Saturday, December 25, 2010

Snippet From My Day #8

He loves lemon rice soup and orders it anytime we eat at Paragon; today was no exception. The waitress returned with his soup and plunked it down in front of him while he was preparing his coffee. She turned to me for my order.

Waitress: What'll it be?

Me: I'll have the melting pot skillet, but could you replace the American cheese with mozzarella?

I hate American cheese.

Waitress: Sure can! How do you take your eggs?

Me: Scrambled.

Waitress: Toast?

Me: Wheat, buttered.

She turned to Jim for his order, and for once, he was the one scouring the menu with indecision. He flapped his sugar packets back and forth, forcing their contents to the other end of the tiny envelope they dwell in, and made his decision.

Jim: I'll have the Confederate skillet.

Waitress: How do you take your eggs?

He tore open the sugar packets, completely bypassed his coffee and upended them directly into his soup. Without missing a beat, he nonchalantly began scooping ruined soup out of his bowl onto its accompanying saucer.

Jim: Uh, scrambled. Rye toast, buttered.

I blinked at him. Was he trying to play this off?!

Me: Did you just dump sugar in your soup?!

He glared at me.

Jim: Yes. Yes, I did.

Waitress: Oh, I'll get you another bowl! You can't eat that one, it won't taste right!

Jim: . . . thanks.

He looked like he wanted to crawl into a crack in his vinyl booth seat. I snickered at his discomfiture- this is the sort of gracelessness he usually gives me shit for. The waitress departed to retrieve his cup of do-over.

Me: I'm telling everyone. I'm sending a mass text right. now.

He whipped out his phone and waved it menacingly at me.

Jim: I'll text first and tell everyone you did it. You know they'll believe me, and your text will just make you look bitter.

It was true. Everyone would believe him, and to make matters worse, he texts much faster than I do. Reluctantly, I lowered my weapon, and he resheathed his. But that's alright, I have a secret weapon he has no defense against: a blog.

Monday, December 6, 2010

Jesus May Or May Not Be The Reason For The Season, But. . .

I was out yesterday, shopping for Christmas cards. I LOVE sending Christmas cards! It usually takes me several days of careful shopping and comparisons involving pictures of packages taken with my cell phone, labeled with the store I found the contender for the title of Christie's Christmas Card of the Year; and possibly stashing a contender in an unrelated department (if it happens to be the last of the package) while I take my time deciding if it'll make the leap from Runner Up to First Place. Once I decide, I buy pens with ink that match the card, and I buy envelope sealers that complement the card inside, and I even get complimenting address labels.

Yup, I'm obsessive about sending the perfect Christmas card.

Here are several criteria a package of cards must meet in order to be considered worthy of the 44 cent badge it'll eventually wear on its way to my loved ones:

* Size matters! I don't usually have a whole lot to say in my cards (hard to believe, right?), and nothing emphasizes that lack like a big ole card full of unused writing space. That's right, I like my cards small. So I'm looking for something around the size of a printed photo (what're those, 4 x 6?).

* The design must be simple; austere, even. I hate busy cards.

* The design can't feature anything religious. No manger scenes, no fish, no doves, no baby Jesuses, no wise men. . . you get the idea. Those usually fall under "busy" anyway.

* No funny! I've got nothing against funny cards. I like receiving them just fine, but for some reason, I just don't like buying or sending them.

* The message inside can't be religious. I'm not a religious person, and that just feels like hypocrisy.

* The message must be simple. Nobody reads all those lengthy, long-winded cards anyway. Let's face it- they're just looking for the check.

* The message MUST reference Christmas.

This last criterion's the meat and bones of the problem I encountered yesterday. I found lots of wishes for the happiness of the season, lots of season's greetings, stupid numbers of warm holiday wishes, various encouragements to enjoy the holiday season, happy holidayses, happy holiday seasonses, blah blah blah. Holidays, seasons, and holiday seasons, my friends! Very few cards outside the religious category actually said CHRISTMAS!

Now, I think I already mentioned that I am not a religious person, and yes, I'm well aware of the Christian connotation of the word "Christmas". But doesn't "Happy Holidays" just sound so dry and generic? And how many of us actually grew up saying "Happy Holidays" or "Seasons Greetings" to one another?! If there are any, I'm sure yall're in the minority; if one of my third grade class mates had said that shit to me, I'd have likely stuck a Kick Me sign on his/her back at the earliest opportunity. Say it out loud to someone today- I guarantee you'll feel and sound like a complete tool.

Most of us who celebrate December 25th grew up saying "Merry Christmas". So why is it slowly becoming more difficult to find a damn Christmas card that says Merry Christmas, and does NOT feature a manger scene or a lamb or a blue-cloaked lady holding a beatific baby? Let's hear it, Hallmark! I'm all ears!

Monday, July 26, 2010

99 Things

I haven't blogged in a bit, and I figured this would be a nice way to ease back into it. I found it on my dear, dear friend's blog, Amelioration. Check her out! You'll love her, i promise :)

So this is a list of 99 things that someone, somewhere came up with that they'd like to do over the course of their life. I need the motivation, and it was a nice trip down memory lane, too. My accomplishments are crossed out.

1. Started your own blog
2. Slept under the stars

3. Played in a band
4. Visited Hawaii
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more to charity than you could afford to.
7. Been to Disney
8. climbed a mountain
9. Held a praying mantis

10. Sung a solo
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched a thunder and lightning storm
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch I'm working on crochet :D Fuck off, it IS an art.
15. Adopted a child My dog is my baby.
16. Had food poisoning
17. Walked to the top of the statue of liberty life
18. Grown your own vegetables I'm a home-owner. . . i should be doing this now.
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. Slept on an overnight train Chicago to Reno. Yeah!
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Hitch hiked
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill
Doing that today!
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb
26. Gone skinny dipping
27. Run a marathon
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice
29. Seen a total eclipse
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset
31. Hit a home run
32. Been on a cruise
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors
35. Seen an Amish community
36. Taught yourself a new language I learned German by playing with the neighborhood kids.
37. had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Seen the leaning tower of Pisa in person
39. Gone rock climbing We didn't set out with the specific intention of rock climbing, but it ended up happening anyhow.
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David in person
41. Sung karaoke =/
42. Seen old faithful erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant
44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight
46. Been transported in an ambulance
47. Had your portrait painted
Mum did mine and my sister's when we were little.
48. Gone deep-sea fishing
49. Seen the Sistine chapel in person
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in theater

