December 20, 2010
December 16, 2010
Bangers and Mash
Banger Beans and Mash
I might have just a wee little bit of an innocent crush on Russell Brand. I just saw Get Him to The Greek and rather enjoyed it.
Hold on don’t get your knickers in a knot! I don’t find him more attractive than my husband by any stretch of the imagination. He’s just… interesting. In a sort of makes me wax sentimental for my mid-twenties kinda way.
But I would never be attracted to him, not even if my husband were passed on and resting comfortably in heaven. Should I out live my pookie bear, I will be too distraught and heart broken to breathe, let alone pant.
Not that Russell Brand makes me pant. My husband does, and even if he had never been born just the promise of what might be an earthly version of someone with his soul would be enough for me to wait an eternity for his incarnation.
Which is not to say that while waiting I might not be tempted to partake in a brief liaison with Russell Brand, if the opportunity should arise, just so that I might practice some pleasure techniques that men seem to enjoy, for when my soul mate, my husband, arrived in my life.
Let’s be clear here… if my husband had never been born, nay, his whole family line had never been born, lest I meet one of them and see in them the lineage that might produce someone as perfect for me as my husband, I might, just might, find Russell Brand a wit bit attractive.
And should I meet Russell Brand, were properly wooed by him and decided to gift him with carnal knowledge of my temple, I would do such naughty, nasty, unspeakable things to the limey bastard that Katie Perry would blush and join a convent.
That is to say if and only if my husband had never been born.
I might have just a wee little bit of an innocent crush on Russell Brand. I just saw Get Him to The Greek and rather enjoyed it.
Hold on don’t get your knickers in a knot! I don’t find him more attractive than my husband by any stretch of the imagination. He’s just… interesting. In a sort of makes me wax sentimental for my mid-twenties kinda way.
But I would never be attracted to him, not even if my husband were passed on and resting comfortably in heaven. Should I out live my pookie bear, I will be too distraught and heart broken to breathe, let alone pant.
Not that Russell Brand makes me pant. My husband does, and even if he had never been born just the promise of what might be an earthly version of someone with his soul would be enough for me to wait an eternity for his incarnation.
Which is not to say that while waiting I might not be tempted to partake in a brief liaison with Russell Brand, if the opportunity should arise, just so that I might practice some pleasure techniques that men seem to enjoy, for when my soul mate, my husband, arrived in my life.
Let’s be clear here… if my husband had never been born, nay, his whole family line had never been born, lest I meet one of them and see in them the lineage that might produce someone as perfect for me as my husband, I might, just might, find Russell Brand a wit bit attractive.
And should I meet Russell Brand, were properly wooed by him and decided to gift him with carnal knowledge of my temple, I would do such naughty, nasty, unspeakable things to the limey bastard that Katie Perry would blush and join a convent.
That is to say if and only if my husband had never been born.
December 15, 2010
How's Your Heavy Breathing?
I’m volunteering at the local NPR station again today. I call members and thank them for their donation. It’s fun, I get free cookies and a tour of the studio, but they won’t let me be on the air. Not yet anyway.
It would be so much fun to be on air. I’ve been told I have a face for radio, so there’s that. At least I think it would be fun, I never really tried. Sometimes things seem fun until you really know what it takes to do it.
Like body piercing.
I have also thought about being a voice over artist. I mean you just talk into a microphone, how hard can that be? So I talked to a guy who knows a guy, and I found out you have to possess some skills besides a functioning voice box.
I wish I had done that research before I started applying for jobs. Turns out phone actress and voice over artist are two totally different things. I nearly hyperventilated during the audition.
It would be so much fun to be on air. I’ve been told I have a face for radio, so there’s that. At least I think it would be fun, I never really tried. Sometimes things seem fun until you really know what it takes to do it.
Like body piercing.
I have also thought about being a voice over artist. I mean you just talk into a microphone, how hard can that be? So I talked to a guy who knows a guy, and I found out you have to possess some skills besides a functioning voice box.
I wish I had done that research before I started applying for jobs. Turns out phone actress and voice over artist are two totally different things. I nearly hyperventilated during the audition.
December 12, 2010
Too Much Money?
Can you have too much money? And does it make you stupid?
We went for a stroll on Park Avenue in Winter Park, central Florida’s tres' posh neighborhood, just to see the latest in what we can't afford.
People parade the shop and bistro lined street in their finest couture and shod in the hippest of boots. Not hip boots like waders, just hip boots, like leather and zippers and heels.
No lie, I saw a woman, or something that used to be a woman, pushing two dogs that probably cost more than my car, in a stroller. Dogs in a stroller! If I were her I would want to be pushed in a stroller because I would not want my nine zillion dollar boots touching the ground where dogs, when not in strollers, do what bears do in the woods.
But if I had all the money, my boots would probably be waders so I could fish in the same river where our lab would dive for sticks. Well, maybe if I had all the money, and it had indeed caused stupidity, I would hire another dog to get the stick for him.
We went for a stroll on Park Avenue in Winter Park, central Florida’s tres' posh neighborhood, just to see the latest in what we can't afford.
People parade the shop and bistro lined street in their finest couture and shod in the hippest of boots. Not hip boots like waders, just hip boots, like leather and zippers and heels.
No lie, I saw a woman, or something that used to be a woman, pushing two dogs that probably cost more than my car, in a stroller. Dogs in a stroller! If I were her I would want to be pushed in a stroller because I would not want my nine zillion dollar boots touching the ground where dogs, when not in strollers, do what bears do in the woods.
But if I had all the money, my boots would probably be waders so I could fish in the same river where our lab would dive for sticks. Well, maybe if I had all the money, and it had indeed caused stupidity, I would hire another dog to get the stick for him.
December 11, 2010
Sunscreen and Mittens
I love to take walks this time of year. Sometimes in the evening, but usually I walk in the morning making sure to wear my sunscreen.
It's so funny to me to put on sunscreen and mittens, but I love it.
December 8, 2010
Cat Piss Coffee and Fish Burps
Since I am now way north of 40 and all my points have gone south, I am now doing things such as taking fish oil capsules for my health. I eat oatmeal every morning and only one cup of coffee. Too bad it tastes like cat piss.
But let’s start with the fish oil capsules. They make you burp. Now mix that with oatmeal. That is a taste you don’t want to have to live through twice. I think I’d rather have the heart attack.
At the warehouse club we bought a bag of Costa Rican coffee that is as big as your head for like ten bucks, but it tastes like caffeinated cat piss. Apparently you can buy cat shit coffee, and somehow I am pretty sure that would be better than this stuff.
So this morning I am dealing with oatmeal/ fish oil burps, cat piss coffee after taste, and flap jack tits. Wonder what’s for lunch?
And Wayne wants to complain about hot chocolate chili burps… please!
But let’s start with the fish oil capsules. They make you burp. Now mix that with oatmeal. That is a taste you don’t want to have to live through twice. I think I’d rather have the heart attack.
At the warehouse club we bought a bag of Costa Rican coffee that is as big as your head for like ten bucks, but it tastes like caffeinated cat piss. Apparently you can buy cat shit coffee, and somehow I am pretty sure that would be better than this stuff.
So this morning I am dealing with oatmeal/ fish oil burps, cat piss coffee after taste, and flap jack tits. Wonder what’s for lunch?
And Wayne wants to complain about hot chocolate chili burps… please!
December 4, 2010
Happy Holidaze
Hollandise makes me happy too.
Merry Christmas, it’s time to do the cards; my apologies to anyone receiving a card from me with their named spelled wrong. One year I wrote in a card, Dear Jeffery, then addressed the envelope, Mr. Geoffery … Truth is, I was little drunky that year, I usually misspell names only one time per card.
This has been going on my whole life. When I was about ten, I wrote I love you Aunt Runt in the dirt on the side of her and Uncle Bill’s trailer. The irony is, she was a six footer in stocking feet. I know she must have found that funny, because she told everyone in the family. And they thought it was funny. And they still do. Let it go people or I’m not coming to the reunion next year!!!
My mom tells me Einstien couldn’t spell, so there’s comfort in that. Keeps me from thinking I’m dump.
People haven’t always been kind to me about my poor spelling, and I defiantly didn’t find them funny. I had a teacher once, who was probably hated when she was a child and was passing it along. She disliked my whimsical attitude toward spelling, life, and the school structure in general. She once made me spell obnoxious aloud in front of the class until I got it write. What a bitch!!!
