:

A. Whitewater Rafting
B. Karaoke singing
C. Trying a different route to work
D. Ordering a dish you've never tried before

We have a bunch of whitewater rafters in our midst. If ever there was a write in question, this is it folks.

Last Q:

Which of the following scenarios would make you more nervous?

A: Making a presentation to 500 people
B. A long car ride with someone you just met
C. Talking about your deepest fears with your lover
D. Meeting with the president of the company you work for

I sincerely hope none of them meet the president of their company. To me, that would be/was the easiest, as I've done all of these things and didn't find any of them particularity nerve racking.

Personality matching my ass.

So after you send these things and they send them to you there is a list of Must Haves/Can't Stands that you send each other.

There is one thing about this that really kinda of freaked my shit out.

One of the Can't stands that seems to be on all their lists is: Poor Hygiene...... I can't stand someone who is not clean.

What the fuck kind of women have they been dating? I mean, you have a billion things to chose from, and they think this is a necessity to say?

This starts to worry me, because I sure as hell did not pick that one because I thought for sure that Good Hygiene would be an unspoken Must have, alright? I mean in the can't stand category there are lots of good things like people that hold grudges or bad tempers or materialistic or mean spirited or no cheaters. All of these and they choose Poor Hygiene?

Am I doomed to date the smelly kid from seventh grade that made your eyes water, or what?

Eharmony sucks ass. If you ask me, it is a bunch of people telling a bunch of other people exactly what they think they want to hear.

It's just like I said yesterday, it's like going to a bar and meeting some loser with lines without the free drink.

At least you get free alcohol in scenario #2, and I loves me some free alcohol.

Granted, since this was a gift it wasn't something I thought of trying to begin with, and not something that I really would take all that seriously. Perhaps I'm being to hard on these guys who are "Ready to find the love of their lives", but hell I'm hard on the real life ones, why not the Internet ones?

Worst Birthday Present Ever

So one of my "friends" decided that a really great Birthday present for me would be a three month subscription to Eharmony.

Yes, as in on-line dating site Eharmony.

"Uhhh, thanks?" was about all my flabbergasted self could spit out.

It turns out she has met the love of her life there, and wants to spread the wealth. Kind of like those people who when they are first in love they decide everyone needs to be in love too.

But E-freakin'-harmony?

For me?

Ok, ok, I'll admit to being in the middle of what some would call a dry spell. I call it more of a self-imposed exile from meeting idjits.

I've been dating, but haven't exactly found any men of quality. In the past a lot of my boyfriends started out as friends. I just don't have that whole romantic notion that Prince Charming is going to sweep me off my feet. In fact, if they are overly romantic at first the red and blue alarm lights over my head begin to flash and wail immediately.

So I'm a tough sell. So what? Being without a second half doesn't bother me in the least bit, but it sure as hell seems to bother other people. They can't wrap their brains around the fact that I am perfectly content when I do not have a significant other.

This is not to say that I don't like have another significant other, but that I'd rather be alone then date some moron with a hand full of pick-up lines and a bottle of wine.

Needless to say, this gift didn't exactly thrill me. I know it came from a good thought, but the present went horribly awry.

"It really works," she tells me. "They match you up by your profile. You take a series of tests to determine your personality and how it matches up with others."

Even though I pretty much think this is a joke, I decide to check it out, considering it is free and all. I'll probably get a good laugh out of it. The start page booms "Ready to Find the Love of Your Life? Eharmony!" It then goes on to show a bunch of Real! Live! People! who have found love, happiness, and the answer to world peace on Eharmony!

It kind of freaks me out because the couples all look like brother and sister.

So I take the personality test, hoping the love of my life isn't my brother. You can put pictures up, but I decide against it because this is supposed to be all about finding someone with your interests, right? I begin getting people in the "My Matches" portion of the site.

So what now? I can begin communication with any of these people by sending out five pre-written questions for them to answer. I read over some of the people in My Matches.

I debate with myself on if I should start communication with some of the people that seem interesting. This is all a joke, right? Hell, it couldn't hurt if I found the love of my life, as long as it's not my brother.

So I send the five pre-written questions out to a couple of people, just to see what happens next.

The next day I get a couple of emails saying "This match has decided to close communication with you. The reason? No picture in profile.

Personality matching my ass.

My friend calls me up and asks how it is going. "Umm, not real well. They keep closing me because I don't have a picture up."

"Oh you really need to put your picture up. I mean, part of any relationship is attraction, and they just want to see if they would be physically attracted to you before they put an investment into you."

Yeah, right.

So I start to think about this whole picture thing. Now I do have some old fat pictures. Wouldn't it be a hoot if I put up this picture,



but when we met I looked like this:



Jesus X, I can't believe I just put an old fat picture of myself on the Internet. Still, it sure as hell would weed out the really, really superficial people, eh?

So I tell my friend that I am thinking of putting up an old fat picture. "Noooooo don't do thaaaaat!" she says. "How would you like it if someone did that to you?"

Actually, I think it'd be really funny, but perhaps that is just my sick sense of humor.

So she talks me out of putting up my old fat picture, even if it would make for some good ass bloggin'.

At this point, it has been 5 days and no one has tried to communicate with me. My personality must suck.

Then, a Christmas miracle happens. I put my pic up before Christmas, and instantly little miracles saying "Match requests communication" appears in my email.

Now I know I'm not a supermodel or anything, but I am a fairly attractive 35 year old woman that still gets carded. I actually look more like 35 in my fat pic and that was a long, long time ago. It makes me wonder what other people look like in their pics that this crappy Christmas card pic brings up so much interest.

I plan on doing a couple of posts on the whole Eharmony junk, as it has been a rather amusing experience this week. The only problem is it is kind of like going to a bar, hearing a bunch of lines, but not getting the free drink.

So in other words is kind of sucks ass, but is funny as hell. Tomorrow I'm going to post my five random multiple choice questions and how miraculously all ten guys answered them exactly the same!

This is great holiday fun!

Me Too!!!!!!!

There are an awful lot of people that annoy the fuck out of me.

Take your "I Looked the Best I'm Ever Going To Look in High School So I Still Have Big Hair And Wear Jordache Jeans" people. They annoy the fuck out of me.

Take your "I'm Better Then You" people. They spend vast amounts of time and money to try and seem better then you, when it actuality they really feel insecure. They annoy the fuck out of me.

Take your "You Owe Me" people. Everybody owes them something, why oh why is the world so cruel to them, God forbid they try and help their situation. They annoy the fuck out of me.

This leads into the "Finger Pointer" people that sometimes cross breeds with the "You Owe Me" people. Nothing, I repeat nothing is every their fault. They never have solutions, just reasons why it is not their fault. They annoy the fuck out of me.

What am I getting at here besides the fact that a lot of people annoy the fuck out of me? I'm getting to the Mother of All People That Annoy The FUCK Out of Me. The "Me Too!!!!" people.

This weekend we had the yearly party for the Original Party People (my parents for you new readers). They had just got into town, and we were having a grand old time until I realized that someone had invited the Idiot From Hell.

"Me Too!!!!" to the max she is. I can hardly contain my blood pressure when I am around her.

It doesn't matter what the subject is. Be it politics, movies, child rearing, or philosophical questions, she will see what the majority of the people say, or what the person she is talking to will say, and interject with "Me Too!!!!"

She has no opinion but what is told to her. She's a freakin' parrot. If you God forbid ask her to back anything up, she can't.

Which of course, I always do. This may make me seem like a bitch, which of course, I am.

The conversation got heated as people started discussing President Bush and the Dems vs. Repubs. Someone said something about abortions would probably become illegal, and she was all, "Oh yes, I think that too!"

Someone else started lamenting about the whole gun control issue. Red states and blue states then became the topic of discussion. "Pretty soon women will be getting backroom abortions because of the South! Those people are just stupid!" she said.

Back the fuck up.

I think a statement like that deserves an explanation don't you all (or y'all for you Southerners)? Especially considering she was at a party being given for people from Mississippi

So I go into attack trained killer mode and go right for the jugular.

"Why would you say that?" I ask. Blank stare. You can actually hear the wind flowing through her ears.

"What do you mean?" she asks. People start to get a bit uncomfortable, as they are intelligent enough to know that I am out for the kill.

"What about partial birth? Do you think that's ok?? And why is it the South's fault, the state right next to us voted Bush and they are not in the South"

"Well I don't know how many states were from the south..."

"Then why the hell would you say something like that, at a party given for people that live in Mississippi for Christ's sake!"

At this point, my Mom gave me the "leave the poor stupid people alone" look and I backed off.

Parrot, parrot, parrot. No true thoughts of her own. God that annoys the fuck out of me.

I may be being harsh, and believe me, there are a lot of things that I couldn't form an intelligent opinion on, but I don't just parrot things I've heard about it. I shut the fuck up and listen.

