Dump on me.
Fuck me running.
I must take partial blame for this, but I'm not taking all of it. I'm blaming most of it on the shitty year known as 2004. Bastard.
So I get in my big gas guzzling SUV to drop off my crock pot at my bro's house and go to the bank. I get to the end of my street, and step on the brakes.
Ummm...brakes...work...please...pretty please?
They worked a little, but then started making this horrid clunking noise. I had to push them all the way to the floor to stop. Thankfully everything around here is in a big square, so I just coasted up over down over back to my driveway.
Those of you that have read my blog for awhile realize that I used to be a repairman (woman, person, whatever)before I graduated college.
Should I have known something was wrong? Why yes, yes I should have and indeed I did know. Monday morning I actually have an appointment to get the thing looked at, as I don't have anything big enough to jack it up. It's the caliper, I know that...I just don't have the resources to fix it.
I get in the house and realize that I have all this crap to do and don't have a vehicle. I do have another crap death trap mobile that I drive back and forth to work during pristine travel conditions. During snow, rain, or fog I drive the big honking SUV. It's all about survival of the fittest then...
The crap death trap mobile is currently at my brother's garage in different states of disassemble, much to my sister-in-law's disdain. I knew it was about to die on me, so I took it over there to do some serious work on it, seeing how the only tool I have at my house is a butter knife that works as a screw driver and big wrench that also doubles as a hammer.
I discovered after changing the plugs and brake pads (aren't I a cool chicky?) that one of my rotors was seriously worn, so I kind of left the tires off of it and the caliper disassembled until I could grab one from the junk yard.
Don't you hate it when you bite your own ass?
So I'm stuck. At home. With no visible form of transportation.
Panic sets in. I put my head between my legs before I hyperventilate (that is so spelled wrong).
Ok, so maybe it wasn't that bad, but I did panic.
You see, driving is a very important factor in my life. You know how people talk about their newborn baby and how it was the most precious moment of their life?
That's how I talk about getting my driver's license. I cried tears of joy at 16 when I first pulled out of my driveway all by myself and realized I could drive anywhere I wanted to, at any time. If there was a road to it, I could go there!
Freedom, glorious freedom!
My freedom had been stripped. It was gone. I would now have to depend on something I really, really didn't want to depend on.
A 20 year old guy with a low rider and big speakers...
Joooooooooey? I called down the hall towards my nephew's bedroom. He's working 3-11's right now, and hell it was noon. It was time he got up anyway, right?
So we pile into his low rider, and off we go. "Could you turn down the music a little?" I ask. "WHAT?" he replies. "I SAID COULD YOU TURN DOWN THE MUSIC A LITTLE BIT I'M GETTING A HEADACHE."
He snickers and makes some kind of insinuation that I'm getting "old".
Fucker.
I come to the realization that I am now completely in the hands of this 20 year old guy, and he KNOWS it.
Fuck.
So we drive toward the bank at what feels like the speed of light, as I have the death grip on the headliner grab handle.
"IF WE CRASH THAT WON'T HELP YOU MUCH," he informs me.
"I DON'T CARE, IT MAKES ME FEEL BETTER," I yell back.
We get to the bank and my 34 year old knees scream with disgust at me as I try to somehow gracefully exit this vehicle that is so freakin' low to the ground.
Warp speed ahead to my brother's house. My right hand no longer has feelings in my finger tips. The little asshole decides to finally turn the stereo down, after realizing that yes, one day my vehicle will be fixed, and oh yeah, it would suck to have to live in a box.
My brother tells me the old "I told you to get your truck in earlier, blah, insert more annoying shit, blah".
Then he informs me that he doesn't have time to come back and get me tonight. My nephew says he can pick me up in his snow plow and drive me, since it's on his route for the night.
What a fitting end to 2004. To literally be "dumped" off at a party in a state owned vehicle.
Hey, at least I'm getting a little extra for all those damn taxes I paid this year...
Interesting side note:
Blogger's spell check recommends using "foreskin" for "freakin'"
Happy foreskin New Year Everyone!
Friday, December 31, 2004
Have a Responsible NYE
Not to be a kill joy or anything, but I wanted to share a story with you all on this night of all nights. You can read the full version of it here.
The jist (gist?) of the story is that on Christmas Eve some years ago my Aunt and Uncle were killed by a 24 year old drunk driver, leaving their 18 year old daughter without parents.
So before you get behind the wheel tonight, or before you get in a car with someone else that is driving, ask yourself one thing: Is it really worth it?
Is it worth taking the chance of killing someone's Mom, Grandma, Sister, Father, or Brother? Is it worth going to jail for years and years? Is it worth leaving your children/mother/grandpa without a parent/child/granchild?
My friends and I are very aware of the problems with drinking and driving. It would be the absolute most disrespectful act we could do in my Mom's eyes.
So tonight, we are having a soiree where everyone will spend the night. Yes, we will sleep on jacked-up air mattresses, uncomfortable couches, and even probably the hard floor.
But we will be safe, and we will cause no harm to anyone (other then ourselves of course...lol).
The jist (gist?) of the story is that on Christmas Eve some years ago my Aunt and Uncle were killed by a 24 year old drunk driver, leaving their 18 year old daughter without parents.
So before you get behind the wheel tonight, or before you get in a car with someone else that is driving, ask yourself one thing: Is it really worth it?
Is it worth taking the chance of killing someone's Mom, Grandma, Sister, Father, or Brother? Is it worth going to jail for years and years? Is it worth leaving your children/mother/grandpa without a parent/child/granchild?
My friends and I are very aware of the problems with drinking and driving. It would be the absolute most disrespectful act we could do in my Mom's eyes.
So tonight, we are having a soiree where everyone will spend the night. Yes, we will sleep on jacked-up air mattresses, uncomfortable couches, and even probably the hard floor.
But we will be safe, and we will cause no harm to anyone (other then ourselves of course...lol).
The ABC's of kj
I've had a some time off from work, and I was trying to finally figure out the whole TIVO thing on my TV. My nephew can work it, and it is kind of degrading to rely on a 20 year old for technology based things when you are a technology type person.
After much trial and error, I finally figured the damn thing out. I began to look at what he had on there, and one of the things he recorded was a show on E! that had the ABC's of Angelina Jolie. I wonder why, eh?
I'd been thinking of how I could wrap up this year on my blog. Unfortunately it's been a rather boring year for me, as I've been working many, many hours. So I decided that hey! anything interesting that happened to me I blogged about, so I'd just do an ABC's of the kj4ever blog, sprinkled with some tidbits about myself.
A is for arrested. More on that here
B is for Bratz Dolls and how they creep me out.
C is for Ceiling, and how I still can't wipe off those damn footprints
D is for Duck, and how we strange Midwesterners dress them up
E is for Extravaganza, as I say it and live it all the time. Everything should be an Extravaganza!
F is for For F*ck's Sake! of course.
G is for Gold. I'm allergic to it, and can only wear Silver or platinum jewelry.
H is for Halloween! One of my favorites, we celebrate it to the hilt.
I is for the Internet. While it's not quite the space-traveling, car flying future I imagined the new millennium would be as a child, it'll do for now.
J is for Joe, my pseudo child/nephew that lives with me.
K is for kj. My Dad is the one that gave me the nickname kj, and is about the only one that calls me that except for you fine Internet people.
L is for The Lemon, or my sister as she's sometimes called...
M is for Money. I've always been good at making money, even when I was a small child.
N is for Naught. All my Santa Claus posts have brought me some rather naughty search engine visitors.
O is for OPP. Not the cheesy 90's saying "Other people's property", but my nickname for my parents, "The Original Party People."
P is for Project Greenlight. The helpful community there taught me more about screenwriting then any book could have.
Q is for Queenie. This is what my boss, the Old Irish Bastard likes to call me when I am having one of my infamous tantrums.
R is for Rance. I have come to know many of my wonderful readers from his site.
S is for Sweetest Day, and how everyone should celebrate it.
T is for the things that make me want to poke my eye out. Oh, and how I was Traumatized after I added HaloScan.
U is for U A W. I'm in the U A W, and am very proud of that fact.
V is for Van Halen, and how we went a little bit to far reliving our youth.
W is for the differences between women then and now.
X is for X-ray. I've had many, many X-rays in my life, because when I was a child I did a lot of stupid shit. I've broken 22 bones in my left hand, my right arm, my collar bone, my left and right ankle, tore all the ligaments out of my left knee, and my left elbow.
Y is for yoga. I'm a yoga freak. It is about the only exercise I enjoy.
Z is for Zowza. As in Zowza I'm finally done!
After much trial and error, I finally figured the damn thing out. I began to look at what he had on there, and one of the things he recorded was a show on E! that had the ABC's of Angelina Jolie. I wonder why, eh?
I'd been thinking of how I could wrap up this year on my blog. Unfortunately it's been a rather boring year for me, as I've been working many, many hours. So I decided that hey! anything interesting that happened to me I blogged about, so I'd just do an ABC's of the kj4ever blog, sprinkled with some tidbits about myself.
A is for arrested. More on that here
B is for Bratz Dolls and how they creep me out.
C is for Ceiling, and how I still can't wipe off those damn footprints
D is for Duck, and how we strange Midwesterners dress them up
E is for Extravaganza, as I say it and live it all the time. Everything should be an Extravaganza!
F is for For F*ck's Sake! of course.
G is for Gold. I'm allergic to it, and can only wear Silver or platinum jewelry.
H is for Halloween! One of my favorites, we celebrate it to the hilt.
I is for the Internet. While it's not quite the space-traveling, car flying future I imagined the new millennium would be as a child, it'll do for now.
J is for Joe, my pseudo child/nephew that lives with me.
K is for kj. My Dad is the one that gave me the nickname kj, and is about the only one that calls me that except for you fine Internet people.
L is for The Lemon, or my sister as she's sometimes called...
M is for Money. I've always been good at making money, even when I was a small child.
N is for Naught. All my Santa Claus posts have brought me some rather naughty search engine visitors.
O is for OPP. Not the cheesy 90's saying "Other people's property", but my nickname for my parents, "The Original Party People."
P is for Project Greenlight. The helpful community there taught me more about screenwriting then any book could have.
Q is for Queenie. This is what my boss, the Old Irish Bastard likes to call me when I am having one of my infamous tantrums.
R is for Rance. I have come to know many of my wonderful readers from his site.
S is for Sweetest Day, and how everyone should celebrate it.
T is for the things that make me want to poke my eye out. Oh, and how I was Traumatized after I added HaloScan.
U is for U A W. I'm in the U A W, and am very proud of that fact.
V is for Van Halen, and how we went a little bit to far reliving our youth.
W is for the differences between women then and now.
X is for X-ray. I've had many, many X-rays in my life, because when I was a child I did a lot of stupid shit. I've broken 22 bones in my left hand, my right arm, my collar bone, my left and right ankle, tore all the ligaments out of my left knee, and my left elbow.
Y is for yoga. I'm a yoga freak. It is about the only exercise I enjoy.
Z is for Zowza. As in Zowza I'm finally done!
Thursday, December 30, 2004
It makes you proud
to be an American. Just three days after the Tsunami's, the Red Cross has released initial figures in how much the American citizens have donated so far.
Click to read article.
Click to read article.
Best of Blogs Awards
I've recently found out that I'm a finalist in the Snarkiest Blog category over at the BoB Awards.
Check out my competition, as there are some really, really good blogs nominated along side of me. The whole spirit of this competition is to show some of the lesser known blogs to the world, so I hope you find some daily reads out of my category.
I'm also up for Most Humorous Blog, but the finalists haven't been announced yet.
Go on over to The BoB's and check out some of the other categories too. It's all about exposing new blogs to a new audience, so do it! Go!
and of course it wouldn't suck to bad if I won. Voting begins January 1st.
Check out my competition, as there are some really, really good blogs nominated along side of me. The whole spirit of this competition is to show some of the lesser known blogs to the world, so I hope you find some daily reads out of my category.
I'm also up for Most Humorous Blog, but the finalists haven't been announced yet.
Go on over to The BoB's and check out some of the other categories too. It's all about exposing new blogs to a new audience, so do it! Go!
and of course it wouldn't suck to bad if I won. Voting begins January 1st.
Bozo the Sadist
So I called my best friend R's Mom yesterday to have her bring the tape. The Mother of all Embarrassing Child Traumatic Moment Tapes.
The Bozo Tape.
It's a yearly tradition really, where we bust out the Bozo Tape and have a good laugh at my best friend's expense.
When she was born in October of 1970 her Aunt ordered her Bozo tickets. They came a good 12 years later. Talk about a waiting list, eh?
So we all packed in the car to see Bozo, even though we were 12 years old. Hell, no one from school would watch the show, as 6th graders didn't watch such silly things as Bozo, and it was a day off school.
As we stood in line a lady distributed numbers for the "Bozo Puter", you know, the new high tech way they were picking the person for The Grand Prize Game. Gone were the arrows that went around the TV screen, Bozo was high tech.
The lady passed up R, probably because R had already "developed" and she figured R was way over 12. R was quite shy and didn't say anything, but God knows I wasn't. "Hey! My friend didn't get a number!"
Number lady just kind of looked at me sarcastically and kept going. "I SAID SHE DIDN'T GET A NUMBER." At this point R and her Mom (who is also quite shy) were like "It's ok..." Umm, no it's not. "HEY LADY!" She was about to give the number to a little kid and came back and gave it to R, probably just to get me to shut up.
I so bet you know where this is going....
So the Bozo puter is spinning out of control looking for the 2 lucky children that get to play The Grand Prize Game. We may have been 12, but hell if you got to bucket #6 you won a bike. Not to shabby.
The numbers spun wildly and stopped on 245. Guess who had 245? Yup, much to her horror, R had 245. I think she was going to act like she didn't have it, but the way I was clapping and screaming she didn't have much of a choice.
We had prepared for the bozo show in true 80's style, with the big hair, Jordache Jeans, and tattoos on our face. R slowly walked up to the stage to play the game, when I heard her Mom exclaim, "Oh my God."
You see, there must have been a big ball of used tape on R's seat, and it was firmly stuck to her butt crack.
Bozo kind of looked as shocked as one can look dressed as Bozo, and asked, "How old are you little girl?" R managed to squeak out 12, but you could so tell that Bozo didn't believe her. "What's that on your face?" he asked. "It's a tattoo."
Bozo kind of looked around not knowing what to do. You could tell that he didn't believe that she was 12, but the tape was rolling and there wasn't a whole lot he could do.
So she began to play The Grand! Prize! Game! and lost horribly on bucket number 2.
That's right, bucket number 2. She was probably like 5'6. The game is really set up for little kids, and she probably could reach all the way over to bucket number 6. We laughed at her hysterically when she came back to her seat.
The other person chosen to play The Grand! Prize! Game! was a 4 year old that made it to bucket number 5. All this did was make us howl with laughter even more.
I was chosen to play a balloon squashing game, and I totally buried all those little 4 and 5 year olds, grabbing the balloons up so much faster then them. I won a pink poodle phone which never worked.
So the traumatic experience that was Bozo was over, and we went home. The show aired like 2 weeks later, and I spent the night at R's to watch it before school the next morning.
In horror she saw the big ball of used tape stuck to her butt crack. We laughed at her all over again, and we noticed that Bozo seemed to check out her boobs while she was trying to make bucket number 2.
"He was not" was all she would say, but dude, he totally was.
Much to our chargin we found out that people from school most certainly did watch Bozo, and we were teased a bit when we got to school. R was mortified, and I was slightly amused that all these kids were laughing at us for going to Bozo, yet they were watching it at home.
We'll break out the Bozo tape as R covers her face in her hands on NYE, and we'll laugh hysterically while she walks up to the game with her big ball of tape in her butt crack.
We'll also scream "Chester!" during the moment where Bozo is caught on film checking out her boobage.
Ah, good times....If you wan't make fun of your friend's most embarrassing moments, who can you make fun of?
The Bozo Tape.
It's a yearly tradition really, where we bust out the Bozo Tape and have a good laugh at my best friend's expense.
When she was born in October of 1970 her Aunt ordered her Bozo tickets. They came a good 12 years later. Talk about a waiting list, eh?
So we all packed in the car to see Bozo, even though we were 12 years old. Hell, no one from school would watch the show, as 6th graders didn't watch such silly things as Bozo, and it was a day off school.
As we stood in line a lady distributed numbers for the "Bozo Puter", you know, the new high tech way they were picking the person for The Grand Prize Game. Gone were the arrows that went around the TV screen, Bozo was high tech.
The lady passed up R, probably because R had already "developed" and she figured R was way over 12. R was quite shy and didn't say anything, but God knows I wasn't. "Hey! My friend didn't get a number!"
Number lady just kind of looked at me sarcastically and kept going. "I SAID SHE DIDN'T GET A NUMBER." At this point R and her Mom (who is also quite shy) were like "It's ok..." Umm, no it's not. "HEY LADY!" She was about to give the number to a little kid and came back and gave it to R, probably just to get me to shut up.
I so bet you know where this is going....
So the Bozo puter is spinning out of control looking for the 2 lucky children that get to play The Grand Prize Game. We may have been 12, but hell if you got to bucket #6 you won a bike. Not to shabby.
The numbers spun wildly and stopped on 245. Guess who had 245? Yup, much to her horror, R had 245. I think she was going to act like she didn't have it, but the way I was clapping and screaming she didn't have much of a choice.
We had prepared for the bozo show in true 80's style, with the big hair, Jordache Jeans, and tattoos on our face. R slowly walked up to the stage to play the game, when I heard her Mom exclaim, "Oh my God."
