You Know What I Hate?

The Half Sneeze

2006-11-30T12:23:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? The half sneeze. The half sneeze is when a sneeze with really high potential fizzles into nothing but a pierce-pitched sigh, leaving you with the sensation of pop rocks detonating in your nasal cavities.

Here's the thing about a sneeze: it needs to come out. And if it doesn't, your schnoz with tickle. All day. And your eyes will water. And when your eyes water, people assume you're either sad or farting, neither of which is desirable.

Did you happen to know that a sneeze would launch your eyeballs right out of their sockets if you could manage to keep your lids open? It's true. I learned about it on an urban legends site. The sheer force. The magnitudal velocity. A sneeze has somethin' to say.

But the half-sneeze doesn't get to speak its peace. It crescendoes beautifully...

ahh...AHHHH...AHHHHHHHHHH... AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
then..
psflt

Sissy sneeze.

About the only thing worse than a half-sneeze is a sneeze that is thwarted by a violent tongue-biting, otherwise dubbed "the half sneeze plus blood". If I were a man, I would guess that this sensation would be the equivalent of having my nads hammered right before "climax."

Incomprehensible!!

2006-11-28T12:39:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Feeling retarded.

I am actually pretty conceited when it comes to things of an "intellectual" nature. I fancy myself well-educated, well-spoken and well-read. I can play the pretentious cards with the best of 'em. I can recite parts of the Canterbury Tales in OLD ENGLISH. I can tell you how Romeo and Juliet ends. I know, I know. You're pretty impressed about now. I also use some big words now again -- like "fatitious" and "myriad" and "juxtaposition."

And, of course, "incomprehensible."

Incomprehensible means, according to Webster, "impossible to effin' understand."

As in "the way I felt when I came across THIS PARAGRAPH while researching a topic for my MASTER'S DEGREE (that's right -- I'm just tossin' it in there for added validity) paper."

Departing from the assumption that focus is nonuniform (Drubig 1994; Kiss 1998) this paper takes preliminary steps toward a typology of focus and focus constructions. Focus is taken to be a syntactic feature assigned freely to word-level categories at numeration, licensed either by integration into a wider domain (presentational focus constructions) or by overt/covert movement to a functional projection headed by a polarity formative (focus operator constructions). Cross-linguistic variation in the target position of focus movement (sentence-peripheral vs. verb-adjacent) supports the stipulation of two polarity projections, one in COMP and one in INFL, with different effects on interpretation. A serious problem confronts the movement analysis of narrow focus in a number of languages that show striking parallels between focus and relative constructions (Schachter 1973): in some languages of this type sentence-peripheral foci bind resumptive pronouns without weak crossover or island effects. In this paper I propose a cleft analysis for this type of focus construction and discuss its typological implications.

In case you're wondering, "yes," it is in English. I sent it through an online translation program just to be sure.

Seriously. Does anyone understand this thing? (Don't answer if you do -- I don't need to be shown up by stuck-up smarty-pants bastards. Kevin.)

So, I didn't like the way this particular paragraph made me feel. Lesser-than. Dumb. Foolish. White-trashy. Ass-like. Arkansasian.

This phrase alone makes me what to pull my hair out: "sentence-peripheral foci bind resumptive pronouns without weak crossover or island effects." The guy who wrote this needs to move in with his fellow Mensa nerds and they can write this crap then read it aloud at their circle-jerk campfire.

And no, I'm not bitter. Just dumb, apparently.

Going Once, Going Twice...

2006-11-17T21:39:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? When I miss out on a really good deal. You know, like when you stay nestled in your bed on Black Friday instead of heading out for a $3.00 computer at WalMart or a ten-cent 5.1 mexapixel digital camera. Sometimes, I splurge on grocery store items that I just CAN'T live without. Like Cookie Crisp. And Doritos. Then, I go in the next week to find they're on sale. And I curse myself and toss a few more bags of Doritos in the cart cuz now I'm depressed over my financial misfortune.

So, you can imagine how dissapppointed I was when I missed the boat on the deal offered in the picture below! (go ahead; scroll down) Dammit! Now I'll have to pay the full price.

I really hate throwing money away.

Raw Buns

2006-11-13T16:34:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Panty lines. Lately, when I turn sideways to view my silhouette, I've noticed that I'm lumpy. I think I might possibly be the only woman in dress slacks still wearing cotton briefs.

So I got myself a thong. I know what you're saying: "REEEEEOWWWWWWWW." But hey, I ain't trying to be sexy. I'm oversized, remember. I know about the disgust that accompanies the juxtaposition of thongs and big boned girls. I, myself, have snickered and scoffed upon witnessing the top of a thong peeking out the waistband of a size-18 girl's leggins.

And now I'm one of them. A fattie in a thong.

But I assure you that my thong isn't hanging out the top of my pants. Why? Because it's tightly fused to the inside of my ass.

Let me say this: wearing a thong all day with polyester pants really isn't so bad...

...if you like the feeling of crawling across a tight-rope in your birthday suit. Or going on an off-road hayride wearing your favorite crotchless panties. Or having an 'Indian Burn' done on your anus.

The good news is there was ne'er a panty line to be seen on me today. The bad news: I'm going to have to ask my husband to rub some salve in my crack.

Happiest Place on Earth???

2006-11-09T21:10:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? The happiest place on earth. In case you don't know what this is, it's the cute little moniker that some over-zealous and acid-tripping marketing numskulls gave to Disneyland many, many years ago. The problem I have is not necessarily with Disneyland itself. Because Space Mountain rocked as much last week as it did when me and my best friend Missy hopped on that sweet-ass gravity defying wonder circa 1982.

No, the problem I have is with that slogan. Come on. The happiest place on earth? Have the marketing people at Disney never been to a Dunkin Donuts when the sales staff is being generous with the munchkin allotment? That's what I'm talkin' bout.

I really think they missed the boat on this one. I mean, I could think of a hundred better adjectives that would depict the Disney experience. Like...

The most expensive place on earth (my husband already stole my thunder on this one) or...

The white trashiest place on earth. Did we stand in the Thunder Mountain line with a grown man sporting a big fat hairy torso while being called "paw-paw" and wearing overalls with no shirt underneath? Yes. Is the image burned into my gray matter forever and ever? I certainly freakin' hope so!

The most sexually confused place on earth. If you're a man, with a wife, and you're donning not just Mickey Mouse ears, but GOLD 50th anniversary Mickey Mouse ears, while also proudly displaying your Lion King pin collection on a decorative ribbon around your neck, then you might want to go have a talk with George Michael about gettin' some shit straightened out (or unstraightened out as it were -- har har). Just sayin'.

The most Chineseiest place on earth. Come on. Don't act like I'm being racist. You and I both know that there's a reason the showerhead in our hotel only came up to my boobies. Crap in Disneyland is designed for the little Asians.

Case in point: we saw lots of this...

And this...

And, of course, this....

Well, as they say in China: "Man who run behind car get exhausted. Man who run in front of car get tired."

Vacation

2006-10-28T10:22:00.000-07:00

Please look for new blogs coming November 5th!!

Itty Bitty Teetie Committee

2006-10-28T07:45:00.000-07:00

Note: I will not be posting anything again until Nov. 5th as I'm vacationing in California!

You know what I hate? Today's youth. Not for the reasons you'd think, though. Not for the fact that they have no respect for adults or the fact that they spray paint gang insignia on the back of my block wall. Not for the fact that smoke cigarettes in my alley and leave their used condoms on the playground of the park. I guess I expect all that. I hate today's youth because they're way better lookin' than I was as an adolescent.

There's this phenomenon amongst teenage girls these days. I'm not sure if you've noticed it. In addition to being uncommonly good looking, they're....well...amplified. They're waaaaaaaaaay more endowed than me and all my friends were when we were entering puberty circa 1982. If you still aren't sure what I'm talking about, let me state it in layperson's terminology used by my always-eloquent 80-year-old grandpa, "them big-tittied blondes." (Oh yes he did say that.)
What the hell? Where ~~are~~ were my boobs? I got gypped! I belonged to Flatties R Us club and was treasurer of the Itty Bitty Tittie Committee (IBTC).

My husband comments frequently on his feeling cheated as well. He went to high school with a bunch of deflatees. Cause that's what most of us were back then. He often pontificates about whether high school boys appreciate the gift bestowed upon them by the breast Gods.

A lot of articles suggest it's the boobie growth hormone (rBGH) found in non-organic milk these days. Greedy farmers inject their heffers with it so they're teets get really gargantuous. Interesting theory, but I drink a lot of milk and....

...I'm still planning events for the IBTC.

Anyone got any better theories???

Stand and Work

2006-10-20T14:54:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Cheap businesses. First they start laying Americans off and sending work to India, then they jack up the prices their employees pay for health insurance, and now...this?

What? Is it too much to ask that employees have a chair to sit on? Apparently it is, because while searching the Microsoft Clipart site for photos of computers, I found not just these, but many other pictures of people subjected to the inhumane torture of standing while working on the computer.

Look at the contorted grimace on the face of the grandma lady in the picture. She's like, "only 2 effin' years until retirement you cheap bastards!" Or maybe she just has gas. Or engorged varicose veins. Or a torqued syatic nerve. Whatever. The point is that she's hurting. Badly. All due to her company's greed.

Thank goodness my company doesn't make us stand up while we work! However, we do have an employee "good ideas" box in the lunchroom. Maybe I could suggest it? Imagine the money saved if we cut cut the cost of chairs. I mean, those things ain't cheap! Especially the ones made for our big-boned population, because they not only require extra padding but also extra springs and shock absorbers. Hmmm...do I see a bonus in my future? Perhaps.

Now, this lady doesn't seem too terribly upset about having to stand-and-work. I'm guessing she just porked the CFO in the janitor's closet and will be cashing in on her own little bonus. Nothing else would quite explain that smile .

And then this. THIS if freakin' genius in the world of cost-cutting. I mean, not only did this company auction their chairs off to the St. Vincent De Paul, but they're also making these two share a computer AND phone. So out of the box!

Damn that capitalism -- always thinking of the great ideas before I do.

Crappy Husbands

2006-10-13T14:36:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Marathon Movements. No, I'm not talking about sprints and fartleks and speed intervals during a 26.2-mile race! Not those kind of movements. I'm talking about the 3-hour crap-fests that my husband celebrates at least once per day. You know the phrase "shit or get off the pot?" This was invented by my husband's mother. Really.

So, you're probably going, "ahhh, come on. Cut the guy some slack. I mean, a man's gotta poop, right?" But you've obviously never lived with someone as fecally-endowed as my husband. Two hours or more per day on the pot? Come on. That's not right. Or normal. Ever hear of a spastic colon? Yeah, my husband hasn't either. But he's probably heard of its counterpart, the Relaxed Colon. Or, the Spastic Colon On Ritalin. Yes, I'm certain he's heard of those.

Alright, so maybe I'm being a little bit dramatic. But honestly, I do think my husband's love affair with the porcelain bowl is a passive-aggressive ASSault on our marriage.

Let's just be honest. Marathon-movementing husbands: I'm gonna share something with you. We wives know what's going on. I mean, we're not dumbasses. We know that you're looking for a quiet repreive away from us. We know you prefer the "crapper" over our non-stop "yapper." We know that it's not coincidence that your bowels start to percolate at the exact same time that we decide we want to share an interesting story about getting our period a day early or buying makeup that was one shade too dark. We know you're in there, hiding away from us, mock-flipping through the pages of your Newsweek, and thinking you have pulled a fast one on us. You haven't. We're on to you.

So there. Excessive pooping is a form of neglect. And I don't like being neglected. Am I a needy wife? No. Do I sometimes wish the house would spontaneously combust while my husband is half-way into one of his 3-hour fecal fests? You bet.

I don't like sharing my husband's attention with 'the john' but I've come up with a few tactics for getting him out quickly. Neglected spouse everywhere, these are for you:

1) Wrap lightly on the door, and in your nicest voice say, "honey? what are you doing?" He is forced say, "pooping" which makes him feel feeble and vulnerable and generally a flush is within 3 minutes from this annoying interuption.
2) Drop something and say, "OH MY GOD!" really loudly. He'll think the TV fell on you or something and generally come to your aid within 5-10 minutes.
3) Stand at the door and continue the conversation you were having when he started gathering up his magazine and unbuckling his belt. Somehow, it's just not the same and he'll flush that pot within seconds.
4) Say: "Oh sweetie, you should put that down. I don't think Daddy would like that you're playing with his (insert favorite man-toy here)." This one yields a very fast result; perhaps too fast. If you do the laundry in your household, you might need a clorox pen for his undies.
5) In the other bathroom, plug in your hairdryer, flattening iron, cd player and fan then turn it all on at once. The power WILL go off. And he'll be left in a dark tooter room. Oh well; I mean, it's not like we control the power grid. Cheesh!
6) Wait until one of the kids is in the second bathroom then start jumping around the front of the bathroom door yelling, "hurry. I'm gonna go right here if I can't get in there really, really fast."
7) Put "UFC Unleashed" on the TV -- loud enough so he'll hear it, of course.
8) Tell him you're naked.
9) Call his cell phone. He'll hear it ringing and think it's one of his friends.
10) Just go in, start the shower up, and pretend he's not there.

You're welcome.

Tip for Success: Skip the First Grade!

2006-10-09T21:06:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Rich retards. Poor retards, or even middle-class retards, are generally acceptable. But rich retards are just too much of a contradiction. Like, they boggle my brain.

Do you all remember the first grade? Playing dollies with your friends. Chasing boys. Learning how to make a simple sentence. Good times.

But wait? How is it that rich retards seem to have missed the first grade altogether -- particularly that lesson on sentence construction? And how is it that they now make double what I make? And last, how is it that they are finding me contract jobs as a, gasp...writer?

Here is a sample of a sentence written by the rich retards at the consulting firm that is prostituting me out to other companies for a profit. This comes from their "official" HR manual:

"Clients tell us this...97.5% Client Satisfaction index, over 92% of our Associates welcome back...are just some of the ways that say so."

I did NOTHING to this sentence. I swear! I didn't add the ellipses, didn't make it sound worse than it already was, didn't make it up.

Sad. So terribly sad.

The lesson: screw the first freakin' grade! Who needs it?

Elevator-riding Smokers

2006-10-07T22:55:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Elevator-riding smokers. These are the people who holler "hold the door" just when you think you're well on your way to floor #4; the people who cram their bloated up smoker's arm in between the metal doors; the people who, once their summer-sausagesque hand interrupts your ride, climb aboard and fill the (recirculating) air with a puke-a-fied Pall-Mall stench; the people who, in an unprecedented act of selfishness and disrespect, have the GALL to push the #2 button on the elevator, not only doubling your ride time but also making it extremely putridsome to stand next to you.

YOU SUCK, Elevator-riding smokers. Get some dignity. Some self-respect. Some non-blackened lungs that can haul your sausagey self up one flight of stairs! I'm going to let you in on a little secret: nobody in the elevator likes you. In fact, we all want to kill you. Or key your car. Which is probably parked in handicapped. But then again, you do have a little black lung.

For you, elevator smokers, here are the socially acceptable rules of elevator riding which I'm going to assume you've never read:

1) In a 4-story building, it is acceptable to ride to both the 3rd or 4th floor. It is more acceptable to ride to the 4th floor, because research shows that perspiration occurs when climbing three+ stories. However, some theorists argue that 3rd floor riding is also socially accepted and I tend to agree, even though I take the stairs for anything under the 4th floor.
2) It is acceptable to ride to the 2nd floor if you are crippled.
3) It is acceptable to ride to the 2nd floor if you are gigantically fat, though we co-riders would prefer that you didn't haul your greasy hashbrowns up with you.
4) For all other circumstances, it is NOT acceptable to ride the elevator to the second floor. This includes the circumstances of laziness and nicotine-induced weeziness.

So there, you little lazy-ass stinkoids.

Goin' Granny

2006-10-02T21:39:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Getting all old. Shit's breakin' down and fallin' off . I'm not talking about the shallow insecurities that other women of my age stress out over: wrinkles, saggy boobs, fat gut. I expected all that crap. It's some of the more unexpected treats of aging that are pissing me off.

Statements such as, "have you seen my (enter body part here) lately honey?" and "what the hell? that wasn't there yesterday" and "honey, can you push this (enter body part here) back into place?" are some common phrases in my household now that I'm past the age of 35.

So, yeah, getting old sucks. I don't recommend it. And here are the top 10 reasons why:

1) Pubes aren't just isolated to the private parts anymore! That's right -- it's sproutin' up all over the damned place. If you're wrinkling up your nose and saying, "gross" and acting all superior right now, just stop! Because that would make you a hypocrite. Because I know and you know that you have hair growing out of nooks and crannies that haven't seen the light of day since your wild college partying days. Be honest. Have you ever heard of a breast beard? Nah, me neither.

2) Somewhere around age 32, I stopped being able to laugh, cough or do step aerobics without pissing myself. I'm the one in your aerobics class doing the dumb, half-assed one leg out to the side while the rest of you whipper snappers with tight cagles are doing jumping jacks.

3) I never saw, owned or needed a callous remover prior to age 30. But now that my heels look like this...

... I'm always having to saw it off with special sandblasters and shit. Sometimes pebbles and crumbs and woodchips get stuck in the crevices then I saw the crust down until the pebble or crumb or woodchip is liberated. The good news is I haven't needed to buy 300 grit sandpaper in years. I refinished an entire armoire with these things.

4) Why does every meal have to now be topped off with some sweets? That's such a grandma thing. "Them was some good vittles. Now, where'd I put that mince-meat pie?"

5) I used to have a lot of freckles. They were cute. I looked so youthful and fresh and huggable. Kristy McNicholish. Tatum O'Nealish. Freckles, however, with very little coaxing, will jeckyl and hyde themselves into age spots and moles. And we all know what grows out of moles.... (cross reference to issue #1).

6) Libido Schmido. I've renamed it to Nobido.

7) Should I feel my ovaries shriveling? Cause I do.

8) Two things I never had to do as a kid: sit on the pot or run quickly to the pot. So what the hell? I just want my ass to make up its mind: regular or highly irregular. Which is it, ass?

9) Yelling at neighborhood kids. One minute you're one of them, and the next minute you're standing out front waving your arms like a banshee yelling, "get your mini-bikes out of my alley you little hoodlums."

10) My ability to use the phrase "bless her little heart" in a sentence at least 10 times a day.

So, for all you youngsters out there reading this, heed my warning. Getting old is the pits.

Canal Fishers

2006-09-28T21:56:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Canal fishers. Yeah, these are my lovely neighborhood peers who haul their grubby little Igloo coolers down to the canal banks of downtown Sunnyslope , toss a line in, and wait for a ~~beheaded body~~ catfish to hook itself on the lure.

I'm sorry, but are we really this hungry in Phoenix? Cause I'm thinkin' starvation is a better course of action than eating catfish from the banks of Sunnyslope. In fact, I'm pretty sure you'd be better off eating a spinach leaf with a hyperdermic needle stuck to it than you would eating a crud-water carp. Have you looked into the depths of a canal lately? Seriously. Let's think about this: canals are serial killers' preferred venue for dumping their bodies. This can't be a good sign!

I won't even talk about the fact that a canal is the poor-man's bidet. The poor, homeless man who has the runs due to eating a rotten hotdog from the QT garbage (true story, courtesy of my husband). I won't talk about that. Because I want you to enjoy your crap-flavored carp.

Or maybe this isn't about the food. Maybe we're not that hungry or desparate in Phoenix. Maybe it's about the sport. Yeah, the sport. As in, "kids -- go get your fishin' poles; we're headin' down to the wastewater treatment facility to have us some fu-uuun!" To this, I say, good for you. Good for you, canal fishin' dad, for taking the li'l ones for an afternoon outing they'll never forget.