These people do it to be accepted. To be included. It's the all the cool kids are doing it mentality. That annoyed the fuck out of me when I was a cool kid, and it annoys the fuck out of me now that I'm a cool adult.

Ghosts of Presents Past Part II

When I first started working in a manufacturing environment, I had quite a shock to my 19 year old self.

That can't even begin to describe the culture shock. It was like going to another planet to work.

You see, and I'm sure any big place with thousands of employees are like this, it was like it's own little city. You could get anything there, from crack to a brand new TV, freshly fallen off the truck.

They had their own set of rules, too. Even though it was 1990, the whole sexual harassment stuff really wasn't something that was talked about. It was nothing for someone to come up to you and tell you just how fucked up they thought it was that you were taking away a job that some man could have to support his family.

I signed on for part time help, something to supplement my income while I was in school. In two days time I made way more then working 40 hours at my other job, and had major medical insurance. I figured this would be great, as I could concentrate more on school.

That is, until the first day I walked down that assembly l-i-n-e.

Seniority was high at the time, and women didn't start working there until the mid to late 70's. Even then, there weren't a whole lot of them that could hold day shift. As a part time employee, I was assigned to days, as seniority didn't hold any bearing on us.

So let's recap, shall we? The few women that held dayshift were pushing 40 or older. Most of the men that worked there were also that age, and didn't exactly appreciate women that worked there.

So my naive 19 year old ass walked down that line the first day just thinking I was just going to work.

Nu-uh. It was like walking nekkid through an all male prison. Men who had been there a long time and hadn't seen a woman in decades.

Oh, no one knew all the hooting and hollering bothered me. I held my head up and walked down that line like I belonged there, dammit. Secretly I just wanted to run and hide and find my Mommy, and I have called my Mom Mommy since the appropriate age, which is about 4.

The first couple of weeks were pretty tough. The work was hard, like I didn't know that kind of work existed. It didn't help that a lot of the bigger bosses decided they liked my 19 year old ass and pretty blatantly told me that good little girls don't have to work that hard if they do certain things.

I didn't do certain things, so I got even harder work.

This actually was a good thing, because slowly but surely the men in my section began to have respect for me. I did the hardest job on the line, a job that made grown men leave at lunch time and never go back. A job that made grown men actually cry.

I.Would.Not.Quit.

I.Would.Not.Cry.

Well, I cried, quite a bit actually, but not until I was in the safety of my car and far away from any assembly people.

I also would not allow myself to be treated like a piece of meat. On day three one of my lovely co-workers decided to grab my ass. I'm not sure how many stitches he got upside his head, but that big motor that shot the steering column did some major damage. I had learned a long time ago that a whole bunch of the time a blonde can go "Oooopss!" and get away with anything, even cracking the skull of a fucking perverted ass with a huge steel tool.

No one ever tried to touch me again.

The hooting and hollering had also subsided, as when one of the guys would yell out a particularity nasty comment I would simply walk up to them and ask them why they would say that. Most of these people were actually half-way decent men, who were quite embarrassed when called on their behavior.

Another rather disturbing fact was a lot of the women that were there didn't appreciate the fact that a 19 year old was getting a lot of their attention. There was no winning their respect, and they looked at me with contempt most days.

I did win the respect of most of the men, but there was one that I just couldn't stand, and the feeling was mutual.

He was my relief person. He gave me two breaks a day, and was a grouchy son-of-a-bitch. No matter what time I came back from break he claimed I was late. He also felt the need to tell me how that work was no women's work, and I really didn't belong there.

The other guys started getting on him about it, and he did lighten up a bit. I still couldn't stand him. He was just such a miserable person. Archie Bunker had nuttin' on this man.

One day when they were predicting a heavy early morning snow I came to work early. It had to be 4 in the morning when I got to work, and we started at 6. Grouchy son-of-a-bitch was already there, drinking coffee from the nastiest cup I've ever seen and eating cereal.

"I see you were worried about being late too, eh?" I asked him. "I worry about being late everyday. I get here at 3 most days," he said, turning back to his cereal.

3?? 3am?? This man was nucking futs.

Usually I didn't try to have a conversation with this man, but the deeply stained coffee cup he was using was bugging the piss out of me. I'm a bit of a germ-a-phob, and the thought of drinking out of a cup that looked like that just grossed me out.

"Look here girlie, this here cup was a gift, one of the best gifts I've ever been given. A man who had started here back in the 20's gave it to me when he retired, because he said I was the hardest working son-of-a-bitch he had ever seen, and that with people like me this place would be here forever, and his retirement would be safe. He never washed it, so neither do I."

With that he dumped the remaining coffee on the ground, rinsed it out in the water fountain, and moved to another table that was free of 19 year old blondes that were taking away jobs from a deserving man. Never mind the fact that he had been there almost 40 years, and if he retired a deserving man could have his job.

Fucker. Oh how he pissed me off....

So that day at lunch I loudly complained about the Grouchy son-of-a-bitch. "Why doesn't he retire?? Does he not have a life? Why in the hell would he get here at 3 in the morning every fucking day?"

One of the guys sitting at the table told me of Grouchy son-of-a-bitch's situation. "Oh, he's always been a miserable asshole, but he's gotten worse since his wife passed on. About the time he was going to retire his wife got cancer and died in just a couple of month's time. She was his world, and I reckon he can't stand being at home without her. He's in bed by 7 most nights, which I guess just makes life bearable for him."

Yes, I felt like a real.fucking.bitch.

I saw him in a whole new light now. Now I could see that he walked with a limp and how bad his hands were banged up from working on that line all those years. I saw a broken man who popped tylenol like candy just to stand the pain, but that pain was nothing compared to the emotional pain he felt at home.

I made an effort to actually talk to him like a human now, and he actually responded in a positive way. Oh, he was still a Grouchy son-of-a-bitch, but he seemed to at least tolerate me now. He'd even tell me about what he did with his grandchildren that weekend and even brought me some vegetables from his garden a couple of times.

Feeling like a taste-tester was needed, I cut up some tomatoes first and fed them to my co-workers to be sure they weren't laced with poison. After the first few times, I decided he wasn't trying to bump me off.

So for the next couple of years we went on quietly tolerating each other. I learned bunches of jobs, and was one of the first women who became a utility-someone with no set job that covers for the people on vacation or who are out sick.

Eventually the physical pain became worse then the emotional pain, and he just couldn't keep up anymore. He had to be around 65, and if that work killed my now 21 year old ass I can just image how bad it hurt a 65 year old ass. Oh, he could have gotten a way easier job with his seniority, but his pride would never allow that.

His last day of work is what we call the walk around day. Usually people come to work in their Sunday best with there families and say good-bye to everyone. We had a cake for lunchtime, and passed around the hat to fill his card with money.

He came in dressed like any other day, but had his daughter, son, and grandchildren with him. He actually acted human too.

At lunch time we all ate cake and related some funny stories to his family. He slowly pulled himself up from the table. Sitting still made his aches and pains intensify, and by now he had a real hard time moving when he sat for a long time.

He walked over to his cabinet that had his reproduction, cereal, and that nasty ass cup. He grabbed the cup, and slowly walked back to the table. While standing at the front of the table he recounted that story he told me a couple of years ago, and set that germ fest of a cup in front of me.

"You are the hardest working son-of-a-bitch I have ever seen, and with people like you here my retirement will be safe forever. Get off this line kid, you are smart and could do more good in other ways here. You don't want to end up like me."

Now you must realize that in my three years of service there I had never cried in that plant. Ever. Not even the time when my fingers got stuck in a motor and I broke 22 bones in my hand.

I didn't cry then either, as I knew this would make him uncomfortable and possibly make him cry too. I must admit that my big brown eyes did fill with tears, but I held them back, out of respect for this broken old man who had worked so hard for so long.

His funeral was a few years later, and it didn't have the best turnout. I went to pay my respects to a man who showed contempt for me most of the time I had known him, but redeemed himself in the end.

"My Father really liked you," his daughter told me. "He would be really pleased that you came today. He talked about you all the time. 'You should see this new girl we got at work' he'd say. 'She works harder then 5 men'."

I thanked her and walked to the casket. As I knelt down to pray, I thought about why this man came into my life. Possibly to show me you can't judge a book by it's cover. Maybe it was to show me that sometimes people are miserable because their own lives are so incredibly painful, and you just never knew about it.

What I did know was that my life was better for having this Grumpy son-of-a-bitch in my life.

That cup still sits on my desk, and yes I drink my coffee out of it. Now mind you I didn't wash it, but I did rinse the hell out of it with boiling water.

This new generation I tell you...I can just hear him saying it.

Every once in awhile some new person will ask about it. I retell the story in more politically correct terms, as things have changed quite a bit in 16 years. When they make a face at the disgusting looking cup I'll tell them to show some respect. I am the future, after all.