So perhaps my laxadiasicle approach to spelling is a kind of rebellious stance. Like a lot of rebellious stances that have been in place since one’s youth, it often is tantamount to shooting one’s self in the foot, but it could just be that I am smart and creative and my mind works too fast and just like Einstein, I am a genios too.
Merry Christmas, it’s time to do the cards; my apologies to anyone receiving a card from me with their named spelled wrong. One year I wrote in a card, Dear Jeffery, then addressed the envelope, Mr. Geoffery … Truth is, I was little drunky that year, I usually misspell names only one time per card.
This has been going on my whole life. When I was about ten, I wrote I love you Aunt Runt in the dirt on the side of her and Uncle Bill’s trailer. The irony is, she was a six footer in stocking feet. I know she must have found that funny, because she told everyone in the family. And they thought it was funny. And they still do. Let it go people or I’m not coming to the reunion next year!!!
My mom tells me Einstien couldn’t spell, so there’s comfort in that. Keeps me from thinking I’m dump.
People haven’t always been kind to me about my poor spelling, and I defiantly didn’t find them funny. I had a teacher once, who was probably hated when she was a child and was passing it along. She disliked my whimsical attitude toward spelling, life, and the school structure in general. She once made me spell obnoxious aloud in front of the class until I got it write. What a bitch!!!
So perhaps my laxadiasicle approach to spelling is a kind of rebellious stance. Like a lot of rebellious stances that have been in place since one’s youth, it often is tantamount to shooting one’s self in the foot, but it could just be that I am smart and creative and my mind works too fast and just like Einstein, I am a genios too.
November 29, 2010
Doctor Doctor
Hhm? Maybe I could work in a Doctor’s office. I have a certain skill set that would coalesce perfectly with the usual waiting room experience.
Disclaimer: There are Doctors that deserve dump trucks full of money off-loaded into their yards. However, these are usually Doctors who aren’t in it for the money. These are Doctors who cure diseases, aid the suffering, travel to less fortunate countries and save babies… This is not about those Doctors.
In fact, this isn’t really about the Doctor at all; it’s about the office management if you will, and how I could fit right in.
1. Tardiness, I am good at that. Have you ever gotten in to see your Doctor at the scheduled appointment time? I didn’t think so. But if I were working the reception desk I would offer such original, believable, heart wrenching excuses for the Doctor’s lateness that you would end up feeling bad for taking up the time of said exalted saintly Doctor with your inconsequential wart, pink eye, inflamed ‘roid… whatever.
2. Seemingly pointless repeated trips to the reception desk to fill out redundant paperwork, including the one that says we can cancel your appointment, but you can’t without suffering the wrath of Khan. This comes under the heading of killing time. The office staff is actually killing your time to keep your mind off your actual appointment time. I have worked for at least six call centers; I can kill some time.
3. Minor annoyances. Pens that won’t write, old magazines, sticky chairs, no remote for the TV that is stuck on a infomercial channel, empty water cooler, full water cooler but no cups, and brain bending Muzak are minor annoyances unless you are sick and have been sitting on a plastic chair for an hour, but they are crucial to the morale of the staff who take out their petty grievances with the boss by letting the white coat free area go unattended. I have always enjoyed finding little ways to stick it to the man.
There you have it, three solid reasons why my next job should be at a Doctor’s office.
Disclaimer: There are Doctors that deserve dump trucks full of money off-loaded into their yards. However, these are usually Doctors who aren’t in it for the money. These are Doctors who cure diseases, aid the suffering, travel to less fortunate countries and save babies… This is not about those Doctors.
In fact, this isn’t really about the Doctor at all; it’s about the office management if you will, and how I could fit right in.
1. Tardiness, I am good at that. Have you ever gotten in to see your Doctor at the scheduled appointment time? I didn’t think so. But if I were working the reception desk I would offer such original, believable, heart wrenching excuses for the Doctor’s lateness that you would end up feeling bad for taking up the time of said exalted saintly Doctor with your inconsequential wart, pink eye, inflamed ‘roid… whatever.
2. Seemingly pointless repeated trips to the reception desk to fill out redundant paperwork, including the one that says we can cancel your appointment, but you can’t without suffering the wrath of Khan. This comes under the heading of killing time. The office staff is actually killing your time to keep your mind off your actual appointment time. I have worked for at least six call centers; I can kill some time.
3. Minor annoyances. Pens that won’t write, old magazines, sticky chairs, no remote for the TV that is stuck on a infomercial channel, empty water cooler, full water cooler but no cups, and brain bending Muzak are minor annoyances unless you are sick and have been sitting on a plastic chair for an hour, but they are crucial to the morale of the staff who take out their petty grievances with the boss by letting the white coat free area go unattended. I have always enjoyed finding little ways to stick it to the man.
There you have it, three solid reasons why my next job should be at a Doctor’s office.
November 27, 2010
Freebie And The Bean
Dieting, wearing a super cute sweater and running late is a recipe for disaster when you are driving, checking the time, and trying to open your low-carb protein shake.
Usually I pride myself on being prepared. Kind of like a boy scout if boy scouts carried knock-off leather purses that matched their shoes… mostly. As a rule I like to keep my MacGyver purse loaded with things I might need in case of an emergency including but not limited to:
Safety pins for broken bra straps, lost buttons and busted zippers. A wide variety of OTC pharmaceuticals not the least of which is Gas X; inflate your pantyhose one time in a meeting and you’ll start carrying Gas X too. Pens, double sided tape, pepper spray, meal replacement bars, sweet-n-low, three shades of lip stick, a hair pick, flashlight, business cards, phone, charger, small knife, small screwdriver, Band-Aids, matches, my lucky buckeye, a prayer card, myriad credit cards, occasionally cash and girl hygiene products. Where the hell are the tissues?
I was trying really hard to get an event on time. So hard that I skipped my oatmeal and opted to drink a shake in the car. I shook my shake, checked the clock, I might still make it on time, if … if the shake doesn’t spew on my super cute top when I open it. Damn it! It did. No worries, check the clock, just let me reach in my purse and grab a tissue before it soaks in.
Can’t find one! Check the clock, check the mirrors no cars for miles, pull purse on lap and dig. Where the hell are the tissues? Check the clock; it has now been nearly thirty seconds since the spew splatter. Thirty seconds left in the golden minute from when a stain threatening event occurs and the crucial window when you can save your look. No tissues, damn it.
You don’t really think I will be undone by one little ole double chocolate fudge low-carb protein shake do you?
When one strives to be prepared it means be able to improvise when needed and I needed to soak up that mess and soak it up now! What could be more absorbent that a Kleenex? A Kotex! That’s right, just like James Caan used in Freebie And The Bean to stave the flow from his gunshot wound after doing battle with a villainous transvestite in a ladies room, I used an ultra thin, curved for comfort winged wonder to stop the spreading hemorrhage of an over shook shake.
Worked like a charm; I made it to the event unscathed, unstained and on time. Don’t be afraid to think outside of the tissue box ladies, you may find that you are more resourceful than you thought. Bonus: the adhesive side of a feminine protection pad can be used to de-lint your linen pants.
Usually I pride myself on being prepared. Kind of like a boy scout if boy scouts carried knock-off leather purses that matched their shoes… mostly. As a rule I like to keep my MacGyver purse loaded with things I might need in case of an emergency including but not limited to:
Safety pins for broken bra straps, lost buttons and busted zippers. A wide variety of OTC pharmaceuticals not the least of which is Gas X; inflate your pantyhose one time in a meeting and you’ll start carrying Gas X too. Pens, double sided tape, pepper spray, meal replacement bars, sweet-n-low, three shades of lip stick, a hair pick, flashlight, business cards, phone, charger, small knife, small screwdriver, Band-Aids, matches, my lucky buckeye, a prayer card, myriad credit cards, occasionally cash and girl hygiene products. Where the hell are the tissues?
I was trying really hard to get an event on time. So hard that I skipped my oatmeal and opted to drink a shake in the car. I shook my shake, checked the clock, I might still make it on time, if … if the shake doesn’t spew on my super cute top when I open it. Damn it! It did. No worries, check the clock, just let me reach in my purse and grab a tissue before it soaks in.