They'll never forget the bloated prostitute torso floating by, or the used condoms bobbing in the water like a few slightly off-kiltered synchronized swimmers, or the brown engorged baby diaper, or the shardy crack pipe pieces or the bum washing his ass after eating a rotten QT hotdog. They'll never forget that day. These are the things from which memories are made.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take the kids to the Nuclear Power Plant to roast some marshmallows. Family fun for all!

Semicolon Bunglers

2006-09-22T13:04:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Semicolon bunglers. I would normally say, “You know who you are,” but, in fact, you don’t. Because semicolon bunglers are pretty much clueless. And dumbassed.

One thing that significantly feeds my superiority complex is my ability to use the semicolon properly. It’s an elite club. To join, you must be able to punctuate a sentence using a semicolon in a non-retarded fashion. This, unfortunately, is reflective of about 1 percent of the American population. So, yeah, I’m in the club. And if you're reading this, you most likely aren’t. I'm sorry; I know that's harsh. But I don't make up the statistics; I just report them. It’s okay; I still like you. Just don’t go trying to crash my club. Don’t be like that greasy-haired dork who thinks he can sit at the jocks’ table. People will know you're a fraud.

So, how can you know whether you’re using the semicolon correctly or incorrectly? Let’s dig into the details. First of all, know this: the semi-colon is not the Leatherman of punctuation. It can’t be used to group your dependent clauses, end your sentences, OR open your can of beans. It doesn’t work like that. It’s a very special symbol with a very special purpose. So stop bastardizing it!

Here is a real-life example of someone who has clearly not learned proper use of the semicolon. On a side note, he has also clearly not had enough oxygen during childbirth.

"I sent this information out before; if you develop any automation scripts for BUSA; you have to follow the procedure listed below; the metrics have to be captured; You need to follow the below procedure for any script that you have already running; and scripts in development."

No, I’m not joking. This email came to me a few days ago from a well-respected colleague. He should be put into an abuse program for overuse of the semicolon. Semicolons Anonymous or Retards-R-Us or something.

While this is extremely annoying, it at least demonstrates a willingness to embrace the semicolon. Many others, anticipating the tedious rigmarole of pledging to the Semicolon Sorority, simply shut down, refusing to even try using it correctly. These are the people who turn to the ellipsis in times of distress. The people who preserve the integrity of one grammatical symbol while mutilating another. You’ve surely seen it before…however, you might not have noticed. The ellipsis just sneaks in there like it’s lived there all along.

People: punctuation marks are not inter-changeable! You can”t just go, and, put ? them in strange: places *willy-nilly*@.

So, I’m sure that I’ve intrigued everyone to learn how to PROPERLY use the semicolon, and lower their "special needs status" to a respectable level. Well, lucky for you, Sunday is National Punctuation Day. For those of us in the elite Fraternal Order of Punctuation Snobs (FOPS), this day is in our honor! Thank you, Jeff Rubin!

For the rest of you, stop being so abusive to the semicolon! What did it ever do to you?

http://www.nationalpunctuationday.com/semicolon.html

Meet Potty Grunters

2006-09-12T17:11:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Potty Grunters. Potty Grunters is wife to Gym Grunters, who I wrote about in an earlier post. Potty Grunters thinks we should all know about "her business" -- "her business" being piss and shit.

Yes, Potty Grunters is the ma'am in the handicapped stall next to you. She isn't handicapped unless spastic colon qualifies. Potty Grunters sounds as if she's giving birth to an alligator -- teeth first. Like her husband, Gym, she has no vocal restraint whatsoever.

Potty Grunters doesn't only grunt when squeezing off a baseball bat-sized turd; she actually finds every task difficult. Sitting down, standing up, flushing. The CACAphony coming from her stall makes me want to toss a hand grenade in there with her. That's right -- if Irritable Bowel Syndrome doesn't kill Potty Grunters, I might.

Sadly, Potty Grunters is JUST the type of person who sometimes skips the hand-washing. I mean, the world revolves around POTTY GRUNTERS, so get over her stinky poo germs already!!!

If the Cuddler fits, wear it!

2006-09-08T17:34:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? The fat-lady-ailments that doctors are starting to test me for. Things like diabetes and hyperthyroidism and circulation. Should I be taking a hint from this?

The latest esteem-busting test was for heel spurs, as in "your dense body is crushing your feet." I got an x-ray for that one. Heel spurs? Check.

The worst thing about heel spurs is that my leg swells up like a Walrus flipper. Check out this picture of my ~~cankle~~ thighkle.

The second worst thing about my heel spurs is that I had to go to Kmart and buy "Cobbie Cuddlers." Have you heard of "Cobbie Cuddlers?" Yeah, they're designed for nurses and fat girls. They're really comfy. Really cuddly.

Unfortunately, the Cuddlers don't come in that many varieties. So, when it comes to footwear, I'm pretty much lookin' like my grammie. Here is a picture of a Cobbie Cuddler in case you can't get the full appreciation. Beautiful, huh? I think Bea Arthur wore these to the Tony Awards once.

I hate to say it, but my Cuddlers are so pleasurable to my feet, that I'm falling in love with them. I can only imagine what's next in my premature fashion aging: some stretch denim, a cross-your-heart bra and a hairnet?

The runs

2006-09-06T23:01:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Food that gives me the runs. But you know what I hate even more? Food that already IS the runs. Case in point: the new "Whips" yogurt by Yoplait.

No, I'm not kidding. This is, indeed, edible. At least that's what the container said. I personally don't dine on anything that looks like it came out my dog's ass after said dog consumed a half disintegrated roof rat and 4 cat turds from the litter box. However, apparently, some people are buying this crap by the flats.

You might be wondering why the hell I bought this if it's so gross. The answer: clever advertisting. Look at the container. I mean, it represents this fecalish mess in such an innocent, if not downright mouth-watering, way. I mean, look at how "Whips" is all frilly and cursive. I would use that type of font to describe something good and tasty. Unfortunately, that's not the type of font I would use to describe assgurt. Yes, I was duped.

My husband and I had a slight disagreement about the origins of this product. While I thought it seemed very scattish in nature, he thought it looked like brain matter. Unfortunately, being a cop, he's seen his share of brain matter. We had a slight tiff over what the yogurt most resembled. In the end, we decided it didn't really matter. Brain dumplins or frothy feces -- either way it was NOT going to be eaten in our house.

College: It Ain't What It Used to Be

2006-09-01T11:41:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Academia. Even saying that word makes me feel like I'm trying to act smart. It's so pretentious. I prefer the term "school" or "a place to get some smarts."

As many of you know, I've decided to go back to school and get a Master's degree so I can be an elementary school teacher. I hadn't stepped foot on a college campus for the past 13 years....until Wednesday night. A lot has changed. And not necessarily for the good. My main observation: when did everyone get so dang dumb? Honestly, people. You are retarded. God help the youth of tomorrow if you people are going to be teaching them.

Where to start, where to start. Whoa, nelly. Here we go...

First of all, did you know that Granny Clampett is still alive? Yeah, she is. I know because she's in my class. You thought she was old in her Beverly Hillbillies days -- you should see her now! She needs to have everything repeated twice. She takes notes at a speed of 1/10th the time I take notes. And, she can't see a damned thing. Thus, the instructor reads lengthy URL's to her, letter-by-letter! Poor Granny. Shame on Jethro and Jed for spending all of the Clampett fortune and leaving Granny with no other option than to turn to a career of teaching. Greedy boys.

There is also a poor 40-something year old woman in our class who, bless her heart, has been living in a cave for the past 20 years. I know, huh? How horrible. How horrible that she not only hasn't changed her hair since emerging from the cave, but that she also completely missed out on the roll-out of the Personal Computer! "What's Powerpoint?" "I've never cut and pasted; how do you do that?" and "Could you show me how to log into our student website one hundred more times?" were some common phrases coming out of this poor soul's mouth. Twenty years is a long time to have been in a cave. I'm not sure if she'll be able to come up to speed within the 2 years of this program -- at least before someone in the class kills her.

Imagine my surprise when entering the class to find that there were 23 women and only 2 men. Shocking! And then one of the two men told us his name: "Bible Boy." Okay, that wasn't really his name but it may as well have been. He loves the Lord. Okay. We get it. Move on. No, but really, he loves the Lord. Like, really, really, really loves the Lord. Yeah, okay. But let's get a start on our assignment, okay? But you don't understand: he LOVES THE LORD. What the hell is wrong with you people? HE LOVES THE LORD. HE LOVES THE LORD. HE LOVES THE LORD. He even proudly stated that he was able to put personal differences aside to read Steven Covey's "Seven Habits of Successful People" book. I didn't know what this had to do with the Lord, but then Bible Boy clarified it for me. STEVEN COVEY IS A MORMON. A MORMON I TELL YOU. And Bible Boy still managed to read his book. What a good Bible Boy. Jesus loves you, Bible Boy.

Then there was the instructor. He was really and truly a nice guy. And he seemed to pretty much know what he was talking about. But dude, 'Boolean' is pronounced "Boo-lee-in" not "Boleen." Come on. You have a PhD. And you're like the superintendent of a hundred slummy schools in the hood. We should know these things. We doctors. I can't help but say I'm a bit ashamed. But I'm willing to let it slide cause you let us out 15 minutes early. Thank you.

I can't end this post without admitting my own college shortcomings. As I said, it's been awhile. So, when doing a "skill inventory" for our Learning Team (Learning Team = retarded concept that everyone should work on homework together), I asked, "Who's good at doing library research." I received a lot blank stares. Girl who just graduated (possibly young enough to be my offspring) says, "Oh. I've never been to the library. Not once." Apparently, all research is now done online. I found myself wondering what inhabits the huge underground "library" on ASU's main campus. The one that I had to lug my shit down into for each research paper during the '90s. The one that I sat in front of many a microfilm machines twisting two knobs in random patters until my page appeared. The one whose bound-up old magazines I had to locate and blow the dust off of just to get a reference. What is in that building now? I want to know. Spin classes? A Starbucks? An oxygen bar? Does anyone reading this go to ASU?

Despite it all, I'm really excited about college. I mean, how many people can say they know a cavegirl, Granny Clampett and a real, live Bible Boy?

Meet Gym Grunters

2006-08-29T17:33:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Gym Grunters. I know, when you say that aloud, it sounds like the name of a real estate agent with bushy sideburns. But I'm not referring to that Jim Grunters. I'm referring to those really annoying buffheads at the gym who think they're being impressive when they make orgasma noises while working out.

Here's a newsflash: KNOCK IT the EFF OFF! You are not cool. You are not sexy. You do not make me want to 'do' you. You do not impress me. You are not as strong as you think you are. You look like an idiot. You look like a retard. You look like a retarded idiot!

Let's just get something straight here: I pushed an 8-pound child through my 1-inch-diameter hoo-ha and didn't grunt as much as the idiot at LA Fitness this morning. The entire building shook. There were large ripples in the olympic-sized pool. Fat ladies' cellulite shimmied. All because of our hero, Gym Grunters, who undoubtedly ended his workout with a cigarette and nap.

Honestly, I was ready to murder him. I'm pretty sure I could have gotten away with it -- you know, the 'self-defense' defense. Like, "were I not to kill him, I surely would have killed myself." But instead of taking an ax to his grunting head, I skipped my second set of the lower bitorsal lunge presses and headed for home. Now my bitorsals will be all off balance. One side bigger than the other and shit.

Thanks, Gym Grunters! Thanks a lot.

P.S. My apologies for not posting more often. I received some very shocking and horrible news recently...I got a job. Alas, my year of unemployment ends. It was quite a ride. While I haven't yet started (Sept 5), I find myself trying to milk my last moments of laziness. The good news is that "where there are people trying to act important, there are many a blog to be written."

Cracker Jaxass

2006-08-22T11:07:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? The Cracker Jax. I don't want to hate them. I want to love them. Want my big front teeth to crack the caramel coating only to expose the spongy sinew of the popcorn inside. Want to bust a bridge on the Boston Baked Beanesque peanuts. Want to revel in the fact that I'm eating a healthy snack, because the box tells me it's Fat Free.

I've loved the Cracker Jax in my past. They've been good to me. Cheered me up when I was low. Comforted me when I was lonely. When Fiddle Faddle came in and tried to monopolize the candy-coated popcorn market, I'd have none of it! Because the Cracker Jax was yummy. And it was a snack with a toy "surprise" in every box. That, in my book, is called a Happy Meal. And what kid wouldn't commit to a life of loyalty to the brand that tosses a toy in every box?

But my love affair is dwindling. My loyalty sharply waning. Why? It's all because of that damned little toy "surprise."

Let me just premise this rant with this observation: Lately, the "surprise" is finding a peanut in the box! It used to be that you'd get at least a nut in every bite. And then, once you got to the bottom of the box…two words: peanut frenzy. Cuz peanuts like to lay low. I respect that. In fact, this low-laying theory introduced me to my first scientific principle: Things in motion tend to stay in motion; things that are really tasty but heavy tend to fall to the bottom of the box, so go ahead and open that effer up from the wrong end. Or something to that effect. I haven’t been to school for 15 years, so I don’t remember it exactly.

But the chinziness with the nuts is actually the least of my worries. What really, really concerns me is the caliber of “surprise” that they’re passing off as “fun” lately.

I’ll admit it – I get an increased pulse when I open a box of the Cracker Jax, bottom’s up, and rattle my hand around until I feel the little square “surprise”. I’m thinkin’…tattoo, sticker, tiny coloring book, maybe something involving harmless dyes and my tongue. I’m pretty easy going.

But then I tear the perforations off and find this bitch?!?

First of all, never heard of this dude. What century is he supposedly from? Secondly, I am a girl. I don’t like sports or the guys who play them. B-O-R-I-N-G. Thirdly, you expect me to read a bio in the name of “fun” and “toy” and “surprise”? Since when did reading become fun? I missed that memo.

And check out the front of the “surprise.”

Collector’s Item? Really? So, like, in 100 years, my great-great grandchildren can book their flight to the Smithsonian and cash in on ma-maw’s mint-condition baseball bio? Sweet! I’m gonna go ahead and spend the inheritance I’ve been saving up. Clearly, they won’t need it.

Hating the 80s

2006-08-17T21:24:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? That 'The 80s' are back in style. I said goodbye to my leg warmers, my drop-waisted dresses, my lace-fringed leggins and my flourescent green string-bean tie. And I haven't really missed them.

The issue I have with 'The 80s' being back in style is that 92% of the population of Arizona is still wearing clothes and hairstyles from that decade! Walk onto the campus of any local call center and you'll feel immediately transported to a Tiffany concert. Spiral perms, teased bangs, sun-tanned hoisery. Ouch!

Except now, these spandex-donning-has-beens are on the cutting edge of au couture! And I, in my bootcut pants (I refuse to buy "skinny jeans" in a size 14 -- the irony is too overwhelming), will appear so...last year.

Say it ain't so.

The fact is, it's too soon for the styles of 'the 80s'to come back. I'm a child of that decade, and I haven't even had my 20 year reunion for God's sakes. Didn't we skip a few decades to resurrect? I haven't seen a poodle skirt in my lifetime, yet I'm having to weather the Flashdance fringe-sweatshirt twice? How is that fair?

I just finished growing my hair out --bangs and all. It was pure hell getting there. And it's all for naught! Because in order to be 80's glam, I'm gonna need to taper the sides a bit.

Like this, from my sophomore yearbook:

On the left! (I included my cross-margin counterpart as a public service reminder that pot does indeed kill brain cells.)

Go ahead. Make a joke or two about my appearance.

"What do you get when you sandwich a cherrio between two petrified marshmallows? MY EARRINGS!"

"The Flock of Seagulls called -- they said Fred Flinstone wants his hairstyle back!!"

Funny. Yeah, funny. I'm laughin' all the way to Supercuts.

Vicki Bo Peep

2006-08-10T14:09:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? When you spend a lot of time needlessly wondering why you are the way you are. I tend to fixate on the fact that my parents are tidy, and their home is like that in a magazine, and they're always fashionable and well-groomed and clean. And me and my kids can tend to be, well, the opposite.

And I sometimes doubt my adequacy as a parent when I do something completely unbourgeois such as declare it "popsicle breakfast day" or "wear our slippers to the grocery store day" or "we can brush our teeth tomorrow day."

I just can't deny it anymore. I'm totally ghetto. And I've been wondering how the hell I got this way when my parents and sisters are so seemingly respectable.

And then, the other day, I came across this:

Contrary to what you might be thinking, this is NOT part of the ad campaign for the remake of 'Heidi.' It is actually a picture of me at age four and a half. On my farm. With my pet goat. Barefooted. And no, that's not spilled cocoa puffs off to the left of the picture. It is, in fact, goat turdlets.

Laugh all you want. But I was glad to reacquaint myself with this picture, because now I know. I know why I am the way I am. Why I am a white-trash hick. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But now I can stop wondering.

I do have some questions for my parents after finding this image. Questions such as: 'how long since my knees were cleaned?' and 'what did we have against hairbrushes?' and 'did the ASPCA know our goat had no water?' and 'Dad -- weren't you a structural engineer? I thought so. So why did our goat live under a shanty-town shack?' These are important issues. I may never know the answers.

But what I do know, finally, is that the person I am today is due to my roots. My little hobo-girl upbringing. It's not 'just me.' My parents were ghetto once, too. And I now have proof. See? So there's hope for me. One day, I'll outgrow my white-trashiness like my parents did. If I'm lucky.

Reward: For the safe return of 5 spoons and 18 carmexes

2006-08-05T22:54:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Magically disappearing items. It seems that there are some household components that are simply hellbent on sprouting legs and finding a better life elsewhere. I can think of no other explanation for the fact that some items consistently turn up missing in my household.

The biggest offenders -- it's a tie -- are socks and spoons. I swear to God that every time I do a load of laundry, I find at least 4 sock widows. Where are they all going? To dance and rock out at lollaPAWlooza? To party it up with other cotton co-eds at Club PED? To feast and dine on MooSHOE Pork at the Chen Wok down the street? Seriously, WHERE ARE THEY? They're not under my bed. They're not in the kids' toyboxes. They're not behind the washing machine. They literally VANISH. Somebody, please explain.

And spoons? I used to have 'service for 8' but now I'm down to 3 spoons. (I'm talking the normal sized spoons, not the monster spoons that were designed for NBA players and Big Foot. The kind where you can basically skip the bowl and just pour your soup right into the spoon reservoir. I still have all eight of those.) Where are my spoons? And why are all the butter knives still intact? I really need a conspiracy expert to help me out here.

Other items always missing when you need them: the tie that actually comes with your robe, leaving you to bungee your pretty silk komono shut; bobby pins, which you purchase in packs of 100 and run out of every 30 days, meaning you somehow lose 3 per day which is unbelievifying considering you rarely wear bobby pins; corn on the cob holders, half of which get ground up in your garbage disposal, the other half of which join the socks and bobby pins in the great abyss leaving you to try and gingerly hold a steaming hot and greased up cob without permanently damaging your fingerprint; a pen -- any pen -- or even a pencil, crayon, highlighter -- to jot down a number when you're on the phone; the receipt for the pants that are too tight for your fat ass (though you have every other receipt for any items purchased in the past year in your bulbous wallet -- your $2.10 trip to QT, your tampons at Walgreens, your entire family's movie ticket stubs for "Cars"); and last, but not least, lip balm -- loads of lip balm (seriously, have you ever actually finished a chapstick before losing it?).

I am dying to know WHERE THESE ITEMS ARE GOING? What am I missing here? What lies beyond the world that I know? Is there some type of alternate universe where spoons and chapstick are idolized? Am I alone in experiencing this phenomenon?

Man's Best Friend

2006-08-02T00:12:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? The way my dogs insist on annoying me with phlegm-based noises all night long. The way they carry on with their slurping and sucking, you'd think they were starring in their own doggie porn video.