Me Vs. The Cats From Hell

Oh, they look sweet and innocent. View exhibt A:



I hate fucking cats, and due to my kind, sweet nature I've ended up with two of them. While they may look all sweet and innocent, once the Christmas Tree goes up they turn into psychopaths. View exhibit B:



They are really vicious fucking tree killers, these cats o'mine. Last year they killed a perfectly innocent 8' tall pre-lit tree. By the time Christmas came it looked like something that was swirling around in the movie Twister. Only 1/4 of the lights worked, and I almost had to get stitches from the glass ornament I stepped on in the freakin' bathroom of all place.

I tried the whole water bottle trick. Martini, or crystal meth cat as she is known, is so fast that as soon as she saw that damn water bottle she is out of there. You would need a super soaker to even get a drop of water on her. But when the bottle wasn't around, forget it. In the tree she went until she saw the spray bottle.

Oliver was a different story. He is shall we say a little overweight. View exhibit C:



He decided that getting wet wasn't nearly as bad as running, so he just learned to like it. He'd even turn his head so that I'd get both sides.

I hate fucking cats.

So being the computer savvy person that I am I turned to the Internet this year on how to make my cats not think the Christmas tree is a jungle gym.

Most searches came up with the same results.

You.Are.Fucked.

Some people with cats offered up advice. "Put a fence around your tree." These are cats, FFS! It would have to be a damn cage around the tree to keep them out. Another helpful soul told me to spray it with lemon juice, as the cats hate the smell.

Oliver just decided that the tree must be food and began eating it.

I hate fucking cats.

Every day I would come home to a new catastrophy. One day there wasn't a single ornament on the tree. Another day Martini seemed to be committing Kitty Cat suicide and was half way strung up, meowing her head off. Then the really fun days were when the whole entire tree was just laying in the floor.

This year I swore I wasn't going to even have a tree. No fucking way was I going though that shiiat again.

Then my Mom, who sold Christmas trees from our garden center for years offered up some advice. "Get a real tree. A Balsam. Those are pretty tough, and would probably prick the hell out of them if they tried to climb it."

This actually made sense, in a if they love climbing a fake tree they'll really hate a real tree kind of way.

Wha?

Ok, so it didn't make sense, but it still kind of did. Considering how much I love decorating, I just had to have a tree, so off I went to find an environmental tree store that replaces every tree sold with two.

This was fucking war God Dammit. I wanted my Christmas Tree.

So I went out and bought all new ornaments. Plastic like ornaments that wouldn't leave gapping wounds on my feet when stepped on. I bought twinkle lights that maybe wouldn't cause as much attention as the chasers that were on my dearly departed Pre-lit Christmas Tree.

Guess what?

It fucking worked.

Oh, Martini tried her ass off at first. The needles must have been really scratchy, because everytime she tried to enter the bottom of the tree she shoot out of there like a bat out of hell. Oliver tried maybe once, then decided Fuck This and just pretened to be in the tree by laying on the tree skirt.

Ha! I had won.

Then, much to my dismay, another problem arose. I think they thought if that bitch is bringing in shit we can't climb, we'll make her replace the water every freakin' hour.

Yes, they drink almost every drop of water the second I fill it up.

It is hell on a litter box I tell ya.

It also really pisses me off, because usually unless I give them bottled water they go on like a kitty water strike and walk around with little signs talking about cruelty to animals.

I hate fucking cats.

So they may have won one of the battles, but it seems as if I'm going to win the war. Yes, I do have to put every ornament that is two feet from the bottom of the tree back on, and yes I have to put water in the damn tree stand a million times a day, and yes I have to scoop the damn litter box on the hour, but I have my Tree FFS!

Up on deck for tomorrow: Ghost of Presents Past II: Electric Boogalo.

The Ghost of Presents Past Part I

So last year at this time I wrote about my The Ghost of Boyfriends Past, and this year I decided to do The Ghost of Presents Past.

Not any ordinary presents, mind you, but the ones that stick out in my mind. The ones that were more then just a trip to the mall, the ones that blew me away.

The very first blew me away present, and probably still the most exciting present I ever received was a Honda Kick-n-Go. It looked like this:



Isn't it beautiful?? You just have no idea how much I wanted this scooter. It had a pedal on the back, which you used in a kicking action to propel you faster and faster. Yes, it was a death trap waiting to happen, which is why they stopped making them I think, but kids don't worry about death traps. All I knew was it was the coolest thing my five year old eyes had ever witnessed.

This was my Red Rider BB Gun.

You see, it was made by Honda, and I grew up in a very American Made friendly household. It was 1976, and the imports were just starting to effect the American car industry. My Father saw anything by the foreign industry a threat to our way of life.

Anytime it was mentioned my Father would mumble on about cheap labor and non-union workforces. My brother and I just had to have one! As Christmas grew closer, my Father's diatribes on the Evil that was Honda grew. We had all but given up on having one of these Satan's spawn scooters.

When it was time to go to Santa I didn't ask for a Honda Kick-n-Go. I probably asked for something lame like an Eazy Bake Oven. Visiting Santa had become a traumatic enough experience due to the fact that it always got me in BIG trouble, and you can read about that here and here.

My parental units asked why I didn't ask for the Kick-n-Go that was my heart's desire. I explain that I didn't want to hurt my Dad's way of life, or something like that.

So my fifth Christmas on this Earth just didn't have the joy it once had like when I was four. I probably still get some cool stuff, because even if my parents were the non-spoiling kind Christmas was a special occasion that looked like a toy store blew up in our living room.

This was one of the years when my Dad pulled a double shift, so he was to tired to wake us up. He could never, ever wait until morning, so after "Santa" had visited he would put on his work boots, run through the house with jingle bells, ditch them, and come wake us up shouting "Santa was here, Santa was here!" Very few Christmas present were ever opened after 3 in the morning in our household, much to the dismay of my poor, tired Mother.

So this particular year my brother and I woke at the crack of dawn and my parents were still asleep. We decided to take a peak downstairs to see the Christmas presents in all their glory. Shaking a few before the parents woke up wouldn't hurt, right?

We crept downstairs, and low and behold their were two Kick-n-Go's in the middle of all the presents. Mine was yellow with a big green bow, and my brother's was Red with a big white bow.

I nearly pissed myself I was so excited. Now taking into account that today is my birthday and I'm 35 years old, not since has anything in this life ever given me such a rush, such a charge of excitment as that moment.

We couldn't move for a few minutes, couldn't breathe. It was just unbelievable. We had the crown jewel of Christmas presents that any kid would ever, ever want standing in our living room FFS!

Now we could have went and woke our parents up. We could have waited patiently for them to wake up.

But we didn't.

We threw on boots, maybe a glove, and a couple of scarves and took those puppy's outside to give them a test ride. In the Chicagoland area. In the mountain sized piles of snow that had already stacked up that year.

Our parents were not please when they finally rolled out of bed and realized they were missing two kids and two death trap from hell scooters.

By the time they had found them my brother had already crashed on his and had a decent sized scrape on his arm. I had flipped on mine and put a sizable gash in the side of my head near my eye, the scar barely visible now after 35 years.

Maybe it was the cold, maybe it was the excitment of getting the scooters, but neither of us felt any pain. My Mom rambled on about how dangerous they were, and my Dad just said they weren't exactly made for winter, that we'd be fine once the snow and ice melted.

We were also grounded from them that day for taking them out before our parents were awake. You gotta just love tough love, eh? My parents had the biggest hearts for being such heartless bastards.

I would have slept standing up on that thing that night if I wasn't grounded from it for a week.

As an adult I realize how hard it was for my Dad to purchase that product. He's really huge on principles and morals and all that junk, so for him to go against everything he believed in to make his kid's Christmas is just an amazing act of love. You really wish that you could realize things like that when you were a kid, because all I knew was Santa must have wild mind-reading powers, and my Dad was mean because he grounded me from it.

But I know it now.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

It's that time of year again. Time for the holiday cards to go out to the masses. Here's the pic going on it.



I don't get the deal with people having a fit over "Happy Holidays" or "Merry Christmas". The Christians are all in an uproar about taking the Christ out of Christmas, blah, blah, fuckin' blah.



I got into a debate with a fellow co-worker over this very subject the other day. He was complaining about clerks being told to say "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas".



He said that people are there Christmas shopping, and so the stores should not make the clerks say Happy Holidays.



I'm guessing Jewish or Atheist or Buddist or anyone else of a different religion do not shop from the day after Thanksgiving until December 26th.



I was about to really get into it with him, but decided against it. It is no fun fighting a battle with an unarmed man.



On an unrelated note, aren't my kitties cute?

Happy Halloween

Here I am in all my Fembot glory. The big Halloween bash was this weekend, and as soon as I fully recover I'll tell ya all about it!