You see, there must have been a big ball of used tape on R's seat, and it was firmly stuck to her butt crack.
Bozo kind of looked as shocked as one can look dressed as Bozo, and asked, "How old are you little girl?" R managed to squeak out 12, but you could so tell that Bozo didn't believe her. "What's that on your face?" he asked. "It's a tattoo."
Bozo kind of looked around not knowing what to do. You could tell that he didn't believe that she was 12, but the tape was rolling and there wasn't a whole lot he could do.
So she began to play The Grand! Prize! Game! and lost horribly on bucket number 2.
That's right, bucket number 2. She was probably like 5'6. The game is really set up for little kids, and she probably could reach all the way over to bucket number 6. We laughed at her hysterically when she came back to her seat.
The other person chosen to play The Grand! Prize! Game! was a 4 year old that made it to bucket number 5. All this did was make us howl with laughter even more.
I was chosen to play a balloon squashing game, and I totally buried all those little 4 and 5 year olds, grabbing the balloons up so much faster then them. I won a pink poodle phone which never worked.
So the traumatic experience that was Bozo was over, and we went home. The show aired like 2 weeks later, and I spent the night at R's to watch it before school the next morning.
In horror she saw the big ball of used tape stuck to her butt crack. We laughed at her all over again, and we noticed that Bozo seemed to check out her boobs while she was trying to make bucket number 2.
"He was not" was all she would say, but dude, he totally was.
Much to our chargin we found out that people from school most certainly did watch Bozo, and we were teased a bit when we got to school. R was mortified, and I was slightly amused that all these kids were laughing at us for going to Bozo, yet they were watching it at home.
We'll break out the Bozo tape as R covers her face in her hands on NYE, and we'll laugh hysterically while she walks up to the game with her big ball of tape in her butt crack.
We'll also scream "Chester!" during the moment where Bozo is caught on film checking out her boobage.
Ah, good times....If you wan't make fun of your friend's most embarrassing moments, who can you make fun of?
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Stingy?
Are we, the American people stingy? I'm sure this has been hashed and rehashed around the blogosphere since Jan Egeland's comments the other day. I know he retracted the statement, but to me it to little, to late. It's like that verbally abusive boyfriend telling the girlfriend that he really didn't mean it-honest.
Is it true though?
This question haunted me last night, as I tried to go to sleep. I did a bunch of checking around the Internet for some numbers about how much America really gives.
One of the most interesting facts I came upon was that there are things we do that are not counted by places like the UN. Our world food program is not counted in how much we donate to third world countries. The US gives more then any other nation on earth to the World Food Program.
It also doesn't count any AIDS relief given to the these countries. This will be a 15 billion dollar effort over 5 years, that also includes 500 million to help stop the transmission of the disease from Mother to Child. It also doesn't count the 241 billion private donations Americans like you and me give every year.
That's right. The Giving USA Foundation clocks American citizens as giving 241 billion a year to charitable organizations. 241 billion dollars. This is 2.2 percent of our Gross National Product, the prefered measuring stick used by the UN and Europe. That's 2.2 percent before any aid given out by our government.
I must admit that as an American I found to be very proud of that figure. Now not all of that is given to developing nations, it wasn't broken down between domestic and foreign contributions, but it is still an impressive number.
I wondered why our private donations didn't count towards what America gives, and the only answer that I could come up with while searching the Internet was that it didn't come directly from our government.
Where the hell do they think the money from our government comes from? That's right, the same people that gave 241 billion dollars to charity in 2003. It came from our taxes.
Still, do we give enough? Do we help those who aren't as blessed as we are enough? I don't think you could ever help enough, but calling America stingy is not fair and it is not right. I know, I know, Jan Egeland has back peddled away from his comments and said they weren't directed at any certain country, but who are we kidding? We know who those comments were directed at. Saying "I didn't mean it" doesn't make me any less pissed off about it.
I try not to be political on my blog, as there are so many others out there that are. I'm not a Republican, and I'm not a Democrat. If I had to identify with a political party it would be more then likely the Libertarians, but fortunately in this country you can be what I am: An Independent that looks to all sides and sees what's best for our country at that time.
This statement struck such a cord with me that I couldn't help but write about it. It tore at me when I know many, many people in this country are generous. When I know that our government gives more then any other nation on this planet we all share.
I do have one last political thing to say, in a For F*ck's Sake kind of way:
Fuck the UN.
If anyone would like to know my sources, I have them all.
Is it true though?
This question haunted me last night, as I tried to go to sleep. I did a bunch of checking around the Internet for some numbers about how much America really gives.
One of the most interesting facts I came upon was that there are things we do that are not counted by places like the UN. Our world food program is not counted in how much we donate to third world countries. The US gives more then any other nation on earth to the World Food Program.
It also doesn't count any AIDS relief given to the these countries. This will be a 15 billion dollar effort over 5 years, that also includes 500 million to help stop the transmission of the disease from Mother to Child. It also doesn't count the 241 billion private donations Americans like you and me give every year.
That's right. The Giving USA Foundation clocks American citizens as giving 241 billion a year to charitable organizations. 241 billion dollars. This is 2.2 percent of our Gross National Product, the prefered measuring stick used by the UN and Europe. That's 2.2 percent before any aid given out by our government.
I must admit that as an American I found to be very proud of that figure. Now not all of that is given to developing nations, it wasn't broken down between domestic and foreign contributions, but it is still an impressive number.
I wondered why our private donations didn't count towards what America gives, and the only answer that I could come up with while searching the Internet was that it didn't come directly from our government.
Where the hell do they think the money from our government comes from? That's right, the same people that gave 241 billion dollars to charity in 2003. It came from our taxes.
Still, do we give enough? Do we help those who aren't as blessed as we are enough? I don't think you could ever help enough, but calling America stingy is not fair and it is not right. I know, I know, Jan Egeland has back peddled away from his comments and said they weren't directed at any certain country, but who are we kidding? We know who those comments were directed at. Saying "I didn't mean it" doesn't make me any less pissed off about it.
I try not to be political on my blog, as there are so many others out there that are. I'm not a Republican, and I'm not a Democrat. If I had to identify with a political party it would be more then likely the Libertarians, but fortunately in this country you can be what I am: An Independent that looks to all sides and sees what's best for our country at that time.
This statement struck such a cord with me that I couldn't help but write about it. It tore at me when I know many, many people in this country are generous. When I know that our government gives more then any other nation on this planet we all share.
I do have one last political thing to say, in a For F*ck's Sake kind of way:
Fuck the UN.
If anyone would like to know my sources, I have them all.
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
My Heart Hurts
My heart hurts for those people who were devastated by the tsunami's. I've wanted to blog about it, but truth of the matter is I just don't know what to say in the wake of such devastation.
I'm sorry, so sorry for those people and the ones that love them.
I'm sorry, so sorry for those people and the ones that love them.
Living in a John Hughes Movie
I don't really get to see much of the town that I live in because of how much I work. I don't shop here except for the little Mom and Pop store on the corner, because I tend to go to places open 24 hours because of the jacked-up schedule I work.
I've suspended my Yuppie meals on wheels while I'm on vacation, as it seems a bit to extravagant to spend that type of money on food when I am home all day long.
The town in which I live reminds me of one of the 80's flicks John Hughes made famous. There is definitely a "wrong side of the tracks" section, the rich section, and finally the middle class section. We never seen the middle class section in John Hughes flicks because middle class doesn't have the same drama as being very poor or very rich, or at least that's my theory. You know they couldn't have all been either rich or poor, but I digress...
I live in the more progressively climbing middle class area. We are by far the smallest area in the town, but we have premo property because we are on a big lake. The rich folk have the other side, and the poor folk live off the lake in houses that used to be weekend homes for city dwellers. They are now small little shacks that were never meant to be a permanent residence.
Doing anything in this town is interesting with the mix of people. You are likely to see mullets, BMW's, stretch pants, Gucci purses, and Julia Robert's 80's type hair in the same day.
This always makes for an interesting trip to the grocery store.
I hate going to the grocery store here. Most of the cashiers are from the "po' side", and if they think you aren't from the "po' side" you automatically get attitude when you check out.
There is also a major culture war going on in every isle, as the rich look down on the poor and the poor sneer at the rich. Then there are those of us who are "pseudo rich", meaning we are not rich enough to keep up with the rich, but rich enough to be sneered at by the poor.
As I went down the baking isle to located Splenda, I ran into a rather shocking site. It was shocking for two reasons.
1. This woman had on a half top and low rise jeans and it is like in the 30's here.
2. This woman had on a half top and low rise jeans and was extremely overweight.
She wasn't like those young girls who are just pushing it with a little pooch of fat hanging over their low rise jeans. She was like as big as one of those women on those joke birthday cards. If I had to manage a guess I'd say she was 350 lbs. All you could see was pink shirt, fat roll, fat roll, fat roll, jeans.
I know I had to have a look of shock, horror, disgust, or a mixture of all three on my face. A teacher in high school used to tell me that I should be a stage actress because I have such an expressive face. I have big dark brown eyes that tell all the secrets of my soul.
This woman obviously saw the look of horror/disgust/shock on my face and said, "What are you looking at?"
For the first time since kindergarten I worried that I just may get my ass whooped. Not only did my Coach purse and Ugg boots give me away as a possible rich person, but I was a thin blonde giving her this look.
I really didn't mean to, but it was such a shock, a total what the fuck? moment.
I know that people are fatcentric and feel comfortable with their bodies. This is great, except for it's unhealthy and obesity is about to surpass smoking as the number 1 preventable death in America.
I don't want to see that shit. I'm sorry if that sounds mean or uncompassionate or stuck up. I don't. want. to. see. that. shit.
I would never hurt someone's feelings on purpose, and believe me, I know what it is like to battle with weight, especially a large amount of weight. I couldn't help it. I'm still in shock at the site of it. Be honest now, wouldn't you have been in shock?
So I mumbled a "I'm looking for Splenda?" (I'm looking for Splenda? What is that For F*ck's Sake!) and tried to put my most innocent looking face forward as possible. She mumbled something to her friend, and they left the isle.
Phew.
Or so I thought.
I went to check out, and who was in the line next to mine? Yep, Half Top Girl and her faithful side kick. The cashier rang my groceries up, pausing to ask rather loudly if I knew that the peppers I had selected were organic and 3 times the price of regular ones, and oh of coooourse I probably knew that. (What'd I tell ya about the cashiers there?)
Half Top girl started talking rather loudly to her friend about rude people should get their asses kicked. How some people just think they are so much better then others.
Fuck me running.
I decided that if a confrontation happened in the parking lot I would stick to the old, "If you touch me I will call the cops, press charges, and your ass will rot in jail" speech that had saved me a couple of times in my early 20's from jealous girlfriends.
Yeah, that would work. I'm sure this chick would understand jail (snob alert).
She ended up not doing anything as we both left the store, thank God, and was behind my SUV until it was time for her to turn down that road that looks an awful lot like the one that Duckie and Molly Ringwald lived on in Pretty in Pink.
I've suspended my Yuppie meals on wheels while I'm on vacation, as it seems a bit to extravagant to spend that type of money on food when I am home all day long.
The town in which I live reminds me of one of the 80's flicks John Hughes made famous. There is definitely a "wrong side of the tracks" section, the rich section, and finally the middle class section. We never seen the middle class section in John Hughes flicks because middle class doesn't have the same drama as being very poor or very rich, or at least that's my theory. You know they couldn't have all been either rich or poor, but I digress...
I live in the more progressively climbing middle class area. We are by far the smallest area in the town, but we have premo property because we are on a big lake. The rich folk have the other side, and the poor folk live off the lake in houses that used to be weekend homes for city dwellers. They are now small little shacks that were never meant to be a permanent residence.
Doing anything in this town is interesting with the mix of people. You are likely to see mullets, BMW's, stretch pants, Gucci purses, and Julia Robert's 80's type hair in the same day.
This always makes for an interesting trip to the grocery store.
I hate going to the grocery store here. Most of the cashiers are from the "po' side", and if they think you aren't from the "po' side" you automatically get attitude when you check out.
There is also a major culture war going on in every isle, as the rich look down on the poor and the poor sneer at the rich. Then there are those of us who are "pseudo rich", meaning we are not rich enough to keep up with the rich, but rich enough to be sneered at by the poor.
As I went down the baking isle to located Splenda, I ran into a rather shocking site. It was shocking for two reasons.
1. This woman had on a half top and low rise jeans and it is like in the 30's here.
2. This woman had on a half top and low rise jeans and was extremely overweight.
She wasn't like those young girls who are just pushing it with a little pooch of fat hanging over their low rise jeans. She was like as big as one of those women on those joke birthday cards. If I had to manage a guess I'd say she was 350 lbs. All you could see was pink shirt, fat roll, fat roll, fat roll, jeans.
I know I had to have a look of shock, horror, disgust, or a mixture of all three on my face. A teacher in high school used to tell me that I should be a stage actress because I have such an expressive face. I have big dark brown eyes that tell all the secrets of my soul.
This woman obviously saw the look of horror/disgust/shock on my face and said, "What are you looking at?"
For the first time since kindergarten I worried that I just may get my ass whooped. Not only did my Coach purse and Ugg boots give me away as a possible rich person, but I was a thin blonde giving her this look.
I really didn't mean to, but it was such a shock, a total what the fuck? moment.
I know that people are fatcentric and feel comfortable with their bodies. This is great, except for it's unhealthy and obesity is about to surpass smoking as the number 1 preventable death in America.
I don't want to see that shit. I'm sorry if that sounds mean or uncompassionate or stuck up. I don't. want. to. see. that. shit.
I would never hurt someone's feelings on purpose, and believe me, I know what it is like to battle with weight, especially a large amount of weight. I couldn't help it. I'm still in shock at the site of it. Be honest now, wouldn't you have been in shock?
So I mumbled a "I'm looking for Splenda?" (I'm looking for Splenda? What is that For F*ck's Sake!) and tried to put my most innocent looking face forward as possible. She mumbled something to her friend, and they left the isle.
Phew.
Or so I thought.
I went to check out, and who was in the line next to mine? Yep, Half Top Girl and her faithful side kick. The cashier rang my groceries up, pausing to ask rather loudly if I knew that the peppers I had selected were organic and 3 times the price of regular ones, and oh of coooourse I probably knew that. (What'd I tell ya about the cashiers there?)
Half Top girl started talking rather loudly to her friend about rude people should get their asses kicked. How some people just think they are so much better then others.
Fuck me running.
I decided that if a confrontation happened in the parking lot I would stick to the old, "If you touch me I will call the cops, press charges, and your ass will rot in jail" speech that had saved me a couple of times in my early 20's from jealous girlfriends.
Yeah, that would work. I'm sure this chick would understand jail (snob alert).
She ended up not doing anything as we both left the store, thank God, and was behind my SUV until it was time for her to turn down that road that looks an awful lot like the one that Duckie and Molly Ringwald lived on in Pretty in Pink.
What in the hell?
New search engine referals for my site:
Spank me Santa, spank me.
Santa beat my ass.
Naughty girl Santa spank.
If you are one of the people typing this in a search engine, I'd really like to know what's going through your mind and why you were searching for this.
Or maybe I don't??
Spank me Santa, spank me.
Santa beat my ass.
Naughty girl Santa spank.
If you are one of the people typing this in a search engine, I'd really like to know what's going through your mind and why you were searching for this.
Or maybe I don't??
What's their problem?
James in a comment on the previous post insinuated that my bro and sil might have a problem of their own because they deal with the horrid behavior of the infamous Monica.
What is it about chicks named Monica anyway??
I digress...I happen to agree with him to a degree. Their problem is that they are to nice, to naive, and to accommodating.
These problems are also a big part of the reason they are so wonderful. Go figure.
Monica's husband seems to be immune to her behavior. He just blows it off as her having fun. The problems that come into play are mostly the unwilling participants in her acts of slut-ness.
My bro and sil and the rest of their neighborhood really like the husband. He's a teacher (and got to be on O-p-r-a-h's favorite t-h-i-n-gs episode, the lucky bastard) and just all around great guy.
On a ADD moment here, when he got tickets to that show, he learned that only teachers could go. He asked every teacher where he works to go, and they all said NO. One finally said what the hell and went with him. Can you imagine how badly they are kicking their collective butts right now?
So the husband is a great guy, everybody likes him, and I think that mostly they don't want to hurt his feelings. While they don't go out of their way to invite them to things, other neighbors always seem to do the inviting for them.
Then the stupid slut shows up, acts like a fool, brings out the total worst in my already sarcastic mouth, goes home, and everyone then relaxes.
James also said he wouldn't go to a party like this if someone like that was there. I'll be damned if some ignorant slut is going to keep me from my friends, and the rest of them feel the same way.
So we shall brave the storm that is Monica together, and when it gets to be too much I'll break out the snow plow and bury her. That's just my style.
Hopefully she'll be working, as she's a nurse. She's not near as bad if she's on call and can't drink. There is always hope...
For all of you with suggestions of taking attention away from her: That makes it twice as bad. Monica isn't exactly someone that would get attention normally, so she's even worse if she feels like she's being upstaged by people that naturally get attention.
Ignoring her, we've tried that, but the poor guy with a thong shoved in his face usually has a hard time ignoring that, especially while telling her to get the hell away from him.
I really don't like sluts...
In other news, I pounded out 20 count 'em 20 pages on my script today, which made me do the happy dance. I rewarded myself by taking my niece to see "The Aviator".