The most annoying factor of the slurping that takes place every night is the variety. So many noises! So few mouths! The hell?

First, there is BoeDee. He was chosen for his unadoptable qualities when he shone his ghastly underbite at me during "mutant dog adoption week" at PetsMart. He's ugly, morbidly overweight, wiry and makes more 'slurpies' than a crowded 7-11! He alternates gnawing and sucking, gnawing and sucking, much like what you might do when faced with a particularly leathery slice of beef jerky. If I need to get up for any reason during the night, I usually tread lightly, as I'm convinced one of these days I'm going to step on his bloody, detached gnaw-paw.

Then, there's Asia. She is the more sleek and attractive of the duo. Soft fur, normal girth, teeth that aren't screaming for a headgear. Her method of sucking makes me want to commit harey carey. Honestly. It's slow, deliberate, almost perverse. And its rhythm never changes: tongue rolling out, long slow slurp, tongue rolling in, repeat. Chinese water torture's got NOTHIN' in this maddening torment.

Her tedious, repetitious cacophony is sometimes punctuated by what I can describe only as "there's a flea on me so I'm gonna snot it to death." This usually occurs in the dead of night, when everyone is sound asleep, only to be awakened by a spastic jingling collar, pig-like snorting, and an amazing display of doggie flexibility as she somehow gets her nose to the top of her back. She nibbles at the phantom flea the way I eat my corn on the cob...if I were eating corn on the cob while blowing my nose on it.

They say that dog is man's best friend. But, apparently, 'man' hasn't spent a night in my house!

Tickle Me Nomo

2006-07-30T15:04:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Tickling. That's right. As in, "I'm going to poke my rigid fingers into your armpits and make you squeal" type tickling. Yes, I know that tickling is "fun" and "cute" and "game-like" and that children seem to "enjoy" it. But come on, children also enjoy eating Play-Dough and wiping their own shit on the walls. Nuff said.

The deal is that I suffer from an ailment called hyper-ticklitis. It's a serious disorder. It can cause heart attacks, nervous breakdowns, blood clots to the brain, and, in severe cases, peed-on panties. My husband has been exploiting my condition for the past 10 years, and he's recently certified my children in "mommy tickle torture" as well.

They think it's funny when they tickle me. Why? Because I laugh hysterically. I roar. I howl. I chortle. Yet I'm miserable. There is no worse torture. But my loved ones don't understand this. Because I'm laughing. He he. Laughing. What we do when we're IN A GOOD MOOD. Talk about a mixed message! Now I know how date rapists feel.

I'm pretty sure God was drunk when he hard-wired our bodies to crack up when being tortured. Oh well. I'll cut the guy some slack; he did only have seven days.

Nevertheless, I stand by my opinion that tickling sucks. When my husband rubs his harsh 5-o-clock shadow all over my tender neck and I roar so loud the house shakes, contrary to what he likes to believe, we're not bonding. Meanwhile, he's convinced I like it. Convinced it's therapeutic. Hearty laughter and a thorough pants-pissing. That must be good for me.

Five Things I Truly HATE

2006-07-26T14:08:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Pretty much everything. It's really not my fault; everyone is just sooooooo annoying. Maybe it's the sweltering humidity (it's NOT a dry heat by the way) or maybe it's the fact that it's Day 23 in my cycle. Whatever it is, shit's gettin' on my last nerves. Where do I begin?

#1) To the mutant parents who brought their roly-poly adult child to see Monster House last night -- YOU SUCK! Why, when you could choose pretty much any seat in the entire theater, did you choose to park behind me and my children? (who, by the way, are the appropriate age to be seeing a children's film. Unlike your man-child.) And why, when you're so fat that you can't sit down without pulling on the back of my headrest so hard that I am reclined against my will, don't you BUY A SMALL POPCORN and SKIP THE NACHOS? And tell me I didn't just hear your white-trash husband burp out loud -- twice. Tell me I didn't. And as for your heavy breathing, I'm sorry that I had to turn around and stare at you. Honestly, though! I thought maybe it was Paul Rubens fondling himself.

#2) To the pimple right smack in the middle of my forehead: I HATE YOU! Because no matter how good my hair might look and how perfect my makeup might be, I'm sporting a unicorn horn! I'm too old for this. You're a pus-filled bastard and I'm doing DOUBLE benzyl peroxide on your sorry ass.

#3) To the lady at the gym who finds my 12-minute mile on the treadmill so intriguing, I'm about one step away from GOUGING YOUR EYEBALLS OUT! Keep your eyes on your OWN treadmill instrument panel. YES, I've been going for 23 minutes and 20 seconds. YES, I have burned a whopping 114 calories. Yes, my heart-rate is elevated. Why is my control panel so much more interesting than yours? Huh? Why? Mind your own freakin' business!

#4) To the morons at JcPenney (yes, I'm a glutton for punishment), PAY ATTENTION! What do you see in the picture below? A pair of pants with the anti-theft device still on them. But wait -- aren't these pants ON MY COUCH? Yes, they are! You didn't remove the anti-theft device. So now I have to drive my hot and cranky self back to skanksville or wear a pair of ink-splotched cullottes! And another thing: these pants were on clearance for $5. Has the neighborhood really become so ghetto that a pair of five dollar camos are treated like a fur coat?

#5) To mother nature -- MY SHRUBS ARE SHRIVELING! That's right. SHRIVELING!!! Because you continue to spoil all of Arizona with rainstorms while leaving my particular neighborhood DRY. My backyard is dying. Dying. I hope that makes you feel sad. And selfish. Because you are. You favor the east side. The north side. Rich Scottsdale bastards. What about us inner-city folk? What did we ever do to you? Is it too much to ask for a drop or two? Geez.

That's it. I'm done. For now anyway.

Go Tarts

2006-07-21T14:28:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Food designed for miniature people. Food like Tic-Tac's and grapenuts and McDonald's small fries. Things you could picture Emmanuel Lewis or Verne Troyer eating.

Especially when it comes to fatty and greasy garbage. If I'm gonna clog my arteries and increase my latitudinal spread (i.e. fat ass), I damned well want to do it with some substance! Extra large. Super sized. Bell Grande. That's what I'm talkin' bout.

Sunflower seeds? Wayyyyyyyyyyyy too much work. Mini M&M's? I let them melt together then eat them as a single fused cylinder. Chiclets? I pop 7/8 of the pack just to blow a 1-inch bubble! Sissy food. All of it!

Which brings to mind this new "venture" from Kelloggs. They're called "Go Tarts." They're about the size of my big toe. For breakfast, I need the entire box of 10. It would be cheaper for me to have the buffet at The Pointe.

Go-Tarts, though, you have to admit, are a genius concept. I mean, come on, you can now eat your "pop tart" "on the go." Wow! No more using up your grandma's good china and silver cutlery to serve up the traditional Pop Tart. Now that's progress. I'm surprised it took them this long to think of it. A pop tart that you can take with you. Pioneers, those Kellogg's folks. Damn; they're good.

Claire Clux Clan

2006-07-20T09:57:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? When it becomes painfully obvious that you've failed as a parent. When, despite the infinite love you show your child, you realize that she has strayed in a direction that is contrary to your intentions as a parent.

I tried to create a racially harmonious home. Really, I did. We watch Oprah. We rock out to Lenny Kravitz. We eat Neopolitan ice cream.

So, where have I gone wrong? Perhaps we watched too much Full House and not enough Moeesha. Too much Little House and not enough Erkel. Listened to too much Alan Jackson and not enough Michael Jackson.

Ahhh, the pain. The pain and humiliation I will suffer as my 5-year-old starts drawing little swastikas on her first-grade composition notebook. When she begins using sidewalk chalk to draw fiery, burning crosses in the neighbor's driveways.

A pair of scissors and paper towel. Craft-time used to seem so innocent.

Fudgies in Feenix

2006-07-18T13:25:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Phoenix. It's 116. You crave a fudgie. You buy a box. You bring it home. You bust into one after dinner.

(scroll)

I could say more, but I'm pretty sure I don't need to.

1980s Victorian -- my favorite era!

2006-07-15T14:19:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? False advertising designed to "draw you in". Like I'm stupid enough to buy something after I've been duped. Come on.

I like to check Craig's List on a daily basis for good deals on antique furniture and shit. The other day, I saw a listing for a Victorian couch -- for only $45!!! I pictured myself lounging bare-legged across the cool smoothness of the satin brocade fabric, admiring the hand-carved wooden legs, marveling at the immaculate piping around the perimeter of this fabulous 19th century gem.

I didn't picture myself with a mouth full of Fritos 'n bean dip, holding a Coors Light while watching the Pittsburgh Steelers. Yet that would be more-than appropriate given what the couch really looked like when the "teaser" was clicked and a photo revealed.

1980's-era La-Z-Boy. 1800's Victorian. It's all the same....

to this moron!

There's 20 seconds of my life I'll never get back. Thanks dude.

Peach Pustules

2006-07-13T09:56:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? When I'm eating a peach and I find an embryo sac in it.

Check it:

I know. It's gross. What is it, seriously? Whatever it is, I'm thinking we could make some serious scientific progress using this fuzzy little guy if Bush would just change his stance on stem cell research.

Or maybe it's not embryonic afterall. Maybe it's a larvae of some sort. A yet-undiscovered species of the caterpillar genus. Persicum cattus, or "Peach Caterpillar."

Or perhaps it's a peach pustule. Like, there was an infectuous outbreak on the peach farm and Farmer Ned injected antibiotics into all the peaches, but this little fella was hiding behind a giant leaf because he hates shots.

Or maybe it's of a phlegm origin. Perhaps a peach with a cold. Or chronic asthma.

Or perhaps it's the remnants of the one-night stand this peach had with her cute next-branch neighbor.

Or maybe the peach was lactating. Sad to think her baby peach is still hanging on the vine, probably starving.

I guess we'll never know...

Opinionated Dumb Ass

2006-07-07T14:04:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Opinionated dumb-asses. I don't mind people being dumb-asses and I don't mind people being opinionated, but together, it's a terribly annoying combination.

First of all, this is probably my fault. Because not only was I shopping at the white-trashiest of department stores (Penney's), but I was also at MetroCenter where the clientele is, well, let's just say, "interesting." No, actually, let's not say "interesting." Let's say, "freakishly gang-like."

Despite the colorful mix of characters at Penney's (and I don't mean 'colorful' in a racist way, so shut the hell up), there were sales to be had. Awesome sales -- 50% off the lowest ticketed clearance price! I know, huh? Wow!

So, I found a few items marked down to $5.99. Fifty percent off the lowest ticketed price, remember. So I headed to the check-out counter expecting to pay roughly 3 bucks each for these items.

They rang in at $4.69.

"Excuse me, ma'am," I said. "But aren't those supposed to be 50% off the lowest ticket price?"

"Yes. Fifty percent off of the $5.99 price. That's $4.69."

Here presents that precarious moment where you want to call the sales clerk a big retard but you hold back because you don't want her spitting loogies in your cullottes, which you've seen a hundred times on those hidden camera shows.

"Ummm. Actually, wouldn't 50% off of $5.99 be about 3 dollars?" I'm being kind. I should really ask her why she chose to smoke pot instead of going to 3rd grade math class. Meanwhile, she's employed and I'm kissing the state's ass to earn my $214 per week. That's fair.

And here's where 'dumbassed' segues into 'opinionated'...

"Well, they're not all marked exactly 50 percent. Some of them are a bit less."

This is the point at which I know she's a bit fat liar. Because 4.69 is around 28% off of 5.99 and what kind of store marks things 28% off?? So, I say, nicely...

"Can you perhaps ask someone else?"

"For what?" I've offended her. I'm afraid the loogie into the cullotte might now be inevitable.

"For a second opinion?"

"No. The price is $4.69."

"Okay," I say meekly, as I put the items back. Then I decide that I may be back to speak to this lady again. I'm thinking she'd make a great business partner. We'd split things "50/50".

Unexpected Visitors

2006-07-06T23:12:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Unexpected visitors. And no, I'm not talking about an early period that stains your favorite panties. I'm talking about neighbors coming to visit "just for the heck of it" when I'm white-trashing it up in a house just slightly more sanitary than a crack-snorting dog breeder's.

My neighbor, who's as nice as could be and whose house is always immaculate and smells of Downy and Pine-Sol, decided to stop over with her two-year-old at around 3 p.m. Three p.m. is just about the time I'm gaining consciousness ("momma's nap time -- go put a movie on kids"). So here's what I remember about the course of events... And remember, this is honest-to-goodness A TRUE STORY.

1 p.m. -- "Kids -- clean up your lunch mess. Kids? Clean up your lunch mess. Hello? Kids? Ooooh. What's this on TiVo? The Little House on the Prairie where Laura steals Nelly's music box? Awesome! Hey Kids? Oh what the hell. We'll clean later. But first, let me throw all the cushions from the couch on the floor. Ahhhh. Now it's like a big comfy bed. BoeDee? Come here, boy. Do you want to lick my ice-cream bowl? Good boy. Oops. The spoon fell out. I'll get it later. Good boy."

2:30 p.m. -- 30 minutes into momma's nap... "Mom. BoeDee just peed in the kitchen. It's running all over the floor. It's in the cracks. I stepped in it and now it's all down the hall, too."

"Okay. Momma's still sleeping. I'll take care of it when I wake up."

2:45 p.m. -- the sound of water running. "What's that sound?"

"What sound, mom?"

"That water sound?"

"Oh, that's just me doing an experiment in the bathroom."

"An experiment of what?"

"Toilet paper and water."

"Oh. Okay then."

3:00 -- Ding Dong!

3:01 -- (in a whisper) "Mom. Do you want me to put a barstool over the place where BoeDee peed so Ryan (the innocent and tidy 2-year-old) won't step in it."

"Crap! Yes. Put a barstool up. Thanks, honey."

3:02 -- "Come on in."

"Did we wake you?"

"No, no. I was just catching up on some television. I like to turn the couch into a bed. Heh heh (nervous laugh). Let me just get these cushions. Wooops. How'd that spoon get attached to this pillow. Riiiip. There we go. Let's just put that back up. My house is a mess. I'm sorry about that."

"It's really okay. Mine's always a mess too (lie). Ryan? Where'd he go? Ryan? (Walks down the hallway) Where are you? Ryan! You come out of that bathroom." (At this point, I get my first glimpse of the "laboratory" where the toilet paper and water experiment took place. There are lots of wods, some wet-haired barbies and various polly pocket body parts in states of disarray. My 5-year-old sociopath's trail of destruction.)

"Oh!" (what else can I say?)

3:03 -- Back in the living room. "This summer heat just makes me so sluggish. I don't feel like cleaning or anything."

"It's really okay. I understand."

3:04 -- I look over at my daughter, who is spraying her legs with the water bottle I use to discipline my dogs. Good conversation-starter, I think to myself.

"Roxanne! What are you doing, you silly?!?"

(suddenly taking on a hillbilly voice) "Water. It keeps the bugs off me."

Nice. We don't even have bugs. Yet.

3:05 -- "Ryan? Where'd he go again? Ryan? Oh, I think he's in the kitchen."

"That's okay. He's fine in there. There's nothing he can hurt. He's probably playing with the magnets. My neice likes that, too. He's fine."

"Ryan? Ryan? Come here. Oh; I'll go get him."

(inside my head:) Maybe the dog pee will look like a little spilled orange juice. Maybe it's dried by now. Maybe she won't notice cuz of the barstool over the top of it.

(as I see the reality of the situation:) There's a barstool dead center in the middle of my kitchen with liquid running from all avenues leading out. The dogs are sniffing it curiously. The two-year-old is leaving piss-prints everywhere he walks. I think we're going to need to move.

3:06 -- "Well, we should probably head home now. It's getting pretty late. Daddy will be home soon. Come on Ryan. Let's go honey."

"Okay. Well, thanks for visiting. Come back anytime!"

Fireworks are Dumb

2006-07-05T13:25:00.002-07:00

You know what I hate? Fireworks. They're ugly. And dumb. And terribly anti-climatic. Yet everyone loves them. You know why? Because we've been watching fireworks go off for hundreds of years and nobody has bothered to question it.

Newsflash: THIS IS THE ELECTRONIC AGE! This isn't 1906 when a few sporadic flashes of light in the sky makes us about jizz our pants. We have America's Funniest Videos and myspace and blogging and gaming and lifelike images on our Plasma TV's ("oooooh, aaahhh"). We can make a song on our own computer, or visit a webpage devoted solely to people who like to pierce themselves in strange places, or have someone read a book to us through our MP3 players.

We don't need no stinkin' fireworks anymore.

I'm not completely un-American. We did what any good white-trash family would do: we watched them on TV. Until about 5 minutes into it when my 7-year-old said, "This is boring. Put on Sponge Bob."

Laugh Tracks are Ruining Our Youth

2006-07-01T21:28:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? The laugh tracks on kids' shows. Unfortunately, my daughters are now really into Nick Jr., otherwise known as "Nick everyone is white, rich and beautiful." Hillary Duff got her start on Nick Jr. in the "Lizzie McGuire" series if that tells you anything. Now she's a skanky anorexic. Fabulous child role model.

Almost every show on Nick Jr is totally banal. But I'm used to that on television. I mean, it's American entertainment. What do you expect? But what bothers me is the laugh track on these idiotic shows. They are set to go off after just about every line. And the lines aren't funny! The dialogue will be like:

"Little Joshua, do your homework!"
"Gosh, mom, you don't have to yell at me."
laugh track: "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."

No wonder just about every kid I meet is a little retard. Look at what they have to aspire to. Seriously, when I visit my daughters' classrooms, the kids in the class always crack jokes that just aren't funny. This is the fall-out from those faulty laugh-tracks! And what do we parents do? We laugh at the dumb joke so the kid feels good about himself. What are we teaching these youngsters? That self-induced retardation is acceptable behavior?

Did you watch William Huang sing on American Idol and wonder how the hell this little mongoloid-ish freak came to believe he could compete on that show? It's the laugh-track theory. Children today have no sense of reality. Parents dote on them unconditionally and they are taught that no matter how dumb-assed a comment is, everyone will still laugh at it!

It's time we add a little dose of reality back into our childrens' lives. If your kid tells a bomb of a joke, tell him he's an idiot. If your little diva of a daughter puts on an outfit that makes her act like she's hot, tell her she's a whore. If your kid is just plain ugly, point and laugh.

Okay, okay. Settle down. I'm just joking. I know children are sensitive and impressionable and easily beaten down. So I take it back. Don't call your daughter a whore. And don't point and poke fun at your homely little offspring.

But please, please, please don't continue to laugh at jokes that aren't funny. Because the children of today will be writing the television of tomorrow. And I'm scared.

The Joys of Summer

2006-06-26T13:02:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Tug of War. I'm not talking about the rope-over-mud-puddle kind. I'm talking about the game my husband and I play with the air conditioning thermostat. As if marriage wasn't difficult enough, this juvenile and passive-aggressive competition serves as an added annoyance and a reminder that men are from venus and women are perfect (I think that's how the saying goes).

I prefer cooler temperatures while my husband prefers it moderate -- err...I mean, blistering and hell-like. Throughout the day, we take turns nudging the thermostat dial. At the beginning of the day, we're within a few degrees of one another. But by the time the sun sets, we're so annoyed with each other that we're workin' on a 30-degree differential.

We do love each other. But our bodies are, well, different. He is lean, bald and sane. I, on the other hand, have a full head of heat-locking hair. And large amounts of estrogen pumping through my veins. And a brain that doesn't properly deliver seratonin to my neurons. And a body-fat composition that is the genetic equivalent to a Jimmy Dean sausage.

Have you ever cooked a Jimmy Dean sausage? Did you notice how long it took to cool down before you could eat it? I rest my case.