The really good news? No police were involved! Holy shit, we may be growing up!

Halloween! Yeah!

Oh yes, it is that time of year again. Halloween!!!!!!!!!!!! We are crazy fools when it comes to Halloween, the circle of soul mates and I.

Ok, so I'm trying to just act like I've been blogging all along. I know I haven't been around much, and I've been having a great time. Yes, some tears were involved, and I'll talk about too in the coming days, but I do believe I'M BACK, k?

Anyway.....

Halloween!! Anyone who is new to For Fuck's Sake must definitely read about my former Halloween adventures before reading about my current ones. Last year we were Fairies and had a hell of a time convincing my best friends husband to be a garden gnome. We won of course, and Halloween was just as much fun as usual, even though we almost went to jail.

This year's costumes haven't been quite as challenging. We've decided to go with an Austin Power's theme. R and I are being F-embots. We debated over being the f-embots in the silver little hot pants with the little bras, but decided against it. To cold, to skimpy. So here's our costume we decided on:



Purty cool, eh? Ok, so maybe those outfits are purty cold and purty skimpy, but they are a bit better then the silver ones.

The big bash is almost planned. I would say there are close to 100 people that come to this annual Halloween party. I really wish I could post pics from it, but most of the circle of soul mates are creeped out by the whole Internet thing, and think I am a nut job for ever putting a pic of myself on the net.

Here's a recent one to show what a nut job I am:



Don't I look happy? That was at my BFF R's surprise 35th birthday party last weekend.

35??? 35??? Holy shit I'm going to be 35 this year.

I just got carded whilst trying to buy a lottery ticket, so I don't think I'll worry just yet. But 35? How the hell is that possible? By the way, Powerball is like a billion dollars now. I'm going to win.

What the hell was I talking about? Oh yeah, Halloween.

I do believe I've gotten a bit rusty at this whole blogging thing, but don't worry...I'll get it back!

Adventures in Feminine Hygiene Products

So you are making a quick trip to the store to pick up a box of feminine hygiene products. You are in a hurry, so you just run in the store, grab the box, and proceed to the cash register.

On your way to the cash register you bump into someone, and as your luck would have it, it's your boss. Oh, and the aforementioned box of feminine hygiene products hits him square in the stomach.

So what do you do? Stand there in awkward silence, mumble a greeting, run away and die in a hole somewhere?

I chose option #2. I shook the box at him and said, "You better be real freakin' nice to me next week!"

That is all.

Huh?

I haven't posted since June 20th?? OMG, it sure doesn't feel that long....

You see, I have been out and about getting in some much needed fun. I went rock climbing. I rode some roller coasters. I touched the ocean and hiked in the mountains. I wrote some on my script, and I visited some exotic animals.

And yes, I shall post again soon...Cross my heart...

Huh?

You start to wonder about your blog when one of the links that refers to you is entitled "College Fuck Fest".

I heart Tivo

Tivo has saved my reputation as a with-it, happenin', cool type chick.

Ok, maybe not, but it really has helped me get in step with the pop culture type things that are going on in our world.

For most of the late nineties, I didn't ever watch television because I threw it over my balcony around the age of 22. Long story.

Anyway, I did end up getting another TV because I missed watching movies. So I got the TV, but had no cable or satellite or antenna. Basically it was me, my TV, and the handy dandy VCR. I could not get a TV station in to save my life.

This went on until September 11th. THE September 11th. The feeling of being cut off from the rest of the world with their instant access to 24 hour news channels got me to break down and get DirecTV.

I could almost keep up with people and their pop culture talk now. I was no longer a freak of nature who didn't know why people were laughing about Ross's foray into the self-tanning world. Hell, I didn't really even know what Ross they were talking about. I thought it was the Electrian named Ross at work, and trust me, I really got some opened mouth shocked people staring at me when I asked if that's who they were talking about.

Yeah, I was useless at the watercooler at work. It's a good thing I knew how to fix all their puters or they probably wouldn't have liked me very much.

So I now had all these channels and shows and programs. Being a closet nerd, I spent most of my TV time watching Animal Planet, The Learning Channel, and The Discovery Channel.

This was not helping matters in my pop-cultured-challenged world. So I took a the mother of all crash courses in pop-culture-The E! Channel.

You could find out anything there about pop culture. The E! True Hollywood stories showed me how the celebs crashed and burned. The Fabulous Life of....showed me that these people have way to much fucking money.

As a writer I guess it is kind of important to know what is happening in pop-culture, but it really, really bores the holy hell out of me. I don't care who is doing who, don't really care for reality TV, and found that most of the shows on prime time TV were about lawyers, forensics, or cops.

*Yawns*

So I really wasn't getting a whole lot for my 40 and some odd dollars I was dishing out for satellite. Yeah, I still watched the news channels and my beloved educational channels, but I found the others were a bit lacking.

Then I got Tivo.

Tivo is the best invention of this new millennium. Ok, so it wasn't technically made in this century, but that's when I got it so there.

I heart Tivo. I mean, I really, really heart Tivo. It finds things for me. I can punch in keywords or director and actor's names and it just shows me everything on them that I can watch! It is wonderful!

My life is very busy. I was missing out on a lot of good shit just for the simple fact that I worked nights. Not all TV shows were spin offs from Law and Order and CSI. There were others that I found, that I really liked a lot.

Shows like Medium, Intervention, and my beloved Project Greenlight. I actually found out that I kind of dig Friends and Will and Grace. My Tivo made sure I never missed an episode. I could record both Jay Leno and David Letterman, watch the monologue, and delete them if the guests sucked (hello Paris Hilton! Good bye Paris Hilton!)

So I ask the question....What's on your Tivo wish lists? What season passes do you have?

Rather Disturbing Indeed

I read this article over at CNN Money today.

After trying to avoid anything written about the infamous (and I do mean infamous, not famous) MJ, I finally clicked on like the only link that was wasn't about him. Ok, maybe there were a couple more, but this one perked my interest as it declared to have the "Top Five Most Dangerous Kid Careers."

Funny, it didn't have the entertainment industry in it, and with all the hoopla over MJ, I would think that might be #1.

But I digress...What I found rather disturbing about this article was it proclaimed mowing yards as one of the most dangerous jobs for a kid.

What the fuck? How many other jobs can a kid get?

Here it comes...I feel it, and I really don't want to say it, but it's going to come out of my fingers anyway.

WHEN I WAS A KID....Fuck I'm old...

When I was a kid mowing yards was my main source of income. In fact, by age 10 I owned my own lawnmowers, and weed whackers. My brother was my partner, and we had two kids that worked for us.

I figured out that I probably raked in about $150 a week as a ten year old. $150 of profit mind you, as my Dad painstakingly showed us economic reality by requiring us to purchase our lemons and sugar and cups for our first lemonade stand. He threw the water in for free though...What a guy!

$150 was quite a bit of money for a 10 year old, and it really was a lot of money in what 1981, '82? In the winter the money slowed down a bit, but we still made pretty good money as global warming hadn't changed the snowfall in Chicago yet and people were always willing to pay more for snow shoveling then mowing.

So I was a pretty rich little kid, and my parents decided we needed to learn how to save money, so most of it went into the bank, whether we wanted it to or not. As a result, I bought my first new car 6 months before I had a drivers license, and I paid cash for it. Hey, Ford was running a special. It killed to have it sitting in the driveway, but I saved a buck or two getting it early.

I just wanted to let anyone else who read that article know that I mowed yards and survived to tell the tale. I also learned the value of earning money, saving money, and being responsible. If you are willing to put your child's life in danger, I would highly recommend this occupation for children.

Now probably a lot of people will take these dangers seriously, so maybe these types of people should let their kids into the entertainment industry. Look how good MJ, The Culkins, and Lindsey Lohan have turned out.

At least you'll know they'll never go to jail.

Oppps. Did I say that out loud?

My Blog Birthday

So today is my blog birthday. I've been writing here for a year today.

Wow, a year sure goes by awful fast...

I started writing a blog again because I needed a creative outlet. Work was complete hell, and I was probably putting in around 80 hours a week at the time.

Then I started discovering other blogs that I really loved. Most of them are over to the left in the daily reads section. I was pleasantly surprised to find these wonderful blogs, and they all in their own way sparked some type of creativity in me. This is why I've kept them in a separate section from my other links, just because they are special to me in their own way.

I also "met" some of these bloggers, and have "talked" to some of them a lot outside of the blog and comment world. Without this blog I never would have started talking to Poppy, Annie, and Gus. For this I am truly grateful, as they are all wonderful people!

I've really seemed to put myself in a state of reflection on my life so far, as I've examined many aspects of my life through this medium. I've told you all about my body issues from childhood, my ghosts of boyfriends past, and my bestest friends ever.

I even told you when I got arrested and also when I was almost arrested.