55. Been in a movie
56. Visited the great wall of china
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Visited Russia
60. Served at a soup kitchen
61. Sold girl scout cookies
62. Gone whale watching
63. Gotten flowers for no reason
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasm
65. Been sky diving
66. Visited a concentration camp
67. Bounced a check
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy
70. Visited the Lincoln memorial
71. Eaten caviar
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in times square
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job
76. Seen the changing of the guard in London
77. Broken a bone
78. Been a passenger on a motorcycle
79. Seen the grand canyon in person
80. Published a book
81. Visited the Vatican
82. Bought a brand new car
83. Walked in Jerusalem
84. Had your picture in the newspaper
85. Kissed a stranger at midnight on new year’s eve

86. Visited the white house
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
88. Had chickenpox
89. Saved someone’s life
90. Sat on a jury
91. Met someone famous
92. Joined a book club
93. Gotten a tattoo
94. Had a baby
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the great salt lake

97. Been involved in a law suit
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee

There're quite a few things on this list that i have absolutely no interest in doing (like having or adopting a kid, or whale watching), but it's an interesting inventory of some stuff I've done. What've you done? Feel free to take the list, or just talk about one thing.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010


Jim: Omg, Angie thinks she can beat me at risk!

Me: I know, she told me :D

Jim: She'll be a quivering heap after the crushing beatdown she receives :P

Me: Lmao! Imma be the divisive force of shifting alliances. You'll both bow before my might.

Jim: Omg no you aren't, you're going to be Switzerland

Me: Or will I?!

Jim: Aieeeee, I'll go Kamchatka on you two!

Me: Oh, what ever! Imma be all terrorist on your ass when i take over Afghanistan and Irkutsk!

Jim: You guys are doomed. I'll sweep in from Asia.

Me: Pssh. Dream on, Genghis Kahn.

Jim: Haha, this should be fun :D

Me: Yer goin' down-down. In a lelliloorah.

Jim: I'll be your number one. With a bullet.


Friday, June 18, 2010

Dear Makers of Fat Girls' Clothing,

I'm not much of a shopper; jeans and tshirts comprise about 85% of my wardrobe, with the remaining 15% being undies, socks, pajama bottoms, and one skirt with dust so thick it'd be more like an excavation than merely taking it out of the closet.

But then my stepspawn went and decided to graduate after all, so I had to show up in something nice-ish. I knew this meant a shopping trip, and I wasn't looking forward to it at all. I mean, it's been years since last I set foot in an actual clothing store.

So five hours before he was due to fall asleep in front of the valedictorian giving a speech nobody would give a rat's ass about, I hit up a few purveyors of plus size clothing (yeah, yeah, lose weight blah blah blah. Shut up. I'm working on it, and I've got to wear something in the mean time). It was the most ghastly experience I've had in quite a long time, and not just because I dislike browsing around and trying on clothes. So I've put together a few questions and helpful hints for you of the Plus Size Clothing Industry:

* Who told you guys that us fat chicks want all of our shirts made out of t-shirt material?! Printed jersey shirts, floral jersey shirts, button down jersey shirts, "dressy" jersey shirts! I mean, a few of those shirts could've been really nice had they been made out of a nice linen or silk or satin. . or even burlap, for chrissakes. So helpful suggestion for the future: consider different fabrics when your instinct tells you your target demographic would just LOVE another chance at wearing quasi-tshirts.

* I saw some really cute blouses in the smaller sizes, and the same style of shirt was available in plus size. But somehow, you thought instead of that nice, tasteful solid colour with the embroidery around the neck and sleeves that we'd prefer huge flowers and paisleys and god-knows-what-else that was supposed to be. Newsflash! Busy print does NOT make us look thinner! It doesn't even distract from it. Nope, wearing it just makes a person think, "Oh, here comes another fat girl wearing a huge printed shirt. Who does she think she's trying to kid?! Floral prints don't hide a second chin!" Seriously, guys, fat girls have tasteful fashion sense, too. The only reason we wear that crap is it's the only thing we can find. So instead of splurging on a whole different fabric for fat girl shirts, just use the same stuff you used on the skinny girl shirt and make it bigger.

* With it being summer, it's hard as hell to find a shirt that isn't sleeveless. Why not throw a little sleeve on it? It doesn't have to be long, mind you, but you have to know that nobody wants to see these ham hock upper arms of mine. Provide them with a bit of cover-up, please! You can still be summery with a little sleeve. And the spaghetti straps? Come on. That's just uncalled for.

We'd like the opportunity to be just as cute wearing your clothing as that size 2 bitch shopping next to us while not-so-surreptitiously eyeing us with distaste. I hope you'll take these suggestions into consideration, and pass them on to the department most appropriate for effecting these tasteful changes. I'm not advocating completely doing away with the things you're making now! But with the addition of some alternatives, you'll find a wider variety of satisfied consumers, myself among them.

Christie Love.

Monday, March 8, 2010

*Insert Excuse Here*

Okie, seriously, I've been crazy-busy with trying to relocate a nuclear pharmacy (you have NO idea what kind of red tape that involves), my pottery class, my ceramics class, Mrs. C's blogging challenge (which is over, and I won *yay*), Weight Watchers, trying to get more exercise into my life, getting over being sick, and spending more time with my husband and my stepchild, who will be gone in another couple of months.

The end result of all this is I've got about five or six weeks worth of unread blogs, that I do have every intention of reading! It'll be slow, but I'll catch up.

Then my next priority is you, Ang! I WILL get my reading and blogging project blog done this week if it fucking kills me. I really don't think it will, though, I'm just being dramatic.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Ashes To Ashes

I sat on the curbside with the EMT's blanket wrapped around my shoulders, thinking about how stupid it was to try to warm a person who's just been pulled from a fire. Heat was the last thing I needed. Tears streaked my face- real tears, shed by smoke-and-ash-stung eyes, providing the perfect appearance of sorrowful shock at losing everything we owned. Well, everything I owned. After all, I was the survivor.