I'm generally a pretty low-maintenance wife. But summers in Phoenix turn me into swelter-bitch with bloated bratwurst fingers. Why does the heat make my fingers swell to Twinkie-size? Does anyone else suffer this problem? And about those panties... will they ever dry?

Ahhh, the joys of summer.

Welcome to my BBQ; Have a Seat

2006-06-22T21:48:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Birds. And I'm afraid they've found out about my ill feelings.

Okay, so I don't actually hate the little egg-laying bastards, but I must say that they rank pretty low on my "pets adding value to my life" scale. My two birds, Cindy and Birdy Stockton (the married couple hanging in my living room), don't do much except drop downy feathers that float away when my robotic vaccuum comes by to suck them up, shit on my walls, and squawk a bunch of really annoying nonsense when I'm trying to take an important phonecall. They can't even say 'hello' or 'polly want a cracker' or anything, the dumb retards.

Anyway, I wasn't aware that I'd vocalized my feelings toward my little feathered foes prior to this. But apparently I must have. I mean, why else would I have been the target of a very, very, VERY ruthless drive-by explosion?

I found this in my backyard, just minutes before my sister and her family arrived for a cook-out at our house. I thought I'd go outside just to "tidy up" a bit when I came upon this desecrated adirondack chair. Clearly, this is not a one-bird job. I do believe that the entire North American fowl populace was involved in act of vengeance. And I am pretty sure that they all feasted on Chimichangas beforehand.

In addition to the diarrhea, I noted menstrual leakage, two mucous plugs and a half-eaten placenta (apparently, they were Christian Scientists). With only 5 minutes before my sister was to arrive, I panicked at the gravity of this clean-up job. I even went to the Queen of Clean's website and typed in "exploded bowels" but came up empty-handed on advice.

Against my better judgment (and perhaps some EPA guidelines), I ended up scouring the adirondack chair with a combination of paint thinner and muriatic acid, just in time to host my bar-b-que without making anyone vomit.

The next day, I truced with Birdy and Cindy Stockton by hanging a few paperclips in their cage and buying a new perch (for them to chew down). Idiots. Ooops. I mean, cute, smart and talented little sweetie pies.

Missing, but not forgotten

2006-06-18T23:24:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? When news stories make about as much sense as a senile grannie on crystal meth.

The other day, I saw a small blurb on a website about a girl who'd been abducted at age 2 in Tempe, only to be found 10 years later, alive and well. This interested me! I wanted to find out how this poor thing fared after 10 years of abduction. Would she be a street walker? One of the 15 wives of a church deacon in Colorado City? A strange hari-chrishna type character in a long white robe? I wanted to know more!

So, I googled her name to find the actual news article. Here's how it began:

Go ahead. Re-read that first sentence because I know it ain't makin' sense to you right now. That's right. Read it. Yep, you read it right: "Eight years ago a sweet toddler turned 11."

Now that's some good FREAKIN' journalism there!

Lookit -- I got my degree in journalism and even wrote for a newspaper for a few years and let me tell you something: This article SUCKS! Do they re-read this stuff? Is anyone in the office still sober? Is the editor porking the court reporter in the broom closet? What the hell has happened here? How did this article get through?

I might add that this was on a reputable website. Meanwhile, I can't get a content editor job to save my life and am finding it increasingly difficult to live off of $214 dollars per week (courtesy of our lovely gov't -- thanks guys!) Oh well, it could be worse: at least I don't have an 11-year-old toddler to feed!

That Ain't No Bull

2006-06-12T22:30:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Well-hung stuffies. "Stuffies" is how we refer to stuffed animals in my family. "Well-hung" is how we refer to, um... well, you know. Geez. Don't make me blush by having to say it out loud.

My kids inherited an endowed stuffed bull from their grandpa, who had gotten it for free when he purchased a car from Earnhardt Dodge. Here he is. Pretty cute, right? Until you spread his stiff little stuffy legs...

...and discover this:

It took the kids about a week to figure out that something was protruding from "down there." I told them it was a handle. They've been carrying the bull around by his sack ever since.

I'm a little perturbed over the anatomically-correct stuffed animal! I mean, come on. Barbie, Bratz, Polly Pocket -- there are no nips, no hoo-has, not even a butt-crack to be seen on these ladies. They're smooth and private-less. And that's how it ought to be. I don't want to be having 'the talk' when my kids are 5 and 7. I need a few more years...

Beasty Princesses

2006-06-12T21:25:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Insufficient product testing on the part of large companies who make the shit I buy for my kids. Insufficient product testing, otherwise known as "being a cheapskate," has led to many a tragedy. Accidental drownings, strangulations, suffocation, and nightmarishly ugly princesses.

My daughters love princesses. They're so light. So airy. So perfect in every way. Smooth skin. Good tonality. Ne'er a blemish to be seen.

Like this:

In case you didn't know, that's Snow White. She's yet to be painted, but looking pretty good, in a Faber Castell-ish, monochromatic kinda way. This is how she's shown on the box of the craft kit. This is what led me to purchase the craft kit. How hard could it be, I thought to myself as I made my way to the checkout line. You mix some powder and water in a little cup, then turn it over and it oozes into the Princess mold of your choice and you wait 10 minutes, then VOILA! You have a beautiful mold of a princess, ready to be painted!

Again, how hard could it be?

Dammit! I wanted a smooth and beautiful princess, not a pourous, crumbly Venus-de-Milo knock-off! What's pathetic is that this is my best of three! The other two lost their heads completely. This poor thing cracked at the waist, but I put her body back on before she dried completely. She'll never walk again, but at least she's still standing.

Let's take a closer look at the princess on the box, compared with my princess (shown in front of the box):

Is it just me, or does she remind you of the sad, beast-like girl waiting to be asked to dance at the 7th grade formal? I remember those girls. They are a pitiful reminder of the superficiality of our society. AND I CERTAINLY DON'T WANT THOSE FEELINGS COMMEMORATED VIA A BEASTY PLAY-DOUGHESQUE PRINCESS!

Needless to say, I ended up throwing the entire kit away. It's 15 bucks down the drain, not to mention the co-pay for the many psychiatrist visits I'll have to take the kids to. It's not easy seeing your heroine, Belle, develop elephantitis before your very own eyes.

Shame on Disney for putting out this product without ample testing. Clearly, this product was never tested. At least, not successfully. Granted, nobody was injured, maimed or killed as a result, but I can tell you that I'll never again capture that "magic feeling" when watching Beauty and the Beast.

Handicapped Harleys

2006-06-09T13:38:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Cheaters. By this, I am referring to people who like to milk America's generous accomodations for persons with disabilities. Now, if you actually have a disability (I'm talking about a missing limb here not just some mild "tennis elbow"), then my condolences. You've earned your parking spot. But some 'special treatment' is just downright ridiculous. Like this:

It's a handicapped plate on a motorcycle! (This particular one was rigged up in photoshop cause I couldn't find a real picture, but TRUST ME ON THIS ONE PEOPLE. I've seen it with my own eyes -- three times in the past couple months!!!).

Now, could somebody please explain this to me? Because I don't understand. If you can't walk, then how the hell can you ride a Harley? And another thing: you already get to park in those little tiny spaces at the front of every lot, so why try to garner the extra perks? It's like you're double-dipping into the "privileges pot."

I think I'm going to bring a handicapped placard to the gym and hang it on my treadmill. My shin splints are really getting out of control.

Magical Washing Machine

2006-06-02T13:51:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? My magical powers. I actually didn't know that I was a sooth-saying wizard until yesterday. I performed the master of all magic tricks: I placed 20-or-so items into my washing machine, sprinkled in some Tide and a little abra-cadabra, and within a half hour, this super-sized load had morphed into a single item! Eat your heart out, David Copperfield!

Scroll down to see the results of this reality-defying act of hocus-pocus...

Okay, so it's not magic after all, but rather a very, very over-zealous washing machine. What the hell? It's going to take me a month to unravel this mess. I could solve the rubik's cube faster than I could untangle this "puzzle."

That's my oldest daughter holding up the bewitching concoction of expoded pillow, various running shoes, backpacks and some other items that I'll find "in the core" as the month progresses.

Here's a tighter shot of the laundry cyclone after I liberated a single Adidas. He'll be reunited with his right-sided brother sometime in July, according to my calculations.

I'm not sure if these pictures do this thing justice. Here's an even closer shot into the eye of the storm.

God only knows what's in there. The good news is that if Anarchy ever breaks out, I have a washing machine that can create for me the perfect A-bomb!

Mealtime at Grandma's

2006-06-01T10:07:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Mealtime at Grandma's. Now, let's get something straight: I really love my grandparents. But come on. They can't cook worth a shit. It's one thing for me to suffer through it for years, but now my kids are involved. And it hasn't been pretty.

Have you ever noticed that grandparents seem to have stuff in their fridges and pantries that we younger folk have never even seen on the store shelves? Like, chocolate fudge soda and pickled green tomatoes and weird lettuce that they call "collards". What the hell is wrong with them? Why can't they eat like a normal American?

The other day, they invited my family over for lunch. I panicked, because not only is their food strange, but my kids are incredibly picky eaters. And I've completely allowed them to stay that way. If it ain't made with flour or cheese, my kids pretty much won't touch it. I probably needn't continue, but I will...

The menu consisted of: frozen lasagna (Stouffers made it; difficult to screw it up but it did have lots of veggies, which are the kids' enemy), green beans (did I mention boiled in butter?), and green salad (when I say 'green,' I mean 'white' as it was predominantly made of onions). My poor children. They're just sitting there looking at it wide-eyed, the same as they would be if a dead rat was sitting on their plate.

I tried whispering in their ear that it was okay to "leave some" (some = all), but Grandmas, even though they're usually deaf as a post, are always tuned in when someone is rejecting their vittles. Grandma's sudden acute awareness leads to the mother of all avalance questions.

"What's the problem?" she says, in a very accusatory tone. At this point I have to divulge that my kids are indeed food sissies, that I am the world's shittiest mother for making them that way, and that I in fact do know that there are people all over the world starving who would love to sink their teeth into a nice onion salad!

After all the pain and suffering, there is usually a meal-topping reprieve in which Grandma usually whips out some home-made dessert of incredibly high caliber. Texas Sheet Cake, a Strawberry Cake made from real strawberries, homemade pumpkin pie. But alas, this was not our lucky day. Dessert was a blueberry jello spread into a cake pan with walnuts mixed in it and some yellowing cream cheese on top. Yum!

Needless to say, we stopped for some Happy Meals on the way home.

Momma always said you can't trust a retarded reptile

2006-05-27T13:45:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Snakes. They're slimy, slithery, sneaky little creatures and I'm about ready for them to become extinct. I know that sounds mean, but come on. They're gross. And let's not forget dangerous.

I love to hike. I do it almost every morning, with very few exceptions. But now that it's getting hotter in lovely HELL, errr...I mean, Phoenix, I can hardly get a few steps in before seeing a rotten-ass SNAKE! Some might argue that the desert is their home and that I'm merely a visitor. To that, I would respond, "well, when snakes start paying taxes to support things like Parks and Rec Trail Maintenance, then we can cohabitate. Until then, OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!"

The other day, my hike was cut short by a trail-hogging snake. He was stretched out the length of the trail, and with a cliff on one side and mountain-side on the other side, I could not get around him without jeapardizing my safety. He looked like a rattle snake, but I could see no sign of a rattler on him. My husband later told me that it was more likely a King Snake. He indicated that King Snakes are "harmless" (read: my wife is a big baby). I can hardly trust that this particular creature was benign given he was dubbed a "KING". He must rule over something to have gotten that name, right?

Here is what he looked like:

What a hideous bastard, huh?

Some people tell me not to worry; that snakes are more afraid of me than I am of them. To this sentiment, I add "in general." That is, "in general they're more afraid." Because I'm a glass-is-half-empty kind of girl, and I always think about the minority -- the reptilian anomalies. This would include special needs snakes who were oxygen deprived during birth. The ones for whom instinct doesn't come so easy.

So, yes, I could have probably catapulted my self over the snake that blocked the trail during my hike last week, but I was concerned that he might be one of those "freaks of nature" mentioned above. I pictured his anxiety rising sharply as I approached, imagined what he was probably saying in his little reptilian tard head:

Large, amazon lady coming at me. What did momma tell me? What did she tell me? Ohhhhh. What was it? It was either 'run like hell' or 'sink my venom into the amazon lady's fleshy ankle.' Which one... which one. I'm thinkin' momma said 'sink my venom into the lady.' Yeah, that sounds right. Yeah, let's go with that. Chomp..."

And so, were it not for the quick-thinking actions of yours truly, I may not have lived to tell this frightening, and let's not forget, RIVETING story of survival.

Come On Out

2006-05-22T21:20:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Homosexuals afraid to come out of the closet. I mean, come on. It's the 21st Century. And it's America. Other than the fact that the majority of the nation wants to ban your constitutional rights and the fact that you might get beaten to a bloody pulp if you try to enter a bar anywhere in the midwest -- other than that, we Americans are pretty tolerant of alternative lifestyles.

I know I can't possibly understand the emotional distress of coming out. I'm sure it's not easy. But to be in the closet for 10, 20, even 30 years? That's a bit excessive, don't you think?

I'm going to do something very radical right now. Yes, I'm going to do a public "outing." I know it's not my business, but this particular individual's obvious "same-sex" tendencies are too much to overlook any longer. I've kept his secret for the majority of my life and I can no longer do it. I think this is what he wants. It's out of his hands now.

If his mother is reading this, I apologize you had to find out this way....

I'm sorry Ronald. I had to do it. I got my kids a Happy Meal the other day and there you were, taunting me with your gayness. Like the serial killer who drops clues for the police cause he wants to be caught, I believe you flaunted yourself on that Happy Meal box so that I would 'out' you. I think it's what you wanted. I hope it's what you wanted.

I can't understand why you have never had the strength to do it yourself? Might it be that McDonald's wouldn't appreciate an alternative mascot? Might you have noticed that as soon as Tinky Winky announced his preference for other "winkies," his show conveniently went off the air?

I hope this doesn't impact your career. My apologies if it does. However, as a peace offering, there's someone I'd like you to meet. I think you'll get along famously. And he's a real nut!

A Wimpy Fortune

2006-05-21T13:46:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Wishy-washy fortunes. I like fortunes that go for broke. Fortunes like, "you will get rich TONIGHT!" or "You will meet someone special" or "If fortunes don't work, then why are you reading this?" -- you know, fortunes you can actually sink your teeth into. Fortunes that perhaps, on a day when you're feeling blue, might provide you with some hope. Fortunes that are THE OPPOSITE of the little wussy one I pulled out of my cookie the other day:

"You should do well at making money?" Tell me something I don't know. Of course I should. Everyone should. You're supposed to tell me that I will, stupid-ass wimp fortune! Since when did fortunes start pussing out on us? I suspect a lawyer is somehow involved. Maybe someone sued the Peking Noodle Co for false advertising. I think it STINKS! I want a fortune that is strong, empassioned, unyielding and a little ballsy. I DON'T want a fortune that is a feeble, non-committal, lily-livered diplomat. I have a president who fulfills those needs!

Weeds in My Salad

2006-05-17T11:53:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Weeds in my salad.

Since when did it become acceptable to toss crabgrass and foxtails and thistle and other WEEDS into an otherwise nice salad? I mean, come on, dogs eat this kind of thing in order to puke! Does it really make sense, then, to include it with the lettuce that I'm about 2 minutes away from eating?

I used to be a big iceberg fan, but begrudgingly gave it up after finding out it had no health benefits and that it was essentially leaf-water. Now I eat the Spring Mix, which I generally like, except for when I get a spiny, prickly, bitter WEED in my mouth! My husband, who you could safely call a "food elitist" because he used to work at the fanciest restaurant in Phoenix, tells me that the spiny, bitter, foul weeds in the Spring Mix are an acquired taste. Yeah? Well so is ass soup, but you don't see me feasting on that either!

I think putting weeds into our salad is a cop-out by greedy manufacturers who don't want to mess with separating the weeds from the lettuce when they go out to the fields to pick our Spring Mix. Don't be surprised if you also find some coyote turds, raven feathers and dirt clods -- I mean, hell, if we're not going to discriminate, then why not toss it all in?

Impeach the Dough Boy

2006-05-11T14:53:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Fear. Fear has stood between me and something very near and dear to my heart....biscuits. I love biscuits. They're lumpy but soft, salty but sweet, yeasty but doughy, crunchy yet soggy. They make me happy.

But I can't eat them much anymore. Why? Because of Fear. Fear of exploding biscuits to be more exact. Given that I'm an aspiring writer, let me see if I can translate this fear into a simile for you: Holding a can of biscuits is like holding a live grenade. I've had cans of biscuits detonate in my fridge and I'll be cleaning dough carnage out of the rim of my Diet Coke cans for months. I'm sorry, but this FREAKIN FRIGHTENS ME.

Is it just me, or has the gravitational pull inside of the biscuit cans of this century become more powerful? I could actually open a can of biscuits circa 1989/90 without much memory of it, but nowadays, I start sweating profusely, having panic attacks, feeling my right ventricle tighten.

Call me a baby if you must, but I'll point out that it's not just my imagination. My fear is legitimized by a very large caution message on the back of the biscuit can. "To ensure safety while opening," it says, "always point can ends away from you and others."

Let me put it another way: "if you like that left eye, PUT THE BISCUIT OOZIE DOWN!!!!!!!!"

You think I have it bad, think about the eldery population. Unfortunately, many-a-senior has passed on shortly after opening a "Big N Flaky." Coincidence? You be the judge. I found the following on the Internet (I swear):

Even opening a packet of biscuits can be a major struggle for an elderly person; the Institute of Grocery Distribution report that 42% of the elderly people they interviewed found biscuit packets difficult or impossible to open.

Rather than tinkering with an obstinate biscuit can, these seniors need to REJOICE! You're alive, Grandma! Praise the Lord!

For the others not as lucky, well, I have to ask: How many more lives are going to be complicated, or perhaps lost, due to the poor and selfish packaging of Pillsbury? I say it's time to BOYCOTT BISCUITS. Will you join me? Here are some picket slogans if you're interested:

"Hell no, we (don't) want dough"

"Guns don't kill people. Biscuits kill people."

"Make love. Not war. Or Biscuits."

"Impeach the Doughboy."

For the love of the children

2006-05-09T16:45:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Crimes against children. There is nothing worse, because children are so innocent and so sweet (and let's not forget that without them, I so won't get a social security check when I'm old). The Oregon Poison Center is standing up for children's rights, and I applaud them. This photo was showcased on their website. It's a great public service reminder of the adversities that children are subjected to on a daily basis -- sometimes in their OWN homes and with their OWN parents at fault.

Does this picture just make you sick or what? That poor child. Had the hidden camera not been there to interrupt this near-catastrophe, what would the fate be of this cute little kid? Shame on her parents! I think you'll agree with me in suggesting they should be SHOT, or at least locked up for life. I mean, come on. They must know the danger that awaits this child. It just....it makes me...sooooooooooooooo angry. So friggin mad that I could spit!

If this girl's parents are reading this, I have a message to you. Yeah, you. It may be harsh. And you may not want to hear it. But I must intervene here. Your daughter's life depends on it. So this is for you: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, CUT THAT POOR CHILD'S DOROTHY HAMILL MULLET! YEAH, SHE'S ONLY LIKE 3 NOW AND PROBABLY ONLY GETTING RANDOM KICKS ON THE SHINS BY HER PEERS IN PRESCHOOL, BUT BY THE TIME SHE'S OF SCHOOL AGE, AND SHE COMES WALKING ON CAMPUS WITH THAT "NICHOLAS FROM EIGHT IS ENOUGH" HAIRDO, SHE'S GOING TO BE BOMBARDED WITH NOOGIES, PURPLE NURPLES, WEDGIES, INDIAN BURNS, GENERAL ASS KICKINGS AND POSSIBLY HOMICIDE. NOW, TELL HER TO SHUT THAT MEDICINE CABINET AND GET HER ASS IN THE CAR AND HEAD TO SUPERCUTS NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWW!