Can’t find one! Check the clock, check the mirrors no cars for miles, pull purse on lap and dig. Where the hell are the tissues? Check the clock; it has now been nearly thirty seconds since the spew splatter. Thirty seconds left in the golden minute from when a stain threatening event occurs and the crucial window when you can save your look. No tissues, damn it.
You don’t really think I will be undone by one little ole double chocolate fudge low-carb protein shake do you?
When one strives to be prepared it means be able to improvise when needed and I needed to soak up that mess and soak it up now! What could be more absorbent that a Kleenex? A Kotex! That’s right, just like James Caan used in Freebie And The Bean to stave the flow from his gunshot wound after doing battle with a villainous transvestite in a ladies room, I used an ultra thin, curved for comfort winged wonder to stop the spreading hemorrhage of an over shook shake.
Worked like a charm; I made it to the event unscathed, unstained and on time. Don’t be afraid to think outside of the tissue box ladies, you may find that you are more resourceful than you thought. Bonus: the adhesive side of a feminine protection pad can be used to de-lint your linen pants.
November 14, 2010
Dishes Are Art
We recently went to a gallery Meet The Artist event to see my cousin and her latest work. Both she and her paintings are wonderful, but I often feel a little out of place at such high brow events. For some reason they make me want to speak in an English accent and gesture gregariously.
And when she introduces us as screenwriters to the other artists I feel as though I have to apologize that we have not yet sold anything. It’s as if all the work we’ve done doesn’t count because we’ve not been paid for it.
Wayne reminded me that most of the artists there have probably never sold a thing, (my cousin excluded, she is quite good), yet they have no problem acknowledging their title. But I still end up saying something awkward like, “We haven’t won an Oscar yet, but we’re writing the speech.” Chortle, titter, gesture, holy crap be careful of the sculpture on the pedestal behind you.
I have to give Wayne credit though; he always has a little gem to smooth things over: “We’re thinking of just selling the speech.” Laughs from the water-color lady and guffaws from the charcoal guy.
Later, after I’ve exhausted my pat arty banter on Renoir’s ear and Picasso’s soup, I get anxious for something to talk about. That’s when I get a little desperate, especially if I’ve had a little wine. And you know I had a little wine.
Abstract guy (I think he was a guy): “Everything is art don’t you agree?”
Sip, think, sip: “Yes quite, in fact that’s what I keep telling Wayne, the dishes piled up in the kitchen are a study in still life.” Chortle, snort, sip, gesture, correct balance, giggle.
Wayne to the rescue: “Yes and when I wash them it’s called performance art.”
They loved that, if only I had let it go there. Switch to French accent: “He wears a beret and recites poetry as I keep a beat on the bottom of a pot.” Back to English accent: “Oh the dishes, always the dishes…”
You wouldn’t think you could hear crickets deep within the bowels of an art gallery, yet you can. Oh well, at least my cousin thinks I’m funny bless her heart.
And when she introduces us as screenwriters to the other artists I feel as though I have to apologize that we have not yet sold anything. It’s as if all the work we’ve done doesn’t count because we’ve not been paid for it.
Wayne reminded me that most of the artists there have probably never sold a thing, (my cousin excluded, she is quite good), yet they have no problem acknowledging their title. But I still end up saying something awkward like, “We haven’t won an Oscar yet, but we’re writing the speech.” Chortle, titter, gesture, holy crap be careful of the sculpture on the pedestal behind you.
I have to give Wayne credit though; he always has a little gem to smooth things over: “We’re thinking of just selling the speech.” Laughs from the water-color lady and guffaws from the charcoal guy.
Later, after I’ve exhausted my pat arty banter on Renoir’s ear and Picasso’s soup, I get anxious for something to talk about. That’s when I get a little desperate, especially if I’ve had a little wine. And you know I had a little wine.
Abstract guy (I think he was a guy): “Everything is art don’t you agree?”
Sip, think, sip: “Yes quite, in fact that’s what I keep telling Wayne, the dishes piled up in the kitchen are a study in still life.” Chortle, snort, sip, gesture, correct balance, giggle.
Wayne to the rescue: “Yes and when I wash them it’s called performance art.”
They loved that, if only I had let it go there. Switch to French accent: “He wears a beret and recites poetry as I keep a beat on the bottom of a pot.” Back to English accent: “Oh the dishes, always the dishes…”
You wouldn’t think you could hear crickets deep within the bowels of an art gallery, yet you can. Oh well, at least my cousin thinks I’m funny bless her heart.
November 11, 2010
All the Better Alcoholics
Sometimes I think of commercials for products that would be better than their own; for example the Gilbert Gott-awful duck. He should be replaced with… well, anything really. Maybe the car insurance lizard has got a cousin who could use some work. Or maybe the toilet paper bears could get a big splinter in their ass and proclaim how if not for the formerly duck touted now bear endorsed disability insurance they would be shit out of luck.
I also have some ideas for products that don’t usually advertize on TV; such as one of my favorite chardonnays, Kendall Jackson. Yummy.
The idea was spawned by a night out drinking with a former ballerina turned stripper. A lovely girl who at the age of closer to forty than thirty can still raise each leg far above her head, (one at a time), do deep pirouettes, and balance quite nicely on the toes of her platform stripper shoes.
My stripper friend, who once belonged to the same Blue Bird troop as me, likes to drinky. Honestly, have you ever met a stripper or Blue Bird who doesn’t? But the difference between my exceptionally limber pal and other drunken strippers is her taste for the finer things. Not that Kendall Jackson chardonnay is the world’s finest, but it ain’t two buck chuck either.
So back to my idea for their new ad campaign:
The camera rolls on a chic woman seated at a fine, leather laden, Boston ferned, brass railed bar.
She orders a glass of chardonnay and is given an approving nod from the grey templed, floor length aproned, always has a lighter and cigar cutter in his pocket, bartender.
The announcer speaks in his best Dennis Haysbert voice. He says: Kendall Jackson…
Her first sip of the golden elixir provokes a serene smile from her classic red lips.
Then the announcer continues: All the better alcoholics start with us.
We jump to later in the evening, the same woman, lipstick smeared, stumbling, enters a dive.
The tattooed, greasy, Marlboro smoking bar keep sees her coming and puts up a tall jelly jar of two buck chuck. It’s an unidentifiable orange-ish color. She plops at the bar and takes a long pull, spilling some on her half unbuttoned blouse.
The announcer: Why not enjoy a fine chardonnay before you’re too wrecked to care what you drink. Kendall Jackson.
The announcer lowers his voice: Not available in all gas stations, cork screw required.
I also have some ideas for products that don’t usually advertize on TV; such as one of my favorite chardonnays, Kendall Jackson. Yummy.
The idea was spawned by a night out drinking with a former ballerina turned stripper. A lovely girl who at the age of closer to forty than thirty can still raise each leg far above her head, (one at a time), do deep pirouettes, and balance quite nicely on the toes of her platform stripper shoes.
My stripper friend, who once belonged to the same Blue Bird troop as me, likes to drinky. Honestly, have you ever met a stripper or Blue Bird who doesn’t? But the difference between my exceptionally limber pal and other drunken strippers is her taste for the finer things. Not that Kendall Jackson chardonnay is the world’s finest, but it ain’t two buck chuck either.
So back to my idea for their new ad campaign:
The camera rolls on a chic woman seated at a fine, leather laden, Boston ferned, brass railed bar.
She orders a glass of chardonnay and is given an approving nod from the grey templed, floor length aproned, always has a lighter and cigar cutter in his pocket, bartender.
The announcer speaks in his best Dennis Haysbert voice. He says: Kendall Jackson…
Her first sip of the golden elixir provokes a serene smile from her classic red lips.
Then the announcer continues: All the better alcoholics start with us.
We jump to later in the evening, the same woman, lipstick smeared, stumbling, enters a dive.
The tattooed, greasy, Marlboro smoking bar keep sees her coming and puts up a tall jelly jar of two buck chuck. It’s an unidentifiable orange-ish color. She plops at the bar and takes a long pull, spilling some on her half unbuttoned blouse.
The announcer: Why not enjoy a fine chardonnay before you’re too wrecked to care what you drink. Kendall Jackson.
The announcer lowers his voice: Not available in all gas stations, cork screw required.
November 10, 2010
Pray For My Truck
The truck broke down this morning. That all kinds of sucks! But it’s not the end of the world, we’ve got triple A, and my trusty Escort. As luck would have it, I am not working at the moment and bread winning hubby just hopped in my car and went off to work, no problem. Well, a few problems… nothing serious.