Fucking brilliant movie. I hearted it so much. After seeing the big stink bomb that is Ocean's 12 I was almost afraid to go see another much hyped movie. I was more then pleasantly surprised, I was tickled pink.
It's a must see in my book. The only part I can criticize is the casting of Gwen "No Doubt" Stefani as Jean Harlow. It wasn't her fault, as the part just called for her to look like her and giggle and say like one line. It immediately took me out of the movie when I saw her and thought, "That's the chick from No Doubt."
Leo was fab, and I am so not a Leo fan. I was way impressed with his performance.
I want to see "Meet the Focker's" tomorrow, and if I'm a good girl and work real hard on my writing I'll give myself that treat.
In the meantime, if you want to see a movie this holiday season, I can't recommend "The Aviator" enough...
What is it about chicks named Monica anyway??
I digress...I happen to agree with him to a degree. Their problem is that they are to nice, to naive, and to accommodating.
These problems are also a big part of the reason they are so wonderful. Go figure.
Monica's husband seems to be immune to her behavior. He just blows it off as her having fun. The problems that come into play are mostly the unwilling participants in her acts of slut-ness.
My bro and sil and the rest of their neighborhood really like the husband. He's a teacher (and got to be on O-p-r-a-h's favorite t-h-i-n-gs episode, the lucky bastard) and just all around great guy.
On a ADD moment here, when he got tickets to that show, he learned that only teachers could go. He asked every teacher where he works to go, and they all said NO. One finally said what the hell and went with him. Can you imagine how badly they are kicking their collective butts right now?
So the husband is a great guy, everybody likes him, and I think that mostly they don't want to hurt his feelings. While they don't go out of their way to invite them to things, other neighbors always seem to do the inviting for them.
Then the stupid slut shows up, acts like a fool, brings out the total worst in my already sarcastic mouth, goes home, and everyone then relaxes.
James also said he wouldn't go to a party like this if someone like that was there. I'll be damned if some ignorant slut is going to keep me from my friends, and the rest of them feel the same way.
So we shall brave the storm that is Monica together, and when it gets to be too much I'll break out the snow plow and bury her. That's just my style.
Hopefully she'll be working, as she's a nurse. She's not near as bad if she's on call and can't drink. There is always hope...
For all of you with suggestions of taking attention away from her: That makes it twice as bad. Monica isn't exactly someone that would get attention normally, so she's even worse if she feels like she's being upstaged by people that naturally get attention.
Ignoring her, we've tried that, but the poor guy with a thong shoved in his face usually has a hard time ignoring that, especially while telling her to get the hell away from him.
I really don't like sluts...
In other news, I pounded out 20 count 'em 20 pages on my script today, which made me do the happy dance. I rewarded myself by taking my niece to see "The Aviator".
Fucking brilliant movie. I hearted it so much. After seeing the big stink bomb that is Ocean's 12 I was almost afraid to go see another much hyped movie. I was more then pleasantly surprised, I was tickled pink.
It's a must see in my book. The only part I can criticize is the casting of Gwen "No Doubt" Stefani as Jean Harlow. It wasn't her fault, as the part just called for her to look like her and giggle and say like one line. It immediately took me out of the movie when I saw her and thought, "That's the chick from No Doubt."
Leo was fab, and I am so not a Leo fan. I was way impressed with his performance.
I want to see "Meet the Focker's" tomorrow, and if I'm a good girl and work real hard on my writing I'll give myself that treat.
In the meantime, if you want to see a movie this holiday season, I can't recommend "The Aviator" enough...
Monday, December 27, 2004
One More to Go
I've survived my Birthday, made it through Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.
Just one more left-New Year's Eve. My bro is having a party which is all good and well, except for one thing: Monica.
Yes, I am not typing initials as if she were ever to read this I would really like the bitch to know I am talking about her and not get confused and think I'm talking about someone else.
Monica.
Monica is a little slut that lives in my brother's neighborhood. No one likes her, and they all talk about her-behind her back that is.
I'm just not a behind-your-back kind of talker, and this tends to get me in trouble.
It may sound harsh that I've called her a little slut. I'm actually being nice.
You see, the thing about Monica is she's married to a really nice guy, well stupid guy really, and Monica likes attention.
Monica, Monica, Monica.
To get this attention she likes to do things like show her thong to the other married men at the party, talk about her favorite porn sites, or give lap dances to the married men.
Yeah, she's a real class act.
Why would my brother invite someone like this? He doesn't. His other neighbors are friends with her and her husband, so they usually extend their own invitation to them.
"Monica's harmless, she just likes to have fun," his delusional neighbors always say. My bro and sil are just total wimps and don't do anything about it. Now if it was my party I'd be like you weren't invited. In fact, I'd make sure she knew that way before the party ever started.
It always ends up with uncomfortable moments on the husband side and hurt feelings on the wife side. Oh, and me saying something really, really evil to her since I can't stand to see my friend hurt.
Which then makes me the anti-christ.
What?
I don't get it. I just say to her what everyone else there says when she's not around. Oh well. I shall survive Monica this year I suppose. There are also grateful looks from wives that just aren't as outspoken as I am, because Monica usually behaves herself after I tell her off.
I'm sure this year will be no different, seeing how his delusional neighbors have once again invited her. Grrrr...
Random updates:
My 18 year old niece has found my blog. Not to be out-done by a kid, I found hers. We have an understanding now, which is I shall not frequent hers and she shall not frequent mine.
This was of course after we had a long talk about cocaine and how she shouldn't let her Father ruin the holidays for her.
Now I promised I'd stay away and not lecture, but if any of you want to go there and lecture her about cocaine and not letting her Father ruin the holidays for her be my guest. lol
I'm debating taking down my tree. It is so pathetic looking, after being used for a cat jungle gym and all, but it is supposedly bad luck to take it down before New Year's Day. Damn superstitions.
I've also spent a lot of my 9 day vacation extravaganza working on a screenplay that I am bound and determined to finish before the time is up and I have to go back to hell. It's sucking a lot of my creativity up, and I'm afraid my blog posts my suffer this week. Oh, I'll still write every day, but they may just really suck ass.
I promise you that I will try and make them the least amount of suck ass as possible.
Just one more left-New Year's Eve. My bro is having a party which is all good and well, except for one thing: Monica.
Yes, I am not typing initials as if she were ever to read this I would really like the bitch to know I am talking about her and not get confused and think I'm talking about someone else.
Monica.
Monica is a little slut that lives in my brother's neighborhood. No one likes her, and they all talk about her-behind her back that is.
I'm just not a behind-your-back kind of talker, and this tends to get me in trouble.
It may sound harsh that I've called her a little slut. I'm actually being nice.
You see, the thing about Monica is she's married to a really nice guy, well stupid guy really, and Monica likes attention.
Monica, Monica, Monica.
To get this attention she likes to do things like show her thong to the other married men at the party, talk about her favorite porn sites, or give lap dances to the married men.
Yeah, she's a real class act.
Why would my brother invite someone like this? He doesn't. His other neighbors are friends with her and her husband, so they usually extend their own invitation to them.
"Monica's harmless, she just likes to have fun," his delusional neighbors always say. My bro and sil are just total wimps and don't do anything about it. Now if it was my party I'd be like you weren't invited. In fact, I'd make sure she knew that way before the party ever started.
It always ends up with uncomfortable moments on the husband side and hurt feelings on the wife side. Oh, and me saying something really, really evil to her since I can't stand to see my friend hurt.
Which then makes me the anti-christ.
What?
I don't get it. I just say to her what everyone else there says when she's not around. Oh well. I shall survive Monica this year I suppose. There are also grateful looks from wives that just aren't as outspoken as I am, because Monica usually behaves herself after I tell her off.
I'm sure this year will be no different, seeing how his delusional neighbors have once again invited her. Grrrr...
Random updates:
My 18 year old niece has found my blog. Not to be out-done by a kid, I found hers. We have an understanding now, which is I shall not frequent hers and she shall not frequent mine.
This was of course after we had a long talk about cocaine and how she shouldn't let her Father ruin the holidays for her.
Now I promised I'd stay away and not lecture, but if any of you want to go there and lecture her about cocaine and not letting her Father ruin the holidays for her be my guest. lol
I'm debating taking down my tree. It is so pathetic looking, after being used for a cat jungle gym and all, but it is supposedly bad luck to take it down before New Year's Day. Damn superstitions.
I've also spent a lot of my 9 day vacation extravaganza working on a screenplay that I am bound and determined to finish before the time is up and I have to go back to hell. It's sucking a lot of my creativity up, and I'm afraid my blog posts my suffer this week. Oh, I'll still write every day, but they may just really suck ass.
I promise you that I will try and make them the least amount of suck ass as possible.
Sunday, December 26, 2004
Holiday Hangover
Man do I have a Holiday Hangover.
A Holiday Hangover is a lot like a hangover you get from drinking, except you don't have the drinking part. You are tired, worn out, your stomach does weird things, and wondering what the hell you did the next day when all of the bills start showing up.
My house has remnants reminding me that it was Christmas. While all the presents are gone from under the tree, I keep finding bits and pieces of wrapping paper here and there. I stepped on a brand new cat toy this morning that made me slur a string of cuss words together that would have made the Teamsters at work jealous.
My stomach is also doing weird things and making weird noises. Since Thanksgiving isn't spent pigging out on anything we can get our hands on, Christmas kind of makes up for that. I usually don't eat real high fat/sodium/cholesterol foods, so right now I feel like a total blimp. My hands feel swollen, my feet feel swollen, and I probably won't get out of these track pants for at least two days.
My voice is totally gone. I went from sounding like Melanie Griffin (it's just as annoying to me as everyone else) to sounding like someone who has smoked 2 packs a day for 40 years. This part might have something to do with how we snuck out to gamble after the children were all snug in their beds. Yo baby Yo baby Yo. I killed 'em at the Crap table, but they killed my voice right back.
My face is sore also. It hurts to smile, as I smiled and laughed so much yesterday my facial muscles feel like they did a buns of steel workout. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, but I thought I'd bitch about it anyway, just for good measure.
All in all, the Holiday Hangover is totally worth it. Yesterday was a wonderful day, we had a great night, and I'm sure I can drink away this water weight. I also got those creepy freakin' Bratz Dolls out of my house. I don't have to sleep with one eye open anymore.
Now if someone could just tell me what I can do with 20 lbs of vanilla bubble bath, I'll be straight...
A Holiday Hangover is a lot like a hangover you get from drinking, except you don't have the drinking part. You are tired, worn out, your stomach does weird things, and wondering what the hell you did the next day when all of the bills start showing up.
My house has remnants reminding me that it was Christmas. While all the presents are gone from under the tree, I keep finding bits and pieces of wrapping paper here and there. I stepped on a brand new cat toy this morning that made me slur a string of cuss words together that would have made the Teamsters at work jealous.
My stomach is also doing weird things and making weird noises. Since Thanksgiving isn't spent pigging out on anything we can get our hands on, Christmas kind of makes up for that. I usually don't eat real high fat/sodium/cholesterol foods, so right now I feel like a total blimp. My hands feel swollen, my feet feel swollen, and I probably won't get out of these track pants for at least two days.
My voice is totally gone. I went from sounding like Melanie Griffin (it's just as annoying to me as everyone else) to sounding like someone who has smoked 2 packs a day for 40 years. This part might have something to do with how we snuck out to gamble after the children were all snug in their beds. Yo baby Yo baby Yo. I killed 'em at the Crap table, but they killed my voice right back.
My face is sore also. It hurts to smile, as I smiled and laughed so much yesterday my facial muscles feel like they did a buns of steel workout. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, but I thought I'd bitch about it anyway, just for good measure.
All in all, the Holiday Hangover is totally worth it. Yesterday was a wonderful day, we had a great night, and I'm sure I can drink away this water weight. I also got those creepy freakin' Bratz Dolls out of my house. I don't have to sleep with one eye open anymore.
Now if someone could just tell me what I can do with 20 lbs of vanilla bubble bath, I'll be straight...
Saturday, December 25, 2004
Happy Christmas!
Merry Christmas everyone. I hope the day brings you lots of joy, love, and presents.
Yes, I said presents. Do you people not know how blantantly honest I am yet?
I heart presents. I really heart presents. During my week-long Birthday Extravaganza I would walk to the office, my arms loaded up from whatever Birthday Party I had that day exclaiming, "More presents for Kelly!"
The OPP just left my house after bringing me my presents. We have "special" time because I get way more then my brother and sister, so we make excuses to be alone so they won't see.
Why do I get more? Because I am the baby. That's right, a 34 year old baby. I also don't have kids, which means I get screwed up the ying-yang when it comes to present time from everyone else.
How terrible of me to say, right? I don't think so. Now I do not buy presents thinking about what I get in return. In fact, me vs. Santa for the nieces and nephews would be a pretty close race. I don't mind at all that I don't get as much as I spend, not at all.
The OPP always try to make up for it though. I heart them. Take my Brother and Sis-in-Law. There is a present for him, a present for her, a present for devil's spawn #1 and a present for devil's spawn #2.
What I get back depends on who bought it. If my brother did, I'll clean up. If my SIL did, weeeeeeeeeell, let's just say last year my sis and I found our presents we got from them at the dollar store.
That's right, I said the dollar store. I did better then my sis though. Mine was $2 and hers was only $1. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that her family's presents didn't come from the dollar store.
Oh well. The Devil's Spawn always heart my presents the best. They've called here like 5 times already asking when I'll be there. If they are happy, then I am happy.
I still get screwed though.
The OPP got me a really, really nice Expresso Machine from Starbucks. I've been drooling over it for ages, and as my Mom said, "We got sick of hearing you say how much you wanted it, so now you have it!"
I wonder if I whine that I want a Thunderbird convertible if I will get that next year? I'm thinking not, but hey, it's worth a shot!
Wells I better get ready to hit the happy trail over to the brother's house. Here are all my Christmas related posts from this year:
Getting your ass beat because of Santa Part one
Getting your ass beat because of Santa Part two
Getting your ass beat because of Santa Part two
Getting banned from Bingo at Christmas Time
Why Christmas Carols Suck Ass
Why we need to Free Mrs. Claus
There are a couple more under this entry, so I don't really need to link them as they are still on the main page. These are my presents to you, dear readers, as you give me a present every day with your comments.
Have a happy and safe day!
Yes, I said presents. Do you people not know how blantantly honest I am yet?
I heart presents. I really heart presents. During my week-long Birthday Extravaganza I would walk to the office, my arms loaded up from whatever Birthday Party I had that day exclaiming, "More presents for Kelly!"
The OPP just left my house after bringing me my presents. We have "special" time because I get way more then my brother and sister, so we make excuses to be alone so they won't see.
Why do I get more? Because I am the baby. That's right, a 34 year old baby. I also don't have kids, which means I get screwed up the ying-yang when it comes to present time from everyone else.
How terrible of me to say, right? I don't think so. Now I do not buy presents thinking about what I get in return. In fact, me vs. Santa for the nieces and nephews would be a pretty close race. I don't mind at all that I don't get as much as I spend, not at all.
The OPP always try to make up for it though. I heart them. Take my Brother and Sis-in-Law. There is a present for him, a present for her, a present for devil's spawn #1 and a present for devil's spawn #2.
What I get back depends on who bought it. If my brother did, I'll clean up. If my SIL did, weeeeeeeeeell, let's just say last year my sis and I found our presents we got from them at the dollar store.
That's right, I said the dollar store. I did better then my sis though. Mine was $2 and hers was only $1. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that her family's presents didn't come from the dollar store.
Oh well. The Devil's Spawn always heart my presents the best. They've called here like 5 times already asking when I'll be there. If they are happy, then I am happy.
I still get screwed though.
The OPP got me a really, really nice Expresso Machine from Starbucks. I've been drooling over it for ages, and as my Mom said, "We got sick of hearing you say how much you wanted it, so now you have it!"
I wonder if I whine that I want a Thunderbird convertible if I will get that next year? I'm thinking not, but hey, it's worth a shot!
Wells I better get ready to hit the happy trail over to the brother's house. Here are all my Christmas related posts from this year:
Getting your ass beat because of Santa Part one
Getting your ass beat because of Santa Part two
Getting your ass beat because of Santa Part two
Getting banned from Bingo at Christmas Time
Why Christmas Carols Suck Ass
Why we need to Free Mrs. Claus
There are a couple more under this entry, so I don't really need to link them as they are still on the main page. These are my presents to you, dear readers, as you give me a present every day with your comments.
Have a happy and safe day!
Friday, December 24, 2004
Ding! Ding! Ding!
...in this corner you have R weighing in at 205 lbs. He's a master entrepreneur, who runs his own business and can French braid his daughter's hair. He's also my brother.
...and in this corner you have K, weighing in at (not gonna go there). She's a medical transcriptionist who's life's goal is to be with her Mommy as much as possible. She's also my sis-in-law.
I'll save you all the suspense, my brother always wins...
They have this argument EVERY year. My sister and I took bets on it not happening this year, as my parents would be staying there. *I* won.
That would not matter to K.
What is this argument? It has something to do with the whole Christmas Eve People vs. The Christmas Day People. Her family are Christmas Eve people, which you would think would make things very easy around the holidays since we are Christmas Day People.
My sis-in-law's family celebrates on Christmas Eve, Santa included. I remember asking her how exactly this works years ago, and she said, "Usually around midnight the adults just told us kids that Santa was there and that he wouldn't come in if we were in the living room. We'd go to a bedroom with one of them standing guard outside the door, and then after a little bit they'd let us out and we'd go back and open our presents."
How fucked up is that?