I savored the sight of the fire, watching the flames lick at the timber of the beautiful home it was greedily devouring. It was so easy to throw it all away- the designer furniture, the expensive private collections of art and wine, the clothing. . . the appearance of a perfect life. So easy to destroy that facade forever. I closed my eyes and replayed the night's events in my head.


After paying his black-haired stripper whore to deliver the divorce papers, I went home to play the jilted, wounded wife. I knew he'd come crawling back to me, telling me it was nothing, that she meant nothing to him.

"It's too bad you decided to risk our marriage over nothing," I had flung back at him, surprised at how easy it was to summon up the anger I thought had died with my love for this pathetic piece of shit philanderer. I suppose I was angry, in my own way- no woman wants to lose her man to rented pussy.

And what kind of idiot did he take me for?! I watched him spend money and time on this common street trash three times a week for a year. I listened to him lie to me about working late, weekends out of town on "business", expenses for "client entertainment"; he thought he was so fucking smart. I stifled a smile as I wondered how that was working out for him now. Being smart, that is.

Predictably, he groveled. He apologized, he promised it was over. He swore he'd change if only I wouldn't leave. Pretending to believe that bullshit almost made me physically sick. Affecting joy at being presented with the gift I knew he bought for HER for their one year anniversary fortified me for what I knew I had to do. He slipped the fifteen carat diamond choker around my neck, and I tried not to recoil from his touch or the garishness of the trinket. Then he went down to the cellar to bring up some wine.

He poured a vintage merlot into two balloon glasses and toasted the "rebirth" of our marriage. I raised my glass and smiled my brightest, most doe-eyed smile and sipped my wine, relishing the way its dryness took my breath away. We talked of the changes we'd make, the things we'd do, and I promised to call my lawyer first thing in the morning to tell him we'd healed our breach. The wine flowed like liquid love, and we drank.

Rather, he drank. I drank enough to be appropriately tipsy, but not enough to dull my wits. It didn't take long for him to pass out since he'd had so much to drink during his "breakup" with the hired cunt. I shook him vigorously, and he didn't wake. I called my neighbor, slurring my request for assistance with putting him in bed; it was a request I hadn't made in quite some time, but it was frequent enough at one point that he came over right away, wearing his best sympathetic look.

I giggled my sodden embarrassment at our overindulgence, and he Neverminded and Not At All'ed me all the way to our bedroom. I tripped over the stairs frequently enough that he planted me on my butt and then returned for me once he'd deposited my husband on the bed. He nestled me close and gently laid me on the bed next to my snoring better half. I murmured my thanks and did my best to fade out of consciousness. I heard him let himself out and I thanked him out loud for his anxiousness to gossip about this incident to our other neighbors, thus guaranteeing that my story was already in place before I even lit the cigarette.

I punched our alarm code into the wall panel above the bed, took one last drag off the cigarette, and let it fall from my fingers onto the carpet on my side of the bed. At first, nothing happened, and I thought I'd have to light another one. I was reaching toward the night stand when I saw the bed ruffle suddenly flare into life. I stared in fascination as the gluttonous little flame fed itself and grew fat, creeping across the carpet to ignite the heavy damask drapery. A small corner of my mind screamed at me to get the hell out of there and call 911, but I forced myself to be calm and let our state-of-the-art fire alarm summon the fire department for me.

I didn't expect the smoke to be so thick so suddenly. I stayed in the room as long as I could stand it, and then I went out to the top of the stairs to wait. After a few long minutes, the smoke poured after me, chasing me, accusing me.

"How do people ever burn alive in their homes?!" I demanded of the noxious fumes surrounding me, "this shit takes forever to spread!"

Irritated, I stomped back to the bedroom to check on the fire's progress and I was greeted by a roar and a blast of heat that nearly knocked me to my feet. The room was an inferno! I stood gaping at it like an idiot until the alarm shook me out of my fascinated stupor. I coughed and dropped to my knees and stayed as close to the blaze as I could bear. I could smell the hair on my arms singeing. I crept by small measures toward the stairs, the fire marching slowly after me. I couldn't breathe. Panic got the best of me, and I turned to flee down the stairs.

I underestimated how weak I would be from oxygen deprivation, and my legs gave out. I took a tumble down the stairs, and the door burst open as I hit the landing. My ever-helpful neighbor grabbed me by the arm and hoisted me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carried me from the rapidly-erupting house. I screamed out my husband's name and my neighbor asked me where he was, yelling to be heard over the fire. I sobbed incoherently and pointed up to the second level. My neighbor contemplated the wall of flame angrily consuming the stairs I had only seconds ago been occupying with such impatience. He looked back down at me and shook his head, clutching me to his chest. The wails of the sirens drowned out his sympathies.

This was my final entry for Mrs. C's blogging challenge, week 10: The Perfect Crime. I made it to the final two, wish me luck!

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Sweet Revenge

She eased herself down the pole, gripping it loosely in her long, perfectly manicured fingers. She never took her eyes off of him. She focused on him like he was the only man in the room, and for her, he might as well have been. Other men surrounded the stage, whistling at her and waving dollar bills, but she studiously ignored them like so much rabble. Rather than daunting them, her lack of attention to these curs scrabbling at her feet like dogs over a raw filet mignon seemed to intensify their hunger for her. Soon, she knew, they'd start throwing their money at her, desperate for a glance; anything to show she knew they existed.

Of course, she'd leave them disappointed.

Kneeling at the bottom of the pole, she slowly extended her arm and leaned back, spreading her knees wide and grinding against the metal warmed by her ministrations. She dropped her gaze from him, hoping to draw him closer or entice him into a private dance. She could go out and offer herself, but she knew this would curb the thrill a bit, and she didn't want that.

She pushed herself down on her belly with her knees still splayed. She threw her head back and dragged her hair forward across her masterfully arched back, rocking forward onto her hands and knees and looking up at a vacant seat. She smiled a little to herself, but maintained her mask of slightly aloof unattainability. She didn't rush into looking for him, but let the beat of the bad music drive her languid movements as she inched back up the pole, dragging it between the perfectly rounded cheeks of her voluptuous ass. The dogs howled and clamored for scraps of her attention, and she continued to deny them.

There. He hadn't moved forward, but back toward the private entertainment rooms. She crowed inwardly with triumph, knowing he'd ask for her. Her song was almost at an end and she was impatient to go back and spruce up for him. She had a special surprise for her favourite regular, and she couldn't wait to see the expression on his face when he opened it.

Unable to contain her impatience, she boldly strode off the stage a full fifteen seconds before her song ended. She left the dogs' paltry tributes littered across the stage, completely uninterested in their pitiful offerings. How dare they think they could buy her affection for singles?! Surely even with their less-than-towering standards, they could see that she was worth so much more. . . and if they couldn't, ah, well. Not one flick of tongue across her plump lips would they receive.

She was repairing the minor smudges in her makeup when she was summoned. She nodded her acknowledgement and put the finishing touches on her wardrobe. She topped it off with a semi-sheer red drape that set her black waves off like a dark, starless night sky. She adjusted her bustier, making sure it revealed nothing before she was ready, and made her way to the room.

She stood outside the small window, looking at him through the two-way glass. He was slouching casually on the wide, over-sized round ottoman she preferred to perform on. His plaid shirt was unbuttoned at the top and his cowboy hat sat slightly forward on his head, casting his face in shadow. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, looking at the glass. She smiled at him, knowing he felt the intensity of her gaze. His manner was easy, relaxed, but she could smell his impatience. He hated to wait. She glanced up at the bouncer who would stand outside and keep watch over her, then at the guest who'd paid a high price to watch the show. The bouncer nodded at her, and she entered the room.

"You're late," he said, feigning sternness.

She only smiled in return and stalked slowly over to him. She reached for his hat with one hand, lifted it, and tossed it carelessly into the corner. With the other, she ran her gloved fingers through his hair. She tightened her hand into a fist and gripped a handful of sandy brown hair, flinging him back onto his elbows. His eyes registered mild surprise, but she could see he was enjoying this little change in their routine. After all, routine was what wives bored their men with, and he was paying good money not to grow bored.

She climbed up onto the ottoman and lowered her pelvis onto his. She rocked her hips slightly, teasingly, her head hanging forward to obscure her face behind a cascade of black waves. She leaned forward, stretching her body along his, grinding her mound hard against him, and she felt his rock hard excitement straining against her thigh. She brought her lips within a hair's breadth of his and exhaled sweet clove cigarette breath on him. He inhaled sharply, sucking her into himself greedily. His hands twitched, but he left his elbows firmly planted into the ottoman.

She pushed her face past his and crawled up his body until her shrouded breasts were even with his gluttonous eyes. She leaned down slowly, surreptitiously drawing her hands inside the shroud, and put her lips up against his ear.

"Happy Anniversary, baby," she breathed, drawing a small bit of paper out of her corset and slipping it into his hand. He accepted the paper, paying it little attention as she doffed the intervening material, exposing her perfect twin mounds peeking over the bustier. She sat back on her heels, contemplating his face. She smiled wickedly and reached down for the laces, drawing them slowly out of their knots and freeing the captives from their confines. She allowed him to gorge his eyes on them one last time. Her pulse quickened. The moment she'd been preparing for over the last eleven months, three hundred sixty four days had finally arrived.

"You've been served," she crooned in the same sultry voice. Puzzlement crossed his face before he remembered the slip of paper she'd only just handed him. He looked down at it and she slid off of his lap like a silk robe off a chair back. She had already strode halfway across the room when she heard him exclaim behind her. She placed her hand on the door handle and imagined his face as he read the divorce court summons she'd just gifted him, but denied herself a last look.

"It's done," she said as she stepped out of the room. She spared a small glance for the woman who was her favourite regular's wife. She was smiling with triumphant malice at her husband, who'd not moved from the ottoman, savouring his miserable discovery through the two-way glass she herself had been studying him through only moments ago. She didn't wait for a response before she sauntered off toward the dressing room. She was going to miss her favourite regular.

This was my entry for Mrs. C's blogging challenge, topic 9: Sweet Revenge.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Dear Unnamed Recipient of This Letter,

Let's skip the preamble and just dive right into this, shall we? I'm well aware that you think we suck. All we do is hold you back from doing the things you want (and deserve- are entitled to, even!) to be doing.

But here's something you've probably never considered: you're not the most awesome person to be around, either. This may come as a surprise to you, as you seem to think that in spite of your habit of looking down on everyone else, we all put you up on some secret pedestal to admire, or maybe envy. Certainly to admire. So let me kick that pedestal right out from under your feet (don't worry, it only exists in your mind anyway).

* Sure, you're smart. You think critically, and to some extent, you understand the things that are important to you. Unfortunately, this understanding grinds to a halt at your own opinions. You make NO attempt whatsoever at trying to understand things from someone else's perspective, and instead try to brow-beat them into agreeing with you. This has two interesting side effects:

a. It makes you a hypocrite. Funny, huh? Because I know how you like to spout off about how everyone's so hypocritical. You know, all those stupid Christians who just stuff their opinions down your throat and won't listen to your thoughts? Sounding familiar yet?
b. It makes you closed-minded. It just keeps getting funnier, doesn't it? Because I know how open minded you THINK you are.

But I digress. Anyway, back to being smart- your moderate intellect makes you arrogant to the point where it's just painful to be around you sometimes. I don't understand why it isn't enough for you to be smart. Why do you need everyone else to be stupid? Why do you have to engage in these sarcastic, technicality-driven arguments? It doesn't make you look smarter than you are, and it doesn't make the person you're inflicting this torment on stupid. It just makes you an asshole.

* About being an asshole. I know that's something you like to fall back on; I hear you use it as a defense mechanism ("You knew I was an asshole! I told you that when we first met"), as a way to deflect- without actually acknowledging- defeat ("Fine, you're right and I'm the asshole"), and as a badge of honor ("Yeah, I know, I'm an asshole"). But it isn't really any of these things. It's just a trait, like your brown hair, or the fact that you're tall, only it isn't the big asset you think it is. It doesn't make you edgy or cool, or make people secretly wish they could be like you. It just makes you. . . well, an asshole.