Of course the air conditioner is broken on the Escort, has been for a while, but we’re having a little cool snap in sunny Florida, so no worries. One tire is brand new, so it makes a disturbing clunk clunk clunk at speeds over 25 miles an hour, but once you get up there you can’t really hear it that much because the windows are open. And the windshield wipers are a bit tattered, but if you are not driving between three and five p.m. in the summer that is usually not a problem. Save for bug guts, but the cool snap is helping with that; see how everything works out.
My Escort is a fine vehicle. I drove it for seven and a half years with the check engine light on until one day the car magically healed itself and the light went out.
Plus it purrs like a kitten. An asthmatic kitten that has been run over by a garbage truck but irregardless, it soldiers on. Yes sometimes it dies out at stop lights and you have to give it a jolt from a vehicular defibrillator…
EXT. –CITY STREET-DAY
Flash back to a busy street where we see a woman with her head under the hood of her car.
Cut to a tight angle on the woman as she frantically adjusts the jumper cables before pounding the battery and raising her weary fist to the sky as she cries out.
WOMAN
Don’t you die on me damn you,
don’t you leave me.
As the car suddenly sputters back to life we end flash back and jump cut back to present.
... but it soldiers on. As will I, for I have no intention of buying a new car for the now. I know that if I keep up my maintenance regime on the Escort it will run for another eight years. And while you may not believe, I know my thrice monthly toppings off of the slightly leaking radiator with a mixture of coolant and holy water will keep her on the road indefinitely.
Of course the air conditioner is broken on the Escort, has been for a while, but we’re having a little cool snap in sunny Florida, so no worries. One tire is brand new, so it makes a disturbing clunk clunk clunk at speeds over 25 miles an hour, but once you get up there you can’t really hear it that much because the windows are open. And the windshield wipers are a bit tattered, but if you are not driving between three and five p.m. in the summer that is usually not a problem. Save for bug guts, but the cool snap is helping with that; see how everything works out.
My Escort is a fine vehicle. I drove it for seven and a half years with the check engine light on until one day the car magically healed itself and the light went out.
Plus it purrs like a kitten. An asthmatic kitten that has been run over by a garbage truck but irregardless, it soldiers on. Yes sometimes it dies out at stop lights and you have to give it a jolt from a vehicular defibrillator…
EXT. –CITY STREET-DAY
Flash back to a busy street where we see a woman with her head under the hood of her car.
Cut to a tight angle on the woman as she frantically adjusts the jumper cables before pounding the battery and raising her weary fist to the sky as she cries out.
WOMAN
Don’t you die on me damn you,
don’t you leave me.
As the car suddenly sputters back to life we end flash back and jump cut back to present.
... but it soldiers on. As will I, for I have no intention of buying a new car for the now. I know that if I keep up my maintenance regime on the Escort it will run for another eight years. And while you may not believe, I know my thrice monthly toppings off of the slightly leaking radiator with a mixture of coolant and holy water will keep her on the road indefinitely.
My Brain Doesn’t Work Like Everybody Else’s
I went on a job interview yesterday. (Yeah another one, shut up.) But this one was a first for me, a group interview. (What fresh hell is this?) Eleven people vying for a part time job. (Shoot me now!)
It started out good, I give great interview, and as it turns out even with other people in the room. (Who knew?) But when they announced the group team building activity, things went awry. (Spit, wipe your chin, spit.) ((Okay that last part was a bit much, disregard that.))
We were to build a free standing five foot tower out of paper, cups, plates and coffee stirrers. (I often built shit out of office supplies at my last job, but they frowned on it.)
This was to be my time to shine, wipe the floor with the ten losers surrounding me, (Which I also did at my last job, but not metaphorically. Could that be why I am job hunting again; IDK??), and show them I am a leader!
And show them I did. I sold my plan to my team, they did indeed elect me leader, (Poor hapless lemmings), and we embarked…
ON EPIC FAILURE!
Let me just say that given more time and resources, (Three engineering students and two sided tape), my plan probably would have eventually worked. (In space, sans gravity, but worked it would have.)
Turns out everyone in the room, (Included my stunned into silence meek team members/subjects) came up with the same design and erected five foot towers in the allotted time. (WTF? NEVER OCCURRED TO ME TO DO IT THAT WAY!)
I was the only one in the room who didn’t come up with the design that apparently, (According to the saccharin interviewer and her snotty minion) is always, always, employed by everyone, everyone in all the previous ménage a’ interviews.
I suppose I am not really surprised. I know my brain doesn’t work like everyone else’s, but holy crap the plan they ALL came up with was so simple. (Frankly I am embarrassed to be out smarted by a group of people who couldn’t come up with better ways to cover their neck tattoos than band aids. Some with designes on them, so really what is the point?)
I felt bad all the way home. (It’s not easy being green; right Kermit?) Perhaps I could email them pictures of a cubical I built using nothing but toilet paper and post it notes. I suppose they might not see the skill in that. (Woe is me, back to the drawing board.) ((The drawing board is a metaphor for my plans to continue my job hunt… See how clever I am; did they?))
BING
I’ve got mail.
Congratulations, I have passed group interview phase and have been invited for a personal interview with the manager. Good luck to me, would I please fill out a brief survey about the recruiter. (Yes I will, after I see if I get the job.)
Don’t you worry your pretty little head about me; I’m ready for them this time. I’m taking my pleather brief case and I am loaded for bear. (Stapler, push pins, ruled note paper, myriad artificial sweeteners, white out and hand sanitizer; go ahead bitches, make my day!)
It started out good, I give great interview, and as it turns out even with other people in the room. (Who knew?) But when they announced the group team building activity, things went awry. (Spit, wipe your chin, spit.) ((Okay that last part was a bit much, disregard that.))
We were to build a free standing five foot tower out of paper, cups, plates and coffee stirrers. (I often built shit out of office supplies at my last job, but they frowned on it.)
This was to be my time to shine, wipe the floor with the ten losers surrounding me, (Which I also did at my last job, but not metaphorically. Could that be why I am job hunting again; IDK??), and show them I am a leader!
And show them I did. I sold my plan to my team, they did indeed elect me leader, (Poor hapless lemmings), and we embarked…
ON EPIC FAILURE!
Let me just say that given more time and resources, (Three engineering students and two sided tape), my plan probably would have eventually worked. (In space, sans gravity, but worked it would have.)
Turns out everyone in the room, (Included my stunned into silence meek team members/subjects) came up with the same design and erected five foot towers in the allotted time. (WTF? NEVER OCCURRED TO ME TO DO IT THAT WAY!)
I was the only one in the room who didn’t come up with the design that apparently, (According to the saccharin interviewer and her snotty minion) is always, always, employed by everyone, everyone in all the previous ménage a’ interviews.
I suppose I am not really surprised. I know my brain doesn’t work like everyone else’s, but holy crap the plan they ALL came up with was so simple. (Frankly I am embarrassed to be out smarted by a group of people who couldn’t come up with better ways to cover their neck tattoos than band aids. Some with designes on them, so really what is the point?)
I felt bad all the way home. (It’s not easy being green; right Kermit?) Perhaps I could email them pictures of a cubical I built using nothing but toilet paper and post it notes. I suppose they might not see the skill in that. (Woe is me, back to the drawing board.) ((The drawing board is a metaphor for my plans to continue my job hunt… See how clever I am; did they?))
BING
I’ve got mail.
Congratulations, I have passed group interview phase and have been invited for a personal interview with the manager. Good luck to me, would I please fill out a brief survey about the recruiter. (Yes I will, after I see if I get the job.)
Don’t you worry your pretty little head about me; I’m ready for them this time. I’m taking my pleather brief case and I am loaded for bear. (Stapler, push pins, ruled note paper, myriad artificial sweeteners, white out and hand sanitizer; go ahead bitches, make my day!)
October 19, 2010
The Girls All Get Prettier At Closing Time
Oprah had a show about 30-year old virgins, and what they can do do about it...
I've got the easy answer!
Stay till closing time. That's all you got to do girls. At 2:30 somebody's gonna take you home don't worry.
I've got the easy answer!
Stay till closing time. That's all you got to do girls. At 2:30 somebody's gonna take you home don't worry.
Call Me Costanza
We stayed at the LAX Hilton, a lovely hotel complete with jacketed valets, crisp suited front desk clerks and outstanding handicap stalls. They’re large and inviting after a long trip or meeting, especially if they were serving free coffee. The handicap stall in Venus means not dropping trou before you piss.
We are considering making the move to Cali Florida Los Angeles
September 29, 2010
Hello 80’s My Old Friend, I ‘ve Come to Talk With You Again
One week and one day to L.A. I love L.A.
I want to look sharp when we get there so I bought some new clothes. Stove pipe jeans and ankle boots.
Hello 80's? Yesss 80's come back, I missed you, I still love you, let’s make up for lost time.
Now, where did I put my pink eye-shadow and blue mascara???
Don't worry I'll find it.
Maybe they're hiding under my shoulder pads!!!!
September 19, 2010
Tire Kingdom
Nothing like a new job to make the dryer break, the dishwasher act up and the rear passenger side tire to go flat two blocks from a tire store that you don’t know is there so you wait an hour in the rain for AAA.
However, there are always little gems waiting for us in the fray. Such as?
I think of myself as a panda. Panda with aardvark tendencies but I digress. Apparently late 20’s, new to the big city, born and bred Florida
So back to the flat: la la la singing in the rain, not! Afternoons in Central Florida the ocean breezes collide with the gulf breezes and it rains like hell for a brief time. Roughly just long enough to put a doughnut on an Escort. The cracker and me got right soggy. Then we got in the tow truck and he got a little salty.
He took off his wet shirt! It was approximately 97 degrees that day, but when he said he didn’t want to get pneumonia, I took him at his word. He said he didn’t think my doughnut would make it all the way to my house, by the way, what was my address? They need to know that for the AAA records don’t they?
“Well alright then”, he responded to my rejection of his offer to follow me home, “lemme just show you where the tire store is”. Then it moved! Now maybe I’m getting a little weirded out.
He had dropped the truck into gear. “Don’t worry I ain’t kidnapping you.”
Okay, passing weird headed right for OH SHIT!
“No, I can find it don’t worry about me.” I paused for response.
“Alright then,” he grinned.
I slid out of the truck, the pelting rain drenching the top I was still wearing.
“Look here now, don’t tell your husband I was flirting with you alright?”
Oh, is that was that was! Sigh of relief.
“Don’t worry,” I told him, “ it’s been so long, I didn’t even know it was happening.”
Look for my new video on DVD: PANDA’S IN WET SENSIBLE POLYESTER BLOUSES GONE WILD.
September 18, 2010
Lesson from The Range
I won’t go into whether or not people should own guns or even whether or not we do. The fact is you can rent them at most gun ranges. I will say knowledge is power. To know your way around a gun, how to operate it, and general safety is important in making your point whichever side of the 2nd Amendment fence you’re on.
With that little disclaimer out of the way, let me tell you about my day at the gun range.
When you go to a range as an inexperienced shooter, they will briefly instruct you in gun and range safety. Hopefully you are with someone who is experienced and can educate you further. I was and they did, but there were a few things that nobody mentioned.
Lessons from the range:
Usually indoor ranges are not air conditioned. This can be a problem if you live in Florida
Safety dictates eye protection. It looks like a clear version of the cataract sunglasses your grandma wears. The glasses cover your eyes, wrap around the sides and keep out projectiles... and air. So when you sweat like a… well a fat chick in a gun range, your mascara will run like coal tears. (Extra precaution must then be taken that you are not mistaken for a raccoon by the frustrated hunter in the next stall, and get shot.)
Don’t wear your flip flops, bedazzled or not. When shell casings fly from the business end of a 9mm they are hot. When they land on your flip flopped foot they will burn your French tipped tootsies for a fairly well. This could cause you to jump. One should never never jump with a loaded 9mm in your hand, it’s bad form.
When at long last you finally do hit the target, or at least the paper the silhouetted bad guy is drawn on, don’t cry out, “eat that mother f-er”... again, bad form.
September 17, 2010
Chariots of Fire-y-Thighs
Last night I dreamed again of running, but not like the dream that has haunted me my life through, this dream was of a far far better run than I have ever done.
For years and years and years I have had a recurring dream. (Not the one where I am naked in the halls of my high school, I don’t expect to ever get over that). But a dream where I am trying to run and can’t. I’m not being chased, it’s not a nightmare, I just can’t run.
My slumbered attempts at a gazelle like gallop have hence forth been thwarted. I managed only a slow motion lumber, often resulting in dropping to my hands and feet as I try, in heart-wrenching vain, to crest a hill or a crack in a sidewalk. On occasion the dream-me turns and runs backwards, seemingly her only choice to make any progress as it were.
But last night I ran like the wind. Call me Mariah.
Seriously though, I ran. I passed people, then they passed me, but I did not give up. I dug in and tried to pass them again while I plotted my next move. I ran.
Does this mean anything? Am I turning a page? I think so! There’s a new sheriff in dream town and she’s kickin ass and takin names.
September 16, 2010
California Here We Come
Three weeks to go for our return to LA. I am starting to feel like I belong there… well, sort of. There are a few things I really need to do before I make my awaited by no one return to the City of the Angels.
Color hair, whiten teeth, fake tan, get push up bra and suck in Spankx, shave and/or wax everything including upper lip. (forget Brazilian, I need the whole South American), go to Drag Queen store in search of heels that fit, get fish pedicure and French manicure, pay way too much for jeans that are marked two sizes smaller than they really are, (but they make me feel pretty) and call everyone I know and chat lightly about how we’re jetting out to LA, yes again, but it’s no big deal really, you know we just have some business to take care of, no I can’t say what.
May 8, 2010
NERDS NERDS AND MORE NERDS
Thursday we went to the midnight showing of Iron Man II. We wanted to be the first people over 40 to see it. (Well, 45 but who’s counting)
It was fun, except for the hoards of nerds who bought tickets and got in line in front of us just so that when all there nerd buddies got done mopping the floors at Burger King they could join their friends, who were already in line in front of us.
But you know, you have to stay connected with young people or you’ll turn into a curmudgeon. I know a guy who has been a curmudgeon wanna be since he was about 25 and now that he’s knocking on 50 he’s really getting good at it, but we want to go another route.
Not to be confused with the perpetually immature that think staying young means staying stupid. I mean do you really think that tramp stamp is covering your stretch marks? The best part of getting older is the stuff you get to know. Not that I have figured out the meaning of life, but sometimes I wonder how I survived my twenties.
Nevertheless, it is important to keep connected with young people and nerds are a good choice. They are smart, well read, even if it is mostly comics, make great employees and are easily intimidated. What’s not to love?
So, off we went, me a pseudo nerd and my card carrying nerd hubby to the midnight showing. I wanted my cousin to go with us, but she said that they could not stay up that late anymore. Well, I have to admit, we did have to do a little disco nap before we went, but I usually get up between midnight and two a.m. to pee anyway, so why not go to a movie.
It was fun, except for the hoards of nerds who bought tickets and got in line in front of us just so that when all there nerd buddies got done mopping the floors at Burger King they could join their friends, who were already in line in front of us.
But you know, you have to stay connected with young people or you’ll turn into a curmudgeon. I know a guy who has been a curmudgeon wanna be since he was about 25 and now that he’s knocking on 50 he’s really getting good at it, but we want to go another route.
Not to be confused with the perpetually immature that think staying young means staying stupid. I mean do you really think that tramp stamp is covering your stretch marks? The best part of getting older is the stuff you get to know. Not that I have figured out the meaning of life, but sometimes I wonder how I survived my twenties.
Nevertheless, it is important to keep connected with young people and nerds are a good choice. They are smart, well read, even if it is mostly comics, make great employees and are easily intimidated. What’s not to love?
So, off we went, me a pseudo nerd and my card carrying nerd hubby to the midnight showing. I wanted my cousin to go with us, but she said that they could not stay up that late anymore. Well, I have to admit, we did have to do a little disco nap before we went, but I usually get up between midnight and two a.m. to pee anyway, so why not go to a movie.
April 29, 2010
Julie Bowen and Her Talking Vagina
A funny thing or two happened at the L.A. Comedy Shorts Film Festival, held April 15th through the 19th in, you guessed it, L.A. Not the least of which was Julie Bowen talking about her talking vagina. It seems she’s had three kids in two years and her girl parts have a thing or two to say about that. I was laughing too hard to hear all of it, but I think she’s trying to get voice over gigs for her cooch. Break a leg Julie, or something.And as long as we’re on the subject of girl parts…
I needed certain unmentionables while on our trip, so I popped round the corner from our hotel in Little Tokyo, to a local grocery. Just about everything on the shelves was in Japanese. I don’t know if the staff spoke enough English to understand what I was looking for, because I was not going to ask just in case they didn’t. There was no way I wanted to try and act out the particular ailment I needed some relief from. While not exclusively a girl problem, still somewhat embarrassing to pantomime.
But we had a great time, you just have to remember no matter where you travel, if you’re not sure what it is don’t eat it.
Oh, and one more funny; Larry King walking down Rodeo Drive. It's just his enormous head!
April 12, 2010
LA
Off to LA this week for the LA Comedy Film Festival. CAN"T WAIT. I'm pretty sure that someone will want to give me an advance on my two, almost done, screenplays. That's how it works right?
April 4, 2010
Easter
I am reminded of Easter's past. My mom always made a great effort for holidays. Thanks Mom. I also remember my Uncle Bill eating hard boiled eggs and drinking beer. Sometimes Easter in Ohio is too cold to opens window, I'm just sayin.
I am concerned how holidays come and go now without the anticipation that made them so sweet. I guess it’s because we don’t have little kids in the house. I was going to dye eggs anyway, but we don’t like hard boiled eggs and I don’t know we just didn’t.
I miss the house full of kids and relatives and egg farts.
I am concerned how holidays come and go now without the anticipation that made them so sweet. I guess it’s because we don’t have little kids in the house. I was going to dye eggs anyway, but we don’t like hard boiled eggs and I don’t know we just didn’t.
I miss the house full of kids and relatives and egg farts.
March 18, 2010
March 12, 2010
February 22, 2010
February 4, 2010
My Two Moms
I got two Moms, but it’s not like you think… There’s the after 11 a.m. Mom, you know the 78 year old cougar wanna be. The Mom that just last Saturday night went to the dog races and was chatted up by a WOMAN. A really old one but I could still tell she was a woman. She stopped my Mom in the betting line and told her what an attractive lady she was, and how she kept herself so nice. For a minute I thought Mom was blushing and that I might end up with a new Mommy instead of a new Daddy, but it turns out the flush in Mom’s cheeks was from a bad mix of blood pressure medicine, Geritol and Ginkgo Biloba.
And then there’s the between 11 p.m. and 11 a.m. Mom, or as I like to call her… Yoda.
This is the Mom who takes her teeth out and dons a baggy robe and tattered slippers. She leans on her cane and barks insults and orders; I mean she enlightens me with pearls of wisdom on how to run my life. This Mother can move silently from room to room employing selective super hearing that can’t decipher what anyone on TV is saying, but will pick up the slightest disparaging remark, real or implied, that is directed at her form or institution.
I don’t think the old broad has a light saber, but I do remember one time when I was a kid she hit me with a broom stick. I cried like she had cut off my hand but soon recovered when she broke out the ice-cream. “Perhaps next time before you call your sister shithead, think twice you will, hum?” Yoda Mom softly chided as I sniffled my way through some Rocky Road.
Wayne is out of town this week so Mom has taken upon herself to make sure I get to work on time. Not that Wayne does that, but she feels in his absence she can wobble into my room anytime, unannounced. Yesterday I was sleeping just a bit later than usual when I awoke with a jolt to find the Master standing beside my bed, leaning on her cane, with a disapproving countenance. I don’t know how the same person who can make unloading the dishwasher sound like D-day can get into my room without so much as a squeaking hinge. Once I peeled myself off the ceiling and realized it was Mom standing there, it was like I was 17 again and late for home room. So I got up; what else can you do when it’s 7 o’clock in the morning?
OMG, I wonder if I could get cougar Mom a hook-up with Obi Wan? Darth Vader? Princess Leia???
And then there’s the between 11 p.m. and 11 a.m. Mom, or as I like to call her… Yoda.
This is the Mom who takes her teeth out and dons a baggy robe and tattered slippers. She leans on her cane and barks insults and orders; I mean she enlightens me with pearls of wisdom on how to run my life. This Mother can move silently from room to room employing selective super hearing that can’t decipher what anyone on TV is saying, but will pick up the slightest disparaging remark, real or implied, that is directed at her form or institution.
I don’t think the old broad has a light saber, but I do remember one time when I was a kid she hit me with a broom stick. I cried like she had cut off my hand but soon recovered when she broke out the ice-cream. “Perhaps next time before you call your sister shithead, think twice you will, hum?” Yoda Mom softly chided as I sniffled my way through some Rocky Road.
Wayne is out of town this week so Mom has taken upon herself to make sure I get to work on time. Not that Wayne does that, but she feels in his absence she can wobble into my room anytime, unannounced. Yesterday I was sleeping just a bit later than usual when I awoke with a jolt to find the Master standing beside my bed, leaning on her cane, with a disapproving countenance. I don’t know how the same person who can make unloading the dishwasher sound like D-day can get into my room without so much as a squeaking hinge. Once I peeled myself off the ceiling and realized it was Mom standing there, it was like I was 17 again and late for home room. So I got up; what else can you do when it’s 7 o’clock in the morning?
OMG, I wonder if I could get cougar Mom a hook-up with Obi Wan? Darth Vader? Princess Leia???
January 26, 2010
Go Mommy!
Uh yeah, um… is there a word for a 78 year old cougar?
It seems that my mother has decided she wants to get back in the game and is looking for some young blood. Like 70 year old young blood. Hey it’s in the eye of the beholder right?
Anywho, she’s been taking the senior cab service to Weight Watchers where she dropped thirty something pounds, got herself a velour running suit, (sans the HOTTIE decal on the ass), a new hair cut and is constantly polishing her nails. Go Mommy, get me a new Daddy!!
But seriously what do you call a 78 year old cougar?
And you know, she just might do it. The Pharmacist at Publix was chatting her up last year when she visited, and the pizza delivery senior citizen (we’re in Florida, it happens a lot) practically gave her a tip, and she wasn’t even trying yet. But she is pretty cute even if I do say so myself. You know, there could be bennies to having either a pharmacist or pizza man for a daddy. They both got stuff that makes you feel better, even when nothings really wrong, they both are in high demand so they've got job security and both of them can still drive.
I hope my Mom can get her groove back while wintering in Florida, but I sure hope she doesn’t break a hip while she’s at it.
· Gramma Bear
· Possum
· Orangutan
· Tuna
· Aardvark
· Walrus
· G.I.L.F
It seems that my mother has decided she wants to get back in the game and is looking for some young blood. Like 70 year old young blood. Hey it’s in the eye of the beholder right?
Anywho, she’s been taking the senior cab service to Weight Watchers where she dropped thirty something pounds, got herself a velour running suit, (sans the HOTTIE decal on the ass), a new hair cut and is constantly polishing her nails. Go Mommy, get me a new Daddy!!
But seriously what do you call a 78 year old cougar?
And you know, she just might do it. The Pharmacist at Publix was chatting her up last year when she visited, and the pizza delivery senior citizen (we’re in Florida, it happens a lot) practically gave her a tip, and she wasn’t even trying yet. But she is pretty cute even if I do say so myself. You know, there could be bennies to having either a pharmacist or pizza man for a daddy. They both got stuff that makes you feel better, even when nothings really wrong, they both are in high demand so they've got job security and both of them can still drive.
I hope my Mom can get her groove back while wintering in Florida, but I sure hope she doesn’t break a hip while she’s at it.
· Gramma Bear
· Possum
· Orangutan
· Tuna
· Aardvark
· Walrus
· G.I.L.F
January 25, 2010
Yes We Have No Bananas
A while ago I did a post regarding good words gone wild. Well, thanks to the pervert that sits next to me, it has come to my innocent attention that there are some foods that have gone wild as well.
Case in point; one day in my cubicle I became peck-ish. So I tuned in a Barry White song on my small desk top radio and began to methodically, almost in a slow motion fashion, peel a banana. I ate slowly so as to fully enjoy its texture and flavor, I think I may have even licked it before making a comment to my sophomoric desk mate, regarding my nutritious potassium rich snack, that it had a remarkable “girth”.
Is that wrong? It was a big fat long banana if I ever saw one.
Anywho, the young man, nay boy, made salacious and lewd comments about other things he would like to see me eat. Can you imagine if someone from HR had heard that… we may not be allowed to eat at our desks any more.
Never the less, I have learned my lesson about the phallusy of fruits being good for you and intend to stick putting more protein rich savories in my mouth, like beef cake, hot tamales, tongue, meat balls, assorted nuts, and maybe a side of hot cross bun.
After all I don't think my desk mate meant what I thought he did when he mentioned the size of my melons!!!
Case in point; one day in my cubicle I became peck-ish. So I tuned in a Barry White song on my small desk top radio and began to methodically, almost in a slow motion fashion, peel a banana. I ate slowly so as to fully enjoy its texture and flavor, I think I may have even licked it before making a comment to my sophomoric desk mate, regarding my nutritious potassium rich snack, that it had a remarkable “girth”.
Is that wrong? It was a big fat long banana if I ever saw one.
Anywho, the young man, nay boy, made salacious and lewd comments about other things he would like to see me eat. Can you imagine if someone from HR had heard that… we may not be allowed to eat at our desks any more.
Never the less, I have learned my lesson about the phallusy of fruits being good for you and intend to stick putting more protein rich savories in my mouth, like beef cake, hot tamales, tongue, meat balls, assorted nuts, and maybe a side of hot cross bun.
After all I don't think my desk mate meant what I thought he did when he mentioned the size of my melons!!!
Lilith Hair
When Wayne and I first moved into our house it was ciaos.
His brother bailed out on helping us and his dad showed up to help us. The truck was too small and we moved on New Years Eve.
So around midnight, after Wayne finished moving in the refrigerator and washer and dryer all by himself, we barely managed a kiss, let alone “breakin in” the house like we had planned to do.
There was no sex in every room of the house, including a kitchen counter encounter ala the Glynn Close and Michael Douglas' romp through the dirty dishes in Fatal Attraction.
We were going to christen our sparkling new extra large tub, get our new shower dirty and test out the padding under the new carpet all in one night.
Well... yeah, that didn’t happen. If fact it didn’t happen for 3 days. And at that point I decided we were “breakin in” our new house even if we couldn’t find the bolts for the bed.
So I got in the shower, by myself, washed everything and shaved almost everything. I was just too damn tired for a full groom, so I figured if I just shaved the front of my legs we could get in a quicky and the pressure would be off till we could get everything unpacked.
Gawd I love Wayne.
Turned out it wasn’t a quicky and it turned out I shaved the wrong side of my legs!!!
He loves me mostly for my mind, which is a really good thing, because even though we haven’t moved in five years, there are the occasional times when my legs get a little fuzzy. I mean I definitely tried to keep them shorn below the knee but sometimes my thighs are just too much for me to tackle. But lately I have been working a lot. A full time job, finishing scripts, trying to get my book published, my mom is visiting from Ohio and maybe I have been letting things slip a little, just a little.
I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten until Wayne told me if I didn’t shave my legs soon, he was going to make me wear Birkenstocks.
His brother bailed out on helping us and his dad showed up to help us. The truck was too small and we moved on New Years Eve.
So around midnight, after Wayne finished moving in the refrigerator and washer and dryer all by himself, we barely managed a kiss, let alone “breakin in” the house like we had planned to do.
There was no sex in every room of the house, including a kitchen counter encounter ala the Glynn Close and Michael Douglas' romp through the dirty dishes in Fatal Attraction.
We were going to christen our sparkling new extra large tub, get our new shower dirty and test out the padding under the new carpet all in one night.
Well... yeah, that didn’t happen. If fact it didn’t happen for 3 days. And at that point I decided we were “breakin in” our new house even if we couldn’t find the bolts for the bed.
So I got in the shower, by myself, washed everything and shaved almost everything. I was just too damn tired for a full groom, so I figured if I just shaved the front of my legs we could get in a quicky and the pressure would be off till we could get everything unpacked.
Gawd I love Wayne.
Turned out it wasn’t a quicky and it turned out I shaved the wrong side of my legs!!!
He loves me mostly for my mind, which is a really good thing, because even though we haven’t moved in five years, there are the occasional times when my legs get a little fuzzy. I mean I definitely tried to keep them shorn below the knee but sometimes my thighs are just too much for me to tackle. But lately I have been working a lot. A full time job, finishing scripts, trying to get my book published, my mom is visiting from Ohio and maybe I have been letting things slip a little, just a little.
I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten until Wayne told me if I didn’t shave my legs soon, he was going to make me wear Birkenstocks.
January 12, 2010
Twilight Scene Contest, but Not
For months I have viciously mocked and ridiculed all things Twilight. Boy vampires and heavy breathing virgins begging to be turned; PA LEEZE. Been there done that. My girlfriend
s and I saw Interview the Vampire so many times I named my cat Louis, so I could pretend he was Brad Pitt when I was petting him. But recently I broke down and had Netflix send me Twilight, rationalizing that viewing it would give me fodder for my venomous diatribe against woman over the age of 21 lining up to see what surely must be saccharine tripe.
I guess the ”vegetarian" vampire boys were kind of cute; but cute like you might think, "Oh, wouldn't he just look adorable in a suit," or "Isn't that sweet how he pouts like hungry puppy?" Not pulse raising hot like thinking about Wolverine rubbing his mutton chops all over me... well not me, I am happily married to my own super hero, but thi
nking about watching Wolverine rub anything might make you have to take an extra blood pressure pill.
However, the main vamp, Ed, did manage a five o’clock shadow and bushy forearms,
but just because he had been 17 for a hundred years doesn't make you a man. Call me old fashioned, but somewhere past the age of twenty-two I started liking my men looking like men. (This was just past my huge Prince phase) 
Basically I found the first half of the movie to be pretty slow and predictable. The second half got better and it was full of beautiful scenery, even if I am not a fan of the handheld camera stuff. So, I have to admit I didn’t totally hate it, just mostly, and here’s one reason why. The Accidental Touch Scene. BARF. BARF Twice!!!
You know the accidental touch scene; the two star-crossed but hesitant lovers who have to yet to consummate their feelings with so much as a handshake, “accidentally” brush finger tips, knuckles, knees or heads in some adorably fetching manner that is supposed to make you tingle in the area that the characters are leading up to touching each other in.
The Accidental Touch is also used to bring characters who “hate” each other into the basking warmth of desire, culminating in hot monkey lovin'. Again, PA LEEZE.
Wayne and I had a little bet on when the Accidental Touch would happen in Twilight, and thanks to the slow first half I lost the bet and have to “accidentally touch” Wayne for the next three Saturday nights. (I don’t really mind, maybe I can even get him to bite me. You know, on the neck, like a vampire. What did you think I meant?)
We were even thinking of hosting a scene writing contest, but I don’t how to do that. I would truly love to read what people came up with though, so if you want to share your “Accidental Touch” scene, please do.
Write one to three pages of the most original over used plot devise in movies, the "accidental touch". Try to find some way for your characters to make contact in a way that has not been done before, or that is especially gross or amusing. The “worst” one wins nothing as this is not a real contest but you will get kudos from us. An example of an original, gross , and amusing scene: Two guys are standing at a urinal, and for some reason, a commotion, loud noise, whatever, they accidentally quickly turn towards each other and touch… you know, tingly areas.
Post your scene in the comments or email us at lemontreechronicles@gmail.com
s and I saw Interview the Vampire so many times I named my cat Louis, so I could pretend he was Brad Pitt when I was petting him. But recently I broke down and had Netflix send me Twilight, rationalizing that viewing it would give me fodder for my venomous diatribe against woman over the age of 21 lining up to see what surely must be saccharine tripe.I guess the ”vegetarian" vampire boys were kind of cute; but cute like you might think, "Oh, wouldn't he just look adorable in a suit," or "Isn't that sweet how he pouts like hungry puppy?" Not pulse raising hot like thinking about Wolverine rubbing his mutton chops all over me... well not me, I am happily married to my own super hero, but thi
nking about watching Wolverine rub anything might make you have to take an extra blood pressure pill.However, the main vamp, Ed, did manage a five o’clock shadow and bushy forearms,
but just because he had been 17 for a hundred years doesn't make you a man. Call me old fashioned, but somewhere past the age of twenty-two I started liking my men looking like men. (This was just past my huge Prince phase) Basically I found the first half of the movie to be pretty slow and predictable. The second half got better and it was full of beautiful scenery, even if I am not a fan of the handheld camera stuff. So, I have to admit I didn’t totally hate it, just mostly, and here’s one reason why. The Accidental Touch Scene. BARF. BARF Twice!!!You know the accidental touch scene; the two star-crossed but hesitant lovers who have to yet to consummate their feelings with so much as a handshake, “accidentally” brush finger tips, knuckles, knees or heads in some adorably fetching manner that is supposed to make you tingle in the area that the characters are leading up to touching each other in.