Yes, I've shared a lot of myself in this last year. You all have really stepped up to the plate and shared right back. I know I've had a lot going on lately and having been blogging like I used to, but believe me, I am way to fucked up to not have a whole lot more stories to tell.

So stay tuned, and thank you so much for staying tuned all this time...

7th Layer of Hell

So I found myself in the 7th layer of hell today. In other words, I was in a high school parking lot on the last day of high school.

My "little" nephew, who is 6'1, 190 lbs, and 17 years old called me because his truck had died and needed me to come pick him up.

So there I was, in the parking lot with all these graduating seniors and three years worth of kids who were just happy to be the hell out of school.

It amazes me how much things change, but how they stay the same. I could easily pick out the weird kids, the popular kids, the smart kids, and the stoner kids. A whole bunch of them were smiling, and a whole bunch of them were crying and holding on to each other for dear life.

I remember my last day of high school like it was yesterday. It was the same scene in the parking lot, except that the cool kids had big hair, the weird kids had mohawks, and the stoners wore MegaDeath shirts. That to this day was the longest day of my life.

The clocked ticked slowly all day as I couldn't wait to get the hell out of that place. I really didn't fit any of the circles-I did have big hair, but most of the popular kids annoyed the shit out of me. I was a brain, but definitely not a geek. MegaDeath wasn't my fav band in the world, but I did appreciate some Aerosmith or Metallica, and let's face it-I was and am pretty fucking weird, minus the mohawk...

This equation equaled the fact that I had a lot of acquaintances. I wouldn't call them friends, as most of them I never saw after we walked down the isle to get our diplomas. I did have a fairly large amount of these acquaintances that would call me to go to this party or that party, see what I was doing that night, or just want to hang out.

The circle of soul mates were my bestest friends then, as they are now, and R and I were the only two left in high school. Prolly why I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there, as high school wasn't a big horrendous experience, I just wanted to move the hell on.

So as R and I stepped into the parking lot that day for the last time, we had many people come running up to us, crying, giving hugs, swearing we'd always be friends. R and I didn't cry, because we knew we would see those people again that meant the most to us, and I have stayed in touch with those people, even 16 (holy shit!!! 16 years???) later.

Those kids that were crying-I didn't understand why. I mean, we were FREE! We were gone from that place, gone from teachers telling us what to do, how to act, what to wear. I knew college would be a much freer (is that a word?) environment, and I couldn't wait to get there.

As I got behind the wheel of my 1985 & 1/2 Escort piece of shit, I looked over at R. "Let's blow this popsicle stand!" as we tore out of there as fast as a 1985 1/2 Escort piece of shit will go. Hey, it was 1989 after all...

The funny thing is, as I sat in the parking lot of this other school, 16 years later, I really understood the whole deal much more then I did then. When I graduated, I just wanted to move on, get going, get out of there. Now as I look at the kids crying and hugging I realize they are maybe a little sad, a little scared that their safe world is coming to an end and that they are entering a new and possibly scary time in their life.

If I were to graduate today, I probably still wouldn't be one of those kids crying and holding on for dear life. I would probably still be trying to get away as soon as I can, thrusting myself forward into the next stage of life.

Any shrinks out there? I quite sure this means I'm fucked up or sumfin...

Life just kicks ya in the ass...

So I had all these plans for my blog...I was going to put a little pic up of Gus's book, and I really wanted to join in on RDD's book club discussion on it. I also had a couple of good posts screaming to come out of me...

Then my Dad got sick. He's battled pancreantitis (sp?) for a couple of years now, and he had went awhile without an attack. A couple of weeks ago he had one of the worst ones he's ever had, and the pain was so great he actually had a "stress heart attack." Don't ask me, I have no clue what that means except that there is nothing technically blocked or anything, but he still had a heart attack.

So I've spent the last couple of weeks worrying and driving back and forth 600 miles, which has left little time for anything else.

I've been very fortunate in my lifetime. The people in my family just live to be like 99 or 100 and die in their sleep. I've never been around sickness before. No one in my family has ever had cancer or any life threatening illness besides diabetes. I think my Grandma is the only person I can think of that died before 90 of physical problems (I did have an Aunt that died in her 40's because of a drunk driver), and she was a very naughty diabetic that didn't exactly take care of herself.

So besides being my Dad, who has always been so strong, I've just never had to deal with hospitals and sickness and the like. It has been a very tough and emotional pill to swallow, which was not helped by the fact that all of it was going on so far away while life continued where I live.

He's home now and out of the woods. He's going to Mayo clinic FINALLY, and hopefully they will be able to find out more of why the attacks are getting worse and worse with his pancreas.

So once I get off this damn emotional roller coaster I've been on and get my land leggs back, I've got some stuff in store for my little piece of blogdom here. June 13th is my year anniversary, and I have something special planned!

The neighborhood eyesore

Our neighborhood eyesore (eyesoar? eh, fuck it) isn't the normal eye sore. It isn't someone who leaves abandoned cars in their front yard. It isn't someone who does mow their yard. It isn't even some weird cat lady that has decorated her house in Cambell's soup labels.

Our neighborhood eye sore shows up around the first nice day of the year and ends when it becomes jacket weather.

Yes, our neighborhood eye sore is a 350 pound man who thinks he is just sooooooooo sexy.

He wears these little short-shorts which were probably popular when he was a teenager-I'm guessing the 70's, since he is around 50 years old now. Of course these atrocious shorts are not adorned with any other piece of clothing.

He also retired last year, and works in his yard constantly. He gives off that dirty old man vibe-like he is staring at your breasts the entire time you talk to him.

This man really thinks he's hot, even with his beer belly that pretty much covers the entire front of his 70's short shorts. I just looked outside and I believe I'm going to be blind for a couple of minutes, as he was bending over putting some elaborate flag decoration up in his yard.

God, please get me through this summer...

Road trip!

So this weekend was our annual road trip with my cousin, the professional poker player.

The cirlce of soul mates and I took off for jolly old Tunica MS to get the royal treatment, have fun, drink, party, gamble, eat, and just about any other decadent thing that we could do.

It's a good thing that we didn't go to Vegas this year, because as you know, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. What happens in Tunica is written about in my blog for all to hear....

It never ceases to amaze me how some people live their lives. I say this because my cousin is treated real, real well by these casino establishments, because of the amount of money he gambles. Hell, it isn't his money. He gets investors and he gambles their money.

I don't know about you, but at my school "professional gambler" was not on the list during career day...

So we stayed in a couple of rooms that were bigger then my house. We had facials and steams and pedicures and facials and manicures and massages. All for free. They sent up big baskets of fruit and wine and cheese and pretty much anything our little hearts desired-for free.

Why do they give rich people all the free shit? That is REALLY what I would like to know. I'm not a real materialistic person, but damn could I get used to living like that...

We had a wonderful time, didn't get in any trouble which either means it's the seventh sign, or we are growing up. I prefer to think it is the seventh sign!

Attention Freaky Linky Lovers

Just a quick note...I have gotten several requests to be added to my blog roll. I haven't forgotten about you all, and it should be updated in the next couple of days...

That is all.

Rock it like a Porn Star

This post is about something near and dear to me. It has always been there for me when I was feeling down, when I was feeling not quite good enough.

My hair.

You see, I have always had good hair. Well, at the risk of sounding arrogant, good doesn't quite cut it. I have great hair.

It is thick, with a natural wave, which means I can have straight or curly hair without harsh styling products, which equals no split ends.

I'm very anal about my hair. I get it cut every 4 weeks so that I do not get the aforementioned split ends. I also get highlights added so that it doesn't look ho blonde. To add more good to the already great, my hair grows like a freakin' weed, sometimes up to two inches a month.

I was voted best hair my senior year for my Julia Robert's Pretty Woman hair. I had the Brenda, the Rachel, Pamela Anderson hair, and hair that looked like Brittany's when she was all wrapped up in that snake and shocked the shit out of everyone. All without extensions or a horrible amount of work. I have some good hair, oh yes I do.

Since it grows so fast I can change up my style often and not really care. Right now my hair is kind of Nicole Ritchie-esk I suppose, a couple of inches down my back, layered, and fluffy.

Where is all of this going you may ask? Let me tell ya...

So I was eating lunch with the union boys at work the other day, and this young'in came up and asked if he could talk to me a minute. I'd guestamate him at about 22 years old? After much nervousness he asked me out. Awww, it was so cute.

Not wanting to tear down his self esteem, I kindly told him I never date people from work. The guys all gave me a ribbing about it. I told them I didn't understand why only these young guys keep asking me out.

So one asshole, and I do mean asshole, said, "Well, you do look really young yourself. Maybe you could get a more age appropriate style for your hair and people wouldn't think you are still in your 20's."

Age appropriate? WTF?? "I mean, you're going to be 35 this year, right?" he continued.

