Tag Archives: girls



Men have never understood women. And they never will. It’s in the contract we sign when our boobs are handed out. “From this day forth, thou shalt do anything and everything to confuse and disturb the entirety of mankind including, but not limited to, policies and procedures that are in direct contradiction to the sworn practices of moments before…” Part of those policies is the deep love and intense hatred of our fellow sisters. Women hate women. Yet at the same time, we adore each other and no one can understand us like one of our own. But for the most part, women are bitches. I hate bitches. There are all kinds of bitches and they are everywhere. I have a small group of amazing women that I love and would do anything for. The rest of them are relegated to either “that girl I don’t really know enough about to hate yet” and “dis bitch”. Today, let’s talk about dis bitch…

contract(I also agree that all sporting events and post-sex quiet moments will be punctuated with repeated inquiries of, “What are you thinking?”)

Dis Passive Aggressive Bitch

This is the bitch that doesn’t have the actual balls, or ovaries I guess, to stand up to your face and tell you why she hates you. She’ll give you backhanded compliments like, “I wish I was brave enough to wear that color.” or “Wow. You are so strong. If my ex found somebody else that fast, I’d just die of humiliation.” And the ever popular, “I wish I didn’t care and could grow old gracefully like you.” She will offer you clothes like this, “My sister lost all this weight so she has a ton of bigger clothes she can’t wear and you were the first person I thought of!” Bitch, please. This bitch will make friends with your ex while private messaging you about how, “I can’t stand him. You deserve so much better. Ugh, he’s so boring and ugly and gross. His loss, sweetie.” Really? Then why is your facebook filled with pictures of the two of you spending the day at King’s Dominion with captions like “Best day ever. Jason, you are amazing! And single. Whaaaat?” Fuck. You. Bitch.

roller coaster(Let’s meet at Applebee’s to discuss how small his penis is. Love you, mean it!)

She’ll set up a girls’ night and either do it on a night she knows you can’t come or “accidentally” forget to invite you at all. “Oh no! I swear I thought you were on that email chain. You didn’t get my text either? Stupid phone. I feel just awful. But omg, we had so much fun!” Don’t lie. You didn’t text me. Texts never “don’t go through”. And it’s not your stupid phone. It’s stupid you. You know what your problem is? You’re weak and you’re jealous and you’re lonely. You have nothing else going for you so want to tear me down until I’m just as petty and miserable as you. Not going to happen. Cuz I’m a different kind of bitch. But more on that later.

Dis Bitch Is Better Than You

This bitch is the one who just lives to show you how amazing and great she is. Her life is wonderful. Her kids are ever so attractive and they’re the captain of every sports team, get the lead in every school play and they make nothing but straight A’s while eating nothing but broccoli. They wake up singing like fucking Mary Poppins and fall asleep reading the Bible. She’ll marry anything, whether she really loves him or not, just to keep up the appearance of her perfect life. She’ll try to guide your poor, pitiful ass to greatness and you should be thankful for the opportunity to learn at her perfectly pedicured feet. “Honey, you’ll never catch a man dying your hair from a box! You need to make it a priority to get to the salon. And you have to stop feeding your kids those Happy Meals. I mean, I wouldn’t dream of sending Brock and Persephone to school without a kale smoothie to open their minds to the joys of education!” Dis bitch will commiserate with you. “I know how tough it is when money is tight. When we had our pool put in, I had to stop my gym membership for a month. Well, I just had to stop eating until I could go back. I couldn’t look at myself if I weighed an ounce over 120.” Really? When my 15 year old car broke down and I had to borrow money from my boss to get it fixed so I could continue to go to work to pay him back, I didn’t eat either because I COULDN’T FUCKING AFFORD TO EAT. Damn, bitch.

drowning(Hey, Brock. Your mommy’s gonna need you to come and show off that A+ you got in CPR class.)

But be careful with all your fake perfection. Everybody struggles. It’s life and it’s ok. Nobody’s perfect. Not even you, as we can all tell from the numerous empty merlot bottles in your vintage Crate & Barrel trash can.

Dis Messy Bitch

Now this bitch is just a damn hot mess. She cries all the time. She’s sick all the time. She’s hooking up and breaking up more often than Dis Better Bitch is getting her nails done. She hates her job. She hates the way she looks. She can’t ever seem to remember her wallet when you go out so everybody has to cover for her. Everyone has to change their schedule repeatedly to meet hers because she forgot the 137 other vitally important things she has to do. She is always late and half the time never shows at all, even though girls’ night was moved 3 times to accommodate her. There is a calendar on your phone, dear. Use it! Stop asking the world to revolve around you because you just can’t get your shit together.

girl on phone(Can we change your birthday to June? I met this ah-mayzing guy this morning. I just know he’s the one!)

And don’t lend this bitch anything. She’ll borrow everything but never lend you anything. “I’m sorry your grandma died but those are the most favorite of my 27 pairs of black heels. No, not those either. They’re my second favorite.” Seriously, bitch? If you love your clothes, jewelry, money, children, etc. and would like to see them again, do not let dis messy bitch get her paws on them. You will never see them again.

messy car(I thought for sure I gave your antique earrings back. They’re probably in my car somewhere.)

How she gets through each day, I have no idea. Surely, she should’ve been dead and eaten by bears years ago. And you know, you know, that if you lead this life you would have no friends and be living in a homeless shelter talking to your shoes and eating your fingernails. Yet she continues on. Living on the edge of sanity and reason. Succeeding despite herself. And then calling you crying because she’s gotten lost in Target. Again.

Dis Weak Ass Bitch

I hate a weak woman. Dis bitch is afraid of everything, including herself. She doesn’t have the guts to stand up for anything though she’ll talk her face off about all the millions of things that bother her. “I just hate that gay people can’t get married. It’s so wrong!” Really? A few of us are going to a photo shoot in support of gay rights. You should come! “Oh, gosh. Yeah. Um…I don’t think I can. My dad’s a minister and if he saw….” So you feel bad for people who are treated badly but you won’t stand up to try to stop it? You suck. She won’t stand up to bullies. She’ll watch mean bitches treat other people like shit but won’t say one damn word even though she knows they’re wrong. She follows other bitches around like a puppy rather than have her own ideas and her own say because the possibility of not being liked is worse to her than confrontation and (horrors!) an argument, even in her own defense. She can’t function without a man and doesn’t seem to care if he treats her like shit. And when you tell her, “Why the hell do you take that crap? I’d be so furious and kick his ass to curb so fast Vin Diesel would applaud!” She responds with, “Oh, no. He really loves me. He was just trying to help me be more healthy by telling me even a school of manatees would put me on Weight Watchers.” Dear Lord, bitch.

shopping girl

(You’re right. Sex will be so much better once you tape a picture of my sister on here.)

You want to feel sorry for her. But after a while, it gets old. You are a grown damn woman! Stand the fuck up and grow a backbone. If you want to eat steak and someone asks where do you want to eat. