I drug myself out of the house at 11:00 p.m. Thanksgiving night and went to work an overnight shift at a department store that opened at twelve a.m. Black Friday.
What we do for money is way worse than what we do for love.
I have never participated in the shopping frenzy of that famed day, and the only other time I ever worked retail on that day was in my own shop. (We never got out of the red or I wouldn’t be typing this now.)
Seriously, it was stupid is as stupid does sir. People stood in line for hours to get in. Nearly ran us over when they did. Grabbed one or two door busters, and stood in line for at least two more hours to pay for their items.
Two days earlier, I went shopping with my husband, took a store coupon, opened the store credit card just to get the discount and paid less than all the door buster shoppers who didn’t have coupons or open the card. I will pay the card off and there you go; bob’s your uncle.
And why with all the online Black Friday specials would you even consider standing in lines like that with a belly full of turkey? I received email alerts from just about every store in the land offering me free shipping, discounts prices and satisfaction guaranteed.
I even got Black Friday special offers from the spam emailers hawking Viagra and enlargement supplements… Talk about satisfaction guaranteed!
You know… my little town just got our very own “Adult Toy Store”, I wonder what kind of holiday specials they’ve got UP for sale in there:
Jingle Balls
Santa’s Little Butt Plugs
Santa’s Little Helper (It’s a vibrator, get it?)
Mistletoe for Your Camel Toe
Stocking Fluffers
Jingle Bell Cock (It plays the famed Christmas song while you use it.)
Sugar Hung Fairies
The North Hole
Jack Off In A Box
Surprise Packages
Three Wide Men
We Wish You a Hairy Christmas (Your guess is as good as mine.)
And in the DVD section:
I’m Dreaming of a Wet Christmas
I’ve Have a Blue Balls Christmas Without You
Mary Hole on 42nd Street
All I Want for Christmas is Two New Titties
A Charlie Brown Eye Christmas
Rudolph the Red Boned Reindeer
Oh and last but not least…
The Little Hummer Boy
November 27, 2011
November 23, 2011
Dancing with J.R. Martinez
J.R. Martinez, my favorite contestant on this season of Dancing With the Stars, won the trophy on last’s night finale. Yeah, I love to watch J.R. dance, but mostly it’s his smile that is so engaging. His positive spirit is so inspirational, especially to someone like me with a predilection towards grumpy.
He is a veteran, injured in the war, who went on to a role on the soap All My Children, being a motivational speaker, and now dance champion. He makes me want to give up complaining… almost.
The last couple years as I have been struggling to get in shape, I have been joking with people that I wanted to be on Dancing with the Stars by time I’m 50; I don’t know how I’ll become a star by then, but that will be the easy part compared to losing the weight. (BTW, Go Ricki, Go Ricki.)
As is being a contestant on Top Shot, a rootin', tootin', shoot em up show where the only bling is from bullets hitting metal targets.
I am nothing if not ecletic.
Am I dreaming when I wish for fame via reality t.v? Perhaps, but what fun is life without dreams. I just hope I don’t end up on Dirty Jobs.
November 16, 2011
My Dog Is In a Box In The Garage
Cat people are absolutely bat shit crazy.
Keeping my dog’s ashes in a box in the garage for ten years because I can’t bear to part with them makes perfect sense.
At least they’re not in a pink tin tea pot on a shelf above my stove, where my friend, a bat shit crazy cat person, keeps Mittens, a Hemingway cat that I swear I have tasted in my Earl Grey on certain visits to her house.
I used to keep my dog in the tire well of my trunk. That’s where they put him when I picked up the box from the vet and for a couple of years I just left him there. I figured it was ok because he loved to go for car rides.
He was a good ole dog. Even though he “allegedly” bit the mail man the day I brought him home from the pound, I kept him anyway. I was already in love.
Even though he had seizures that required twice daily meds; even though he never bit the boyfriend that was pilfering the doggy Phenobarbital, I kept him anyway.
And even now nearly twelve years after he died, I still have dreams that he is alive. Usually I wake up feeling really bad because I haven’t walked him in twelve years and then I realize it was just a dream.
My sister adopted my cat, my dog’s little brother, before I moved to Florida. So I was not there when he died. She took good care of him till the end, but she is the practical sort, still bat shit crazy, but not a keeper of animal ashes.
My husband and I plan on getting a dog one day, but can’t work it out just yet; travel, jobs etc. I’ve thought about another cat but my husband only likes them in his General Tso’s not in his house. But maybe this little video will change his mind.
Can’t you just picture these little darlings in a teapot one day?
Cat Hugs Baby Kitten Having Nightmare - Watch MoreFunny Videos
Keeping my dog’s ashes in a box in the garage for ten years because I can’t bear to part with them makes perfect sense.
At least they’re not in a pink tin tea pot on a shelf above my stove, where my friend, a bat shit crazy cat person, keeps Mittens, a Hemingway cat that I swear I have tasted in my Earl Grey on certain visits to her house.
I used to keep my dog in the tire well of my trunk. That’s where they put him when I picked up the box from the vet and for a couple of years I just left him there. I figured it was ok because he loved to go for car rides.
He was a good ole dog. Even though he “allegedly” bit the mail man the day I brought him home from the pound, I kept him anyway. I was already in love.
Even though he had seizures that required twice daily meds; even though he never bit the boyfriend that was pilfering the doggy Phenobarbital, I kept him anyway.
And even now nearly twelve years after he died, I still have dreams that he is alive. Usually I wake up feeling really bad because I haven’t walked him in twelve years and then I realize it was just a dream.
My sister adopted my cat, my dog’s little brother, before I moved to Florida. So I was not there when he died. She took good care of him till the end, but she is the practical sort, still bat shit crazy, but not a keeper of animal ashes.
My husband and I plan on getting a dog one day, but can’t work it out just yet; travel, jobs etc. I’ve thought about another cat but my husband only likes them in his General Tso’s not in his house. But maybe this little video will change his mind.
Can’t you just picture these little darlings in a teapot one day?
Cat Hugs Baby Kitten Having Nightmare - Watch MoreFunny Videos
November 14, 2011
Lil Wayne vs. Johnny Cash
I’m sitting at a red light and I can’t hear myself think because two other vehicles are having a battle of the bands, or iPods or CD’s or 8tracks; who knows.
It’s Florida and my air conditioning has been broken ever since the check engine light magically went out after a mere seven years of begging for attention. I figured the engine checked itself, but I guess the a.c. missed the memo, so the windows on my 2001 Escort are open. (The back passenger window does not open all the way, well it does but then you can’t get it back up, but whatever.)
So I can’t hear myself think and I start looking for the source of the auditory invasion, which is so loud it must be coming from open windows as well.
All I can see are arms. I wish I could see faces so I could deliver a most disapproving stink eye, but find myself guessing who is playing what song with no other information to go on than forearms.
Both arms are male. Either that or there are two female body builders in different rides at the same red light, and unlike their male counterparts, they neglected to shave their brachioradialis.
Both arms are adorned with jewelry, that judging by the status of the vehicles, the rest of the body can’t afford.
Both hands clench a smoke as if the fingers resent the addiction of the mouth. Are they menthol? Are they not? I cannot tell.
One arm is older than the other; could that be the determining factor? The arms are different colors, is that all it takes to know who plays what music? I think not.
Can the story of lives be surmised from arms? Perhaps not accurately, but it was a long light and I gave them both quite a rich history, tarnished for one, broken dreams for the other.
One arm’s father smoked, the other arm hid it from his mother. One arm currently works, but is on the outs with the boss, the other arm is looking, but no luck yet.
Tired of both their music, besides who played which song doesn’t matter, as the light chances I cranked up Journey and give them both an earful of me and Steve Perry with the full effect that three and half car speakers can deliver.
It’s Florida and my air conditioning has been broken ever since the check engine light magically went out after a mere seven years of begging for attention. I figured the engine checked itself, but I guess the a.c. missed the memo, so the windows on my 2001 Escort are open. (The back passenger window does not open all the way, well it does but then you can’t get it back up, but whatever.)
So I can’t hear myself think and I start looking for the source of the auditory invasion, which is so loud it must be coming from open windows as well.
All I can see are arms. I wish I could see faces so I could deliver a most disapproving stink eye, but find myself guessing who is playing what song with no other information to go on than forearms.
Both arms are male. Either that or there are two female body builders in different rides at the same red light, and unlike their male counterparts, they neglected to shave their brachioradialis.
Both arms are adorned with jewelry, that judging by the status of the vehicles, the rest of the body can’t afford.
Both hands clench a smoke as if the fingers resent the addiction of the mouth. Are they menthol? Are they not? I cannot tell.
One arm is older than the other; could that be the determining factor? The arms are different colors, is that all it takes to know who plays what music? I think not.
Can the story of lives be surmised from arms? Perhaps not accurately, but it was a long light and I gave them both quite a rich history, tarnished for one, broken dreams for the other.
One arm’s father smoked, the other arm hid it from his mother. One arm currently works, but is on the outs with the boss, the other arm is looking, but no luck yet.
Tired of both their music, besides who played which song doesn’t matter, as the light chances I cranked up Journey and give them both an earful of me and Steve Perry with the full effect that three and half car speakers can deliver.
November 12, 2011
To Sag or Not to Sag?
If you had worn more underwear in the ‘70’s could you be wearing less now?
Ok, so in the ‘70’s I wore a bra. The summer between sixth and seventh grade I skipped right over training bra and went right into the major leagues, but a lot of gals in that decade shunned the matronly restraint of a pointy cupped brassiere and went for the au natural look.
And so I ask; would those of us of a certain age and girth need the high tech gravity correcting, shape shifting feats of engineering that are today’s bras, if we’d have kept our boobies under wraps back in the day?
Or would old man time have taken his toll regardless? Speaking of old men; would the same question hold true for them? Would having spent their high and tight years in jock straps have helped them to avoid the one hung low eventuality that befalls our grey templed counterparts? Hard to say. (No pun intended.)
I only know this; these days I have so much underwear it has two major categories: reduction and enhancement.
Reduction: Girdles, (Spanks are for sissys), control top panty hose, (thank God we are allowed to wear hose again, spray tan can only do so much.) Thigh trimmers, corsets and arm stockings. (Currently only being worn by the chubby celebs on Dancing With the Stars.
Enhancement: Bras that head ‘em up and move ‘em out; demi cups that form soft mounds that peek out the top, (never to be confused with a muffin top, so not the same,) and full blown boob manipulation systems that can make your A’s into bigger D’s than you got in high school. 
Also in the enhancement category; butt pads. Not just for that KardASShian derriere, but to smooth out the peaks and valleys that dimple an over the hill back side.
Not an under garment, but still in the enhancement category: lip plumping gloss. With an optimum lip plumping window of two hours and not, according to the FDA, to be applied more than twice a day or in direct sunlight, this beauty product does serve its purpose.
So, underwear then versus underwear now; who knows? Suffice it to say, regardless of your panty situation, if you’re like me you find it exceptionally difficult to put your false eyelashes on while wearing your reading glasses.
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