Unidentified NASTY Object

2006-05-03T19:39:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Unidentified Objects of the Kitchen. It's disgusting to find something about whose origins you are clueless -- and to find it on the place where you prepare your family's food is downright gaggy.

Unidentified Objects of the Kitchen are inferior only to Unidentified Objects of the Bathroom, and their slightly more sinister cousins, Unidentified Objects of the Private Parts (which usually involve tweezers and/or penicillin).

Here is a picture of the Unidentified Object of the Kitchen (UKO) that I found when cleaning under my knife block the other day.

I know, huh? Totally McNasty. When I first discovered it hiding under that knife block, I kind of jumped back a bit and gasped. Then I was like: silly me; I thought that was something disgusting but it's really just a French Burnt Peanut. And I looooooove French Burnt Peanuts. They remind me of my childhood. Mmm. Haven't had one in a good 10 years. Wait a cotton-pickin' minute! I've only owned this house for FIVE years. That can't be a French Burnt Peanut! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Have you ever noticed that when you find something "foreign," you employ your senses in this order: SEE it, TOUCH it, SMELL it, TASTE it, DIE. Well, in this case, I chose only to SEE it from a comfortable distance. I can't get bochilism; I'm a mother for god's sakes.

Based on my visual inspection of the UKO, here are a few ideas as to its identity:

-- A Petrified Gizzard from when my mom carved a turkey at my house 2 Thanksgivings ago. (And you wonder why I'm a vegetarian?) This is my most solid theory, because when something "petrifies," it turns red. Seriously. Have you ever visited the Petrified Forest?

-- My cat's gall bladder. About 3 days prior to finding this anomoly, I winced with sympathy as my cat took on a Linda Blair persona while trying to dislodge what I thought to be a hairball. Now I'm thinking it was more likely an internal organ. Perhaps the one found on my counter.

-- A red m&m, shipped from Chernobyl.

-- A bloody fingertip that my husband, the police officer, forgot to leave at the impound yard and needed to find a safe haven for.

-- Rudolph's nose. (Sad, but our dogs do get pretty feisty when someone enters our family territory. Santa and his obnoxious clan is no exception.)

-- "Big Toe" toenail of the devil.

Perhaps it is none of these. I may never know. Are there any crime scene investigators out there who could offer some insight?

When in America, do as the Americans do

2006-05-02T09:26:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Immigrants who come to America and start acting like they make the rules. They start conspiring, threatening our great nation, not following OUR rules. Maybe even go out to march for their rights -- piss a few Americans off in the meantime. Yes, if you haven't guessed it by now, I am speaking of THE ENGLISH. So, what, you are probably asking, have the English done to make me sooooooooo want to deport their blokey asses back to London? They VEER TO THE LEFT on any walking path known to man. Hello? We're in AMERICA now. Get over to the right, like the rest of us!

This morning, I woke up in a good mood and decided to take an early morning hike. My mirthful mood quickly gave way to a more cantankerous one when this course of events happened: I am tredging up a 45-degree hill (and who said this was fun?); it's 6 a.m. and already 90 degrees; a swarm of flies the size of golfballs are increasingly infatuated by my body's ripeness; and I pass about a dozen or so ENGLISH people coming the other direction and they are ON MY EFFING SIDE OF THE ROAD.

When I'm sweaty and hot and tired and being courted by flies, the last thing I need to worry about it changing my course up the mountain. Yet, each time one of these hateful little buggers challenges me in a right lane/left lane duel, I always cave first. Here's a little insight into the internal dialogue as I approach one of these rude bastards:

Another mother effer on the wrong side of the path. Must be English. I'm still 50 feet away. He'll get over. Won't he? Why isn't he? Rude idiot Prince William-loving asshole. GET OVER! This is my side. Hello? We're not in Liverpool anymore. Okay, I'm going to look down. Look down. Don't make eye contact. He'll think you're so wrapped up in your athleticism that you hardly even notice he's there. He'll let you have the right of way based on your brawn alone. Don't look up. Don't look up. Gosh, he's getting closer and he isn't moving over. Don't look up. So close. Ahhhhhhhhhh. You dumbass. Why'd you look up? Now he knows you know he's there. And he's willing to see this duel to the end. Well, guess what? I ain't moving over. This is my American-right to have this side. I am not moving over. Not moving over. Not...dammit. Why did I move over? I hate you, you scumbaggy Hugh Grant-loving, tea-drinking, biscuit-eating, Tony Blair-following ASS! &^%$# Oh, and another thing: **&^%$@#@. You *&%&%&%&* jerk. Eat &&^%$ and *&^%$$. Your momma is a &*^^%$$. (Audibly) Good Morning. How are you?

God: I am happy for my life and what you provide me. Thank you. I hate to be an ingrate, but I do have just one little, teensy, weensy complaint: WHY THE HELL DID YOU FORGET TO GIVE ME A BACKBONE?

p.s. Today is my birthday. Instead of a present, I'd like to ask that you send the link for this blog to 3 people who you think might enjoy it. (Perhaps even some ENGLISH PEOPLE in need of American etiquette training.) Oh, and a comment once in awhile might be nice, you selfish bastards!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Got Milk (that looks like jizz on your lip)?

2006-04-28T21:50:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Ejaculate-like milk moustaches.

Is it just me, or does this picture make you want to go wash yourself thoroughly and perhaps read the bible? I'm sorry, but this is perverted. "Rock hard"? Creamy, milky substance squirted on parted lips? Exposed navel? Magically suspended guitar case? You do the math. Are we really selling milk here?

Here's a question: when's the last time you drank milk that was the consistency of Soft Scrub (and lived to read this blog)? Do they think that a gelatinous, semen-like white stripe on the upper lip of celebrities is really going to make us want to drink milk? Probably not. It may, on the other hand, make us want to buy a case of Elmer's glue. I see a potential co-branding opportunity here.

I hate to pick on Sheryl, given she's just overcome breast cancer and all, but I'm sorry...what's with the golden cotton candy hair? I actually liked it a lot better on Dolly Parton.

It's a Man's World

2006-04-26T18:52:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Inequality of the sexes. It happens in the real world; it happens in the toy world. Check out the latest Polly Pocket cast. They are the "four career" dolls. Of course, the man gets to be the doctor. Not only that, but he comes with his own set of gender-bending accoutrements. (They originally created only a white doctor's bag for him, but he told the company it made him look like a homo, so he made sure they designed a black doc case as well.) His physician's salary has supported the regular treatments of Botox he receives. Just look at those "deer in the headlight" eyes. That's money well spent. Nice work.

Notice the role of the women in the Polly Career Set. The women are relegated to much less dignified livelihoods. Woman #1 is an artist. Woo-woo. She only became an artist because her grandma fashioned her a smock out of her grand-dad's old butcher's suit. It just fell into place from there. She doesn't know it, but the red cravat that Grandma stitched is terribly intimidating to men. "Polly Artist" hasn't been laid in 2 years. And she's so poor that she's eaten Ramen for the past 12 days. Yeah, nice role model.

Woman #2 is a chef for a private resident. She used to have an apron that actually covered the area most likely to be soiled by food, but the private resident told her he was paying good money to see "them tits" and demanded that she shorten the apron to below the waist. In this particular picture, she's really forcing a smile because her private resident just asked her to cook up some chocolate-covered oysters and she's a little concerned over where this will lead. She has thoughts of leaving the private resident and going to work for Chilis, but the private resident is a little bit psycho and she worries he'll pull a "Fatal Attraction" maneuver on her little yellow cat.

Woman #3 is a good old-fashioned whore. What set of career toys is complete without the token hooker? Unfortunately, this particular whore probably doesn't make a ton of money. Why? Because she's so pigeon-toed that she can't even walk, let alone spread em' for the horny dudes who try to pick her up on Van Buren Avenue only to eventually drive away in disgust because they are too weak to hoist her electric wheelchair into the back of their car. Role model? Come on -- her legs will atrophy into toothpicks in 2, 3 years tops. At least she'll have that fur-lined housecoat to wear when her pimp eventually dumps her off at the Assisted Living Facility.

Desperate Housewives

2006-04-24T14:48:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? When people scrutinize my groceries. Not only is this a violation of my personal space, but it invites small talk. And I HATE small talk. Today, the nosy woman in line in front of me began perusing my goods as I loaded them onto the conveyor belt. She eventually pointed her nosy-ass finger toward some aspect of my groceries, shaking her head up and down in approval like we were kismet-ically related soulmates or something. I tried to ignore her, but there is no ignoring busy bodies.

"Interesting," she murmured. I didn't know what she was referring to, but I was certainly glad that it was canned food week and not toiletry week.

"Gardenburger wraps, eh?" She was begging for attention, any kind of attention.

"Yes," I conceded, my good samaritan deed for the week. Entertained a lonely housewife, I'd write on my good deeds calendar.

"Interesting that you eat that those when you're not even a vegetarian," she said. At this point, I was ready to poke her in the eyeballs. The last thing I needed to do was to justify my purchases and my dietary trends to some meddling house-frau!

"Actually, I am vegetarian," I justified, because I needed to set the record straight.

"Oh..." she said, as if she'd just busted me in a lie. Then she paused.... "because...well... I see you have bacon bits."

She thought she'd outted me -- revealed my meat-eating ways to the entire line of housewives in aisle 8. I whipped the bottle of bacon bits around and pointed out the ingredient list.

"What most meat eaters don't know," I advised, while my pointer finger ran across the top line of ingredients, a Vanna White-type maneuver that added punch to my presentation, "is that store-bought bacon bits are exclusively made from soy."

Phew. Now she could go back to minding her own business. I had gotten the best of her, set her straight, ended the debate... or so I thought.

"Too much soy is bad for you," she whined, while I tried to conjure up some of the life-ending karate maneuvers I'd learned in my year of taking Judo in college. "I used to eat a lot of it, and it started really messing up my periods."

Oooooooooookay. When you're in line at the grocery store conversing with perfect strangers on menses-related themes, you fully understand the meaning of the word "surreal." As the checkout lady leisurely scanned the items of the many other chatty, desparate housewives in front of me, I had to listen to how this previous soy-eater endured excessive bleeding, bloated ovaries, irregular cycles and many other equally enthralling pre-menopausal symptoms. AND IT WAS ALL BECAUSE OF SOY, she made sure to remind me.

After Chatty Kathy finally bought her groceries and moved along, I had a few minutes to myself. I found myself considering whether I should return to eating meat. I mean, come on, nobody wants to change a tampon every half hour and that's that this woman promised I was in store for! But after a second or two, I realized that to start eating meat might make me NOSY and MEDDLESOME and SNOOPY and FRICKIN ANNOYING and pretty soon I'd start accosting perfect strangers with private restroom stories that nobody should have to hear. No thanks. Pass me the soynuts!

Pumped Up

2006-04-19T19:29:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? That muscle weighs more than fat. I've packed on 10 pounds in the past few weeks. I thought it was due to overeating, but everyone I mention it to reminds me that MUSCLE WEIGHS MORE THAN FAT. I keep on forgetting that. Duh! So, now I can breathe a sigh of relief. I'm not getting fat; I'm getting buff. In fact, I've gained a whopping 40 pounds of muscle since I first met my husband. I never really thought about it, but I guess I'm really ripped. The other day, I could swear that I saw sheets of cellulite rippling across the back of my thighs, but that must have just been bulging muscle! Phew. Good thing.

What is that muscle called that is lining your inner thighs? The one that cuts off all circulation to the crotch because it's so massive? Whatever it's called, mine is HUGE. I haven't had a dry pair of panties in YEARS!

I'm also gifted with extremely robust muscles about my mid-section. These particular tendons are soooo hardy that they've dangerously launched quite a few buttons from my pants across crowded rooms! Protect your eyeballs, people!

I can't believe I didn't figure this out sooner. Here I was thinking I was getting fat. Stupid me. I mean, come on, do you have any idea how heavy that Marie Callender's pie I finished off last night was? I'm not joking -- there was AT LEAST a pound of banana cream filling in that thing. I had to literally use two hands to get it out of the fridge. What's my point? Muscle building...duh. I seriously doubt some of my more frail and... ahem... weak friends could even lift that thing. No offense. There's nothing wrong with being wimpy; it's just not for me.

Stealing is BAD

2006-04-18T10:10:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? THIEVES. I don't hate thieves for moral reasons as much as for their impact on me personally. Stealers have complicated my life with added inconvenience.

Ever try to buy condoms from the shelves of Walgreens? Probably not, because THEY'RE NOT THERE. Horny thieves have pocketed one-too-many prophylactics and so now, you have to go to the pharmacist and ask him or her to hand you a pack from behind the counter. This, as you all know, is way too embarrassing for the average person, who then resorts to the rhythm method and ends up with 24 kids.

Ever strolled into Kmart with snot dripping out your nostrils and an uncontrollable cough, and you reach your flu-throbbing hand toward the spot where you've always purchased your trusty Sudafed only to find.... IT AIN'T THERE? Instead, there sits a little cardboard sign that advises you to pick the cold medicine up from behind the pharmacy. Why? Because meth addicted THIEVES have pocketed one-too-many Dimetapp tablets so they can cook up their homemade drugs! Annoying!

Ever try to purchase a can of spray paint from Home Depot so you can quickly change a 1-inch knob on your kid's dresser from pink to purple? What's that? The paint is locked behind a steel gate? And you kind find a customer service associate anywhere in sight? And when you do, that customer service associate is helping some guy buy the stuff to frame a 3000-square-foot house and will get to you when he's done? Oh, yeah, for that, you can thank the THIEVES who have pocketed one-too-many ozone (and lung) wrecking cans of spray paint so they can take it home and sniff it to get high. Double Annoying!

And, last but not least, my favorite. Ever try to go to Bookmans to purchase the "Bible to Go" as a download to your palm pilot, so that when you're in a meeting at work, you can reaquaint yourself with a little John 3:16 or a tad of Romans 12:1? Well, forget about it, because the "Bible To Go" has been lifted from Bookman's shelves one-too-many times, so now it's encased in a tamper-resistant shield which can only be opened by the Bookman's manager who may or may not be on duty when you feel the urge to purchase the "Bible to Go." For this, you can thank all those hoodlums who sniffed a little paint, cooked up a little meth, then went on a crime spree of massive proportions -- first a murder of an opposing gang member, then an armed bank robbery, then a beating of a homeless man, then a stop at Bookmans for a "Bible To Go" heist. What a lovely world we live in...

The Handicapped Paradox

2006-04-11T14:54:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Paradoxes. For those of you with small vocabularies, a paradox is when two things are contradictory and don't make a shit of sense. That description is straight from Webster by the way. The reason I don't like paradoxes is because they boggle my brain. The one that recently started my mind into a spiraling pit of disillusionment was The Handicapped Paradox. I know, I know -- they're handicapped. Give them a break. Cut them some slack. They've been dealt a bad hand. Right? Sorry! They annoy the hell out of me. Yes, I'm mean. Live with it. Okay?

So, here's why the Handicapped miff me AND represent the ultimate paradox. When you're in your car on the road, and in a hurry (or maybe even NOT in a hurry, but wanting to do the speed limit at least), who is always in front of you going 2 miles per hour? If you answered, "the handicapped," then give yourself 2 points.

But when you're walking from Old Navy to Wet Seal, and trying to enjoy the sites and aromas of the lovely Metrocenter Mall, from whom do you hear a quickly approaching motorized scooter on your heels? Who nearly flattens your 5-year-old and sends you over the railing of the second mall layer? Who is ironically doing quadruple the speed in their scooter, which has a lawnmower motor, than they do in their Lincoln towncar, which has a V6? Who approaches and hollers, abruptly and impatiently, "Excuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuse me. I need to get around!!"? If you answered, "the handicapped," then you've solved the riddle of The Handicapped Paradox.

Can't they just be consistent?

Invasion of Privacy

2006-04-06T21:00:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? SPAM. Not the meat. It is actually pretty yummy not to mention the fact that it's the only meat that can be cut with a cheese slicer. No, I'm referring to EMAIL spam. I didn't used to hate it when it was innocent, trying to get you to buy certain things, try certain things, look at naked people doing it, etc.

But lately, SPAMMERS have gone too far. My privacy is being compromised! Spammers now know me personally. I think they've set up hidden cameras in my home. Are they protected under the Patriot Act? I just don't know. What I DO know is that they know my full name, my ancestry (something about an uncle I didn't know existed who died and left me his entire estate -- I just need to give his lawyer all my bank and credit card info and it's a done deal), what city I live in and what types of things I tend to purchase.

And recently, well.... ummmmm..... they have unscrupulously gone and broadcast a very embarrassing hygeinic problem that I suffer from. How do they know? Is my toilet seat tapped? Not sure, but here's the email that came today to prove that my privacy has indeed been exploited.

I've been outed. Yes, for the love of God, I have POOP PROBLEMS. OKAY? Are you all happy now? What, is the next email going to mention something about a "curious itch." I mean, nevermind. Forget I mentioned it. I gotta go. I have my metamucil smoothie on the blender.

Famous At Last!

2006-04-05T22:34:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? All the paperwork you have to fill out to get into the Guiness Book of World Records. It's really a pain, but it will all be worth it when you open it and see my entry for the world's most mutilated piece of split-ended hair.

Hot Wax treatment, Schot Shmax treatment.

Speaking of world's records, remember when Bobby and Cindy Brady tried to set the record for the longest teeter-tottering session? They were sooooooooooo tired, bless their little hearts.

You Know What I Love???

2006-04-04T09:15:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? People who tell me I'm cynical. My husband has a blog of his own -- a play-by-play of his police adventures. He gets way more hits than I do. The other day he tried to do something helpful by putting in a link to my blog. I wasn't happy about it. His readership is wayyyyyyyyy different than mine.

A few days later, lo and behold, someone wrote this in his blog:

"She seems cynical and not happy?" I read in complete annoyance. "Well you seem pustulated and not potty trained" I said to absolutely no one. Then I got to thinking. Maybe this person is right. Maybe I am a little too cynical. Maybe my hatred is taking over my soul. So, I started to reconnect with my nicer side. Started remembering the types of things that used to make me smile. Conjuring up the images that have always rendered me giggly and exultant. Summoning the events in my life that have put a sparkle in my heart. And here's what I came up with:

You know what I love? Sitting outside and letting the wind brush past my face. It almost feels as if I'm being stroked by a feather, or God, or maybe even my dead Aunt Leona. Aunt Leona did have a farm full of chickens, so it's not such a stretch to imagine this. Yeah...it's really a nice feeling.

You know what I love? Puppies. Their little hot breath and their plump little tongues and their wet noses nudging your leg to play and their soft little ears and even the way they eat their own diarrhea. So darned cute :)

You know what I love? That I saw two pigeons rolling around together on the asphalt the other day. I think they were having a tickle fight! I didn't know that pigeons had tickle fights, but I was so happy to learn that they indeed do :)

You know what I love? The beach. I love the way it feels on my feet. Like a pedicure I didn't have to pay for:) I love the way you can look out on the ocean for miles and miles and see absolutely nothing. I love the dead fishy smell -- so ORGANIC. I love the way my palms sweat ever so slightly when I'm on the beach. Not because of the humidity but because I know that out there somewhere, there are critters that can swallow me whole. The circle of life I like to call it. Makes me get goosebumps:)

You know what I love? Magnificient, breathtaking art. The masters really have a way of making we "mere mortals" feel inferior. But remember, gifts come in all types of packages. I certainly like to live by this adage. I may not be the best artist, but my gift is in being an art conniseur. I love art. Art makes my heart beat fast. Sometimes it makes me gasp, for I love to behold its beauty. Here is one of my favorite pieces, by artist unknown.