Her sister's have "Santa" at her Mom's house still, and K always wants to do that too. She wants to spend the night at Mommy's house. She wants to have her kids herded into a room to wait for Santa, spend the night, let them play there the next day, then drive home.
I know when you get married you are going to have different traditions and cultures collide. I know that compromises must be made.
Something like this though? No freakin' way. Which is my Brother's feelings on the matter, and they had this all pounded out before they ever were married, but she still gets into it with him over it year after year after year.
Then she cries all the way home.
Freakin' baby. My brother insists that his children will go to sleep and wake up to the wonder of a big fat man breaking into their house in the middle of the night and leaving gifts behind. They had agreed to it Pre-Marriage.
I went over there to see the Parental Units before they headed out to their first of 3 Christmas Eve parties. Only the Original Party People could be in town a whole whopping 4 hours and get invited to 3 Christmas Eve parties. Technically it would be 4, counting my brother's in-laws, but I'm pretty sure that my Mom would rather be dipped in honey while beating the hell out of a bee's nest with a bat before she'd spend time with those people.
My sister claimed that we are being snobs and judgmental, to which my Mom and I replied, "So?" at the same time.
I heart my Mom.
So you all get 2 posts on my first day of my 9 day do nothing extravaganza! While the OPP tried to talk me into going with them to their parties, and while I have a couple that I have been invited to also, I think I am just going to stay in, watch movies, eat popcorn, and veg.
Doing Nothing is wonderful...
...and in this corner you have K, weighing in at (not gonna go there). She's a medical transcriptionist who's life's goal is to be with her Mommy as much as possible. She's also my sis-in-law.
I'll save you all the suspense, my brother always wins...
They have this argument EVERY year. My sister and I took bets on it not happening this year, as my parents would be staying there. *I* won.
That would not matter to K.
What is this argument? It has something to do with the whole Christmas Eve People vs. The Christmas Day People. Her family are Christmas Eve people, which you would think would make things very easy around the holidays since we are Christmas Day People.
My sis-in-law's family celebrates on Christmas Eve, Santa included. I remember asking her how exactly this works years ago, and she said, "Usually around midnight the adults just told us kids that Santa was there and that he wouldn't come in if we were in the living room. We'd go to a bedroom with one of them standing guard outside the door, and then after a little bit they'd let us out and we'd go back and open our presents."
How fucked up is that?
Her sister's have "Santa" at her Mom's house still, and K always wants to do that too. She wants to spend the night at Mommy's house. She wants to have her kids herded into a room to wait for Santa, spend the night, let them play there the next day, then drive home.
I know when you get married you are going to have different traditions and cultures collide. I know that compromises must be made.
Something like this though? No freakin' way. Which is my Brother's feelings on the matter, and they had this all pounded out before they ever were married, but she still gets into it with him over it year after year after year.
Then she cries all the way home.
Freakin' baby. My brother insists that his children will go to sleep and wake up to the wonder of a big fat man breaking into their house in the middle of the night and leaving gifts behind. They had agreed to it Pre-Marriage.
I went over there to see the Parental Units before they headed out to their first of 3 Christmas Eve parties. Only the Original Party People could be in town a whole whopping 4 hours and get invited to 3 Christmas Eve parties. Technically it would be 4, counting my brother's in-laws, but I'm pretty sure that my Mom would rather be dipped in honey while beating the hell out of a bee's nest with a bat before she'd spend time with those people.
My sister claimed that we are being snobs and judgmental, to which my Mom and I replied, "So?" at the same time.
I heart my Mom.
So you all get 2 posts on my first day of my 9 day do nothing extravaganza! While the OPP tried to talk me into going with them to their parties, and while I have a couple that I have been invited to also, I think I am just going to stay in, watch movies, eat popcorn, and veg.
Doing Nothing is wonderful...
Merry Day Before Christmas!
I've made it. Last night I worked a marathon 16 hours and got everything ready for the long holiday at work. I now have 9 days off.
9. Days. Off.
I can do nothing today if I want. There is no running to get this or that done. I don't really have to be anywhere until tomorrow afternoon, when my family will be celebrating Christmas.
We've never been Christmas Eve People. I know people that would do everything on Christmas Eve. "Santa" would even come on Christmas Eve.
My Mom was the district manager for a rather large drug store chain when I was little. Christmas Eve was a nightmare for her, and she would always come stumbling through the door at 8 or 9 o'clock at night.
This left us all day with my Dad to care for us.
This, my dear readers, is like putting the cat in charge of the mice.
My Dad couldn't stand to wait for Christmas morning. First we'd go on a mission to help him find his presents from my Mom. The attic was off limits because it was dangerous (and also where our presents were hidden, I would find out when I got a bit older), but he'd have us searching the rest of the house.
My Mom always did a good job of hiding his stuff, because like all Moms, I'm sure her radar went off each year and she knew what we were doing. My Dad is one of those people that can pick up a present and say, "Why it's a book on the French and Indian War!" without unwrapping it. How he does this is beyond me, but the man has a gift I tell you.
We usually couldn't find them, so eventually he'd give up. He'd make us hot chocolate and tell us stories from when he was a boy. We'd get out the finger food my Mom had painstakingly made for us to munch on, and just have a great day with our Dad.
My Mom would come home tired and cranky, and we'd listen to her Christmas Eve stories about people that waited until the last minute and then couldn't understand why the stores didn't have what they wanted.
She would also bring home McDonald's or pizza. It was the only time in my childhood that we would EVER eat McDonalds. We would eat and then be sent to bed, usually with a warning of how Santa was probably close and if we weren't asleep he just might pass us up.
Then, usually somewhere around 3 AM, my Dad would no longer be able to take it, and he would put on his work boots, grab some jingle bells, and run through the house. Groggily we'd wake up and realize that we had just heard Santa leaving the roof, and run to the living room and see all our beautiful gifts, with my Dad standing there who always said, "I almost caught him this year!"
Every picture we have of us kids opening presents on Christmas has a very tired Mother in them. I don't think any court of law would have convicted her if she would have killed him.
So this leaves us without a Christmas Eve tradition now that we are older, which suits me just fine. When I go down to my parent's house in the south for Christmas my Mom still makes finger food and tells stories. She's decidedly much more relaxed about the whole deal now that she doesn't have to work in the seventh layer of hell on Christmas Eve anymore.
I'm not going there this year because of all of the hours I've been working, and the parental units are staying at my brother's house for Christmas.
He still has little kids, and I have no doubt in my mind that my Dad will run through their house at 3 AM, and once the kids are up, he will dejectedly proclaim, "I almost caught him this year!"
Happy Christmas everyone! Yes, I will be posting tomorrow more then likely since I don't have to be at my brother's until 3, but to those of you with a couple of different families to visit and much running to do, I'd like to tell you to be happy and be safe now.
9. Days. Off.
I can do nothing today if I want. There is no running to get this or that done. I don't really have to be anywhere until tomorrow afternoon, when my family will be celebrating Christmas.
We've never been Christmas Eve People. I know people that would do everything on Christmas Eve. "Santa" would even come on Christmas Eve.
My Mom was the district manager for a rather large drug store chain when I was little. Christmas Eve was a nightmare for her, and she would always come stumbling through the door at 8 or 9 o'clock at night.
This left us all day with my Dad to care for us.
This, my dear readers, is like putting the cat in charge of the mice.
My Dad couldn't stand to wait for Christmas morning. First we'd go on a mission to help him find his presents from my Mom. The attic was off limits because it was dangerous (and also where our presents were hidden, I would find out when I got a bit older), but he'd have us searching the rest of the house.
My Mom always did a good job of hiding his stuff, because like all Moms, I'm sure her radar went off each year and she knew what we were doing. My Dad is one of those people that can pick up a present and say, "Why it's a book on the French and Indian War!" without unwrapping it. How he does this is beyond me, but the man has a gift I tell you.
We usually couldn't find them, so eventually he'd give up. He'd make us hot chocolate and tell us stories from when he was a boy. We'd get out the finger food my Mom had painstakingly made for us to munch on, and just have a great day with our Dad.
My Mom would come home tired and cranky, and we'd listen to her Christmas Eve stories about people that waited until the last minute and then couldn't understand why the stores didn't have what they wanted.
She would also bring home McDonald's or pizza. It was the only time in my childhood that we would EVER eat McDonalds. We would eat and then be sent to bed, usually with a warning of how Santa was probably close and if we weren't asleep he just might pass us up.
Then, usually somewhere around 3 AM, my Dad would no longer be able to take it, and he would put on his work boots, grab some jingle bells, and run through the house. Groggily we'd wake up and realize that we had just heard Santa leaving the roof, and run to the living room and see all our beautiful gifts, with my Dad standing there who always said, "I almost caught him this year!"
Every picture we have of us kids opening presents on Christmas has a very tired Mother in them. I don't think any court of law would have convicted her if she would have killed him.
So this leaves us without a Christmas Eve tradition now that we are older, which suits me just fine. When I go down to my parent's house in the south for Christmas my Mom still makes finger food and tells stories. She's decidedly much more relaxed about the whole deal now that she doesn't have to work in the seventh layer of hell on Christmas Eve anymore.
I'm not going there this year because of all of the hours I've been working, and the parental units are staying at my brother's house for Christmas.
He still has little kids, and I have no doubt in my mind that my Dad will run through their house at 3 AM, and once the kids are up, he will dejectedly proclaim, "I almost caught him this year!"
Happy Christmas everyone! Yes, I will be posting tomorrow more then likely since I don't have to be at my brother's until 3, but to those of you with a couple of different families to visit and much running to do, I'd like to tell you to be happy and be safe now.
Thursday, December 23, 2004
Tis the Season
For me to get my (_|_) kicked...
Yes, these next two days shall be horrible for me. Preparing a large factory for a nine day shut down is not fun.
This means my 12 hour days look like cake compared to what I will be doing the 22nd and the 23rd.
This means I probably won't be able to post a real post these two days, but dispair not!
My family doesn't do anything Christmas Eve, as we are Christmas Day Celebrators, so I will be able to whip something up for any and all that are also Christmas Day Celebrators. I'll also be able to catch up on everyone else's blogs that I read all the time.
Is it natural to start to shake and twitch when you haven't been able to read your fav blogs?
Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and all that jazz to those of you that won't be back in the blogosphere until after Christmas. Have fun, and be safe!
Yes, these next two days shall be horrible for me. Preparing a large factory for a nine day shut down is not fun.
This means my 12 hour days look like cake compared to what I will be doing the 22nd and the 23rd.
This means I probably won't be able to post a real post these two days, but dispair not!
My family doesn't do anything Christmas Eve, as we are Christmas Day Celebrators, so I will be able to whip something up for any and all that are also Christmas Day Celebrators. I'll also be able to catch up on everyone else's blogs that I read all the time.
Is it natural to start to shake and twitch when you haven't been able to read your fav blogs?
Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and all that jazz to those of you that won't be back in the blogosphere until after Christmas. Have fun, and be safe!
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Free Mrs. Claus!
I just heard what might be the most disturbing Christmas song ever. In fact, I believe it is not a song, but a cry for help, expertly sung by Nat King Cole.
He does a bit of a foreword, and then breaks out the song. Here it is, with my commentary in Italics:
Of course you all know how hard Santa works to make all the toys and various presents that make up Christmas.
And when you think of Santa Claus you naturally think of all his helpers, and believe me, he's got plenty of them. They work all year long to make Christmas the happiest day of the year. What kid naturally thinks of his helpers? They think of the presents they will get and that hopefully Santa didn't see them set the neighbor's cat on fire.
But there is one helper that seems to have gotten lost in the shuffle. Now who do you suppose does all the cooking, cleaning and washing and the workshop and keep things humming in general? Now here's where the meaning of the song really kicks in. The cooking? The cleaning? The Washing? The work around the workshop? The Humming? After all that damn work Santa still expects a hummer? Talk about slavery!
Yes kids there really is a Mrs. Santa Claus. Now let's not forget about her! The first cry for help. Don't forget Mrs. Claus! Save Mrs. Claus!
Who feeds the reindeer all their hay
Who wraps the gifts and packs the sleigh
Who's helping Santa every day
Yeah, I bet she's "helping"...
Mrs. Santa Claus
For the love of God! How much can they expect from one woman?
Who keeps his red suit looking nice
Do they not have dry cleaners at the North Pole?
Who does he turn to for advice
Yeah, right. I'm sure advice is code for like "to wipe his ass"
Who gives the brownies all their spice
Greeeeeat now they are having her make "special" brownies. They probably could get her 2-5 in the pen
Mrs. Santa Claus
Save Mrs. Santa Claus!
She piddle paddles all around the workshop the whole year long
Who the hell piddle paddles? Is she that tired?
Amid the happy elves of the workshop
Hell yeah they are happy. They have a freakin' woman slave among them. Santa probably makes her "hum" to them too.
she sings a merry merry Christmas song
Sings a merry merry Christmas song? They obviously drug her too.
who reads the notes from girls and boys
Talk about cruel and unusual punishment...
turns in the order for their toys
Let me get this straight. Not only does she have to cook, clean, do the laundry, clean the workshop, and service Santa and the Elves, she also has to be the fucking book keeper?
fills every heart with wonder's joys
I just bet she does. Love slave I tell ya...
Mrs. Santa Claus
Save Mrs. Santa Claus!
Someone must act at once! Someone call the ACLU or some other militant acronym. We must break Mrs. Santa Claus out at once!
P.S. I am pretty sure I am going to hell for turning a perfectly delightful children's song into something seedy and nasty. If you link to it, you will probably go to hell to, but at least I'll be in good company.
Happy Holidays!
He does a bit of a foreword, and then breaks out the song. Here it is, with my commentary in Italics:
Of course you all know how hard Santa works to make all the toys and various presents that make up Christmas.
And when you think of Santa Claus you naturally think of all his helpers, and believe me, he's got plenty of them. They work all year long to make Christmas the happiest day of the year. What kid naturally thinks of his helpers? They think of the presents they will get and that hopefully Santa didn't see them set the neighbor's cat on fire.
But there is one helper that seems to have gotten lost in the shuffle. Now who do you suppose does all the cooking, cleaning and washing and the workshop and keep things humming in general? Now here's where the meaning of the song really kicks in. The cooking? The cleaning? The Washing? The work around the workshop? The Humming? After all that damn work Santa still expects a hummer? Talk about slavery!
Yes kids there really is a Mrs. Santa Claus. Now let's not forget about her! The first cry for help. Don't forget Mrs. Claus! Save Mrs. Claus!
Who feeds the reindeer all their hay
Who wraps the gifts and packs the sleigh
Who's helping Santa every day
Yeah, I bet she's "helping"...
Mrs. Santa Claus
For the love of God! How much can they expect from one woman?
Who keeps his red suit looking nice
Do they not have dry cleaners at the North Pole?
Who does he turn to for advice
Yeah, right. I'm sure advice is code for like "to wipe his ass"
Who gives the brownies all their spice
Greeeeeat now they are having her make "special" brownies. They probably could get her 2-5 in the pen
Mrs. Santa Claus
Save Mrs. Santa Claus!
She piddle paddles all around the workshop the whole year long
Who the hell piddle paddles? Is she that tired?
Amid the happy elves of the workshop
Hell yeah they are happy. They have a freakin' woman slave among them. Santa probably makes her "hum" to them too.
she sings a merry merry Christmas song
Sings a merry merry Christmas song? They obviously drug her too.
who reads the notes from girls and boys
Talk about cruel and unusual punishment...
turns in the order for their toys
Let me get this straight. Not only does she have to cook, clean, do the laundry, clean the workshop, and service Santa and the Elves, she also has to be the fucking book keeper?
fills every heart with wonder's joys
I just bet she does. Love slave I tell ya...
Mrs. Santa Claus
Save Mrs. Santa Claus!
Someone must act at once! Someone call the ACLU or some other militant acronym. We must break Mrs. Santa Claus out at once!
P.S. I am pretty sure I am going to hell for turning a perfectly delightful children's song into something seedy and nasty. If you link to it, you will probably go to hell to, but at least I'll be in good company.
Happy Holidays!
Monday, December 20, 2004
Let it Snow Let it Snow...
Oh hell no. I may whine about my traumatic experiences with Christmas Carols, but snow is just something I cannot deal with. Every time I here the "Let it Snow" song I just think one thing. Shut the fuck up!
I hate it. That's not exactly correct. I fucking hate it. There, that portrays my feelings a bit better. The forecast is not looking good here in old Chicago this week, with lots of those little snowflakes showing on Yahoo! Weather.
White Christmas? heh...I'll take a beach with 80 degree weather any day over a White Christmas.
I didn't always hate snow. I think the whole hating snow part came in around the time I found really cute boots that had no business walking around in snow.
It was also around this time that I lost like a bunch of weight and was decidedly cold all the time. It is amazing how much heat fat cells produce...
When I was little you couldn't keep me in the house all winter long. We ice skated, made igloos and snow forts, had snow ball fights, and went sledding every single day.
Then again, back then I didn't care what a hat did to my hair or how ridiculous my moon boots and coat with the zip off sleeves looked. Winter is just not a good time for fashion. I know that there is now the whole Ugg boot craze, but to tell you the truth, I am not all that crazy about Ugg boots. Anything that makes your feet look big is not cool with me.
There is also the whole upping your chances of sliding and falling and breaks major bones in your body. When I was younger I would grab the back of a bus and let it drag me half way around the block on the snowy, ice filled streets. Now walking in the parking lot at work makes me paranoid as hell that I'm going to fall and break my femur or something.