The Accidental Touch is also used to bring characters who “hate” each other into the basking warmth of desire, culminating in hot monkey lovin'. Again, PA LEEZE.
Wayne and I had a little bet on when the Accidental Touch would happen in Twilight, and thanks to the slow first half I lost the bet and have to “accidentally touch” Wayne for the next three Saturday nights. (I don’t really mind, maybe I can even get him to bite me. You know, on the neck, like a vampire. What did you think I meant?)
We were even thinking of hosting a scene writing contest, but I don’t how to do that. I would truly love to read what people came up with though, so if you want to share your “Accidental Touch” scene, please do.
Write one to three pages of the most original over used plot devise in movies, the "accidental touch". Try to find some way for your characters to make contact in a way that has not been done before, or that is especially gross or amusing. The “worst” one wins nothing as this is not a real contest but you will get kudos from us. An example of an original, gross , and amusing scene: Two guys are standing at a urinal, and for some reason, a commotion, loud noise, whatever, they accidentally quickly turn towards each other and touch… you know, tingly areas.
Post your scene in the comments or email us at lemontreechronicles@gmail.com
January 10, 2010
Dilbert and Me
Wayne recently bought me a book of Dilbert cartoons. I love the Dilbert dilemmas, so true , so true. But, I don’t think even Dilbert dislikes his coworkers as much as me. I don’t hate them or anything, but I definately would not spend time with them if I were off the clock. Most of them are alright, some are like me, drawing pay and working nights and days off trying to make their dream comes true, but a lot of them are like 25 to 40 year old high school sophomores…uh make that freshman.
The lunch room is like the cafeteria in high school complete with cliques and kool tables, which just like high school I wouldn’t be caught dead at it. And the trip to the bathroom is like running a gauntlet of nasty stares and eye rolls.
I mean cheese and rice people, it’s not like I’m so hideous I make children cry, so why you gotta look me up and down with absolute disdain just because I have to pass your cube three times a day to get rid of some coffee? Bitches in glass houses should not throw stones, ESPECIALLY when they got a grill like Mr. Ed.
In my opinion there are other characters in cubie land that stick out more than me; so I’m a little extra curvy, i.e. lumpy, everybody who’s been chained to a desk long enough gets a Dually ass on them. I am not a rarity, just let me go to the bathroom once without looking up.
I wonder if Mr. Ed throws that much hate at the chick who looks like she used to be a dude but you can tell she was not because the most womanly thing about her is her long pretty Adam’s apple-less neck. You could forgive the mug if she didn’t have crazy written all over her.
I was going to try and make friends with the Anna Faris look-alike whose mouth is perpetually open and she looks lost even when she is at her own desk, but it is just too much fun watching her look for her pencil everyday and if we were friends I would feel like I should help her.
Then there was the one day I made it to the bathroom unsmirked at. It left me in such good spirits I thought I would help a woman who was struggling with the feminine protection dispenser. Apparently she had a Canadian quarter so; I offered her some provisions from my well stocked MacGyver purse, in the form of a compact for traveling,but perfectly adequate for all but the most cavernous vaginas, average absorbency, tampon.
How was I thanked for my kindness?
That nasty hag mocked me for all in the 15 stalls to hear, claiming that my choice of protection must be for pubescent girls and that she needed a grown up tampon and thanks but she would have to go down to the cafeteria, break a five and purchase the super heavy duty, mother of 5, ten pound baby boys, took two bales of cotton to make it tampon. I was red in the face until I realized that she must echo like a cave in a rainstorm when she pees and informed her, for all in the stalls to hear, that sorry about her luck, but I was still tight as a brand new drum bought for band camp.
And Dilbert thinks it’s awkward to pass people in a hall way.
The lunch room is like the cafeteria in high school complete with cliques and kool tables, which just like high school I wouldn’t be caught dead at it. And the trip to the bathroom is like running a gauntlet of nasty stares and eye rolls.
I mean cheese and rice people, it’s not like I’m so hideous I make children cry, so why you gotta look me up and down with absolute disdain just because I have to pass your cube three times a day to get rid of some coffee? Bitches in glass houses should not throw stones, ESPECIALLY when they got a grill like Mr. Ed.
In my opinion there are other characters in cubie land that stick out more than me; so I’m a little extra curvy, i.e. lumpy, everybody who’s been chained to a desk long enough gets a Dually ass on them. I am not a rarity, just let me go to the bathroom once without looking up.
I wonder if Mr. Ed throws that much hate at the chick who looks like she used to be a dude but you can tell she was not because the most womanly thing about her is her long pretty Adam’s apple-less neck. You could forgive the mug if she didn’t have crazy written all over her.
I was going to try and make friends with the Anna Faris look-alike whose mouth is perpetually open and she looks lost even when she is at her own desk, but it is just too much fun watching her look for her pencil everyday and if we were friends I would feel like I should help her.
Then there was the one day I made it to the bathroom unsmirked at. It left me in such good spirits I thought I would help a woman who was struggling with the feminine protection dispenser. Apparently she had a Canadian quarter so; I offered her some provisions from my well stocked MacGyver purse, in the form of a compact for traveling,but perfectly adequate for all but the most cavernous vaginas, average absorbency, tampon.
How was I thanked for my kindness?
That nasty hag mocked me for all in the 15 stalls to hear, claiming that my choice of protection must be for pubescent girls and that she needed a grown up tampon and thanks but she would have to go down to the cafeteria, break a five and purchase the super heavy duty, mother of 5, ten pound baby boys, took two bales of cotton to make it tampon. I was red in the face until I realized that she must echo like a cave in a rainstorm when she pees and informed her, for all in the stalls to hear, that sorry about her luck, but I was still tight as a brand new drum bought for band camp.
And Dilbert thinks it’s awkward to pass people in a hall way.
January 5, 2010
Bite Me Lara Croft
OMG Santa rained on me this year, T.Y. Big man. I was pretty sure Santa and Wayne were the same person and when I saw the size of his package I knew, because something that big must be magic. So needless to say I think I got the best Santa out there, and here’s why. Some Santas went to Jared this Christmas: boring, but my Santa went to Game Stop: Wii wonderful.
Really, with all the stuff I got it probably would have been cheaper if he had gone to Jared but I’m glad he didn’t. Me and Santa are having a blast playing together. I have already nearly mastered golf, yesterday I got a score of 9 on just one hole. Wayne says I’m practically a savant. Santa Wayne also got me Wii Madden Football. Well, I did not even know I wanted Wii Madden, but I am sure I will master the forward pass and D-fence real soon.
Yesterday he rented Tomb Raider with a girl called Lara Croft. The game can only be played by one person at a time but I’m sure I learned a lot watching Santa play. (It feels a little funny being kind of jealous of a video game drawling, but he is spending so much time with her…)
Anywho, trampy little vixens in short shorts aside, I am having big fun with the Wii little games. And while I haven’t got the hang of the kick off return or the blitz yet, you better get out of the way when I am bowling. High score of 278, that all I am saying.
Really, with all the stuff I got it probably would have been cheaper if he had gone to Jared but I’m glad he didn’t. Me and Santa are having a blast playing together. I have already nearly mastered golf, yesterday I got a score of 9 on just one hole. Wayne says I’m practically a savant. Santa Wayne also got me Wii Madden Football. Well, I did not even know I wanted Wii Madden, but I am sure I will master the forward pass and D-fence real soon.
Yesterday he rented Tomb Raider with a girl called Lara Croft. The game can only be played by one person at a time but I’m sure I learned a lot watching Santa play. (It feels a little funny being kind of jealous of a video game drawling, but he is spending so much time with her…)
Anywho, trampy little vixens in short shorts aside, I am having big fun with the Wii little games. And while I haven’t got the hang of the kick off return or the blitz yet, you better get out of the way when I am bowling. High score of 278, that all I am saying.
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