There's so much more that I love -- I can't possibly mention it all here. But it's with me. In my heart. In my soul. THANK YOU, anonymous, for allowing me to reconnect with my sensitive side. And for all the rest of you, I want to remind you that there is no calling "shotgun" when you're in my car. JESUS is my co-pilot!!!! :)

LOVE and KISSES,

Vicki

Feast of the Foul Faction

2006-04-03T22:11:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Hosting Garage Sales. I'm so effing stingy that I don't give my old junk away like good samaritans ought to. Instead, I suffer through 4 agonizing hours of dealing with what I like to call the Foul Faction. The Foul Faction is that segment of our society that nobody likes. They're a despicable lot -- freakish, ill-mannered, ugly and extremely tight-fisted. The Foul Faction underground must have posted flyers announcing my garage sale, cause they were ALL there.

Hosting garage sales allows me to reconnect with my hateful side. This can be a good thing if you write a blog called "You Know What I Hate." Here are some of the more memorable events of the Garage Sale.

1) They guy who scanned the goods we had out, then asked, "Miss -- do you happen to have any war memoribilia?" to which I responded, "Oh, hmmm. Yeah, that would be in Aisle 10. Do you want me to get you a price check on that, too? I have a self-scanning machine right here that you can use? And are you interested in our complimentary gift-wrap services. Oh, and can I help you out to your car today?"

2) The woman who refused to pay the asking price of $2 for my Gap Jeans, saying it wasn't fair because she didn't know if her daughter would fit into them, to which I responded, "Listen, bitch, the fact that your daughter can't stop shoveling twinkies down her bloated hatch ain't my problem. Now pay the two dollars OR PUT THE JEANS BACK!"

3) The woman who picked up an old dress of my daughter's and asked, "How much?," to which I responded, "One dollar," to which she responded, "One dollar? For this?" at which point I became very offended at her insinuation that my daughters' clothes were ugly and worthless, so I pointed to her high-waisted Faded Glory jeans that were giving her camel toe and laughed hysterically.

4) The gentlemen who stacked up a crap load of shit -- portable TV, old dishes, some Doc Marten shoes -- and asked me how much for all of it, to which I responded, "15 dollars" to which they looked at me pathetically and said, "but we only have $10" to which I responded, "well then you either need to go sell some plasma or put some of that shit back you morons."

5) The woman who picked up my size 14 jeans and asked "how do these fit?" to which I responded, "they fit more like a size 12" to which she whined, "oh, but I'm only an 8" to which I responded, "well congratulations, Karen Carpenter. You're a stick and I'm a big fattie. Now I'm going to go to my room and cry. Happy now?"

As I sat in my room crying that I'd never be a size 8, my husband packed everything up in large black trashbags and headed to Goodwill, where we should have started our day out all along.

Down with Redbook!!!

2006-03-29T10:09:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Women's magazines. I am a subscriber to a couple of them for one reason or another. Some I got free; some as gifts. I read them from cover to cover so that I can realize what a zit-faced, sexually incompetent, frizzy haired, poor dressing fatty two by four I am. Come on -- you know it's true. You read those magazines and realize that you're doing EVERYTHING wrong. You thought you could apply eye liner right after 20 years? You moron -- you CAN'T. But thankfully, Redbook is there to teach you how.

You know what really bugs me about these women's magazines? That they are pretty much exclusively about men. It's as if all we females care about is learning more about our alternative species. I don't know about you, but I don't sit around all day thinking, "I wonder what my husband REALLY thinks of these thighs" or "I wonder how I can make my husband even more horny." Bleck!

This month in Redbook, there is a lovely feature on "what your husband is really thinking when you're having sex." I don't know about you, but I don't give a rat's ass what he's thinking. I just know I want him to think it fast so I can un-pause my TiVo'd Little House on the Prairie rerun.

How come men's magazines aren't filled with crap about women? Oh, that's right. CAUSE THEY WOULDN'T BUY IT. This is one area where I give men some credit. They know what they like, and they are always sure to fill their magazines up with this stuff. Men's magazines have stuff like boobs and guns and golf. All the stuff men actually like. Do you think men would buy magazines that made them question themselves as much as women's magazines do? Let me draft up some teasers and let you be the judge.

HOW TO MAKE YOUR PENIS LOOK LARGER
...cause you can't make love for shit and you need something in your favor

CHECK OUT THE LATEST RUBBER CELEBRITY MASKS
...cause your wife is tired of looking at your ugly ass face

INCREASE YOUR EMOTIONAL INTELLIGENCE
...to as high as a third grade level with these easy tips

THE MYSTERY OF THE G SPOT
...You idiot. You actually thought you found it?

LEARNING TO LISTEN
...cause you are one dumb asshole and everyone's tired of hearing you talk

Now, I ask you: would a man buy a magazine like this? NO. He wouldn't. So why do we women buy magazines that make us doubt ourselves? Magazines that promote our insecurities? Magazines that prey on our low self esteems? Well, I really think it's time to...if you've been reading this blog faithfully you know what I'm going to say here...it's time to BOYCOTT lame women's magazines. Bon voyage, Redbook. Hasta La Vista, Cosmo. Toodle-doo Women's Day. The bonfire in my backyard is just about ready.

Truth in Advertising

2006-03-23T22:18:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? False Advertising. This particular advertisement came in my weekly Val-U-Pak. I was checking out all the fancy checks this place offers, and trying to decide whether I'd rather have Betty Boop or the Smurfs.

Then I noticed the lady that is pictured next to the 1-800 number. Come on, now. Let's get real. That lady is NOT sitting in the Checks Unlimited call center making $6.50 an hour.

If you've dialed into a call center lately, you know what I'm talking about. It's always a treat, isn't it?

Here are some pictures of some of the people whom I've talked to lately when I've dialed into various call centers.

I often get this guy... He could give two shits about customer service. FU&% Yo Customer Service, lady!

And I also sometimes speak to this lady... She's really happy to be working. And sitting on the phone all day is way better than greeting people on their way into Walmart.

And I even get this guy...particularly when I call really huge credit card companies... His name is Jack Nelson, but I could swear that I heard someone in the background yelling "Samir, Samir!" He is really nice, but I have no fu&*ing idea what the hell he's saying.

If you encounter any of my friends on your phone lines, please say Hello from me!

American Tardol

2006-03-21T19:12:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Kevin Covais. He's like a bad nightmare that just keeps returning each Tuesday night on American Idol.

Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't recall the show being called "American Tardol." Cause if it was, then I'd be expecting to see Corky Thatcher from the show "Life Goes On." He's my favorite tard in the world. He also has impeccible pitch. If you don't believe me, listen really closely for his little tard voice during the family's chorus of that "oob la dee, oob la da, life goes ooooooooooon" song that introduced the show each week. He totally rocks.

And while I'm on the subject, I don't recall the show being called "American LISPol" either. How is it that someone who sounds like Sylvester the Cat is in America's Top 10? What's next? "American Cleft Palatedol?"

I used to like Kevin Covais -- but that was when he was the underdog of the show. When he was still humble -- like the geeky tard-like kid who's somehow managed to stop the camera at the Idol auditions ought to be. Lately, however, the power has clearly gone to his head. The little perve suddenly thinks he's hot because Paula more or less molests him each show. Disgusting. Kev's bloated father even seems to find fault with Paula's overt violation of his little boy. He's always beet red.

Kevin Covais reminds me of those kids in grade school who act like they're proud to be a nerd, and who pretend to hate all the jocks, but if given the opportunity, they dump their fellow nerds in a heartbeat to be part of the jock crowd. And this usually on happens because one of the jocks is porking their older sister. That's Kev for you. Pre-Hollywood, he probably had a frumpy, little pimply girlfriend who liked to play Magic The Gathering. But ever since Kelly Picklar pinched his cheeks, the Magic the Gathering girl probably hasn't heard two words from him.

As I write this, he's probably performing some dorky uptempo song and thrusting his little deflated pelvis all over the stage. I've TiVo'd it so I can fast forward through the LESS appealing parts of the show!

BTK Barbie

2006-03-17T13:28:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Dollies. Almost everything having to do with mothering two little girls is fantastic. Except the dollies. Yesterday, my idiot cat peed on a couple of 'em. He pees on everything, except litter. I think he has some type of genitically-defective penis.

I proceeded to do what I always do when he soils our goods: I threw the dollies in the washing machine. When the spin cycle stopped, I reached in and started pulling out a vareity of piss-stained items. I gasped when I pulled this out:

Yeah, I know. You thought Linda Blair's spinning head gave you nightmares. Wait until you go to bed tonight. It won't be pretty; believe me. I woke up 3 times last night hyperventilating. This is no Malibu Barbie. It's more like B.T.K Barbie.

When snapping this shot of B.T.K Barbie, I also decided to let you have a glimpse into the floor of our garage. Not so you could see the mounds of dirty clothes and miscellaneous junk with no other place to go, but so that you could see this:

It's another dollie. One who appears to be the victim of BTK Barbie. Look at her creepy pink face. Why is she designed to look like a strangulation victim? She also has boobs and a navel and though you can't decipher her scale by this picture, let me tell you that she stands about as tall as my 7-year-old. Creepy? You bet. In fact, I suspect that if we're ever investigated on serial murder charges, we'll be gassed based on this grizzly image alone. This is what our garage floor will look like after the investigation:

My daughters refuse to leave dollie's clothes on her. And I'm pretty sure my dogs have had their way with her. I suppose it's time to throw her away, but I'm too scared to put her into my garbage can. You never know what type of perve will take her and torment her. Boy would I love it if our life was more simplified by tonka trucks, plastic guns and green army men!

Rainbow Spray

2006-03-15T16:58:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? When you are at work, and you sneeze, and you decide not to cover your mouth and nose (because it's YOUR space) and then your computer monitor has a bunch of little snot drippings on it and these nasal specks turn the monitor into a rainbow of colors (in the areas where the driblets occur) and then you try to wipe the whole thing clean with the fleshy side of your little sweaty hand, which really smears it all into a bigger rainbow, and then the guy in the cubicle next door to you who hasn't "visited" over the wall in 2 months decides he needs to ask you a question and you're caught, red handed (or rainbow-handed as it were), and even though the guy in the cubicle next door is fat and ugly, he scowls as if he's just learned you have crabs or something.

Granted, now that I've been unemployed for 5 months, this hasn't happened in awhile, but I just sprayed a good one all over my flat-screen at home (it looked like the monitor had rainbow measles) and was reminded of what can happen when you're NOT in the comfort of your own home. Hallelujah for unemployment!

The '80s -- My Undignified Decade

2006-03-14T13:29:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Memories of my adolescence. I mean, I'm sure there was a good time or two to be had in there somewhere, but in general, looking back on the time period between roughly 1980 and 1990 is painful. The problem with this decade-or-so interval in my life is that I was an imbecile. The worst of it all is that I really, truly thought I was cool.

I was reminded of how shameful the events of this decade were as my family and I were stuck in traffic on I-17 for an hour the other night. Have you listened to radio in Phoenix lately? Yeah, let me save you some time: you can have either spanish, christian or the 80s. We chose the '80s. As we suffered through the the Pretty in Pink soundtracks and the one-hit wonders and the glam rockers, I found myself reminiscing about this most despicable point in my life. Here's what stuck with me most:

1) Senior Prom. I decided to wear a spaghetti-strapped gown. I had never worn anything sleeveless, and found myself wondering what would happen to any perspiration that might accumulate in the underpit area. In my typically freakish way, I came up with a plan to outsmart the sweat. I would start layering deodorant upon deodorant early in the morning, so by the time my date picked me up at 6 p.m., I'd have an anti-perspirant shield that nothing could penetrate. The name of this game was 'variety.' I combined roll-ons, sprays and solids until my pits were invincible. The problem was that at about 6:30 p.m., just as my date and I were arriving at dinner, I could feel my pits tingling. I also started to smell a strange aroma. I quickly excused myself to the restroom to take a sniff. IT WAS MY PITS!! In creating the anti-sweat shield, I had apparently activated a chemical reaction that gave me the worst BO that I'd ever had, or ever smelled -- even on bums! Needless to say, the evening was cut short by my insisting that I had a tummy ache. I'm sure my date was glad to get rid of me. He probably had to get his car fumugated.

2) My Gross Boyfriend. You know the phrase "better to be alone for the right reasons than with someone for the wrong reasons?" Yeah, apparently I hadn't heard that one yet in 1984, when I got my first high school boyfriend. He was my "sure thing" -- a greasy, more-or-less illiterate, pimply jock. His good qualities were that he said "yes" to going with me. "Now I'm cool like the seniors," I praised myself. "I have a jock boyfriend." Meanwhile, I'm sure I was the laughing stock of Tolleson High. That guy was of Special Olympics-quality for sure. Most disgusting is the fact that he loooooooooooved hamburgers. He'd buy 2 or 3 of them every day (thus the pimples). One day, when making out by the lockers (PDA = cool), a juicy hamburger wod that had been making its home in between Molars #8 and 9 of my disgusting boyfriend was passed from his mouth to mine. It was so incredibly disgusting. Soooooooo disgusting. I eventually got it swallowed down. Then I dated him for another 2 years.

3) My "Drug Habit." Okay, this one is a stretch, because I never ever took drugs. But, I sure got some mileage out of pretending I did. This particular event happened around 1982. I had a seventh-grade crush on a kid named "Cody." I wrote his name EVERYWHERE -- on folders, desktops, bathroom mirrors, my hand. One day, my older sister (Julie -- the one who bullied me into the Sperry Top-Sider knock-offs) saw his name plastered all over my skin. "His name is Cody? You should call him Codeine," she said. "What is codeine?" I asked, naively. "A drug," she said. "A drug", I amused myself. "How cool is that." (I didn't realize that it was a legal drug used to treat headaches.) The next day, I plastered the words "I love Codeine" all over the grade school campus. My parents got a phone call that evening. Their suspicion never waned after that day.

Throwback Fashions

2006-03-07T17:50:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? The disdain with which this country treats our homebound citizens. We shun them, trick them, laugh at them -- then put them in really ugly clothes. What I'm referring to is something that you and I don't have to deal with. We have cars. We can leave our homes to shop for the latest fashions. But for a homebound citizen -- whether that be someone who is elderly or someone with no legs -- there is no Kmart. No Walmart. No Old Navy.

Which leads me to this:

What is it? It's a culotte ad. It came in the Sunday paper; in the coupon section to be exact. At first, I looked at it and laughed. "Nobody has worn these things since the early 80's," I humored myself. But then, my frown turned upside down. I remembered how my Granny, who was too frail to drive, loved to shop through mail order. She was a huge fan of Fingerhut, and every Christmas, we were thrilled to receive some of the most innovative gadgets around. I do believe the AM radio/toilet paper holder combo was my favorite.

Granny would have succumbed to the culotte ad. Moreover, she would have purchased them in every color. She would have looked ridiculous in them.

I have no issues with companies selling marketable, stylish items to homebound citizens through mail order. What I DO have an issue with is selling the remnants of the massive Yellow Front closures of the early 80's. Come on -- you know those culottes were not made in this century. They were sitting in some wherehouse for 30 years when some over-achieving corporate idiot decided to pull them out, blow the dust off of them, and place them in the coupon section of Sunday's paper. I bet that invalids and relics all over this country are clogging the phone lines trying to get an order in on those Culottes. Shame on that company!

There were some other items in the paper, all equally shameful. Check out this thing:

Is it a bra or a straight jacket? Read the wording towards the bottom of the ad -- "No More Hooks Front or Back." How the hell do you get it on then? Imagine the guy trying to get to second base with the lady wearing this contraption.

As if putting our nation's homebound citizens into uncomely clothes isn't cruel enough, these evil entrepreneurs have also rounded up an overstock supply of home decor. Collector's item is definitely the right word to describe this montage of Collies! Because I bet only a handful of people purchased them the FIRST time around when they set up a display table at the release of "Lassie" in 1978. If you look closely at the description, they are boasting that these saucers are plated in 23-karat gold. 23 karat? What the hell happened to the other karat?

Granny had a very similar plate, only it featured about 10 owl faces. I think she got it at the T,G and Y. At least when she bought it, it was somewhat in style.

Kleenex Kriminals

2006-03-01T11:03:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? How easy it is to break the law these days. I mean, you don't have to be schlepping around sawed off shotguns or crack pipes to be in violation of the law anymore. In fact, if you've had a cold this winter, then you're most likely a criminal without even knowing it! Here is a picture of what I'm referring to:

Look at the 'Directions for Use' and note that it is indeed a violation of Federal law to use kleenexes in a manner inconsistent with their labeling. What this means is that if you do anything with this tissue other than wipe your nose, you could be LOCKED UP. Think about this the next time you're in the car and your 2-year-old gets chocolate all over his hands and the only thing you can find is your little container of tissues. Is it worth it? Do you really want your little one to have to grow up and tell his friends that his mama is in the slammer all due to the fact that she used a hankie illegally? The stigma!

I'm particularly vulnerable to this situation, because my husband is a cop. I think his allegiance is to me, but you just never know. His quotas might be low and he might see me use a paper hankie to rescue an injured cricket, and he might just whip those handcuffs out and haul me in.

Since when do hankie companies get to make federal laws? I think it's time to boycott Kleenex! And while I'm on this rant, I'll pay $1,000 (in Monopoly dollars) to anyone who can make sense of the sentence that is written on the package next to the red letter "B" in the photo. It contains so many (tons and tons) parentheses (the little things you're seeing here) that you (reader) get all confused (bewildered) and then the end of the sentence comes (finally) and it has some misplaced modifer that makes no sense within the tissue in 15 minutes.

Last, apparently, I've been storing my tissues incorrectly. Store in a dry place, the package says. Dammit! Is that why each time I take them down from the rain gutter where I've been storing them, they have formed into a gooey paste? I'll know better next time. Thank goodness for those handy directions!

WWJD in a game of Twister?

2006-02-21T14:31:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? The sadists over at Mattel and Parker Brothers. Have you ever really looked at the games made for kids? No wonder the youth of today is totally whacked! Actually, many of the games on the shelves these days are the same ones you and I played with ions ago... the ones that made us crazy, too.

Let's begin with Perfection. Talk about an OCD instigator! You've got a timer that sounds like a bomb is about to explode coupled with a shitload of weird shapes and you're trying to jam them in the right spot before that game detonates sending a mushroom cloud of math symbols into the air. I think I once read that they use the game of Perfection on Prisoners of War to make them lose their minds. And let me tell you, it works. I seem to recall my oldest sister playing a lot of Perfection and let's just say that she's not the wellest of women. Unless, of course, it's normal to do things like count how many bites of food you take and to lose sleep over things like a magazine that arrives in the mail with a few bent pages.

Then there's another favorite among the obsessive-compulsive crowd. It's Operation. In the game of Operation, you get a loud 'buzz' and a mild shock anytime your surgical materials touch the pathway into the cardboard body. Yeah, that's what we want the future doctors of America thinking of as they're removing our gall-bladders and bypassing our arteries. Have you ever seen a doctor wince as they begin a surgery? Those are left-over tremors from these poor doctors' Pavlovian experience with this sadistic game! Operation is cruel and unusual punishment for a poor child to have to endure. I mean, come on, you won't put a shock collar on your dog, but you'll ruin a perfectly normal future for your kid just to be in the hip game crowd? Yeah, that makes a lot of sense.