Getting old sucks ass.
Just so you aren't all scared that I'm turning into an old person since I am now 34, I feel the need to reassure you that I still do stupid shit even when it is cold and I could break bones and it's slippery outside.
Every year since the niece and nephews have been small, I've had a little tradition. The first snowfall is welcomed in by a surprise attack snow ball fight.
It doesn't matter if it is 2 in the morning when the snow starts falling, they are going to get it.
Much to my amusement and my sister's disdain, 2 in the morning has set a running record here in Chicago for being the time we get our first good snow fall.
I prepare before I leave the house. Snowballs are made and stored for use once I get there. I park a couple of blocks away and walk to the house with the ammunition.
It took them a couple of years to catch on, and when they were really little I had the utter joy of waking them up in the middle of the night by bombarding them with snowballs.
Weekend night, school night, it didn't matter. Those kids were going to get attacked by their crazy A nut Kelly.
As they grew older they caught on a bit, and sometimes they'd be waiting for me when I got there. The little shits got pretty good when they reached teenage years, and my oldest nephew had snowballs stored in a cooler next to his bed one year when I showed up to get him.
After waking the poor children up by bombarding them with snowballs I then run out of the house with them chasing after me. My sister would scream to the high heavens at me, then at the children to put on their boots and coats before running after me, ready to enact their revenge.
A huge snow fight would ensue, leaving us all laughing and cold and tired. Sometimes my sister would stay up and make hot chocolate for us. Sometimes we would go in and pound her with snowballs.
This little tradition has gotten a bit harder since the children can now drive vehicles. Tracking them down is not as easy as when they were 5, and the worst part of the whole scenario is that *I* am much easier to track down.
Our first snow happened a couple of weeks ago during the day. With my crazy hours I had to leave before any of them would get home from school and/or work. I was kind of bummed because I couldn't be there waiting for them when they got home from school and/or work.
Maybe some traditions aren't meant to last. I mean, they are practically grown up now. At 20, 18, and 17 I'm sure they have better things to worry about then their crazy Aunt showing up for some stupid tradition.
I am always the last one out of the plant at night, and I thought about just heading over to their house to get them then, but the oldest would be at work, and the other two would be getting ready for school by the time I made it home. I carefully walked through the snow covered parking lot as not to break my femur.
I didn't see the first snowball coming until it had hit me hard on the shoulder.
Yes, the little monsters were at my work, had a huge pile of snowballs, and had turned the table on my surprise attack.
What is really amazing is that the instant this started, I forgot all about breaking my femur and ran around the parking lot like a mad woman trying to break their line of defense.
Oh, they had gotten me good, and I looked like the abominal blonde snowwoman by the time we called a truce. My oldest nephew had to head in to work, and the younger nephew and niece piled in my SUV.
I guess some traditions are meant to last...If you ever see some crazy 80 year old chasing three 60 somethings around with snowballs, stop and say hi, or better yet, join in.
I hate it. That's not exactly correct. I fucking hate it. There, that portrays my feelings a bit better. The forecast is not looking good here in old Chicago this week, with lots of those little snowflakes showing on Yahoo! Weather.
White Christmas? heh...I'll take a beach with 80 degree weather any day over a White Christmas.
I didn't always hate snow. I think the whole hating snow part came in around the time I found really cute boots that had no business walking around in snow.
It was also around this time that I lost like a bunch of weight and was decidedly cold all the time. It is amazing how much heat fat cells produce...
When I was little you couldn't keep me in the house all winter long. We ice skated, made igloos and snow forts, had snow ball fights, and went sledding every single day.
Then again, back then I didn't care what a hat did to my hair or how ridiculous my moon boots and coat with the zip off sleeves looked. Winter is just not a good time for fashion. I know that there is now the whole Ugg boot craze, but to tell you the truth, I am not all that crazy about Ugg boots. Anything that makes your feet look big is not cool with me.
There is also the whole upping your chances of sliding and falling and breaks major bones in your body. When I was younger I would grab the back of a bus and let it drag me half way around the block on the snowy, ice filled streets. Now walking in the parking lot at work makes me paranoid as hell that I'm going to fall and break my femur or something.
Getting old sucks ass.
Just so you aren't all scared that I'm turning into an old person since I am now 34, I feel the need to reassure you that I still do stupid shit even when it is cold and I could break bones and it's slippery outside.
Every year since the niece and nephews have been small, I've had a little tradition. The first snowfall is welcomed in by a surprise attack snow ball fight.
It doesn't matter if it is 2 in the morning when the snow starts falling, they are going to get it.
Much to my amusement and my sister's disdain, 2 in the morning has set a running record here in Chicago for being the time we get our first good snow fall.
I prepare before I leave the house. Snowballs are made and stored for use once I get there. I park a couple of blocks away and walk to the house with the ammunition.
It took them a couple of years to catch on, and when they were really little I had the utter joy of waking them up in the middle of the night by bombarding them with snowballs.
Weekend night, school night, it didn't matter. Those kids were going to get attacked by their crazy A nut Kelly.
As they grew older they caught on a bit, and sometimes they'd be waiting for me when I got there. The little shits got pretty good when they reached teenage years, and my oldest nephew had snowballs stored in a cooler next to his bed one year when I showed up to get him.
After waking the poor children up by bombarding them with snowballs I then run out of the house with them chasing after me. My sister would scream to the high heavens at me, then at the children to put on their boots and coats before running after me, ready to enact their revenge.
A huge snow fight would ensue, leaving us all laughing and cold and tired. Sometimes my sister would stay up and make hot chocolate for us. Sometimes we would go in and pound her with snowballs.
This little tradition has gotten a bit harder since the children can now drive vehicles. Tracking them down is not as easy as when they were 5, and the worst part of the whole scenario is that *I* am much easier to track down.
Our first snow happened a couple of weeks ago during the day. With my crazy hours I had to leave before any of them would get home from school and/or work. I was kind of bummed because I couldn't be there waiting for them when they got home from school and/or work.
Maybe some traditions aren't meant to last. I mean, they are practically grown up now. At 20, 18, and 17 I'm sure they have better things to worry about then their crazy Aunt showing up for some stupid tradition.
I am always the last one out of the plant at night, and I thought about just heading over to their house to get them then, but the oldest would be at work, and the other two would be getting ready for school by the time I made it home. I carefully walked through the snow covered parking lot as not to break my femur.
I didn't see the first snowball coming until it had hit me hard on the shoulder.
Yes, the little monsters were at my work, had a huge pile of snowballs, and had turned the table on my surprise attack.
What is really amazing is that the instant this started, I forgot all about breaking my femur and ran around the parking lot like a mad woman trying to break their line of defense.
Oh, they had gotten me good, and I looked like the abominal blonde snowwoman by the time we called a truce. My oldest nephew had to head in to work, and the younger nephew and niece piled in my SUV.
I guess some traditions are meant to last...If you ever see some crazy 80 year old chasing three 60 somethings around with snowballs, stop and say hi, or better yet, join in.
Sunday, December 19, 2004
I am 34 today...
Thirty-four years ago, my surprised Mother gave birth to me after knowing she was pregnant for only a week.
Surpise!
I've always had a flair for the dramatic.
My week-long Birthday Extravaganza has been absolutely wonderful. I had a party every day since Monday, resulting in me wearing my somewhat larger pants today...
Last night they were predicting heavy snow for the area, so my girlfriends and I decided to stay in instead of going out. It was a bit of a disappointment at first, but having a slumber party for the first time in probably at least 20 years was incredibly fun.
There were 5 of us, only the best friends allowed, and it was great. I've been working so much that I've been disconnected with people that I love for such a long time....
We did facials and had many cocktails. Around 1 in the morning the "boys" showed up, knocking on our window, as they used to do so many years ago.
So we didn't go to jail and we didn't misbehave to bad, but how wonderful it was, just being together...
It can be hard to have a December birthday. When I was little my Mom actually tossed out some of the less then desirable relatives on Christmas day when they showed up with presents for all the kids except me. "Your birthday present was for Christmas too," a couple of the ignorant ones said, and my Ma went into a rage and threw them out.
The Original Party People were always very extravagent with my birthday, for this very reason. Birthday parties were hell to plan because of everyone's holiday party schedules, and most people are kind of hurting for money around this time.
These tend to be problems still, but the ones that are close to me always go out of their way on this day.
As I grew older, I realized the trouble the OPP must have went through to make my birthday special year after year. My birthday is always a great debate on when we will celebrate, how because people are broke, and when I had a bad group of friends in my early twenties, much bitching about what a pain in the ass it was anyway.
Those people are out of my life now, and the birthday extravaganza's continue year after year.
I had someone ask me why make such a big deal out of a birthday when I'm not a kid anymore.
Everyone should make a big deal out of their birthday. It is the day you were born for fuck's sake! You were given another year on this planet!
If you can't celebrate the big things, how can you celebrate the small things?
Everything should be celebrated...Isn't that what life is all about?
Surpise!
I've always had a flair for the dramatic.
My week-long Birthday Extravaganza has been absolutely wonderful. I had a party every day since Monday, resulting in me wearing my somewhat larger pants today...
Last night they were predicting heavy snow for the area, so my girlfriends and I decided to stay in instead of going out. It was a bit of a disappointment at first, but having a slumber party for the first time in probably at least 20 years was incredibly fun.
There were 5 of us, only the best friends allowed, and it was great. I've been working so much that I've been disconnected with people that I love for such a long time....
We did facials and had many cocktails. Around 1 in the morning the "boys" showed up, knocking on our window, as they used to do so many years ago.
So we didn't go to jail and we didn't misbehave to bad, but how wonderful it was, just being together...
It can be hard to have a December birthday. When I was little my Mom actually tossed out some of the less then desirable relatives on Christmas day when they showed up with presents for all the kids except me. "Your birthday present was for Christmas too," a couple of the ignorant ones said, and my Ma went into a rage and threw them out.
The Original Party People were always very extravagent with my birthday, for this very reason. Birthday parties were hell to plan because of everyone's holiday party schedules, and most people are kind of hurting for money around this time.
These tend to be problems still, but the ones that are close to me always go out of their way on this day.
As I grew older, I realized the trouble the OPP must have went through to make my birthday special year after year. My birthday is always a great debate on when we will celebrate, how because people are broke, and when I had a bad group of friends in my early twenties, much bitching about what a pain in the ass it was anyway.
Those people are out of my life now, and the birthday extravaganza's continue year after year.
I had someone ask me why make such a big deal out of a birthday when I'm not a kid anymore.
Everyone should make a big deal out of their birthday. It is the day you were born for fuck's sake! You were given another year on this planet!
If you can't celebrate the big things, how can you celebrate the small things?
Everything should be celebrated...Isn't that what life is all about?
Saturday, December 18, 2004
Birthday Extravaganza!
Happy day before my birthday to me! I probably won't have time to post until tomorrow night, and I plan on posting all the sorid details of my birthday week...
I left from work last night with enough balloons to just fly home. I don't care how old you are, give anyone a balloon and they will smile.
Tonight is the girl's night out, and we shall try not to get into any trouble.
Have a good weekend everyone!
I left from work last night with enough balloons to just fly home. I don't care how old you are, give anyone a balloon and they will smile.
Tonight is the girl's night out, and we shall try not to get into any trouble.
Have a good weekend everyone!
Friday, December 17, 2004
Christmas Carols Suck Ass
I didn't like Christmas music for a long time. It took awhile for me to get over some bitterness from my childhood that had to do with Christmas Carols.
Every once in awhile, the stars align just right and a group of kids are brought together in school that are just the right combination. It may be a sports type team, a academic type team, or as was our case, a choir.
When I was in 6th grade we had a group of kids that were this type of combination. Just the right amount of sopranos, altos, and even baritones. There were 25 of us, and when we sang together it was a small piece of heaven on earth.
That was until the Mom from Hell came into the picture.
You see, we had the regular choirs in school. We had the 6th Grade Choir, the Varsity Choir, and the Concert Choir. Anyone could be in any of these, and Concert was considered the "best" out of that group.
There was also a choir that you had to try out for, and it was called the Swing Choir. It was comprised of 25 kids, and you not only had to be able to sing, but you had to dance as well.
To be in this choir you had to be dedicated. It didn't have a class period every day. You had to get to school twice a week an hour early to practice, and the main bulk of practice time was on your own.
My sixth grade year was the first year all six graders had made this choir, knocking out all the older students. The biggest contests of the year lead to one thing: Christmas concerts. If you won some of the state contests, you would get to go on field trips all over the country singing Christmas songs.
Our sixth and seventh grade years we dominated all state competitions. We came in the top 5 at all country-wide competitions, taking 1st our seventh grade year.
This led to some great things for us, like singing on WLS (which in 1983-84 was a BIG deal), singing at the Mall of America, and finally singing in Washington DC for Congress.
Our eight grade year we had hoped to sing for Mr. Ronald Reagan himself.
This hope was taken away from us with the inclusion of one person: whiner girl.
Whiner girl and her Mom from Hell complained about everything. Someone was always holding her poor child back. The Mom was in school more then most students complaining and bitching about things that were done wrong to her poor child.
Whiner girl wanted in Swing Choir in the worst way. There was one problem: she couldn't sing and/or dance. The kid didn't have an ounce of rhythm in her body.
Whiner girl did have one very important thing: rich parents. Now of days with the whole let's not let our children lose at anything attitude this might not be needed, but back then you still had to buy your way into things you weren't talented enough to achieve on your own.
And so they did. Buy her way in our eight grade year. We had brand spanking new outfits, but unfortunately we sounded horrible. You see, she might not be able to sing and/or dance, but she was LOUD. No matter how hard we tried, we could not drowned her out. Her clumsy dance moves did nothing to help the situation either.
Oh, and she didn't practice either, and bragged about it.
All our hard work was pretty much down the drain. Most if not all of us just stopped trying, and only put in a half hearted attempt at what had once been a full fledged dedicated focus.
It was all gone. That year we didn't place in one contest, we didn't sing on any radio stations, and we didn't go on any field trips.
The funny thing is none of us participated in choir in high school after that. For a group of talented kids like we had to just give up because the one that didn't do the work or have the talent to participate is really, really sad.
I didn't like Christmas music for a long time after that. We did the full spectrum of carols, so most came with what was probably my first realization that life is just not fair sometimes.
So this leads me to think of how things are today. I've read about how some schools are lowering the grade point average on the honor roll so that more kids will make it and not feel inferior. My little nieces don't receive grades in elementary school, they receive check and check pluses, so that no child feels better then another.
Some people are better at some things then others. Some people just flat out try harder then others. Not at everything mind you, but some excel where others don't. Those that don't probably excel in something different.
It scares me that kids won't do the work or put forth the effort if it is not rewarded as such. Leveling the playing field just might flat line us all some day...
Every once in awhile, the stars align just right and a group of kids are brought together in school that are just the right combination. It may be a sports type team, a academic type team, or as was our case, a choir.
When I was in 6th grade we had a group of kids that were this type of combination. Just the right amount of sopranos, altos, and even baritones. There were 25 of us, and when we sang together it was a small piece of heaven on earth.
That was until the Mom from Hell came into the picture.
You see, we had the regular choirs in school. We had the 6th Grade Choir, the Varsity Choir, and the Concert Choir. Anyone could be in any of these, and Concert was considered the "best" out of that group.
There was also a choir that you had to try out for, and it was called the Swing Choir. It was comprised of 25 kids, and you not only had to be able to sing, but you had to dance as well.
To be in this choir you had to be dedicated. It didn't have a class period every day. You had to get to school twice a week an hour early to practice, and the main bulk of practice time was on your own.
My sixth grade year was the first year all six graders had made this choir, knocking out all the older students. The biggest contests of the year lead to one thing: Christmas concerts. If you won some of the state contests, you would get to go on field trips all over the country singing Christmas songs.
Our sixth and seventh grade years we dominated all state competitions. We came in the top 5 at all country-wide competitions, taking 1st our seventh grade year.
This led to some great things for us, like singing on WLS (which in 1983-84 was a BIG deal), singing at the Mall of America, and finally singing in Washington DC for Congress.
Our eight grade year we had hoped to sing for Mr. Ronald Reagan himself.
This hope was taken away from us with the inclusion of one person: whiner girl.
Whiner girl and her Mom from Hell complained about everything. Someone was always holding her poor child back. The Mom was in school more then most students complaining and bitching about things that were done wrong to her poor child.
Whiner girl wanted in Swing Choir in the worst way. There was one problem: she couldn't sing and/or dance. The kid didn't have an ounce of rhythm in her body.
Whiner girl did have one very important thing: rich parents. Now of days with the whole let's not let our children lose at anything attitude this might not be needed, but back then you still had to buy your way into things you weren't talented enough to achieve on your own.
And so they did. Buy her way in our eight grade year. We had brand spanking new outfits, but unfortunately we sounded horrible. You see, she might not be able to sing and/or dance, but she was LOUD. No matter how hard we tried, we could not drowned her out. Her clumsy dance moves did nothing to help the situation either.
Oh, and she didn't practice either, and bragged about it.
All our hard work was pretty much down the drain. Most if not all of us just stopped trying, and only put in a half hearted attempt at what had once been a full fledged dedicated focus.
It was all gone. That year we didn't place in one contest, we didn't sing on any radio stations, and we didn't go on any field trips.
The funny thing is none of us participated in choir in high school after that. For a group of talented kids like we had to just give up because the one that didn't do the work or have the talent to participate is really, really sad.
I didn't like Christmas music for a long time after that. We did the full spectrum of carols, so most came with what was probably my first realization that life is just not fair sometimes.