* Your sense of entitlement frequently leaves me in enraged speechlessness. Somehow, because life didn't work out the way you thought it was going to, WE owe you something? Sorry, it doesn't work like that.
Here's what we owe you: food on your plate, a roof over your head, clothes on your back, medical treatment, and a means to remain hygienic and healthy.
Here's what we do NOT owe you: a car, insurance for that car, rides out of state to see your long distance friends, permission to come and go as you please, a steady stream of entertainment, pocket money, a fridge full of microwavable food (so that you don't have to be bothered with putting effort into feeding yourself when you don't like what I've prepared), trust (that you continue to abuse at every opportunity), and a wide variety of other things that I could drone on about, but won't.

* You don't work for anything. ANYTHING. If it requires any effort at all, you simply don't do it, unless asked specifically. And even then, it takes a few more promptings. I mean, we're all lazy sometimes, but you've elevated it into an art form.

* You tell half-truths to make people feel sorry for you. I've been suckered into this on many occasions, only to discover later that you minimized or completely omitted your own culpability in your troubles. Not cool.

* You get REALLY indignant when people have the nerve to treat you the way you treat them. I have to admit, though, I find this one amusing.

This is an incomplete picture most people have of you. Not pretty, is it? I'm sure you'll blow it off or justify it away, or outright deny it altogether, but some day I hope you'll see yourself the way we do, and use it as a tool for change. Anyway, the next time you mutter about how you just can't wait to get the hell out of here, please bear in mind: we can't either. I won't go so far as to say we'll rejoice when you're gone, but we won't cry when you go, either.


Thursday, February 11, 2010

Bullshit Virgins

Technical Virgins are complete bullshit. You know the type I'm talking about- they're giving up the anal and the oral and "everything but", and they're still calling themselves virgins since the hymen's still intact. If that's the only thing that hasn't been despoiled, then don't go calling yourself a virgin. You know good and goddamn well that ain't "Saving It For Marriage", that's a fucking technicality; and a really flimsy one, at that.

You've been fucked. You're not a virgin. Just stop deluding yourself.

While we're on the subject, we might as well talk about the other kind of bullshit virgin- The Born Again Virgins. Who dreamed up this oxymoronic bit of nonsense?! That shit ain't Jesus- you don't "find" it again just because you decided having it off isn't for you anymore. Regret doesn't make it grow back, people! Once it's gone, it's gone.

Once again, you've been fucked. You're not a virgin. You're just deluding yourself and pissing everyone else off.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Snippet From My Day #7

I got propositioned today when I was pick'n up lunch for me and Steve by a man I'm 80% sure was a pimp. I was in the Long John Silvers' parking lot in Gary- the one on Ridge near Colfax, across the street from Calumet High School.

Now, I've never seen a pimp up close'n personal or nothin', but the man stepped outta this sweet-ass restored Cadillac, wear'n a finely-tailored purple suit (no stupid shoes or hat) under a fur coat, hold'n a cane, with two roughed-up look'n bitches who'd seen better days in tow.

I was putt'n Steve's food in my car and about to jump in outta the cold when he rolled up. He parked across three spaces like an asshole, and oozed out the door.

"Say-na," he said to me, look'n me up and down. I was mindin' my own business so closely I actually thought I was in his way somehow.

"Sorry," I answered back.

"Lemme gi' you my card," he said, nevermind'n my apology. That's when I really looked up and paid some attention to what was go'n on around me. He reached into the inside pocket of the animal carcass he had slung over his shoulders and pulled out a business card. He didn't walk over to me, he just held it out for me to come'n get.

I didn't know what to say. I knew I wasn't bein' hit on- he didn't put out that vibe. It felt like business. I shook my head at him, and he nodded at me.

"I'm married," I finally explained, once I found my tongue hide'n in the back of my head. As though that were the only thing keep'n me from accepting his kindly offer of employment.

"I fee-ya." He nodded again, this time to his two gals, who'd been stand'n there look'n kinda vacant. Like someone had hit Pause on 'em. They woke up a lil and followed him into the Long John Silvers.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Snippet From My Day #6

I smelled my food cooking and instinctively glanced at the clock to see how much time it had left. Once you can smell the food cooking, that generally means it's approaching Done.

Then I remembered I wasn't cooking anything- I was boiling water for tea. Shit, I must've turned on the wrong burner!

I rushed into the kitchen to discover that I had, indeed, turned on the wrong burner, and I was now heating up the trace remnants of last night's Rice-a-Roni (keep your comments concerning the evils of processed food to yerselves, please, I like Rice-a-Roni). I was also melting a plastic spoon to the bottom of the pan.

Fuck me for putting the dinner dishes off till the next morning, I guess. On a side note, Jim is despairing of my future geriatric mental state.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Watchin' Oral With Yer Grandfolk

I visited my grandfolk in Oklahoma over Thanksgiving this past year, and we were all sitt'n around the kitchen, havin' a cup o liquid Christmas when Grammommie unfolded this story:

Bout 30 years ago she was visit'n my aunt Mae and Uncle Roy in Georgia for the holidays. Aunt Mae had got up to take my little cousins over to their other grandfolks' house, and uncle Roy stayed back with Grammommie to keep her from gett'n lonely.

They were sitt'n in the livingroom flippin' thru the channels for awhile when uncle Roy decided that would be a good time to make use of his present from aunt Mae. Now Santa Mae had got uncle Roy a subscription to the Playboy Channel for Christmas; she'd wrapped up the remote control with a lil' note taped to it that said:

Channel 29. Love, Mae.

Sweet, but not real suitable for polite company. But that didn't stop uncle Roy.

Anyway, there was Grammommie. . . sitt'n in a room with my uncle Roy watching the Playboy channel, all kindsa mortified. He didn't mind her, though, he watched it for a bit and then excused himself. He got up, went into his bedroom for a few minutes, and then came back out and fell asleep on the couch. Never did change the fuckin' channel.

I always knew that guy was a pervert (my sister and called him Uncle Pervy when nobody was around), and that story didn't do nothin' to change my mind.

News at Nine.

Tom the Anchor: Reporting live from the scene of the accident is our traffic correspondent, Jilly Beane.