The last of the games that should be burned in a massive bonfire is Twister. Parents, come on. You haven't figured this one out yet? You ever wonder why this game has been around since the 50s? Especially considering it's got a totally boring premise? Yeah, it's not about touching the left leg to the blue dot and the right hand to the yellow circle. It's about little Johnnie brushing past little Sally's pre-pubescent boobie in the name of "innocent fun." If you haven't discovered it yet, I'm here to tell you that Twister may as well be called Pregnancy in a Box. Because when little boys and girls start locking limbs and getting in strange positions with each other, it's all downhill from there. I'm surprised the conservatives haven't managed to take Twister off the market yet. Perhaps I'll send them a letter.

Dirt and Infinity

2006-02-17T10:06:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? This...

What is it? The everlasting dirt line. Why, no matter how many times you scoot the little broom over the lip of the dustpan, is there still a dirt stripe? You can sweep and brush and scoot and glide for hours and still have a hairline dirt crack. They teach you about this kind of thing in school -- you know, in those discussions about infinity. Like, there are an infinite number of numbers, an infinite combination of notes in music, an infinite amount of time in the universe. I don't recall the infinite dirt line as making the discussion on infinity; however, if educators really aim to make the learning experience mirror real life, then I'd certainly suggest it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go work on yesterday's dirt stripe. Two more days of scooping into the dustpan and I should be ready to mop.

Sales and Suckers

2006-02-09T15:24:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Persuasive Personalities. Why? Because they can generally get me to do/say/buy anything. It's a combination of naivete and not wanting to hurt Persuasive Persons' feelings that causes me to generally concede to whatever it is they are trying to "sell" me. I've always been a sucker for Persuasive Personalities. In college, I was cornered by an extremist Christian coalition that strong-armed me into their bible study which I attended for about 6 months even though I hated it. I didn't have the "guts" to say no to them. Shortly after college, I dated a guy I hardly could stand -- for, like, a year. Then there was the guy on the mountain the other day. That is where this story begins...

I was hiking North Mountain, minding my own business, when I came upon a seniorly gentleman wearing sweat pants that were about 2 sizes too small and some funny looking tennie shoes that looked yellow and crusty -- possibly purchased at the T,G&Y dimestore about two decades prior to this occasion. I smiled politely, as all exercisers do, as I passed his slow ass on the right. Through my headphones, I thought I heard something, so I turned back. He was yapping away at me. I slowed to his pace and, begrudgingly, removed my headphones.

Within 20 minutes, I knew EVERY last detail of this boring guy's life. I also knew that the few yellow teeth he had left were in dire need of a brushing -- and a mouthwashing while we were at it! He proceeded to yap away at me for the next 40 minutes. I couldn't break away. I felt like a child who had been abducted. People coming the other direction would look at me like they knew I was being held against my will, but I didn't have the nerve to cry for help.

What's interesting about this seemingly "innocent" old man is that he, indeed, was the father of all Persuasive Personalities. I didn't realize what a sales job he had done on me until after my hike, when my idiocy finally started to sink in. I'd told him my whole name, husband's name, children's names, where I was parked and what days/times I hiked North Mountain. I may as well have told him where, when and how I'd like to be raped and murdered. Needless to say, I've since switched to hiking Squaw Peak. This brush with death (or at least stalker-hood) was enough of a scare for me.

When my husband got home that evening, I told him of my strange experience with this old, yellowy stalker. When I told him I had given out my whole name -- including my middle name -- he got a little upset. This is one of those instances that causes my husband to say, in complete earnestness, "are you sure that you're not partially retarded?" The last time he said it was when I divulged my social security number to a nice woman who called me on the phone. I didn't realize what a "boo-boo" I'd made until she promptly hung up on me after I'd given her the number. I had to put a fraud alert on my credit report after that Persuasive Lady suckered me.

So, now you know why I hate Persuasive Personalities. I think they smell a sucker when they see one. And I'm a really strong-smelling sucker. I probably shouldn't even have told this story. If I get any suspicous calls asking for my credit card number, I might just give it to you!

Backin' It In

2006-02-05T20:21:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? People who back it in. Now, before your mind heads toward the gutter, I'm referring to VEHICLES. Backing in defies nature. We are taught to read from left to right, taught to wipe from front to back and taught to park front-in. So, why then, do certain annoying people with no life decide to go against the grain and back it in? I ran into a backer-inner the other day at QT. My mouth was watering for a big 44-ounce Diet Coke. The saliva would hardly hold itself in as I neared closer to the front door. A truck in front of me ditched the empty parking space to our right and headed left. I started to front-it-in to the empty space. But...wait...what in the? He was heading toward me -- ass first! He was taking the space afterall. Bass-ackwards. He progressed slowly. Pulling forward then back, then forward then back. Opening the door to look, then forward and back, forward and back. Hellbent on dead centering himself. Meanwhile, I'm stuck behind him, dying of thirst. Ten minutes has elapsed. I am HATING that back-in bastard.

Why do people back it in? They might try and tell you that it's a time-saving effort; that they simply situate themselves in a manner most conducive to leaving quickly. But how can they justify backing in as a time-saving maneuver when it takes 10 minutes to get into that position?

Have you ever noticed that it's often-times old men who back it in? I suspect for them, it's a daily tinkering ritual, much like putting the American Flag out or polishing a bowling ball or checking the golf cart's tire pressure. I have nothing against tinkerers -- as long as they tinker on thier own clock! Besides, is backing in really a satisfying way to waste time? Wouldn't these old-timers be happier volunteering for the Sherriff's posse, or driving little clown cars in the Shriner's parade? Would they park the clown cars back-first, too?

If you are someone who backs it in, I encourage you to front-it-in like the rest of us, and find another outlet for your boring life. I've heard that underwater basketweaving is quite stimulating...

Vicki McNichol

2006-02-01T15:03:00.000-07:00

What? You actually think I'm going to show my ugly face on here? So you can all laugh at me? Yeah, right. This is my hair, and my backyard at least!

Hit Me With Your Best Cut

2006-01-29T15:08:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Layers. More specifically, the fragility and precision of getting layers just right. I learned from a very early age that layers provide hair with lift. And lift, as we all know, detracts from a fat face. So, you're probably wondering why I hate layers if they are such a great panacea to my meaty mug. Well, too many layers can have an opposite effect. And before you know it, you have very little hair left and you're sporting a Pat Benetard. I got a Pat Benetard the other day at Toni & Guy. I know -- that place isn't cheap. Tell me about it. Why, then, when I asked my stylist to start my layers an inch from my crown, didn't she warn me of the impending doom? That's a great question.

I would like to see a sign posted in hair salons that reads: "As a general rule of thumb, if you are seeking a distance of more than 12-inches between your top and bottom layer, then you don't need a haircut as much as you need Jenny Craig."

This would save us fatties from exacerbating our bloated visages with Pat Benetards. It's difficult to style a Pat Benetard. That top layer -- the one that is only an inch from the crown -- gets all unruly. It takes on a crew-cut attitude -- more up than down -- and pretty soon your blow dryer has given you a square rim around your head. Voila! You're suddenly Fred Flinstone! So, you start smoothing it back down into place and you are actually happy to return to the stoner-esque Pat Benetard.

I really blame the stylists. Even though it's hard to hear it from a stylist, it is their cosmetological responsibility to lead us away from bad haircuts. I once had a stylist who told me my face was too "full" to pull off the cute bob picture that I was holding in my hand. I think I cried all the way home. And I'm pretty sure I never returned to her. But she fulfilled her responsibility. When a 300-pound woman comes in holding a picture of Kate Moss, someone needs to save her!

I'm learning to live with my Pat Benetard. The other day I feathered it and pretended I was Kristi McNichols in "Little Darlins." It was a blast. I also fluffed up my top layer and ran around the house yelling "yabba dabba doooooooooo." Who would have thought that the Pat Benetard would provide me with so much entertainment?

The Devil Invented the Digital Camera

2006-01-26T17:14:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Digital Cameras. I mean, they offer some great features, such as the ability to take a picture and post it to your computer in a matter of minutes. I’m grateful for this. This allows me to share with you a picture of my 1 and ½ year old niece. Here she is.

I know, I know. She IS beautiful.

Unfortunately, this photo doesn’t do her justice. Why? Because it was taken with a Digital Camera!

Digital Camera companies need to stop marketing their products as baby, child or pet friendly. They are, indeed, NOT! By the time the dumbass camera actually takes the picture, the subject has pulled a Houdini and is nowhere to be found! Now, if you work in a morgue, or a home for senior citizens (preferably crippled ones), then by all means, the Digital Camera is right for you! If not, well, then, plan on a lot of pictures of ironing boards with two strands of blonde hair in the corner.

The Digital Camera companies hide the fact that their products are best suited for dead, comatose or otherwise lifeless subjects. Part of the scam is to plaster tons of pictures of kids, dogs and babies all over their sites. Case in point: This shot, from the KODAK website, of a little girl peering out from a swing-set. Now, what you can’t see (and what explains her slightly frightened look) is that her entire bottom half is duct-taped to the base of the nearest pole.

Here’s another one from Kodak. Ten minutes before this shot was taken, this kid was running all over that backyard. The best the professional photographers could get was a 1-inch square of the hat in the frame. So, they jammed her into this swing to keep her from going anywhere. You can tell something is awry by the way she has her hand held up. She’s like, “what the hell just happened here?”

Another thing I hate about Digital Cameras is that they take forever to load up each terrible picture you’ve taken. So, for example, you get the dog to sit and look cute, then you press the shutter button. In the 1.32-second delay between pushing the button and taking the picture, the dog gets up, and you end up with only a corner of the tail in the shot. Then, the dog goes over and starts snuggling the cat, so you run over to this calendar-quality photo-op and start pressing the shutter button over and over but nothing is happening. So, you look at the little window and see that the picture of the tail-tip is loading at a rate of 1-pixel per minute. By the time the load completes, the dog is done snuggling the cat and has begun to take a crap.

Arrgh! Another missed photo op – all because of the DEMON DIGITAL CAMERA.

I think we, as smart consumers, need to stand up for our rights! We need to burn our digital cameras and return to the days of the single lens reflex. Either that, or I recommend buying stock in a good duct-tape company.

It's a Paranoid Life

2006-01-19T09:39:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? That I'm so pathetic. Yes, it's true. While I might seem like I have some semblance of confidence, I actually don't. Being unemployed, while I truly enjoy it, is exacerbating my already low self-esteem. But I have a few things that help me feel as if I'm adding value in the world: my 'flourishing' garden that I worked so hard on (can you eat a cauliflower that's 1-inch in diameter??), spending extra time with my kids and MY BLOG. Yes, my blog is one of the more important things in my life. Sad, isn't it. Not as sad as the story I'm about to tell.

The story begins with the new "hit counter" that I placed on my blog. It appears in the right-hand column of my blog. It counts up the number of people who visit, so I don't have to guage my success in blogging on the number of comments posted. I've been watching that hit counter every day. Sometimes several times per day. Don't worry - I'm smart enough to deduct my own visits to the blog from my total. At any rate...on with my story.

Last Saturday, I moped around ALL DAY. Why? Because I learned that a member of my family HATES my blog. It really bothered me. I know it's a free country, but I believe that anyone who doesn't like my blog should be put in jail for treason. I started doing the "Mopey Popey" dance for my husband. Ladies -- do you know this dance? It goes something like this: "Put your bottom lip out, put your hand on hip, put your bottom lip out and say, 'this is a bunch of shit.' You do the mopey popey and you throw some breakables around, that's what it's all about."

Yeah, I was doing the "mopey popey" big-time on Saturday. Then Sunday came, and I felt a little bit better. I wiped the crusty sleep from eyes and logged into my blog. 97 visitors? Are you joking me? I couldn't believe my eyes! In one 24-hour period, I had almost doubled my traffic. In a fleeting moment of pure elation, I thought only of Oprah. You know how anyone mentioned by Oprah gets famous the very next day? For that fleeting moment, I thought maybe, just maybe Oprah had mentioned me on the TV. Like, maybe while talking to Jim Carrey, she says, "you're a funny guy....and so is this blog that I just happened to come across the other day...". Lame, I know. But I'm unemployed! My mind wanders into strange territory these days.

I also had two new 'Anonymous' comments. Seemed to be perfect strangers (one with bad grammar, but I was even willing to overlook this). I welcomed these new nameless visitors out loud!

Here's where the story gets sad. I ran in to tell my husband about my newfound success as a blogger. I ranted and raved and told him that my traffic had indeed DOUBLED overnight. I felt like those infomercials where the excitement could hardly be contained! Then I started to rationalize how the traffic doubled. Oprah was probably not the culprit. Who then? How did I suddenly get famous? I pondered and pontificated out loud, in front of my wide-eyed hubby. For a long while, he said nothing. Then...

"Honey," he said, eyes bowed like a puppy who's just eaten a sterling silver christmas present. "It was me."

"What was you?" I asked, hoping he'd tell me that he emailed every friend and colleauge from years gone by and invited them to read my blog.

"It was me who messed up your hit counter. I sat there last night and kept hitting refresh. I just wanted you to be happy."

He also confessed to the two new anonymous posts -- one of which he purposely added a grammatical mistake to put me off his trail.

So, there you have it. Sad. Pathetic. And most of all, my hit counter is forever inaccurate now.

Now, you can look at my husband's actions in one of two ways. 1) What a sweetheart. I don't deserve him. He just wants to make me happy for godsakes! or 2) So he lied to me? What the hell else has he fabricated in the name of "love"? Did I really lose 5 pounds or is that the work of a liar with a screwdriver and mechanical "scale" knowledge? Do the kids really think I'm a pretty mommy or has daddy included them in a little payola scandal? Two dollars for every compliment to mommy? One dollar per hug? 75 cents if you also include the word "love" during your hug? And what about these letters I get that say, "Valued Customer." Might they be forged documents? I just don't know WHAT to believe.

Oh well. In the end, I guess I should be happy that someone cares enough about me to go to all that trouble. But I'm still hoping Oprah mentions me on the air.

Testy Toasters (not THOSE kind of testies you perve)

2006-01-17T21:21:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Toasters with an attitude. I have hated them since I was old enough to brown up some tasty latch-key kid Rainbo Bread as an afternoon snack.

The toaster I have right now, which wasn't cheap (those wide slots for bagels aren't for the impoverished), thinks it's the boss of the world. No matter what I set the "brown-o-meter" to, my toaster decides that a mild parch is sufficient. It's starting to piss me off!

When my toaster catapults a doughy white bagel at me, after I've set the meter to a crispy brown setting, I get really, really mad. Then I try to push the lever back down, but it won't stay. The toaster, in its "I rule the world" kind of way, is saying to me, "That bagel is crisp enough. Now move along, fatty!"

So, refusing to be outsmarted by a toaster, I hold the little lever down against its will. You know what happens now...because you've been wrestling with these same kind of testy toasters all your life, too. Yes, the toaster begins to honk. Or grind. Or whatever the hell it's doing in there.

So, I eat my pasty bagel and decide to try again the next day.

Meat Market

2006-01-11T09:57:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Fabricated Sinew. The makers of soy-based meat actually think vegetarians prefer to gnaw on rubbery manufactured grissle. Check out the picture of Yves' brand of "Ham." The little white spots are the faux fat particles. Disgusting, huh?

Nobody actually likes the fat in real meats. Fat particles are simply an unfortunate by-product of lazy-ass cows who refuse to take a walk now and then. So, why would a manufacturer replicate this disgusting symbol of bovine indolence in a vegetarian meat? They must know that there's a reason we vegetarians stopped eating meat.

I have some ideas to make the fake meat even more authentic and I'm going to write and suggest them to Yves. First of all, if they could replicate a vein, that would be sweet! Nothing fools your mind into thinking you're eating real meat more than biting into a rubbery artery. Second, some genetically engineered pig hair mixed into the blend would really authenticate the "ham". Last, but certainly not least, perhaps little fake hoof particles within the meat batter would jazz things up for us vegetarians who never get the pleasure of busting a bridge open with some unexpected hoof and bone action.

On a similar subject, somehow, our household of vegetarians got on a mailing list that yielded an invitation to a wonderful "Meat Market." I can't, for the life of me, figure out what we must have purchased or subscribed to that would result in our being on the "meat market mailing list." Maybe it's my husband's recent subscription to "Cops" magazine that did it. Cops do love their meat.

At first, I was disgusted by our invitation to the meat market. Then, as I continued to read, I realized that this was no ordinary meat market. It is actually a smorgasbord of useful vendors all conveniently located on one place. Not only can we cash our paycheck while there, but we can visit the Mexican pharmacy for some cheap Viagra and pick up a pinata for the next kids' birthday! What convenience! I'm wondering what other fun treats are in store for us at the Meat Market? A pedicure? Five-minute massage? Colonic Irrigation? Viva la Meat Market!

Juniors Department

2006-01-06T14:26:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? The Juniors Section at JCPenney. Why? Scroll down.

I know what you're asking yourself right now...is that a jacket or a festive halloween bustier? Judging from my pushed-down flatties, it's certainly not a bustier -- since there's clearly no "boost" or "bust" to speak of! It's a jacket, dammit. And it's a size "Large." I'm not a huge woman by any means, so why does a size "Large" fit me about as well as my daughter's Cabbage Patch Kid Clothes? It's because of the Juniors Department. I think we need to shut down this concept of Juniors having their own miniature clothing line with the same numbers-system as the Misses Department. You know what I mean -- I'm a size 12 in Misses, but the size 12 in Juniors can't be wedged past my calves without a crowbar. We've all been there.

Average-sized women enter the Juniors Dept feeling their weight is acceptable, and leave the Juniors Dept feeling like they want to cash in their 401K for some gastric bypass surgery. Why is everything so tiny? Who invented Juniors, anyway? I think I read once that it was Hitler. I'm sure it had something to do with his notion of the perfect woman -- white, blue-eyed and 83 pounds. He was an ass.

I like the clothes in the Juniors section at Penneys a lot better than those in the Misses section. Is it really fair that my options are either elastic-waisted pants and vests with teddy bears on them or skin-tight jackets that look like bustiers? I guess I should look at this new section called "Juniors Plus." That section is for all the 'gigantic' juniors weighing in the 100 - 120 range. Those fatties should be ashamed of themselves.

Who came up with the names of these departments, anyway? I always get confused with all the fancy department-store language. Misses, Women's, Petites, Juniors, Missy (some stores still use that one. Really.). If I were in the textiles industry, I'd open a store that "tells it like it is." Here would be my sections:

-- Regulars

-- Anorexics

-- Fatties

-- Near-Midgets

-- Missy (which I would keep, only you can't enter unless your name is Missy or Melissa. Then people will realize how dumb this naming convention is).

Would you know which section to go to based on my classifications? Exactly.

You know what else I hate? When you're all wound around in a department store going from one section of clothes to the other, when all of a sudden, you see something really cute and go to find your size and see that dreaded "P" behind it! Suddenly, you realize your fat and tall ass is standing in the Petites. This is especially embarrassing when you're made up of Amazon proportions (5' 9 and a half"). Not that I'd know. And did you ever notice that when you suddenly realize where you're standing, every little muchkin in that section seems to be watching you? And doesn't it seem like you grow a few hundred inches as you try to non-chalantly stroll on outta there like the Jolly Green Giant with bricks in his shoes? Petites shouldn't have their own section. It's too hard on tall people's self esteem. "Get a tailor you lazy asses."

Photo Montage of Things I HATE

2005-12-29T14:41:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Lots of stuff. I guess the holidays bring out the Satanic qualities in me -- ironic considering who's birthday we're celebrating. I didn't realize how grumpy all this smiling and present-giving and being nice was making me until yesterday when I thought of 18 blog entries in one single day. I have been letting it build up, I suppose. The result is this photo medley of some of the things most bothersome in the course of this holiday season.