So this leads me to think of how things are today. I've read about how some schools are lowering the grade point average on the honor roll so that more kids will make it and not feel inferior. My little nieces don't receive grades in elementary school, they receive check and check pluses, so that no child feels better then another.
Some people are better at some things then others. Some people just flat out try harder then others. Not at everything mind you, but some excel where others don't. Those that don't probably excel in something different.
It scares me that kids won't do the work or put forth the effort if it is not rewarded as such. Leveling the playing field just might flat line us all some day...
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Yuppie Meals on Wheels
So I didn't get to write the blog entry that I wanted to last night (or this morning for you day type people). I decided that I was going to start picking up my food myself, instead of paying for the delivery charge, and would have to get up really early. So I just hit the sack when I rolled in at 6 am this morning.
Yes, I get the Yuppie version of Meals on Wheels. When I took my youngest niece to see "Win a Date with Tad Hamilton", she yelled out loud, "Aunt Kelly! His refridgerator looks like yours!" when they showed all of the little pre-packaged meals in his fridge.
I get three meals a day, seven days a week. They are considered "gourmet", and are very, very good. Always prepared fresh, you get a delivery (or pick up in my case now) twice a week.
So I get 1200 calories a day of glorious gourmet food that I do not have to cook. Things like chicken with pineapple sauce. Turkey Meatballs. Poppyseed bread & cream cheese. Gazpacho carrots with spinach dip.
It costs a freaking fortune, but with the hours that I work, it is well worth not having to worry about food, if it's good for me, and counting those pesky calories to watch my girlish figure.
I really do cook for myself if I'm working 8 hours a day. Really. I do.
The poor nephew has to fend for himself, but hell, when I was his age I was paying rent and utilities and cooking for myself. I'm convinced it's good for him.
This would have to be my biggest splurge on myself, if you don't count facials. At times I almost feel guilty that I spend so much money on something so frivolous, (the food, not the facials. I'd never feel guilty for that. Nice priorities, eh?) but I work really hard dammit.
How really rich people deal with spending obscene amounts of money on things without feeling a bit guilty is beyond me.
So there you have it. My confession of my careless spending when there are starving children in the world.
I promise tomorrow I'll tell the tale of why I hate Christmas songs...I swear...
Yes, I get the Yuppie version of Meals on Wheels. When I took my youngest niece to see "Win a Date with Tad Hamilton", she yelled out loud, "Aunt Kelly! His refridgerator looks like yours!" when they showed all of the little pre-packaged meals in his fridge.
I get three meals a day, seven days a week. They are considered "gourmet", and are very, very good. Always prepared fresh, you get a delivery (or pick up in my case now) twice a week.
So I get 1200 calories a day of glorious gourmet food that I do not have to cook. Things like chicken with pineapple sauce. Turkey Meatballs. Poppyseed bread & cream cheese. Gazpacho carrots with spinach dip.
It costs a freaking fortune, but with the hours that I work, it is well worth not having to worry about food, if it's good for me, and counting those pesky calories to watch my girlish figure.
I really do cook for myself if I'm working 8 hours a day. Really. I do.
The poor nephew has to fend for himself, but hell, when I was his age I was paying rent and utilities and cooking for myself. I'm convinced it's good for him.
This would have to be my biggest splurge on myself, if you don't count facials. At times I almost feel guilty that I spend so much money on something so frivolous, (the food, not the facials. I'd never feel guilty for that. Nice priorities, eh?) but I work really hard dammit.
How really rich people deal with spending obscene amounts of money on things without feeling a bit guilty is beyond me.
So there you have it. My confession of my careless spending when there are starving children in the world.
I promise tomorrow I'll tell the tale of why I hate Christmas songs...I swear...
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
Regifting the gifters
Tonight I had birthday party #2, with the guys and gals in the Paint Department. It was nice, and they got me a really, really pretty Coach scarf and wallet.
Since everyone at work makes such a big deal about my birthday, last year I felt sorry for this other woman in my department, because her birthday is on December 15th. She was my boss, and I decided to do some special things for her so she wouldn't feel left out, considering like 3,000 people celebrate my birth for an entire week there.
I decorated her office with balloons and streamers. I organized a lunch with all of us that worked for her. It really turned out nice, and for a second I thought she might even cry she was so happy.
This pleased all of us very much, until we found out she was the regifter from hell.
We had each bought her small little presents, and she was really thankful for them, as she had transferred in from another part of the country. She wouldn't be around any family or friends for her birthday, so she told us that she wouldn't have had anything to open if we hadn't done that for her.
Our last day of work is on the 23rd every year, and last year our department had a Christmas party. We didn't draw names, and everyone pretty much just brought little things in for the people they were close to in the department.
We had a nice catered lunch, and regifter lady had to leave to go to a meeting. She had got each and every one of us a present, and we all sat around and opened our gifts.
It started when one of the lady's opened a really nice bracelet. Another lady said, "I got one just like that for *insert bosses name* for her birthday." Oh, it didn't stop there. As all the presents were opened, we came to the realization that she regifted everyone's birthday presents back to us as Christmas presents.
And then there was one. I was the only one left to open my Christmas present. What did I get?
I was regifted the present that *I* bought for her for her birthday.
What the fuck? Only me folks, this stuff only happens to me...
For some odd reason she ended up realizing what she did when it came to my present, and apologized profusely. I had bought her Aromatique Amaretto Nog candles, which are my absolute fav candles in the whole entire world by the way, and she explained the regift as "I'm allergic to Egg Nog."
What was she going to do, fucking eat them?
Anyway, I told her not to worry about it, as I loved them so much, but she insisted on bringing in a new present for me.
So today is her birthday again, and before I left I still decorated her office and left a little gift. Regifter or no regifter, we December births need to stick together.
I just made sure I got something I would really, really like....
Have you ever regifted?
Since everyone at work makes such a big deal about my birthday, last year I felt sorry for this other woman in my department, because her birthday is on December 15th. She was my boss, and I decided to do some special things for her so she wouldn't feel left out, considering like 3,000 people celebrate my birth for an entire week there.
I decorated her office with balloons and streamers. I organized a lunch with all of us that worked for her. It really turned out nice, and for a second I thought she might even cry she was so happy.
This pleased all of us very much, until we found out she was the regifter from hell.
We had each bought her small little presents, and she was really thankful for them, as she had transferred in from another part of the country. She wouldn't be around any family or friends for her birthday, so she told us that she wouldn't have had anything to open if we hadn't done that for her.
Our last day of work is on the 23rd every year, and last year our department had a Christmas party. We didn't draw names, and everyone pretty much just brought little things in for the people they were close to in the department.
We had a nice catered lunch, and regifter lady had to leave to go to a meeting. She had got each and every one of us a present, and we all sat around and opened our gifts.
It started when one of the lady's opened a really nice bracelet. Another lady said, "I got one just like that for *insert bosses name* for her birthday." Oh, it didn't stop there. As all the presents were opened, we came to the realization that she regifted everyone's birthday presents back to us as Christmas presents.
And then there was one. I was the only one left to open my Christmas present. What did I get?
I was regifted the present that *I* bought for her for her birthday.
What the fuck? Only me folks, this stuff only happens to me...
For some odd reason she ended up realizing what she did when it came to my present, and apologized profusely. I had bought her Aromatique Amaretto Nog candles, which are my absolute fav candles in the whole entire world by the way, and she explained the regift as "I'm allergic to Egg Nog."
What was she going to do, fucking eat them?
Anyway, I told her not to worry about it, as I loved them so much, but she insisted on bringing in a new present for me.
So today is her birthday again, and before I left I still decorated her office and left a little gift. Regifter or no regifter, we December births need to stick together.
I just made sure I got something I would really, really like....
Have you ever regifted?
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Real Quick-Like
Ahh my faithful readers. I know you will help out a poor blonde in distress.
Ok, so maybe I'm not in distress per say, but I do have a quick question.
What the fuck is trackback? I installed this whole HaloScan thing and am still mourning all my old comments that went bye-bye. It has this trackback thingy though, and I haven't really had time to figure out what all goes with this HaloScan stuff.
Thank you in advance for your kind words of wisdom.
Sincerely,
The Tired Blonde Who Works 12 Hours A Day
Ok, so maybe I'm not in distress per say, but I do have a quick question.
What the fuck is trackback? I installed this whole HaloScan thing and am still mourning all my old comments that went bye-bye. It has this trackback thingy though, and I haven't really had time to figure out what all goes with this HaloScan stuff.
Thank you in advance for your kind words of wisdom.
Sincerely,
The Tired Blonde Who Works 12 Hours A Day
Tired Tuesday
I'm tired today, so unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your point of view) I will not bore you with a rambling story today, but just give some random updates.
Many thanks to Poppy for nominating me for "Most Humorous Blog", and Willful Expose and Princessr9 for nominating me for "Snarkiest Blog" over at the Best of Blog Awards. I really do appreciate it, and it is a good feeling to know that people enjoy my writing.
Today began my week long Birthday Celebration Extravaganza. Seeing how I work in the IT/QC department for a majorly huge factory, my job affects thousands of people. This means that I get to have several different parties given for yours truly.
I scheduled everyone in this week, and I have someone giving me a birthday party every day at work. How I ever got this blessed is totally beyond me.
Another thing is I have the entire weekend off. Two.days.in.a.row.
I don't remember the last time that happened.
Saturday is the infamous girls night out we do for my birthday every year. We will try to not get arrested, and of course we shall say we graduated in 1995 if anyone asks.
My actual birthday is Sunday, and I want to spend it doing something that I love more then anything. I want to sit in a dark theater with real butter (or "butter topping" I don't want to know what it is) popcorn and watch movies. I may stay there all day, as there are a million new ones out that I want to see.
Ahhh, life is good...I'll try to be more pissed off tomorrow...
Many thanks to Poppy for nominating me for "Most Humorous Blog", and Willful Expose and Princessr9 for nominating me for "Snarkiest Blog" over at the Best of Blog Awards. I really do appreciate it, and it is a good feeling to know that people enjoy my writing.
Today began my week long Birthday Celebration Extravaganza. Seeing how I work in the IT/QC department for a majorly huge factory, my job affects thousands of people. This means that I get to have several different parties given for yours truly.
I scheduled everyone in this week, and I have someone giving me a birthday party every day at work. How I ever got this blessed is totally beyond me.
Another thing is I have the entire weekend off. Two.days.in.a.row.
I don't remember the last time that happened.
Saturday is the infamous girls night out we do for my birthday every year. We will try to not get arrested, and of course we shall say we graduated in 1995 if anyone asks.
My actual birthday is Sunday, and I want to spend it doing something that I love more then anything. I want to sit in a dark theater with real butter (or "butter topping" I don't want to know what it is) popcorn and watch movies. I may stay there all day, as there are a million new ones out that I want to see.
Ahhh, life is good...I'll try to be more pissed off tomorrow...
Monday, December 13, 2004
BINGO!!
This time of year always reminds me of Bingo. It is not a happy memory mind you. Well, it kind of is. I'll let you decide.
When my parents lived here, they loved to play Bingo. They went to this one place every week. My Mom went for the Bingo, and my Dad went for the food, as the senior women of the church prepared home cooked snacks and deserts that were to die for.
Once they moved away, the kicked the Bingo habit, but they have fall off the wagon when they come back up here around this time of year. They have this one great big Bingo night that gives away a lot of huge prizes.
I went a couple of years ago with them, and I learned two things.
1. Bingo is serious shit.
2. It is a dangerous prospect to piss off little old ladies with blue hair who play 1,000 Bingo cards at a time, who take this Bingo stuff as life and death.
So my sister and I decided to go with my parents to this big Christmas Bingo Extravaganza. It was amazing. These women and men had like whole tables full of cards, and some of them didn't even mark them. They like had them memorized. I had like 4 cards and this nice little old lady next to me who was playing like 200 cards kept saying, "Honey, you missed one." How the fuck did these old people keep up?
I got the hang of it after awhile, and I got bored. Bored for me is just not a good thing. My Grandma used to say, "If you are bored, then you must be a boring person."
How true that is.
Anyway, I decided to fuck with my sister. They called a number, and I whisper, "Dude, you got Bingo." My sister, being the naive dumb ass that she is, didn't look at her cards and started screaming, "BINGO! BINGO!"
Oh my God. I lost my shit and started laughing hysterically because of course she didn't have Bingo. People moaned and started swiping the little chips off their 2,000 cards. My sister was desperately looking at her cards trying to figure out where the hell she had Bingo as the card checker lady stood in front of her.
I'm still laughing hysterically as my sister said in a small voice, "I don't have Bingo."
Dude. These people were PISSED. I swear they were planning our deaths as they held up the game so that everyone could put their chips back on their cards. Loud grumbles broke out across the room, as my sister swore she would kill me in my sleep one day.
My parents shot me evil looks from across the table, which just made me break into fits of giggles. We started the game up again, and my sister would jab me in the side, and I'd start giggling again.
Don't you just fucking hate it when you are laughing at a really inappropriate time, you know you shouldn't be laughing, and it just makes you laugh harder? You sit there and grit your teeth so a smile doesn't break out across your face, and this just makes it worse. I couldn't help it. I'd stop for a minute, regain control, and then I'd remember my sister screaming "BINGO! BINGO!" and I'd start giggling all over again.
Finally the dude that was calling the numbers said over the microphone, "You! Blonde girl! You are out of here!" I looked around to see what loser was getting kicked out of Bingo.
Oh fuck, it was me.
My Mom slid the car keys across the table, with the look of certain death on her face. I slowly walked out of the Bingo hall, sporadically breaking into fits of giggles.
Yes, at 31 I had been sent to the car for misbehaving. They didn't leave until it was over, and I had to sit out there for an hour.
My parents and sister finally came out, and when they got in the car my Mom told my Dad to hurry up, that the little old ladies were probably going to lynch me if they got a hold of me.
My fits of giggles started again, and my sister joined in. My exasperated parents gave up, and we started to leave the parking lot. As I looked out my window with a big smile on my face, a little old lady that looked a lot like the "Where's the Beef?" lady gave me the finger.
Yes, Bingo is serious shit.
When my parents lived here, they loved to play Bingo. They went to this one place every week. My Mom went for the Bingo, and my Dad went for the food, as the senior women of the church prepared home cooked snacks and deserts that were to die for.
Once they moved away, the kicked the Bingo habit, but they have fall off the wagon when they come back up here around this time of year. They have this one great big Bingo night that gives away a lot of huge prizes.
I went a couple of years ago with them, and I learned two things.
1. Bingo is serious shit.
2. It is a dangerous prospect to piss off little old ladies with blue hair who play 1,000 Bingo cards at a time, who take this Bingo stuff as life and death.
So my sister and I decided to go with my parents to this big Christmas Bingo Extravaganza. It was amazing. These women and men had like whole tables full of cards, and some of them didn't even mark them. They like had them memorized. I had like 4 cards and this nice little old lady next to me who was playing like 200 cards kept saying, "Honey, you missed one." How the fuck did these old people keep up?
I got the hang of it after awhile, and I got bored. Bored for me is just not a good thing. My Grandma used to say, "If you are bored, then you must be a boring person."
How true that is.
Anyway, I decided to fuck with my sister. They called a number, and I whisper, "Dude, you got Bingo." My sister, being the naive dumb ass that she is, didn't look at her cards and started screaming, "BINGO! BINGO!"
Oh my God. I lost my shit and started laughing hysterically because of course she didn't have Bingo. People moaned and started swiping the little chips off their 2,000 cards. My sister was desperately looking at her cards trying to figure out where the hell she had Bingo as the card checker lady stood in front of her.
I'm still laughing hysterically as my sister said in a small voice, "I don't have Bingo."
Dude. These people were PISSED. I swear they were planning our deaths as they held up the game so that everyone could put their chips back on their cards. Loud grumbles broke out across the room, as my sister swore she would kill me in my sleep one day.
My parents shot me evil looks from across the table, which just made me break into fits of giggles. We started the game up again, and my sister would jab me in the side, and I'd start giggling again.
Don't you just fucking hate it when you are laughing at a really inappropriate time, you know you shouldn't be laughing, and it just makes you laugh harder? You sit there and grit your teeth so a smile doesn't break out across your face, and this just makes it worse. I couldn't help it. I'd stop for a minute, regain control, and then I'd remember my sister screaming "BINGO! BINGO!" and I'd start giggling all over again.
Finally the dude that was calling the numbers said over the microphone, "You! Blonde girl! You are out of here!" I looked around to see what loser was getting kicked out of Bingo.
Oh fuck, it was me.
My Mom slid the car keys across the table, with the look of certain death on her face. I slowly walked out of the Bingo hall, sporadically breaking into fits of giggles.
Yes, at 31 I had been sent to the car for misbehaving. They didn't leave until it was over, and I had to sit out there for an hour.
My parents and sister finally came out, and when they got in the car my Mom told my Dad to hurry up, that the little old ladies were probably going to lynch me if they got a hold of me.
My fits of giggles started again, and my sister joined in. My exasperated parents gave up, and we started to leave the parking lot. As I looked out my window with a big smile on my face, a little old lady that looked a lot like the "Where's the Beef?" lady gave me the finger.
Yes, Bingo is serious shit.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
I was the Devil's Spawn
Part 2.
Yes, after reading my experience with Santa at 4 I'm sure most of you were thinking, "What a freakin' brat!"
Yes, yes I was.
My Mom decided that the next year she would take me to some other place rather then where she worked, as I had embarrassed the hell out of her at work.