Ms. Beane (standing next to a bewildered-looking oldtimer): Thanks Tom. I'm standing outside a devastating scene straight out of an action movie gone horribly, horribly wrong. Thousands of dollars worth of property damage, and three injuries result from a late nineties model Dodge pickup being driven into the living room of Mr. and Mrs. Leeroy Jenkins. Emergency crews are working to extract the driver from the cab of the pickup, who's very lucky to be alive. Mr. Jenkins, can you tell us what happened?

Mr. Jenkins (blinking against the bright lights): Welp, the missus and I werse sitt'n watchin' Wheel-a For-chewn when this'ere pickup came clean through th' wall. I werse up gett'n a beer, else I'da been squarshed flat undaneath. Wrecked muh favorite EZ chair, it did.

Ms. Beane: How awful! Was anyone hurt?

Mr. Jenkins: The truck ran over Mae's good leg, the cat, and her favorite lamp. I spillt muh beer.

Ms. Beane: What about the driver?

Mr. Jenkins (glaring into the camera, as though the driver was watching somewhere in the audience): That driver owes me a new EZ chair. Ye hear me?! That was muh favorite chair!!

Ms. Beane (uncomfortably, looking around for someone else to interview): Thank you, Mr. Jenkins.

[A commotion from behind Ms. Beane draws the camera's attention]

Ms. Beane (rushing back to the wreckage): There appears to be something happening back at the house!

[As she arrives, a small bleach-blonde leaps unassisted down from the hole in the side of the house, smirking with satisfaction. She's suffered only minor scrapes and scratches. She spots Ms. Beane and tosses her the keys]

Blonde girl: Here. Take care o' that for me, will ya?

Ms. Beane (ignoring the keys): Miss, do you have a moment to comment? What's your name? Can you tell us what happened?

Blonde girl (looking into the camera and smoothing down her hair, smiling winsomely): Mah name's Darla Jean Wiley. Dale, you lyin', cheat'n mother(bleep)er! I know yer laying in OUR bed with that (bleep)in' tramp you think I don't know about! I picked up yer truck from the shop and took it on up to yer mother's house, just like you asked! Yer gonna hafta take it back to the shop yerdamnself, or get that trashy (bleep) to do it for you.

[Darla Jean stalks off smugly. Ms. Beane returns her attention to the camera.]

Ms. Beane: There you have it, folks. Cheating on your girlfriend and then asking her to take your truck to your mother's house can be hard on your insurance rates. Back to you, Tom!

This was my entry for Mrs. C's blogging challenge, topic 7: Describe the events leading up to this picture


Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Fecal Coliforms

I dried my hands hastily, snatching off more paper towels than I really needed. He'd made no effort at trying to conceal his impatience with my umpteenth visit to the restroom that day. I could imagine him waiting outside the public bathroom, pacing around with that brow furrow-look he always wore when he was irritated with me but not voicing it. I tossed the wad of paper towel into the rubbish bin before making my hasty exit. I reached out, grasped the handle, and yanked the door open before realizing I'd just grabbed it with my bare hand. I jerked my hand off the handle as though it was made of hot iron.

Shit, shit, shit!!!

I stood frozen in the doorway as the horror of all the people who did not Wash Hands Before Returning To Work washed over me, but it was too late. He'd already seen me and was unsubtly stabbing his index finger at an imaginary watch on his wrist. His brow furrowed furiously, mimicking perfectly the expression I'd just been imagining. It would've been comical if it weren't so utterly horrible.

I thought fast. Maybe I could tell him I'd forgotten to wash my hands? He didn't know that the whole bathroom mission was aimed at that very task, but it wouldn't matter- he'd know I was lying. I considered telling him about the grievous error I'd just made, but the furrow threatened to cleave his head in half, checking the words before they could reach my mouth.

"Why are you standing there?! Let's go," he urged obliviously. There was no help for it. I'd just have to go. By sheer force of will, I put one foot in front of the other, moving farther away from the one thing that could save me from raving madness: the soap.

'It's okay, you can do this,' I coached myself. I fought down the panic, and continued moving forward, a grim rictus that I hoped passed for a smile plastered across my face. I wiped my sweating palms on the front of my pants before taking his outstretched hand and proceeding toward our theater.

He was half-dragging me across the lobby, ranting quietly about how much he hates missing the previews and sitting on the ends of the rows, and I was desperately trying to focus on his displeasure to distract me from my mounting unease.

". . . don't sit RIGHT in the center of the row, you miss SO much. . ."

My palms began to tingle. I wrestled my attention back to my husband, forcing a look of conspiratorial resentment across my features and murmuring something like agreement.

"And if you sit too far forward OR backward. . . "

The tingle graduated to an outright itch.

". . . you miss the effect of the surround sound."

It was all I could do to keep from yanking my hand out of his and fleeing for the sanctuary of the sink. Mercifully, he released my captive hand to surrender our tickets. I pushed my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie and used the cover to scratch them a bit. I felt somewhat relieved.

He carried on with his rant, unaware of my fretful inattention. I could practically feel the bacteria burrowing into my skin, breeding and spreading their pyrogens. They appeared in my mind as the wormy-looking creatures depicted on telephones and light switches in Lysol commercials. The wormies squiggled and crawled across the surface of my hands, etching the words Fecal Coliforms in neon green microscopic lettering into my flesh.

I shuddered at those words. Fecal coliforms. Ass-germs.

The itching, crawling feeling in my hands was reaching a fever pitch as we stumbled and apologized our way over peoples laps and belongings, zeroing in on our destination- the center of the row (neither too far forward nor too far back). I completely dropped any pretense of paying attention at this point and focused on clawing at my hands. I fantasized about inundating the nasty, wriggling wormies under the purifying faucet; of conflagrating them with the scalding water. Dreams of this boiling baptism and the devastation it would visit upon the coliforms filled me with such longing that I missed one woman's foot and pitched forward onto the floor.

I didn't feel my head banging on the chair next to me, nor my shin banging on the arm rest of another seat. I didn't feel my teeth sink into my lip nor the sting of my bruised pride. What I felt was my hands pressing down into the soda-sticky, food-littered, gum-stuck seething mass of germ-procreation that was the theater floor. I stifled a scream that the concerned onlookers took for a grunt of pain, and they helped me up. My hands felt like they were being devoured from the inside out.

"Your lip is bleeding, honey," my husband worried at me, "are you alright?"

I smiled shakily at him.

"I'm fine. I'm just gonna go wash my face and get myself together."

He nodded sympathetically, and I hurried off to pursue my long-awaited ablutions.

This is my entry for Mrs. C's blogging challenge, topic 6: Obsessed

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Dear ELIB-

Dear Ex Live-In Boyfriend-

It's been awhile since since we broke up (and by 'we broke up', I mean 'I kicked your ass to the curb like last week's trash'), and I have to say I was always uneasy about the way I went about it. Kicking your ass to the curb, I mean.

You demanded to know why I ended our relationship, what you did wrong, blah-blah-blah, and I quite unfairly told you some pretty bald-faced lies. Now, these lies were told in the spirit of sparing your feelings, but the more I think about it, the more I realize I deprived myself of the opportunity to tell you just what a special kind of loser you really are! I know this may shock you, as it flies directly into the face of what I've previously led you to believe, and I really hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me my dishonesty, but I'm not sure if I could ever forgive myself if I allowed you to proceed into your next relationship with the idea that "It wasn't you, it was me", when, truth be told, it really was you. Allow me to elaborate on a few of those finer points:

1. For the love of Balls, man, sever the fucking umbilical! There's no way you should be living with one foot in mom's vagina at your age. Seriously! Commuting forty five minutes to the south side just so we could live ten minutes from Mummy?! That was just unfuckingreasonable. And do you think I enjoyed waiting for you in her driveway for hours on end because she wouldn't let me in her house?! You must have since you made me do it ALL THE GODDAMN TIME!

2. Even your douche nozzle friends considered me saintly for waking up two hours early to drive your incompetent ass to work, and then driving your incompetent ass home after having driven for eight hours at MY job. Come on! Learn to drive! Twenty nine year old suburbanites should possess this skill from, what, fifteen? Sixteen? You were twentyfuckingnine! Twenty. Fucking. Nine.

3. I can totally understand your expecting me to leave from school and either pick you up something to eat on the way home or cook for you upon my return. I mean, I would have hated for your internet gaming time to be interrupted by something as mundane as feeding yourself! But I have to say, the best part of all was listening to you whine about how you didn't like what I made, or my choice in take-out. I should've come home and picked you up and THEN gone and gotten take-out, seeing as how I just loved chauffeuring you around in my limited spare time.

3. "Motion of the ocean"? It might be a myth, but I can't be sure, seeing as how you seemed to have been modeling your ocean after the Dead Sea. At any rate, size might've somewhat made up for that, but you struck out there too.

4. Exactly how DID you expect me to take the news that your idea of being "in school" meant that you attended one class, then spent the rest of the day playing Descent online at the campus computer center, anyway?! Because I thought I handled that little gem like a fucking champ.

5. Toothbrushes- NOT a new invention! Of course if they were, you'd have been all over that shit since you just HAD to spend all our money on the latest gadgets and game systems.

I could go on, but I think I'm painting a fairly clear picture here, and surely even someone of your stunning lack of intellect can see that dropping you like the bad habit you were was my only option. Sure, I wasn't the easiest person to live with, but in my defense, this was the natural reaction of a person who didn't want to have kids to having a twenty nine year old child foisted on her. In short, grow the fuck up.

Never Again,


p.s Please tell your mother than in order to qualify as a gold digger, I would have had to pursue someone who either had lots of money (which you didn't), or some future prospects of making lots of money (again, not you). She seems somewhat unclear on this simple concept.

This is my entry for Mrs. C's blogging challenge, topic #5: Drop it like a bad habit.

Sunday, January 17, 2010

Don't Be Such A Fucking Douche Nozzle On The Lanes, or How To Piss Me Off When I'm Bowling

Wear Your Wet Fucking Shoes Down In The Pit

Anyone who bowls knows that you end on a slide before hurling the ball down the lane. They also know that if you step in something wet, you won't slide- you'll go and attempt to slide, and pitch forward directly onto your face, fucking up your face and the frame. It's winter, people! Take your wet fucking shoes off on the goddamn carpet!

Bring Your Screaming 2 Year Old

. . . and please, don't bother trying to control them. By all means, plead with them as they scream and run all over the lanes, as though that will cause them to see the error of their ways, go sit sedately on the bench and tone it the fuck down. Don't mind me standing there on the approach, waiting for you to collect your snot-nosed spawn out of my path. And you know how much I love it when they let out that piercing shriek when you finally decide to give up with the pathetic-voiced cajoling, remember that they're portable, and come and carry them back to your side of the bench!

Try On Six Pairs Of Shoes Each While I Wait To Pay

Really?? How is it that you don't know your own shoe size?! Oh, you DO know your shoe size, you're just looking for that perfect-fitting pair of RENTAL shoes. Well, that makes perfect sense. Rather, it would if they weren't RENTAL shoes.

Ignore Lane Courtesy

Seriously, if you don't know any better than to wait for the guy next to you to throw the fucking ball before you go charging up there to throw your granny-shot, just don't even bother lacing up your shoes. This is one of the single jerkiest things you can do to another bowler.

Arrive In A Group of Pre-Teen Girls

Pre-teen girls shouldn't be allowed in public in groups of larger than, oh, say, one. They definitely shouldn't be allowed to congregate on the lane next to me and scream OMG OMG OMG!!! at one another. Strike, spare, gutter ball, the ball returning. . . it all elicits the same response, and I hate them for it. So if you're a girl between the age of 10 and 17, kindly stay home and spare those around you the agony of your presence.

Thursday, January 7, 2010

Snippet From My Day #5

[Flipping through the channels. Jim pauses on the Weather Channel. Snow storm warnings abound in the Greater Chicagoland Area.]

Me: Hey, listen to that, babe! The Weather Channel's playing porn music in the background.

[I snicker.]

Jim: That's cause the mid-west is getting FUCKED!

[Jim makes fisting gestures to emphasize the point.]

Monday, January 4, 2010

The Blindfold Test, Book 4.2 of Angie and Christie's Literature and Blogging Project

Predictably, my guesses at the plot of this book weren't even close (duh). It was much better than anything I could have anticipated. So let's go through my list of I Hopes to see which were met and which were disappointed.