I'm 34, thank you very much.

Now I know a big reason why he said this is because he wanted to get under my skin (which unfortunately worked), because he is that kind of person.

But it also got me thinking...

I always swore I would never be one of those women stuck in a decade or one that tried to look way younger then they really are. I don't wear belly shirts even though I could get away with it. I don't wear little catholic girl outfits unless it is St. Patrick's Day.

Am I getting caught up in the I'm gonna look young no matter how ridiculous it looks merry-go-round? Maybe this is the first step in the downward spiral that is wearing mini skirts after 60.

Naw...I'm gonna rock my hair like a porn star until my face catches up with my age...

What is age appropriate for the early (ok, ok, almost mid) 30's? Short? June Cleaver? I nice boring bob?

Fuck that...

Damn Distractions....

So it's been like really nice here. Like really, really nice. This weekend it was upwards into the high 70's....

My favorite thing in the world is about to bloom. My Bradford Pear tree. It only happens for a little bit, and I cherish every second it is in bloom because of it's beauty.

I remember a couple of years ago when I decided I was going to finally finish my degree, I was taking 16 credit hours along with what most of you know is a rather hectic work schedule. I had also always had a 4.0 in college, and my anal retentive self couldn't bear to screw it up at the end.

So I definitely had my work cut out for me. I was away from my house at a minimum of 18 hours a day, 6 days a week. Sunday I didn't have school, but if I didn't work I would pretty much do homework or sleep all freaking day because I was so exhausted.

I came home from school one night, got out of my truck, and was walking up the path to my house. I dropped my keys, and as I was searching for them I noticed little petals all over the ground. I looked up and my beautiful Bradford Pear tree was covered in leaves. The blooms were gone, and I had missed it.

So I sat down on my sidewalk in the middle of all those leaves and cried. I cried not only for missing my favorite tree in all it's glory, but for what I could only imagine I had missed besides that in the last year.

My Bradford Pear tree is about ready to bloom-and I won't miss it this time...

Where in the World is kj?

So yeah, I suck. I can admit it, and being able to admit a problem is the first step in solving it or whatever, right?

So what exactly has been keeping me from this little blog of mine and all you readers that I dearly love (or like, some of you I just like, sorry)?

Life. I hate when that happens. It always seems like when it rains, it pours. Work went completely cRaZy. You long time readers know that I write my posts while on lunch at work and then post them when I get home. Lunch? Eating? Hell, I barely had time to breathe while at work. All I've had time wise at work is the amount of time it takes to snarf down my Yuppy Meals on Wheels.

I must confess that I have had time for other things, like reading a book by a fellow blogger. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. It will make you laugh your ass off. Great story, and it really appealed to me because I could visually see the action that was taking place while reading. I heart books like that...

More on that book later, as it certainly deserves it's own post. Also, I've found myself addicted to my TIVO now that I actually know how to work it. I can record junk from the History channel and Animal Planet and all that jazz. Yes, I am a sucky TV watcher. I hate all things reality except for my beloved Project Greenlight, which I am totally addicted to also.

I'm really diggin' that show Medium too. I like spooky-freaky things though, thanks to my tree-huggin' new age-y type parents.

Oh, and one more thing before I go out and enjoy this wonderful weekend, which I DON'T have to work: I promise ya Duckie that next week I'll explain the whole my grandpa thinks Gen X is the next greatest generation thing. Sorry, that one fell in the cracks.

Enjoy your weekends everyone! Don't do anything I wouldn't do, which pretty much means you can do almost anything!



http://piratesofpensacola.com/

I'm alive..I swear

I'm not abandoning ship folks. Life or something like it has reared it's ugly head, and I've been quite busy. I've gotten quite a few emails asking if I'm ok, and everything is fine. It is just daily mundane things getting in the way of my blogging, as the spring time is a very busy time for me at work and personally.

I've decided starting next week I'm going to try and do at least 2 posts during the week, and one on the weekend. Thank you to all of you that were worried about me, and to all of you that have stuck around this crazy ass blog waiting for my return. I truly appreciate it.

Shamrock my Ass...

Ok, so it really was a shamrock on my ass.

Besides being a rather popular Irish holiday, St. Patrick's Day holds something else for me.

Every year for the last couple of years, I get bombarded with calls asking me if I have my shamrock silk panties on.

Yes, you read that right. I had about 5 messages on my cell phone, and spoke personally to about 4 more about the status of my panties. Lord only knows how many of these messages are on my home phone, as I decided to blog for you, my dear readers, instead of checking it.

I'm sure you are all probably wondering why the hell all these people are interested in my panties, right?

Here we go. So for work I do a lot of community service type stuff. Part of this is being in some of the parades in Chi-town and the like.

I'm pretty sure the more clever of you can see where this is heading.

St Pat's is a big deal in Chi-town. Huge parade (actually two), they die the Chicago river green, and we all get drunk. Good times.

So a couple of years ago I was getting ready for the annual St. Pat's parade, the main one that goes downtown, not the cool real St. Pat's parade on the south side. Anyway, my niece was going with me, and she talked me into wearing my lil Irish Catholic girl skirt, as she had one to and wanted to wear it.

What did I wear under it? Ok, everybody all together now. SHAMROCK PANTIES!!

So we jump on the train to head to where our float is. A group of mid-twenty-ish guys were already drinking their fair share of green beer, and they shouted, "Look! Cheerleaders! Cool!!!" I just gave them my best cool blonde stare and said, "We are Irish Catholic Girls, you putz." "Look Irish Catholic Girls! Cool!" I should have known then just what kind of day I was in for.

We get to the float, and the parade is about to start. They needed people to pass out these nice little chocolate bars wrapped in our company logo, and my niece and I were nominated. "You are in better shape then us," one of the guys explained.

What the fuck did that matter? The parade isn't that long. I soon learned that it mattered a lot, seeing how we were one of the first people in the parade.

You see, when you aren't behind any of the bands or performers, it goes really, really fast. They also don't allow you to throw candy, so you have to actually hand it to people. Chicago's finest were lining the streets to be sure of this, and I really didn't think my work would appreciate it if I was arrested, especially since the parade is televised.

Yes, televised. I'm sure you can really see where this is going now, eh?

So I'm trying to hand out candy to people and keep up with our float that seems like it is going about 100 miles an hour. I heard one of the guys yelling my name, and it sounded really far away. It was really far away, the float that is. I began to run to try and catch up.

My niece was also hauling ass on the other side, all the while people screaming at us for candy. Fuck the candy, the parade was rounding the last stretch, and we'd be left behind if we didn't jump on the float.

So we are running, and as we pass the judging stand, a nice little Chi-town breeze (i.e. tornado like gust) lifted up the back of my skirt.

No biggie right? A few people might have seen my cute little shamrock panties, but with the excitement of the parade and everything that was going on most people wouldn't have noticed. We got to our float just in time to truck down Michigan Ave.

Oh to be wrong on so many levels sucks really bad. As we were settling in to have our first green beer, my cell phone rang. It was The Mystery Man. "Nice shamrocks sweetie!"

What the hell? He was in California. I looked around to see if maybe he had come to Chi-town to surprise me. No, that didn't make sense as he'd never do something so public. "What are you talking about??" I asked him.

"I was watching the parade on W-G-N. The camera man has good taste. He had the camera on you while you were running by, and kind of got a nice shot of your ass as your skirt blew up."

No fucking way. But yes, way.

My handy dandy cell phone rang a couple of other times, one time was just my brother laughing hysterically.

In fact, my best friend's hubby actually taped the fucking thing, and he has edited the tape of me running with the whole skirt blowing up to "Chariots of Fire."

At least I wasn't wearing my shamrock thong....Boy am I glad I work out...It could have been a lot worse I suppose. :)

Equal Time

Realizing that it is St. Patrick's Day today (Happy St. P by the way!), I pretty much thought that my Maternal Grandmother would be rolling over in her grave if I didn't give a proper shout to that side of my family on this wonderful Irish holiday.

My Grandma was 100% Irish. Her parents had migrated to this country from Ireland in the 1800's. The Pride on that side of the family is immense.

Being that they were Irish Catholics, they found the environment in Ireland a bit stifling at the time, to say the least. My Grandma used to tell us about how bad they had it, and how they wanted better for their children. They saw America as a land where anything was possible, and they wanted that for their children.

I can't imagine the courage it takes to pick up and move to a country where you don't even speak the language. My Grandma was the first person born in this country on her side. She took this land of opportunity for everything that it was worth.

I've discussed on here before about how progressive she was. She owned her own businesses, refusing to be thrown back into the kitchen after WW II. Beautiful and intoxicating, she never met anyone who wasn't a friend.

She also partied like a rock star despite being diabetic, which led her to an early grave. She is the only Grandparent that didn't make it to the 90's, and in fact died at the tender age of 54, when I was 7 years old.