This year, at the ripe old age of six, I noticed that there were an awful lot of Santa's around. There was one ringing the bell on the corner. There was one at the mall. There was one in my Mom's store.
How in the fuck were all these Santa's running around? Who the hell was in charge of the Elves? What if they stopped working since their boss was gone? How would all the children of the world get toys?
I was a strange fucking kid.
Anyway, my Mom explained this situation by saying that Santa had some Elves that were bigger then normal Elves, and they took down what the kids wanted for Santa and told him.
This did not sit well with me at all. I wanted to see THE Santa. No taking chances for me, as a pink huffy bike was at stake this year. It was all I wanted and I wanted it so bad.
My Mother assured me we were going to see THE Santa. Lord this woman never learns, does she?
So off we went to the mall. The line was freakin' huge, like in the movie "A Christmas Story." We waited forever, and finally it was my turn.
Up on Santa's lap I went.
Wait just a fucking minute! His beard wasn't real! I could see the strings! I noticed it right away! Fuck! I wasn't at the right place! This wasn't the real Santa! God I hate exclamation point days!
So I calmly asked where the real Santa was. "What do you mean little girl, I am the real Santa," the imposter Evile Elf said. "No your not. I want the real Santa."
"Listen kid, what do you want for Christmas?" the jack ass said. "I waaaaaaant the reeeeeeeeeal Saaaaaaantaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!" I wailed.
By now you can probably guess that all the little kids in line where quite interested in my little outburst. My Mom came running over. "This is the real Santa Kelly," she pleaded.
"NO HE'S NOT!!!" I screamed as I ripped of his beard.
Kids started crying and howling that they wanted to see the real Santa too. The jerk off pretending to be Santa tried to get his beard back, but I had the grip of death on it. My Mom pried it out of my fingers, through me over her shoulder, and got the hell out of dodge before the angry mob attacked.
Needless to say I was in big trouble again.
"You're not going to get your bike now! You ruined seeing Santa for all those little kids, and you didn't even get to ask for what you wanted," my Mom lectured.
I cried and cried all the way home. As my Mom related the story to my Dad, I just howled and cried harder. This Santa shit is traumatizing I tell you.
So I was convinced I wasn't going to get my bike, and man was I upset. I was grounded too for being rude, disrespectful, and causing a public scene.
I didn't have to wait all that long to find out if I was going to get my bike. The Grandparents had heard about what had happened, and on December 19th, my 6th birthday, they delivered a brand spanking new pink Huffy bike with a big pink bow for my birthday present.
Grandparents are so much better then Santa.
Yes, after reading my experience with Santa at 4 I'm sure most of you were thinking, "What a freakin' brat!"
Yes, yes I was.
My Mom decided that the next year she would take me to some other place rather then where she worked, as I had embarrassed the hell out of her at work.
This year, at the ripe old age of six, I noticed that there were an awful lot of Santa's around. There was one ringing the bell on the corner. There was one at the mall. There was one in my Mom's store.
How in the fuck were all these Santa's running around? Who the hell was in charge of the Elves? What if they stopped working since their boss was gone? How would all the children of the world get toys?
I was a strange fucking kid.
Anyway, my Mom explained this situation by saying that Santa had some Elves that were bigger then normal Elves, and they took down what the kids wanted for Santa and told him.
This did not sit well with me at all. I wanted to see THE Santa. No taking chances for me, as a pink huffy bike was at stake this year. It was all I wanted and I wanted it so bad.
My Mother assured me we were going to see THE Santa. Lord this woman never learns, does she?
So off we went to the mall. The line was freakin' huge, like in the movie "A Christmas Story." We waited forever, and finally it was my turn.
Up on Santa's lap I went.
Wait just a fucking minute! His beard wasn't real! I could see the strings! I noticed it right away! Fuck! I wasn't at the right place! This wasn't the real Santa! God I hate exclamation point days!
So I calmly asked where the real Santa was. "What do you mean little girl, I am the real Santa," the imposter Evile Elf said. "No your not. I want the real Santa."
"Listen kid, what do you want for Christmas?" the jack ass said. "I waaaaaaant the reeeeeeeeeal Saaaaaaantaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!" I wailed.
By now you can probably guess that all the little kids in line where quite interested in my little outburst. My Mom came running over. "This is the real Santa Kelly," she pleaded.
"NO HE'S NOT!!!" I screamed as I ripped of his beard.
Kids started crying and howling that they wanted to see the real Santa too. The jerk off pretending to be Santa tried to get his beard back, but I had the grip of death on it. My Mom pried it out of my fingers, through me over her shoulder, and got the hell out of dodge before the angry mob attacked.
Needless to say I was in big trouble again.
"You're not going to get your bike now! You ruined seeing Santa for all those little kids, and you didn't even get to ask for what you wanted," my Mom lectured.
I cried and cried all the way home. As my Mom related the story to my Dad, I just howled and cried harder. This Santa shit is traumatizing I tell you.
So I was convinced I wasn't going to get my bike, and man was I upset. I was grounded too for being rude, disrespectful, and causing a public scene.
I didn't have to wait all that long to find out if I was going to get my bike. The Grandparents had heard about what had happened, and on December 19th, my 6th birthday, they delivered a brand spanking new pink Huffy bike with a big pink bow for my birthday present.
Grandparents are so much better then Santa.
Saturday, December 11, 2004
Why you shouldn't lie
to your children. Every year around this time, parents all over take their children to see Santa Clause.
This was called "ass beating" time in my house hold, as I would usually practically get an ass beating every time they took me to see Santa. No, my parents didn't hit us, but it usually ended up in an embarrassing display that made my Mom want to crawl under a rock, and she'd be upset. If we would have ever gotten ass beatings, I surely would have after visiting Santa a couple of times. I never knew why, until now.
When I was four I had out the big Wish Book making my list for Santa. I could read and write by 3, so I did quite well all by myself. My Mom saw that I was on page 3 (not in the Wish Book, but on my list) and tried to explain that I could not get all those things.
All those toys cost money, and she told me they didn't have a lot of money this year. I didn't understand this, as Santa brought all this stuff and his Elves made it all. My Mom told me that Santa woke them up and they had to write him a check after he delivered the presents, so I had to only ask for the things I truly wanted.
This made sense to me I guess, even though I then thought Santa was a cheap bastard.
So off we went to go see Santa at my Mom's store. She was the manager of a drug store, and Santa was going to be there. To let you all in on a little secret that I didn't know at the time, Santa was her boss, not the real Santa (I still believe in him, shut up).
I patiently (ok, that's a lie, patient was the last thing I was as a child) waited in line with all the other kids. Then came my turn.
"And what do you want for Christmas kj?" Santa asked. "A Barbie and a Tree House Family," I replied. "Oh certainly you want something more then that?" he asked.
"No, that's all I want," I said, feeling uncomfortable that Santa was pushing me into asking for other things. "How about a nice EZ bake oven, all the little girls are asking for that," Santa said. "I don't want an EZ bake oven! I just want a Barbie and a Tree House Family!" I was really starting to get pissed off now.
"How about a nice baby doll? A bike? Isn't there anything else you want?" I felt like a soldier being tortured by the enemy at this point, but I wasn't going to crack. Santa and his master plan of taking all my parents money wasn't going to work.
"I TOLD YOU I DON'T WANT ANYTHING ELSE! WE ARE POOR THIS YEAR! MY PARENTS CAN'T AFFORD TO PAY YOU SO LEAVE ME ALONE!" With this little outburst, I got off Santa's lap, kicked him in the shin with my shiny, black patent leather shoes, and was promptly dragged out of the store by my angry and humiliated Mother.
She tried to control her anger, oh how she tried. She yelled at me the whole way home, and I was confused. Santa was a demanding bitch that wouldn't leave me alone. He was trying to take our money that we didn't even have!
So in the end it was explained that I was in trouble because I had been disrespectful to an adult, even if he was trying to take our money it was wrong. I was grounded for a week,to solitary confinement in my room.
Man did I hate Santa Clause that year. Greedy bastard.
It's late, so I'll tell you what happened when I was six tomorrow. To give a bit of a teaser, we went to a different Santa (I wonder why) that next year, and when we left I had every kid in line howling and crying. I was grounded for 2 weeks that year...
This was called "ass beating" time in my house hold, as I would usually practically get an ass beating every time they took me to see Santa. No, my parents didn't hit us, but it usually ended up in an embarrassing display that made my Mom want to crawl under a rock, and she'd be upset. If we would have ever gotten ass beatings, I surely would have after visiting Santa a couple of times. I never knew why, until now.
When I was four I had out the big Wish Book making my list for Santa. I could read and write by 3, so I did quite well all by myself. My Mom saw that I was on page 3 (not in the Wish Book, but on my list) and tried to explain that I could not get all those things.
All those toys cost money, and she told me they didn't have a lot of money this year. I didn't understand this, as Santa brought all this stuff and his Elves made it all. My Mom told me that Santa woke them up and they had to write him a check after he delivered the presents, so I had to only ask for the things I truly wanted.
This made sense to me I guess, even though I then thought Santa was a cheap bastard.
So off we went to go see Santa at my Mom's store. She was the manager of a drug store, and Santa was going to be there. To let you all in on a little secret that I didn't know at the time, Santa was her boss, not the real Santa (I still believe in him, shut up).
I patiently (ok, that's a lie, patient was the last thing I was as a child) waited in line with all the other kids. Then came my turn.
"And what do you want for Christmas kj?" Santa asked. "A Barbie and a Tree House Family," I replied. "Oh certainly you want something more then that?" he asked.
"No, that's all I want," I said, feeling uncomfortable that Santa was pushing me into asking for other things. "How about a nice EZ bake oven, all the little girls are asking for that," Santa said. "I don't want an EZ bake oven! I just want a Barbie and a Tree House Family!" I was really starting to get pissed off now.
"How about a nice baby doll? A bike? Isn't there anything else you want?" I felt like a soldier being tortured by the enemy at this point, but I wasn't going to crack. Santa and his master plan of taking all my parents money wasn't going to work.
"I TOLD YOU I DON'T WANT ANYTHING ELSE! WE ARE POOR THIS YEAR! MY PARENTS CAN'T AFFORD TO PAY YOU SO LEAVE ME ALONE!" With this little outburst, I got off Santa's lap, kicked him in the shin with my shiny, black patent leather shoes, and was promptly dragged out of the store by my angry and humiliated Mother.
She tried to control her anger, oh how she tried. She yelled at me the whole way home, and I was confused. Santa was a demanding bitch that wouldn't leave me alone. He was trying to take our money that we didn't even have!
So in the end it was explained that I was in trouble because I had been disrespectful to an adult, even if he was trying to take our money it was wrong. I was grounded for a week,to solitary confinement in my room.
Man did I hate Santa Clause that year. Greedy bastard.
It's late, so I'll tell you what happened when I was six tomorrow. To give a bit of a teaser, we went to a different Santa (I wonder why) that next year, and when we left I had every kid in line howling and crying. I was grounded for 2 weeks that year...
Friday, December 10, 2004
9 hour day
So today I got to only work 9 hours. This gives me three extra hours. As exciting a prospect as this may be, you have to realize that these three hours occur between 3 am and 6 am. I don't think I know of one person that would be just delighted if I knocked on their door at 3 am and said, "Hey! I got off work early! Let's do something!"
It would be a rather nice pay back for those that call me at 9 in the morning full well knowing I usually don't get into bed until about 7 am. Tempting as it was, I passed.
I decided to go shopping and pick up some new ornaments for the cat jungle gym/Christmas Tree. At 3 am you don't have the most choices in the world, and where I live, you have approximately 2, more if you are going grocery shopping. The non food choice stores are Walmart and Meier.
I hate both of these stores, but I don't have much of a choice.
What can you learn at Walmart at 3am? First of all, if you like Nascar, you can get everything in Nascar. Pajamas, they got it. Purses, they got it. Wallets, they got it. Christmas ornaments, they got it.
Back the fuck up.
They actually make Nascar Christmas ornaments. I swear they do, I saw them.
Anyway, you also learn that even though it is Chicago and it is about 41 degrees out it is perfectly acceptable to take your child to the store with no shoes or socks on.
Another good thing to do at Walmart at 3am is to talk to the dudes that clean the floor with the big machines. They know when everything goes on sale. They are like the inside tip people at Walmart. I swear they also have photographic memories, as today Wally the dude with the thick Polish accent said, "You come in real early tonight!" I don't go there that much, really. I.don't.
So while I was walking towards the Christmas section to look at ornaments, I passed the toys. They didn't have this kind of stuff when I was a kid.
I shuddered as I passed a full on visual assault of Bratz Dolls, and walked quickly before they did Vulcan mind tricks on me or something. They have a EZ Bake Microwave. It must cook those little pies in 5 hours instead of 12.
It would be nice to be a kid again and have all these new fangled gadgets that they have, but if I could pick one toy that I could play with now, it would be really simple.
Two words: Green Machine.
I hearted my Green Machine.
This inspired me to do a search for Green Machines when I got home, and you will never fucking guess in a million years what the wonderful people at Huffy have done.
Are you ready for this? There is a Green Machine for adults! Well, it really isn't for adults, but it holds up to 180 pounds, so I am a good 50 pounds under that limit.
I have to have one. I don't care if I am 33 years old. I MUST HAVE A GREEN MACHINE!
It kind of makes you wonder why they are making them hold up to 180 lbs, but all I have to say is God Bless all those tank ass kids out there!
I'm getting a Green Machine!
What item would you like to see made for adults from when you were a kid?
It would be a rather nice pay back for those that call me at 9 in the morning full well knowing I usually don't get into bed until about 7 am. Tempting as it was, I passed.
I decided to go shopping and pick up some new ornaments for the cat jungle gym/Christmas Tree. At 3 am you don't have the most choices in the world, and where I live, you have approximately 2, more if you are going grocery shopping. The non food choice stores are Walmart and Meier.
I hate both of these stores, but I don't have much of a choice.
What can you learn at Walmart at 3am? First of all, if you like Nascar, you can get everything in Nascar. Pajamas, they got it. Purses, they got it. Wallets, they got it. Christmas ornaments, they got it.
Back the fuck up.
They actually make Nascar Christmas ornaments. I swear they do, I saw them.
Anyway, you also learn that even though it is Chicago and it is about 41 degrees out it is perfectly acceptable to take your child to the store with no shoes or socks on.
Another good thing to do at Walmart at 3am is to talk to the dudes that clean the floor with the big machines. They know when everything goes on sale. They are like the inside tip people at Walmart. I swear they also have photographic memories, as today Wally the dude with the thick Polish accent said, "You come in real early tonight!" I don't go there that much, really. I.don't.
So while I was walking towards the Christmas section to look at ornaments, I passed the toys. They didn't have this kind of stuff when I was a kid.
I shuddered as I passed a full on visual assault of Bratz Dolls, and walked quickly before they did Vulcan mind tricks on me or something. They have a EZ Bake Microwave. It must cook those little pies in 5 hours instead of 12.
It would be nice to be a kid again and have all these new fangled gadgets that they have, but if I could pick one toy that I could play with now, it would be really simple.
Two words: Green Machine.
I hearted my Green Machine.
This inspired me to do a search for Green Machines when I got home, and you will never fucking guess in a million years what the wonderful people at Huffy have done.
Are you ready for this? There is a Green Machine for adults! Well, it really isn't for adults, but it holds up to 180 pounds, so I am a good 50 pounds under that limit.
I have to have one. I don't care if I am 33 years old. I MUST HAVE A GREEN MACHINE!
It kind of makes you wonder why they are making them hold up to 180 lbs, but all I have to say is God Bless all those tank ass kids out there!
I'm getting a Green Machine!
What item would you like to see made for adults from when you were a kid?
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Best of Blogs
Yes, it's another Blog award, but the difference is Political blogs/marketing blogs/all those other blogs that always win aren't in contention for the BOB Award.
They have categories like "Best Mommy Blog", "Best Sex Blog", "Snarkiest Blog", "Best Weight Loss Blog", "Best knitting blog", "Best cooking blog", and the usual suspects with best over, most humorous, best new...
Really great prizes abound for the winners too, like web hosting and web design from Cia! My Bella...
Check it out. Nominations begin tomorrow, so go have a look see at the rules and regs and all that good stuff!
They have categories like "Best Mommy Blog", "Best Sex Blog", "Snarkiest Blog", "Best Weight Loss Blog", "Best knitting blog", "Best cooking blog", and the usual suspects with best over, most humorous, best new...
Really great prizes abound for the winners too, like web hosting and web design from Cia! My Bella...
Check it out. Nominations begin tomorrow, so go have a look see at the rules and regs and all that good stuff!
No Way In Hell
I read this article yesterday in the Chicago Sun Times. You can read it here if you want to curl up in the fetal position and cry yourself to sleep tonight.
Yes, they claim that big hair is back, along with it's tragic sidekick, the perm.
For the love.of.God.no.
I'm a total hair sheep. Ba Ba Ba. I admit, I change to the popular styles. It has always been a great fear of mine to be one of those women that look like they were stuck in a time warp some twenty years ago.
I have the best hair ever. It is thick, but not coarse. I probably have enough hair for two people. It's wavy, but not so curly that it is fried if I straighten it. A little bit of product and ionizer and I have a full head of I just got out of bed curls.
It also grows like 2 to 3 inches a month. Yes, I am a hair factory that has made the peeps over at Locks of Love very, very happy. So changing to a new style isn't that big of a deal for me, as it will grow out soon enough.
But I will draw the line at big hair. I shall never have "wings" again. I shall never have bangs that stick straight up in the air like a proud parot again.