* I hope it's funny, and the humour is dry and/or cheesy.

It WAS funny! And the humour was kind of dark and sardonic.

* I hope the author doesn't try any pretentious "ground breaking" literary styles that'll make it difficult to read.

Check! Easy to read, the author didn't try to be fancy with the writing style. I devoured this book.

* I hope it involves a guy NOT getting the girl (or vice versa).

This was lookin' good for the home team till the very end. I was actually happy he got her, though, he'd been through enough.

* I hope the Blindfold part isn't figurative.

The blindfold was completely figurative.

* I hope it isn't set in the 1980's.

Set in 1985. My initial reaction: damn. After reading it, I changed my mind. It sort of poked fun at the 80's, and I was alright with that.

* I hope there's some disguising and/or furtiveness involved.

Disguising and furtiveness abounds! He really went the distance here. Mr. Shechter, I mean.

* I hope it isn't secret agent crap.

Ehhhhh. . . it was and it wasn't. It wasn't secret agent-y enough to ruin the book, and the secret agent-iness that did go on was really goofy.

* I hope the main character is geeky.

The main character is hopelessly geeky! He's easy to feel sorry for, especially once you know what's happening to him.

Ever been called an asshole by soda machine? Or lost your girlfriend to a tweed-wearing colleague? Has your apartment been broken into and vandalized? More than once? Has your mail been stolen, and then re-delivered to you three years late? Ever feel like the government has hired a personal saboteur to follow you around and ruin your life? Welcome to Jeffrey Parker's life.

Meet Hank Monroe, Jr. He was hired by J. Edgar Hoover to stalk one Jeffrey Parker, an average-looking 35 year old English professor with a PhD, a published book at 25, and a better-than-average intellect. Despite his credentials, he can't land a decent job at a major university, and finds himself instead deposited at the dubious Skokie Valley Community College to stagnate professionally. He's had offers from Princeton, Yale and the University of Chicago, which were all withdrawn suddenly, apologetically, and without explanation, thanks to some well-placed rumours perpetuated by Mr. Monroe.

Parker, or rather, ruining Parker's life, has become Hank's life's work, and this life's work is being frustrated by the subject himself. Over the years, Parker has accepted his lot in life as a rather unlucky bastard and developed a defense mechanism described by friends as "actively unobservant". He never dreams that every bad thing that happens to him is completely intentional, and simply doesn't react to the woes that Hank puts him through. This lack of reaction on Parker's part makes Hank's work completely unsatisfying to him.

Daunted by Parker's obtuseness, Hank resorts to outsourcing the majority of his work to a company who specializes in pushing people to their bullshit-tolerating threshold, Tolerance Management. Though the plug was pulled on the program funding Hank's work, he has continued it obsessively, determined to defeat Parker's indifference.

This book took forEVER for me to get into, but once I was into it, I had no difficulty in remaining engaged. I'm not sure if I'd recommend it or not; even though I liked it a lot, I can see why others might find it tedious.

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Dream Job?

The thrill of securing the career Audri been preparing her whole life for had long since faded into dimness. Had she ever been happy at this job? Certainly after she heard those magic words.

"We believe you'll make a good fit for our company, Ms. Langley. We'll see you on Monday!"

Audri looked down at the coffee pot she'd been clutching for the past five minutes, suddenly remembering its existence, and set it down, forgetting it almost immediately. Summers spent in study, party invitations turned down, potential friends held at arms' length. . . all of life's opportunities she'd gently, but firmly set aside in pursuit of her goal to graduate at the top of her class and achieve her PhD a full two years early. All of it marched across her mind in a parade of What Could Have Been. Sure, she wouldn't have this dream job at the most prestigious architecture firm in all of New England, but perhaps she would have had happiness.

Dream job. Hah! she snorted, absently dropping two lumps of sugar into the murky brown liquid. She didn't care that she'd sloshed some of it over the side of the styrofoam cup she'd intentionally chose as a barb to the man who'd ordered it. Audri knew he hated styrofoam, and anticipated the twinge of petty satisfaction his frown would bring her when she handed it to him.

Is this what my life has been reduced to? Fuck Yous handed out in the form of styrofoam cups? Audri demanded angrily of herself. She shook a dash of powdered creamer into the cup as a bit of extra insult, not bothering to mix it in. She stared at the blobules of powder floating around the oily surface, trying to swallow her resentment and gagging on it slightly. With a deep breath, she snatched up the cup and made her way back to the conference room where the meeting she'd been summoned to was carrying on without her.

This will be the last coffee I ever fetch, she assured herself, and she felt liberated by her decision. As she let the burden slide from her shoulders, her head and spirits rose. Audri grew calmer with each step; her ragged breathing softened, her tremors subsided, and she felt the anger draining out of her like someone had pulled a plug in her gut. She even smiled a bit and let her hips swing in her fashionable-but-understated skirt. She reached out for the door handle and paused for a moment.

Are you sure? Audri asked herself. She stayed there a moment longer, giving the question the full consideration it merited. She gripped the handle, turned it, and let herself into the room.

I'm sure. And she was.

Audri walked over to the man who'd welcomed her to the company five years ago. She thought of the broken promise he'd made to the little girl inside her who'd dreamed of creating art that people could live in; the little girl who didn't know the word 'architect', but wanted to be one so badly she chose drawing over living. She offered him the cup with a smile.

After intentionally leaving her there with her hand extended, he finally condescended to look up at the brilliant girl he'd crammed into the role of assistant, glaring as though she was inconveniencing him even as she complied with his request. His eyes fell on the styrofoam container of white clots floating in lukewarm coffee, and the beginnings of a scowl crept onto his face.

Before the scowl could get too comfortable, Audri upended the cup over his head, and Shock bumped Scowl rudely off of his face. She relaxed her grip on the cup and watched it fall, bounce off the bald spot, and land in his lap.

"I don't feel that I'm a very good fit for your company," Ms. Langley informed him brightly. She smiled winningly at the stunned group of people surrounding the table and breezed her way out the way she came in- happy and hopeful.

This is my contribution to Mrs. C's blogging challenge, topic 3: Take this job and shove it.