The only thing that makes up for the fact that she died so young is that she truly lived every single second of her life. Even those last couple of months, when she was pretty much bed ridden, she'd have these huge parties in her bedroom, playing poker, laughing, listening to music. You could hear her laugh from a mile away...

Her husband, my Grandpa, or Pappou (it's Greek for grandpa. we are not Greek. My sister started that, and the only explanation I have is she must have been Greek in a past life.) is probably the Grandparent I know the best, because he is still kicking. My Dad's parents died when I was in my mid-teens, and they lived rather far away.

He is half Irish, half English. His Father was Irish, and one of the meanest bastards ever to walk the Earth. I may well be the only human being that man ever adored, and it was probably because even at a young age I wouldn't put up with his shit and asked him ten million questions until he'd talk to me.

My Pappou learned from the past, and he is a very kind and gentle man. He was very proud of his wife, and never let what society say rule his manhood or how she should behave.

My Great Grandpa had it bad, real bad, when he came to America. He had it pretty bad over there in Ireland too, and it always amazes me that here I am, just two generations away, living in such comfort and security.

I know having it bad doesn't really give an excuse for being a bastard, but it was a different time, with different social mores. My Mom told me that when she was growing up, if they were bad my Grandpa would take them to the basement, hit a pole with his belt, and tell them to scream so that my Grandma thought they were being punished.

He said he would never, ever hit his kids like he was beat.

All these different genes, all these struggles, all these hardships all come down to my generation. My sister, brother, and I have never went hungry. We have always had a nice place to live, always had electricity and running water.

Our Great Grandparents and Grandparents gave us the world by the balls through all their hardships, courage, and struggles. They dreamed that their children would do better, and I like to think that they are smiling now, knowing everything they went through was worth it.

May the road rise to meet you,

May the wind be always at your back,

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

The rains fall soft upon your fields and,

Until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

You raised the road for us, your offspring, and I hope we never forget where we came from or the sacrifices made to give us these blessings.

Going Home

So the Original Party People (my parents) have once again conned me into going down south for the holiday.

Does your DNA mutate when you become a parent giving you some kind of super sonic guilt trip gene?

Technically Mississippi is not my home, as I was raised in a small Indiana town outside of Chicago. All my Father's family is down there though, and I spent a good part of my summers down there.

I hate the fucking south. I always have. Even when I was a kid I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs at everything that went on down there.

Before any of you southern readers get upset with me, hear me out. It's not the people, just the way of life. Southern people are some of the kindest, sincerest people I have ever met.

If only they could get off their asses and move at more then a snails pace, I'd be ok.... :)

You see, my Father, being 3/4 Native American, thought it was important for us to be in touch with those Native American roots. There weren't a hell of a lot of Indians running around a state ironically called Indiana, so my parents would ship us off to Mississippi to be with the paternal Grandparents for a month or two in the summer.

This also was the perfect opportunity for us to become farm hands, as my grandparents were farmers.

I fucking hate farming.

My Dad always wanted us to know what it truly meant to work, as we had it much easier then he did. This may well be the understatement of the year, as people that get two meals a day and had indoor plumbing had it easier then him.

What the hell would I tell my kids about my hardships growing up? That we didn't get cable until I was 11? That we had to cook shit on the stove until I was 12 because my Dad was certain microwaves were dangerous? That if we wanted to steal music we had to actually go to the store and physically steal it instead of downloading it???

I'm tangenting (is that a word?) Another post, another time....

Anyway...So we were shipped off to be cheap child labor for my Grandparents.

I'm thinking that I know why they are so slow down there. That farming shit is hard work. It's also hotter then hell, there are weird bugs that fly that really shouldn't be flying, and snakes that will kill you if they bite you.

When they finally stop working and stressing over all the scary shit they just shutdown? It could be a theory...

So my Granpda, who was proud as hell of his tractor, would climb up on that bad boy and drive it. We'd walk behind it with these big burlap sack thingies picking up potatoes, all the while dodging any kind of snake that may have been uprooted in the process.

Usually after about 20 minutes of this I was riding on the tractor with my Grandpa because I was a hysterical wreck after seeing my first snake. Like my Dad, Mel Looney (that's what we called him, and no I don't know why except that he was a bit eccentric) couldn't bear to see me upset.

I heart men...

So my brother and sister would walk behind doing their work and mine. Being the baby is a good thing, let me tell you.

He'd make up for it though, by giving me barn duty or something of the like. I got rather attached to a bull that I named George, and one summer was rather traumatized when I realized that the nice juicy burger that I was eating was in fact my sweet bull George (a shout out to my brother who told me, you know, after I had a couple of bites), causing me to not eat beef for about oh, 15 years or so.

I'm still not over it.

Our reward for being good little sweat shop workers wasn't exactly what I would call a reward. We were allowed to go down to the creek (pronounced Krik down there) to swim.

Now this was much different then swimming in my pool back at home. I believe I only did it once, and it was for about all of 30 seconds. You see, there are other things swimming with you as you swim around.

Things like water moccasins.

No fucking thanks.

The first time we went down there it was with our cousins. That was one of my favorite parts of going down south, having cousins. Up here it was just our little family, with not much in the way of an extended family.

That was until I found out my cousins were crazy fuckers.

We get to the creek, and jump in. Oh, it felt so good considering most days down there are like 100 degrees AND humid. This was until I saw a water moccasin swim by me, which prompted my sister, brother, and I to swim/run our way out of there screaming at the top of our lungs.

Our cousin's response? "They won't bother you if you don't bother them."

What the fuck??? Who would bother them? Who would knowingly swim with poisonous snakes?

My crazy fucker cousins, that's who. We held a united front and proclaimed we would never go into the creek again.

This caused much shame to my Grandparents, who labeled us white breaded Yankees.

A couple of weeks later we redeemed ourselves because after a family fishing trip we all knew how to clean fish and the crazy fucker cousins didn't.

Thank you maternal Grandpa, for showing us how to clean fish and clearing our good names.

So as you can tell, many things about the south and me just don't gel all that well.

I do cherish the memories of going down there, as I learned so much about my family history. I heard stories of my family walking the trail of tears. I heard about my Grandparents leaving the reservation because everyone was starving.

It really kind of cleared a lot of things up for me. We seem to have this ambition gene thing going in my family, and I never understood why my Grandparents didn't try to do better. They never particularity cared to own their own land. They would hunt for fur when things got really bad and they didn't have food.

Why didn't they do that all the time? My Dad had told me before that a couple of good Fox hides sometimes was more profitable then their intake from farming for the year.

It was because in their mind they were doing good. They had shelter, food (most of the time), and their family. In their culture, that was all they needed.

My Grandpa was a proud man. Big and strong, even in his 90's. He had a twinkle in his eyes, and a wicked sense of humor. A guitar was one of his best friends, and he would play music for hours for us, while my Grandma sang along with a voice that would put Aretha Franklin to shame.

Or maybe it was just because she was my Grandma. She was big too, not as in fat, but tall. She was 6' tall, with long, solid white hair. Even in her 90's, she was still gorgeous.

It was like she could see through you and feel all your pain. She was the most compassionate person I have ever met in my life. My Grandma could make anything ok.

My Grandma was diagnosed with leukemia at age 96, and acquired HIV through a blood transfusion. She had full blown AIDS by 98, and passed on soon after. My Grandfather was in perfect health at age 99, but as soon as her casket was lowered into the ground he completely lost his mind. He didn't know who we were, who he was, anything.

He died a month later. I suppose if you are married to someone for 79 years, it is a bit tough to live without them.

Soul mates they were my friends...

Being a late in life child, and my Father being a late in life child, didn't give me much time with them. I am so grateful for every second spent with them, and proud of my heritage and ancestors.

Where was I? Oh yes, I hate the fucking south. I suppose the rest of that will have to wait until tomorrow....

Greenlight me baby!

AAAAAaaaaaaaah yes, it's that time of year again. Project Greenlight debuts on Bravo tonight, and I simply cannot wait.

Project Greenlight, the Internet contest started by Matt Damon and Ben Affleck, holds a special place in my heart.

I'm a graduate of the Project Greenlight school of writing. Well, not really, but their old website used to have incredible message boards with some really great people that taught me a bunch about writing scripts. I also found many other great resources there, and they have helped me considerably in my writing endeavors.

The boards are non-existant now, as with most Internet things it kind of got out of hand over there, but I will still always be greatful for the things I learned. I'm dedicated to watching this show for this reason, as I've always had that whole loyalty thing in truck loads.

That, and it's so freakin' addictive. I am NOT a reality show fan, but I get seriously addicted to PG. That, and I think I have a serious crush on Chris Moore, Matt and Ben's partner in thier LivePlanet production company.

I loves me some Chris Moore...