1)

I found this in my Trader Joe's pickle jar a few days ago. There is no photo editing done on this thing -- promise. This is a little more than coincidental considering my last blog dealt with my sensitivity to certain visual features, textures and smells of food. I think the fate gods are messing with me. Now, before you go having a good laugh at my expense, I urge you to stop being so insensitive. I mean, come on, some poor frog is now without his scrotum and all you can think to do is laugh that it turned up in my pickle jar? Shame on you!

I challenge any person alive to figure out how to use these new Costco 'twist-ties' that they put on their bagels. Tear where? Twist what? These things are worthless! Basically, here's what happened: some conservative, Bush-loving MBA student came to the Costco CEO and said, "sir, I have an idea. If we do away with the standard 1-inch wire twist ties, we'll save .000000004 cents per bag of bagels. This equates to 8 trillion dollars per year." (because NO savings is insignificant when you're moving Costco volumes!) Then the Costco CEO says, "But, what will we replace the wire dealies with?" and the MBA kid says, "with a piece of tape. We'll write 'Tear Twist' on it and people will fiddle with it and get really irritated. Eventually, they'll lop the entire top of the bag off, out of desparation, and the 80-pack of bagels will be hard as a rock within 24 hours. They'll come back and buy even more." I bet that idiot MBA kid got a raise. Well, it's time we stop being such naive consumers. I'm going to start a picket line in front of Costco to bring back the twist ties. If we don't, then what's next? No lid on the mouthwash? No plastic wrap around the 24-pack of T-Bone steaks? No shopping bags by which to carry your 300 pounds of unnecessary shi&*& out of the store? Oh wait -- that's already the case. Well, at any rate, DOWN WITH COSTCO!!!!!!!

This is a beautiful Christmas present pin for my step mother-in-law. Unfortunately, my idiot dog ate up the box and wrapping. My husband found it in the middle of our backyard. Now I'll have to take it out of the box and put it in a plastic baggie and she'll surely think it came from the Family Dollar. There's 30 bucks down the drain. By the way, I looked online for some rescue organizations specializing in retarded dogs, but couldn't find any. If anyone knows of one, please let me know.

My little pip-squeak nephew told me about this shirt on Christmas Day. "What are you insinuating" I asked him. He had that look of pity on his face. Come on, people! I can't have my 16-year-old nephew who has never even kissed a girl taking pity on me. That's downright pathetic. However, if the shoe fits.... Is anyone reading this thing?

Banana Mysteries

2005-12-20T18:03:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? That I can't eat a banana in peace anymore. It's my favorite fruit -- always has been, but for the past couple of years, I've had to eat it while breathing heavily through my nose so I don't gag. Chalk it up to my overactive imagination. Any and all foods can start to remind my tongue of gag-able elements such as slime, rot, putridness and salmonella if I let my imagination run free. Tofu is the worst -- they say that this malleable cube-paste can take on the flavor of just about anything you add it to. What they don't say is that can also lodge itself midway in your esophagus and take two days to get slowly coughed back up one booger-sized chunk at a time.

Yes, my imagination makes it very difficult to eat in peace. Eggplant becomes whale tongue, eggs become loose gray matter and jello cubes slide down the throat like slippery bird livers. It's not easy being a spaz. But, it isn't my imagination that ruined my love for bananas. It was actually a girl I worked with a couple of years ago. She saw me take the first bite out of the banana I was eating at my desk and just about crapped herself.

"You EAT the top of the banana?" she asked, as if I had just shoved a shoehorn down my throat.

"Yeah, so?" I said, giving her the credence that I always give people who still wear two-story bangs. You heard me right -- two story bangs. I had me a pair circa 1984. You part your bangs horizontally into two equal sections. The basement bangs receive one rotation of the curling iron. The top story bangs receive two rotations. Voila! Instant lift!

"Eeew. Well, I won't tell you what's in the top, then," she said while shaking her hands free of the cooties that my apparent nana-eating self was atomizing around the building. I wanted to tell her that she was ugly, but instead I swallowed 15 times and finally got the banana bite down.

I tried not to let her advice bother me, for the last thing I needed was another fantasy food mutation. But, it was something about her complete hysteria over my eating the top of that banana that really started to get my mind in motion. I began thinking about the possibilities of what could be in the top of the banana. Here are some of the ideas I came up with:

-- Monkey love serum. This is the most logical in my mind, and, consequently, what I think of every time I eat a banana. I can only imagine that monkeys, with their love of perverse sex acts (oh, come on -- you know you've seen the little perves "doing stuff" at the zoo), perform some type of hybrid pollenation/mating ritual act that results in my banana becoming polluted with, what else, but ape jizz.
-- Fingernail dirt from the dirty jungle dwellers who are paid 3 cents a day to pick bananas. I'm sure that it's not all that uncommon for a disease-infested fingernail to "accidentally" slice the top of the entire bunch. I mean, come on, how else with the dirty jungle dwellers stick it to the man? It's not like they have jungle dwellers unions or anything.
-- Poop. I don't know how it would get there, but poop is the most disgusting thing a person could accidentally ingest, so it had to make the list.
-- Banana worms. Have you ever noticed that when you peel a banana, there are little mealy banana "shreds" all over the sides? Are you sure that they're banana shreds and not long worms smothered and mummified by the banana peel? Are you sure you're sure???

So, what have YOU all heard about the tops of bananas? Maybe you can enlighten me. Please comment if you have a hypothesis of your own. And, I'm sorry that I've probably ruined the act of eating bananas for you. Someone had to tell you though.

How you (used to) see a banana.

How I see a banana.

Doubt Planters

2005-12-12T20:22:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Doubt Planters. You know these people -- they slip you subtle insults and prey on your low self esteem. They plant the seedlings of doubt which start to grow into vines of doubt which then wrap themselves around your spine until they eventually swallow it whole. My kindergartener had a run-in with a Doubt Planter the other day. The seed has now been planted; the vine is growing. Here's how the event went:

While getting ready for school, I handed my 5-year-old her blue metallic go-go boots. These are the boots she's been wearing -- with pride -- since the first day of school.

"I don't want to wear my blue boots anymore," she says. "J.J. said they're dumb."

"J.J."? I say, about the little 'tard who I've personally witnessed picking his nose. "Who cares what J.J. thinks."

But there's no talking my daughter out of it. The boots are history.

I try to explain to her how little someone else's opinion matters -- especially that of a booger-picker! I try telling her that J.J. is probably very unhappy, perhaps living in a meth house or in a group home for 'tards. But none of this means anything to her at this fragile age. She only knows one thing: that her boots are dumb.

It hurts me. Why? Because she's mine. But also because it's hitting too close to home. I'm reminded of what I like to call "The Sperry Top-Sider" incident. Let me explain...

When I was in fifth grade, my mom had a really wise idea. Her idea was to put me into modeling school. Teri Shields was certainly making a great living off Brooke, so you can't really blame my mom for trying. She was determined to make it work -- even on our modest budget. She involved my older sister, Julie, which was a recipe for disaster. Julie loved to torture me and this whole modeling gig was great fodder for her plan. It was 1980. Julie was in high school at the time, and I was in fifth grade. Some kids at her school were experimenting with the sailor look. No kids at my school had even thought of the concept and even mentioning it might get your ass kicked. Nevertheless, I was an aspiring model (along with the 30 other kids who paid their dues to the Plaza III Talent Agency) and 'haute couture' needed to become my middle name.

I still remember the day Julie and my mom came home with that sailor suit. It was all one piece -- a "mechanic-meets-yachter" ensemble that remotely resembled something I'd seen once on the cover of Seventeen. I wondered how the kids at my grade school would like it. But, the problem was, I didn't have the right shoes. Neither my wallabes nor my hurachee sandals looked right with these duds. My sister told me about these new shoes she'd seen on the feet of the fashion elite at Sunnyslope High School. Sperry Top-Siders they were called - also known as "boat shoes."

Under my sister's evil infuence, my mom took me to TG&Y. For anyone who remembers TG&Y, it was a dime store. TG&Y. Yellow Front. Pic N Save. Dime stores. And aren't you supposed to get things like toothbrushes and Juicy Fruit at dime stores? Exactly. Lo and behold, they had some Sperry Top Sider knock-offs for a mere fraction of the cost. Of course, they were plastic and made your feet smell like rotten blue cheese, but they were boat shoes nonetheless. So, my evil sister and stardom-seeking mom talked me into it and we got a pair to go with my sailor coveralls.

I checked myself out in the mirror in my full get-up. It was pretty hot. So, I did it. I wore it to school the next day.

The minute I stepped onto campus, the fingers were pointing and the laughter filling the entire campus. I was the effing freak for the day. I got laughed at more than the girl with the greasy fingerprint glasses that took up half of her facial real estate. It hurt. Lots of doubt seeds were planted that day.

What I did still have was the hope of a bright future in modeling. My mom really believed in me. She couldn't afford a professional photographer to do my portfolio, but when you see the pictures below, you'll realize we didn't need one. Our Kodak 110 and my ability to look cute while doing very natural things was all we needed...
These are the infamous sailor coveralls. Note the bare feet. This must have been taken right before our trip to the TG&Y. In this particular shot, I'm showing the modeling agents that not only am I really cute, but I make a great stand-in for a hunting dog. "The dead duck is over there -- where my knee is pointing..."

This is me after sticking a perfect dismount off the pummel horses in our living room. Now, some gymnastics equipment salesmen will tell you that you need the cushy blue mats to land on, but I'm here to tell you that orange shag carpeting works just as well.

Ahhhh. Here's me doing what I loved best on a Friday night -- sitting on the fireplace reading an encyclopedia. Those were great days.

I see a rim of white rubber in this photo -- where the red arrow is. I might be mistaken, but I do believe these are the TG&Y "Ferry Plop-Siders".

If I'm not mistaken, I appear to be wearing a pony-tail holder as a bracelet in this shot. Now I understand why my mom so desparately wanted me to be a model. I guess we were poorer than I originally thought...

This must have been my mom's back-up portfolio. You know -- if I didn't make it as a real model, I could always have a shot at making the cover of Pedophilia Monthly or Amish Designs.

Dammit! You know what I just realized? That could have been ME screaming "what a feelin" in Flashdance if my mom had learned to center her pictures better. Some casting director probably had my shot sitting next to the one of Jennifer Beals. "Well, I do like the little flat-chested one. The only problem is that I can't see the top of her head or her feet. She could be a conehead or have a clubbed foot. The problem is we just don't know. So, go ahead and call up Jen."

Geriatric Grocery Affair

2005-12-08T13:03:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Seniors day at Fry's Grocery Stores. I never knew there was a seniors day until yesterday, when I stumbled into the establishment for some much needed food items. I should have heeded to my keen sensibilities when I entered the parking lot and noticed that every handicapped space was taken and that, in general, there were an overabundance of Cadillacs and Lincoln Town Cars. But onward I went, thinking to myself, "how crowded could it be on a Wednesday morning?"

When you're talking about seniors, the quantity isn't as important as the quality. One low quality senior is the spatial equivalent to 3 normal quality people (unless they have a cane, which is a 3.2 equiavalent). Let me explain: low quality seniors are aisle sprawlers. They park their carts in the center of the aisle, then stand on either side of it to casually read ingredients -- out loud! This not only causes a gridlock in front and back of them, but creates a faux commotion that draws the attention of the other low quality seniors, which brings me to my next point: low quality seniors create pandemonium in already crowsed aisles. This is a real phenomenon -- and if you don't believe it, test it out some Wednesday morning. What happens, is the low quality seniors see that people are congregating around a certain food item. They don't realize it's a traffic jam caused by one of their own. They are thinking only of that measly social security check and how whatever item is creating such a hubbub must be really, really cheap! What ensues is an aisle-bursting brouhaha that fills my heart with, what.... that's right -- with HATE!

This brings me to my next point: you can't be rude to a senior. I think most humans are genetically programmed to feel this way. That's why when you become checkmated into a corner by a low quality senior, you just smile and patiently wait. I saw a lot of innocent Wednesay morning shoppers roadblocked in by low quality seniors yesterday. Most people are too nice to even say "excuse me," not that it always helps. You'd expect an aisle-sprawling senior who eventually realizes she's created a 100-foot backup to get embarrassed and step aside. Not the low quality seniors. They own the world, remember? They've been on this Earth longer than you and your parents combined and they have earned the right to do whatever the hell they want. I love this attitude, but at my age, I'd never get away with it. I'd probably get shot within a month. I am counting the days until I'm 65, though. Forget about the 10% discount at Denny's -- I'm much more excited to rule the world like the low quality seniors that were irritating me so much yesterday.

I was so happy to finally get my groceries and leave Fry's. Because of the unusually high traffic within the aisles, I had only 10 minutes to get to the school to pick up my kids -- it would be a stretch, but I could just drive fast. Except...what's that? Oh yes, it's a Lincoln Towncar in front of me going 25 MPH -- and it appears to be driving itself! You know what I'm talking about -- the "headless" driver phenomenon that, when you were a kid, you hoped was either a magic car driving on its own or a freak of nature headless wonder let out of the asylum long enough to take a quick joy ride. You'd beg your dad to catch up to it, but when you finally came parallel to it, your imagination deflated as you realized the car was being driven by a 43-inch grannie who could barely reach the pedal. Yeah, you remember.

Before you go thinking I'm ageist and mean, remember that I have grandparents who I love. They are pretty cool old farts, and I sincerely doubt they're aisle cloggers. So, I would place them into the high quality senior category. But, they are getting older, and that sense of ownership over the world might just explode at any time. I won't begrudge them what they've earned -- I'll just smile and wait patiently as Grandma reads me the ingredients from the back of the Ritz cracker box.

Spitting Menaces

2005-12-06T16:34:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Loogey-spitting Exercisers. I came to this realization yesterday, when climbing North Mountain. I'm huffing and puffing and barely staying conscious and all of a sudden I see a gelatinous monster loogey slowly traveling down the steep grade of the mountain like green hot lava on the side of a volcano. Now, being the hateful martyr that I am, I can't just look away. I have to inspect it, and inspect it well, for this will allow me to fill my heart with more hatred for the mysterious person who so rudely put it there. So, now I'm severely out of breath, dehydrated, AND nauseous. Thanks, rude, loggey spitter!

Of course, I can relate to the need for spitting when one exercises. There's something about exercise that generates a lot of phlegm. I actually suffer from exercise-induced asthma and for anyone who knows anything about asthma, it gives the sensation of having your lungs filled with mucous. I know, I know. That's gross. Tell me about it. Ten minutes into my exercise, and all my organs are coated with the stuff. But do I hawk one on the trail for all to see? No, I don't. I'd rather die of phlegm asphyxiation than join the not-so-elite crowd of Loogey-Spitting Exercisers. I am courteous that way.

Only once can I remember publicly spitting to try and rid my mouth of a lot of viscous phlegm. And I learned my lesson -- the hard way. I was in high school, and had just been asked to run a mile and a half in the middle of September (in Arizona). This was part of "weight training" class which was really a ruse for what should have been called "High School Torture 101." I ran the mile and a half, and ended the ordeal with a large amount of phlegm lining the inside of my mouth and esophagus. While rehydrating at the drinking fountain, I thought I'd discreetly deposit some of the phlegm into the drinking fountain. Gross, sure, but not as rude as plastering it on the sidewalk as a public display of poor manners. Well, discreet it was not, for what was supposed to be a single spit turned out to be a very long rope of phlegm. It was like those magic tricks where a guy pulls a handkerchief out of a hat, but it's connected to another handkerchief and another and another. This was the same exact concept -- the loogey trail that would never end. I had both hands goin' at that thing, trying to break it off at some point, but it was really rubbery and refused to concede. As peers were yelling for me to "save some water for the fishes," I was wrestling an infinite procession of phlegm. That's the last time I tried to spit.

In a few weeks, I will be running in my first half marathon -- the PF Chang's Rock and Roll Marathon. I'm excited about this, except for one thing -- the vast amount of loogeys that I will have to wade through. For anyone who's run in an organized race before, you'll remember that the loogey dump begins about one mile into the run and continues through the end. (This, coincidentally, is the same distance at which the bowels begin to warm up, but I'll save that for another blog!) For me, this means 12.2 miles of loogey infestation. I think I heard they expect like 50,000 people to run in this race. If even a small percentage, such as 10 percent, turned out to be Loogey-Spitting Exercisers, this would still be 5,000 loogies. That, my friends, is a LOT. Imagine if someone could figure out how to put a marketing message in all those loogies. That would be some sweet advertising. If anyone could do it, Microsoft could.

The moral to this story is that disgusting bodily fluids should remain where? Ah, yes, in THE BODY! More specifically, in YOUR body where they belong. Don’t subject the rest of us to these public displays of poor manners – it’s just downright rude!

A Ho-Down

2005-12-05T14:30:00.000-07:00

You know what I hate? Ho's. Or, to put it more mildly, needy skanks. It's really not the 'skank' part of these particular women that bothers me; it's the 'needy' part. Needy women dilute the female's power, influence and mystery. Needy women reduce the female kind to dog-like status (e.g. pet me when you feel like it, but I'll be right here when you need me). Not that there is anything wrong with dogs -- I love them more than 99.9% of the human population -- but come on, when it comes to self-respect, they're pretty low on the totem pole. Plus, what do dogs call their owners? That's right -- masters! So, when a woman acts like a dog, she's basically handing over all power to her man. She, in essence, has become a slave to the man!

I came to the realization that I'm angry at needy skanks the other day when driving. Let me paint the setting: I'm late. There are two lanes -- left and right. In the left lane are White Wannabe Rappers. The White Wannabe Rappers are driving a car that's worth about $500 atop wheels worth about 3 grand, wearing their hats sideways, and sporting some ground-thumping, bass-heavy music from their car's stereo. I hate them immediately. Not only do they look ridiculous, but they're driving slow and let's not forget...I'M LATE.

In the right lane is seemingly innocent Needy Skank. I don't know she's a needy skank at first. She looks like a normal girl to me and since the White Wannabe Rappers are driving so slowly, I switch into Needy Skank's lane, cause at least she's driving the speed limit. Right at that moment in time, Needy Skank notices the White Wannabe Rappers and thinks they're pretty hot in that Eminem-kinda way. So, she slows to their pace and begins to bop to their music and bat her eyelashes at them and act in a generally whorish manner.

Even the White Wannabe Rappers are too good for this poor Needy Skank. Why? Because guys can smell a Needy Skank from a mile away and this girl's got it bad. Guys stay away from Needy Skanks, because while they are generally generous with their affections, they often turn out to be stalkers. So, they look at her once then ignore her. "Move along now," I'm mouthing to her, hoping she saves some remote shred of dignity. But no, she layers on the charm and starts REALLY boogying to their thumping tunes, all the while just waiting for some attention -- a smile, nod, just a turn in her direction. Nothing. By this time, my cheeks are bright red, for not only is she making a complete fool of herself, but she's also making ME REALLY LATE!

Finally, she gets a hint and moves along, and I finally get to go around the low mileaging Wannabe Rappers. I start to digest the situation, as I often do. What makes this girl so needy for attention? What did she expect from the exchange -- a friendly nod? A phone number exchange? A proposition? And most importantly, why the hell is she watering down the female power by acting so pathetic?

I'm pissed at her for being so pathetic. All the bra-burning and equality and respect that women of the past century have fought for has been nudged backward by this girl. Girlfriends -- we're better than this. I mean, I'm getting older and I appreciate an occassional whistle from day laborers huddled in the Home Depot parking lot. But, I don't beg, or even ask, for my harrassment. I earn it the good, old-fashioned way -- by acting completely arrogant and unintersted. Of course, I really AM arrogant and uninterested, but the point is that I don't reduce myself to a state of neediness. And you shouldn't either.

So, any woman out there reading this who might think she has to tape her cleavage upward the next time she goes out to the club, I urge you to reconsider. Instead, walk into the club with an air of confidence and power, and I guarantee, your attraction will be magnified!