Most of all, I will never, ever, ever, did I say never? get another perm as long as I live.
The last time I got a perm, it was from my Aunt in 1991. My brother was getting married, and I found this really cute cut I wanted that had these big loose shoulder length curls.
She said I needed a perm for it, and I protested. My Aunt wasn't exactly the best hairstylist in the world, but my Mom made me go to her out of that whole family loyalty crap. When it comes to hair, family loyalty should be null and void.
So she talked me into it, saying my hair just wasn't curly enough for this style.
She proceeded to give me the afro from hell.
It is the only time I actually cried in a salon. Sobbed might be a better way to explain it. Hysterically crying to the point of insanity describes it even better.
I just lost it. My brother was getting married in 3 weeks, and I looked like I had a blonde brillo pad on top of my head.
My Mom called me because my Aunt had called her all upset because I was upset and caused a "scene". Bitch. Anyway, my Mom kept saying, "It can't be that bad." She came over, and once she saw my hair, she said I was not allowed to ever let my Aunt touch my hair again.
We did everything we could to fix it, but one of the bad things of having great hair is that damn perm took hold and wouldn't let go. We tried all the tricks, and it just didn't work. I finally went to a really overpriced salon that sort of fixed it, but by that time my hair was so fried that it might have looked better as a blonde afro.
So I don't care how "new" these "new perms" are they are talking about in that article. I don't care if they don't smell as bad or if they have different techniques with varying roller size.
It will be over my dead body that another perm solution shall ever touch my scalp.
Yes, they claim that big hair is back, along with it's tragic sidekick, the perm.
For the love.of.God.no.
I'm a total hair sheep. Ba Ba Ba. I admit, I change to the popular styles. It has always been a great fear of mine to be one of those women that look like they were stuck in a time warp some twenty years ago.
I have the best hair ever. It is thick, but not coarse. I probably have enough hair for two people. It's wavy, but not so curly that it is fried if I straighten it. A little bit of product and ionizer and I have a full head of I just got out of bed curls.
It also grows like 2 to 3 inches a month. Yes, I am a hair factory that has made the peeps over at Locks of Love very, very happy. So changing to a new style isn't that big of a deal for me, as it will grow out soon enough.
But I will draw the line at big hair. I shall never have "wings" again. I shall never have bangs that stick straight up in the air like a proud parot again.
Most of all, I will never, ever, ever, did I say never? get another perm as long as I live.
The last time I got a perm, it was from my Aunt in 1991. My brother was getting married, and I found this really cute cut I wanted that had these big loose shoulder length curls.
She said I needed a perm for it, and I protested. My Aunt wasn't exactly the best hairstylist in the world, but my Mom made me go to her out of that whole family loyalty crap. When it comes to hair, family loyalty should be null and void.
So she talked me into it, saying my hair just wasn't curly enough for this style.
She proceeded to give me the afro from hell.
It is the only time I actually cried in a salon. Sobbed might be a better way to explain it. Hysterically crying to the point of insanity describes it even better.
I just lost it. My brother was getting married in 3 weeks, and I looked like I had a blonde brillo pad on top of my head.
My Mom called me because my Aunt had called her all upset because I was upset and caused a "scene". Bitch. Anyway, my Mom kept saying, "It can't be that bad." She came over, and once she saw my hair, she said I was not allowed to ever let my Aunt touch my hair again.
We did everything we could to fix it, but one of the bad things of having great hair is that damn perm took hold and wouldn't let go. We tried all the tricks, and it just didn't work. I finally went to a really overpriced salon that sort of fixed it, but by that time my hair was so fried that it might have looked better as a blonde afro.
So I don't care how "new" these "new perms" are they are talking about in that article. I don't care if they don't smell as bad or if they have different techniques with varying roller size.
It will be over my dead body that another perm solution shall ever touch my scalp.
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
Attention Rich!
Hey dude, leave your site in my comments. I can't find it now, and I always went to it through there. Another problem of being a lazy, freaky linky love person. Damn HaloScan. Damn them to hell...
On to today's topic...
I've only dated one and a half people from work. It's always seemed like a really bad idea, as I don't seem to excel in the relationship arena.
One of them was kind enough to move a couple thousand miles away so that I wouldn't have to see him all the time, but the half bastard is still there.
I didn't really date him, honest. I didn't even know I was dating the half bastard until it was to late. I call him the half bastard because while he thought he was dating me, I had no clue.
It all started with my pain in the ass friend J. J has a heart of gold and would do anything for you, but when it comes to men she is totally clueless. She has no shame, and any miniscule amount of attention any guy pays her is immediately taken as a token of their undying love for her.
As you can probably assume, men run like hell from her. Men have set world speed records running from her. I've heard all about this boyfriend or that boyfriend, only to find out that the guy is dating other people. Dude, if he doesn't say "I want to be with just you" he isn't your boyfriend. She doesn't get it. Not one bit.
Anyway, J went with me to this charity thing we had for work, and half bastard was there. She struck up a conversation with him, and when I walked over they were getting along just swell.
He asked "us" if we wanted to go see some band that night, and we thought that would be cool. J was so excited she could barely contain herself. I listened to her gush about how great their conversation had been all the way home. She was really diggin' him.
I kind of knew him from work, but not real good. He seemed cool enough, and he hadn't run away from J in the first 15 minutes, so maybe this was a match made in heaven.
So we met him at this really cool club, and found a nice booth. He pretty much sat there in silence, while J and I talked about this and that. We kept trying to pull him into the conversation, but he just wouldn't cooperate. Oh well, it wasn't going to ruin my good time.
Somewhere around the beginning of the 3rd set J had to go to the bathroom. After she left the table, half bastard started talking away. Ahh, maybe he was just being shy around her, a good sign, right?
Wrong. He leaned over the table and said, "When are we ditching her and going home?"
I was like uuuuh uuuuhhh uhhhhhhhhhhhhh...Never? She then came back to the table. I sat there shell shocked not really knowing what to do. Half bastard then invites us both to come over to his house, as he wants to show her some collection of something that I don't remember they were talking about earlier.
"That sounds great!" J exclaimed, ecstatic that he had actually spoken words.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
I didn't want to tell her what had just happened, as she was kind of (understatement of the year) insecure to begin with, and unfortunately this kind of thing tended to happen with guys a lot in our friendship. So out the door we went, to go to this guys house to see a collection of something I don't remember.
On the way there I tried to tell J that I thought he was a little strange. She wasn't hearing none of that. We got there, and he started giving us a tour of his house. It was nice, but when we got to the basement there were like all these birds. Like all the walls were filled with cages.
"Why the fuck do you have so many birds?" I asked. He just shrugged. J kind of looked at me nervously, like maybe I wasn't so off target with the whole strange thing.
He then stopped talking again, and we sat in awkward silence for about 5 minutes when I proclaimed that I wanted to go home NOW. So we left half bastard's house, J a little disappointed that she hadn't found the love of her life.
Half bastard then somehow got my phone number and called to see when we could have a second "date". I was nice about it at first, and tried to break it to him as gently as possible that we had in fact, not ever been on a "date".
He, to this day, still hasn't given up on the notion that we went on a date and will call out of the blue to ask me for a second date. So clueless. Maybe he was J's soul mate.
So why did you have to get tortured with this whole, long, rambling story? Today on the way into work I saw him. Shit, shit, shit.
I saw him up ahead of me, and began walking real slooooow. He had seen me too, so he started walking real sloooower then me. I stopped at the bulletin board, and tried to pretend I was really interested in this lime green El Camino (sp?) that was for sale. He stopped and got a drink from a water fountain, tied his shoe, took off his coat, put it back on, all while I was seeing lime green spots from having my eyes so fixated on what might possibly be the ugliest car I have ever seen.
He finally just walked over to me. "What are you doing this weekend?" he asked. "Working." "That's all you ever do. When are we going to let me take you on a date again?"
"We've never been on a date. We will never go on a date. It will never happen. Ever."
He won't believe me, and we'll have this conversation again. The original "date" happened like 10 months ago, and he still hasn't given up on it.
Men. Sheesh.
On to today's topic...
I've only dated one and a half people from work. It's always seemed like a really bad idea, as I don't seem to excel in the relationship arena.
One of them was kind enough to move a couple thousand miles away so that I wouldn't have to see him all the time, but the half bastard is still there.
I didn't really date him, honest. I didn't even know I was dating the half bastard until it was to late. I call him the half bastard because while he thought he was dating me, I had no clue.
It all started with my pain in the ass friend J. J has a heart of gold and would do anything for you, but when it comes to men she is totally clueless. She has no shame, and any miniscule amount of attention any guy pays her is immediately taken as a token of their undying love for her.
As you can probably assume, men run like hell from her. Men have set world speed records running from her. I've heard all about this boyfriend or that boyfriend, only to find out that the guy is dating other people. Dude, if he doesn't say "I want to be with just you" he isn't your boyfriend. She doesn't get it. Not one bit.
Anyway, J went with me to this charity thing we had for work, and half bastard was there. She struck up a conversation with him, and when I walked over they were getting along just swell.
He asked "us" if we wanted to go see some band that night, and we thought that would be cool. J was so excited she could barely contain herself. I listened to her gush about how great their conversation had been all the way home. She was really diggin' him.
I kind of knew him from work, but not real good. He seemed cool enough, and he hadn't run away from J in the first 15 minutes, so maybe this was a match made in heaven.
So we met him at this really cool club, and found a nice booth. He pretty much sat there in silence, while J and I talked about this and that. We kept trying to pull him into the conversation, but he just wouldn't cooperate. Oh well, it wasn't going to ruin my good time.
Somewhere around the beginning of the 3rd set J had to go to the bathroom. After she left the table, half bastard started talking away. Ahh, maybe he was just being shy around her, a good sign, right?
Wrong. He leaned over the table and said, "When are we ditching her and going home?"
I was like uuuuh uuuuhhh uhhhhhhhhhhhhh...Never? She then came back to the table. I sat there shell shocked not really knowing what to do. Half bastard then invites us both to come over to his house, as he wants to show her some collection of something that I don't remember they were talking about earlier.
"That sounds great!" J exclaimed, ecstatic that he had actually spoken words.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
I didn't want to tell her what had just happened, as she was kind of (understatement of the year) insecure to begin with, and unfortunately this kind of thing tended to happen with guys a lot in our friendship. So out the door we went, to go to this guys house to see a collection of something I don't remember.
On the way there I tried to tell J that I thought he was a little strange. She wasn't hearing none of that. We got there, and he started giving us a tour of his house. It was nice, but when we got to the basement there were like all these birds. Like all the walls were filled with cages.
"Why the fuck do you have so many birds?" I asked. He just shrugged. J kind of looked at me nervously, like maybe I wasn't so off target with the whole strange thing.
He then stopped talking again, and we sat in awkward silence for about 5 minutes when I proclaimed that I wanted to go home NOW. So we left half bastard's house, J a little disappointed that she hadn't found the love of her life.
Half bastard then somehow got my phone number and called to see when we could have a second "date". I was nice about it at first, and tried to break it to him as gently as possible that we had in fact, not ever been on a "date".
He, to this day, still hasn't given up on the notion that we went on a date and will call out of the blue to ask me for a second date. So clueless. Maybe he was J's soul mate.
So why did you have to get tortured with this whole, long, rambling story? Today on the way into work I saw him. Shit, shit, shit.
I saw him up ahead of me, and began walking real slooooow. He had seen me too, so he started walking real sloooower then me. I stopped at the bulletin board, and tried to pretend I was really interested in this lime green El Camino (sp?) that was for sale. He stopped and got a drink from a water fountain, tied his shoe, took off his coat, put it back on, all while I was seeing lime green spots from having my eyes so fixated on what might possibly be the ugliest car I have ever seen.
He finally just walked over to me. "What are you doing this weekend?" he asked. "Working." "That's all you ever do. When are we going to let me take you on a date again?"
"We've never been on a date. We will never go on a date. It will never happen. Ever."
He won't believe me, and we'll have this conversation again. The original "date" happened like 10 months ago, and he still hasn't given up on it.
Men. Sheesh.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Selfish Freaky Linky Love
So I gotta admit that I have been selfish and lazy with the freaky linky love.
I go to Annie's when I need the link to read Sass, and Hollywood Query Letters. I go to Pink Poppy's when I want to read Genuine and Michele.
These are all blogs I read everyday, and they should be over there on the right (yes, the blonde can learn and I got which side of the page right this time). I promise, next time a template update happens, up they go.
In other news, my nephew put up the Cat jungle gym I mean Christmas Tree while I was at work today. It's a fake tree. I hate it. I hate it with a passion. I've always had real trees until last year, when I lost my mind and bought this thing.
You have to realize, I grew up at a nursery/landscape centre, so we always always always had real Christmas trees. I miss that so much, selling Christmas trees this time of year.
When you grow up in a family business, you pretty much have to help out, even when you move out and get a different job. There are no lines of distinction, and at Christmas time we all helped out, as selling Christmas Trees is not exactly profitable business, monetarily at least.
My parents just did it every year for the regular customers. We got our trees from a farm that planted two for every one cut down. Any remaining trees were donated to the Indiana Wildlife Association, as they put them in lakes for the fish to use to spawn.
Being the responsible tree huggers that they are, my parents did these things which took a big bite of their profits away. Our trees were also more expensive then other places around because of this. It didn't keep people away though. They knew our family, and some had been through several houses of landscaping, Christmas Trees, and flowers with us.
You totally freeze when you sell Christmas Trees. It is freakin' cold, it always always snowed on my watch, and I would bitch, whine, moan, and complain the whole time. Then something like the David family would happen.
The David family came in every year until the business closed, which was about 10 years. Mr. David would bring a hatchet, and he would "pretend" to cut down the tree as we untied it from it's stake on the other side. We'd then watch his children cheer as it tumbled to the ground, looking at their Father like he was the biggest hero on Earth.
Towards the last years of the business, the David children were a bit old to fall for this, but every year, they would come in and cheer for their Father like he was the biggest hero on Earth while he fake-cut down their Christmas Tree.
It is things like this that gives you faith in humanity, and I so miss it. All the children that told my Father who made the most awesome Santa Clause in the world what they wanted for Christmas, and how he would remember all their names...All the families that enjoyed the hot cocoa and stayed around listening to the Christmas music long after the Tree was tied to their cars...I even miss the damn Elf costume my crazy ass parents made me wear on the weekends...
So maybe it's not the fake tree's fault I hate it so. Maybe I don't hate it at all. Maybe I hate the Walmarts and the Super K's that came in with cheap trees and shrubs. Maybe I hate the fire that ravaged the Centre, and since business had gotten so slow my parents couldn't take the risk of reopening with their retirement money.
I know one thing is for sure. I bet Walmart doesn't really give a shit if a Father looks like a hero, if trees are replanted, or if Santa Claus has a photographic memory...
I go to Annie's when I need the link to read Sass, and Hollywood Query Letters. I go to Pink Poppy's when I want to read Genuine and Michele.
These are all blogs I read everyday, and they should be over there on the right (yes, the blonde can learn and I got which side of the page right this time). I promise, next time a template update happens, up they go.
In other news, my nephew put up the Cat jungle gym I mean Christmas Tree while I was at work today. It's a fake tree. I hate it. I hate it with a passion. I've always had real trees until last year, when I lost my mind and bought this thing.
You have to realize, I grew up at a nursery/landscape centre, so we always always always had real Christmas trees. I miss that so much, selling Christmas trees this time of year.
When you grow up in a family business, you pretty much have to help out, even when you move out and get a different job. There are no lines of distinction, and at Christmas time we all helped out, as selling Christmas Trees is not exactly profitable business, monetarily at least.
My parents just did it every year for the regular customers. We got our trees from a farm that planted two for every one cut down. Any remaining trees were donated to the Indiana Wildlife Association, as they put them in lakes for the fish to use to spawn.
Being the responsible tree huggers that they are, my parents did these things which took a big bite of their profits away. Our trees were also more expensive then other places around because of this. It didn't keep people away though. They knew our family, and some had been through several houses of landscaping, Christmas Trees, and flowers with us.
You totally freeze when you sell Christmas Trees. It is freakin' cold, it always always snowed on my watch, and I would bitch, whine, moan, and complain the whole time. Then something like the David family would happen.
The David family came in every year until the business closed, which was about 10 years. Mr. David would bring a hatchet, and he would "pretend" to cut down the tree as we untied it from it's stake on the other side. We'd then watch his children cheer as it tumbled to the ground, looking at their Father like he was the biggest hero on Earth.
Towards the last years of the business, the David children were a bit old to fall for this, but every year, they would come in and cheer for their Father like he was the biggest hero on Earth while he fake-cut down their Christmas Tree.
It is things like this that gives you faith in humanity, and I so miss it. All the children that told my Father who made the most awesome Santa Clause in the world what they wanted for Christmas, and how he would remember all their names...All the families that enjoyed the hot cocoa and stayed around listening to the Christmas music long after the Tree was tied to their cars...I even miss the damn Elf costume my crazy ass parents made me wear on the weekends...
So maybe it's not the fake tree's fault I hate it so. Maybe I don't hate it at all. Maybe I hate the Walmarts and the Super K's that came in with cheap trees and shrubs. Maybe I hate the fire that ravaged the Centre, and since business had gotten so slow my parents couldn't take the risk of reopening with their retirement money.
I know one thing is for sure. I bet Walmart doesn't really give a shit if a Father looks like a hero, if trees are replanted, or if Santa Claus has a photographic memory...
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