I missed the first contest and season of this show. I didn't have a TV then, and hadn't really heard about this. By the time the second season rolled around I found their website while searching for some script help. The contest was over, but the message boards were alive. The show was also about to start airing, so I got HBO to watch it.

Hooked. It was like crack going through the air waves.

Now this contest, the one that is going to start airing tonight, I had every intention of entering. I was polishing up my first script, was all set to enter it, and then they announced they were looking for a horror script about 6 weeks before the contest.

What the fuck??

Mine was a Romantic Comedy, which some people I'm sure find horrifying. I decided it needed a good rewrite, so I didn't enter it. I also didn't have much luck writing a horror script in 6 weeks, so I didn't participate in this years contest.

I did judge scripts though, and I did try and be involved in the process.

So tonight we get to see how you make a horror film. I think this is going to make really great TV....

Bad kj...Baaaaaad kj...

I know I haven't been around much, and to all of my readers out there I am truly sorry. Lots of life stuff going on, and I promise I shall be writing regularily again very soon...

No Kids Allowed

So my friends and I have been talking about doing a mini-vacation sometime in the following year. We already have a 3 dayer booked for the end of April, but we are thinking something more Tropical for another 4 or 5 day get-a-way.

There is one problem in the planning of all of this. Half of us have kids, and have of us don't.

Now if we without kids had our way, they would have Mommy-and-Me type deals for everything. Flights, restaurants, stores, hotels, buses...You name it, it'd have a warning that kids-a-plenty were abound.

Don't get me wrong-I like kids. I had a big hand in raising three kids myself, but the three kids I raised knew damn well that whether we were at the movies or a restaurant, they had better behaved like young ladies and gentlemen or they were in biiiiiig trouble.

Unfortunately, the rest of the world is not like this. I feel for those parents for a bit, but then I wonder why the hell they didn't teach their kids some damn manners.

Maybe I'm just getting a bit less tolerant as I age, but it drives me absolutely crazy when a screaming kid is ruining my experience at a restaurant/museum/movie.

Now I know you can't just ban kids from ALL places, but the thought of a "No Kids Allowed" type resort is my version of heaven.

The half of friends that have kids are not exactly thrilled with this option, as they think our vacation should be more of a "family affair" since we are all just like family.

I wouldn't mind one bit if it were just their children there, as most of them pretty much know how to act in public. They are good kids, but if I'm going to be laying on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean, drinking some frozen alcoholic laden umbrella type drink, I really don't want to think of what activities we can do that will involve the kids.

Selfish? Oh yes, yes it is. The two couples in our tight knit group from childhood have kids, two couples don't, and I'm single and carefree. That would be 5 against 4 if put to a vote.

Maybe it's time for us to just do the mini three dayer and not a bigger vacation together. We are all so close, and have been close for so many years, that it's hard for half of us to do something and leave the other half out.

We have chosen different paths in life though. The ones that don't have kids have no intention of ever having kids. They have ambitious careers and like being independent. The ones that have kids relish their families, and are very involved in their children's lives.

Even though we are so different, the friendships remain. Loyalties like what we have are hard to come by. I can honestly say that I have 8 people in my life that would take a bullet for me without thinking twice. They love me unconditionally, and we have bonds that can't be broken. I'm talking about relationships that were formed 29+ years ago, since we were practically toddlers.

It amazed me to find out when I became an adult that most people do not have relationships like this. I then realized just how lucky I am to have people like this in my life.

We are so used to doing things as a unit that the thought of half doing this and half doing that never really occured to us. Yes, I've went on vacations without them a bunch of times, and they on their own.

Usually every 3 or 4 years we will do a joint venture, and they have always been my favorite vacations. We haven't done more then a 3 dayer in awhile, so we started talking about it. When M suggested a Disney Cruise, you could just see the look of horror on the childless people's faces, and the delight in the procreator's faces.

Fuck no. No way in hell am I going on vacation where kids are encouraged to be there. No fucking way.

I totally understand how they would feel bad if they left the kids home for the 5 day stint. After all, they are going on the 3 dayer at the end of April without them. Mabye we need to be more tolerant towards children, or maybe we just need to hang up the idea of bigger vacations together until their kids are old enough to drink with us....

Cabin Fever

I've officially gone crazy. I know many of you may be thinking that I was crazy before, but now it's official.

This happened after I enjoyed one hell of a weekend-temps hovering in the late 60's yesterday. I hadn't realized just how bad I had cabin fever, and being outside in the sunshine with no need for a parka was exhilarating.

Then it happened. I checked the National Weather Service homepage, and I see a low of 17 and bunches of snow in my near future.

I think it pushed me over the edge. NO!!!! I am ready for spring. I am ready for flowers and bikinis and barbecues and hikes in the woods.

I want it now!! So when I saw highs in the 30's and lows in the 10's, I just about lost it.

50 is the New 30

That's what my sister said to me. 50 is the new 30.

My sister encompasses pretty much all of the bad things they say about Baby Boomers. This world is all about her you know, and of course at 43 she is not old. Why, you are still a kid in your 40's!

Not that I'm saying 43 is old, so don't y'all get together and kick my ass in a parking lot or something. It is mature though, and it most definitely is not what used to be the 20's. They say that many boomers live in this little cloud where they think they don't age.

Fuck that. I wouldn't want to be in my 20's again for anything in the world. That is just my Gen X genes talking I suppose...

So my sis and I were arguing about something stupid, and she said, "You're just a baby. You'll find out someday." "I'm fucking 34 years old! I am no where close to being a kid, so don't patronize me."

"Well, you know they say 50 is the new 30," she said. By this logic I am still 14 years old.

I thought 40 was the new 30 was the latest catch phrase, but I guess as the boomers age it'll keep going up. Pretty soon we'll be hearing "70 is the new 30!" as many of them just don't want to admit they are getting old. And they are. Getting old.

You can see what's going to happen from a mile away if you look really hard. The Boomers are eventually going to be taken over by the little Echo Bastards, who will then declare that 30 is the new 30, and when I'm 50, I'll just be old.

We Gen Xer's are a really pain in the old Boomer's ass. Close enough to their age to not be a kid, but young enough to remind them they are getting older, we are a constant in your face look at what they were 10 years ago. Logically we can't be dismissed as young and inexperienced like the echo bastards, so I really think we present this huge threat to the boomers.

Tomorrow (hopefully if I don't start throwing up again or if some wayward boomer doesn't kill me or if work doesn't hold me hostage) I'll talk about how my 90 year old grandpa thinks we are going to inherit the Greatest Generation title. We meaning Gen Xer's....Stay tuned...

A day late and a dollar short

Yes, it's Tuesday, and yes, the Oscars were Monday.

I had the stomach flu, and I have a note from my Doctor. I kind of wonder if the whole Oscar Extravaganza was the reason why I couldn't hold anything down, because most of the Oscar telecast did just that-it made me sick.

Talk about being disappointed. In a big caste system the lower people were herded like cattle on stage. Even worse a fate was met by people less then the second class citizens, as they had to receive their awards in the audience.

In the audience... Was it just me, or did Cate Blanchet look really, really uncomfortable giving away that first award in the nose bleeds?

What the hell were they saying to these people? Basically, you aren't as good as the other people winning an Oscar. I mean, image you are winning an Oscar, and you are pretty much one of the unsung people on the project. I guess they just wanted to sing a little for these people, as they aren't nearly as important as the actors, directors, and surprisingly, the cinematographers.

Speaking of singing, in a great big high school popularity contest the people that actually did the work for the movies and sang the songs for the movies and were probably a big reason why the songs even got nominated were pushed aside for Beyonce and Antonio Banderas.

I really feel for Minnie Driver and Jorge Drexler. They were the ones that put the sweat in, but the academy pushed them to the side for the head cheerleader and the captain of the football team. I don't even think that Antonio is captain of the football team material, but maybe head of the student body?

Either way, it was wrong, wrong, wrong. I suppose I feel more for Jorge Drexler as he wrote and performed the song. It was actually a monumental moment for the foreign language song, as it was the first time a Spanish song won. They took away part of this man's night by having him sit in the audience while Antonio and Santana performed his song.

I don't know the name of the French performer that sang the other song, but I'd feel sorry for them to if I knew who they were. I'm surprised that they didn't let Sean Penn sing "Accidentally in Love" as the Counting Crows aren't exactly a big name anymore.

Speaking of Sean Penn, someone better check the lost and found over at the Kodak Theater, because he seems to have lost his fucking sense of humor...

I liked Chris Rock...I thought Jamie did a gracious and touching acceptance speech....The whole Magic Johnson theater bit was hilarious...

That part really kind of made me think. The Oscars aren't exactly a big popularity contest. Most people haven't seen the movies that were winning all these awards, but the Academy goes by the craft, and who does the best job.

Unless you are a make up artist or a documentarian. Then you just get your award in your seat.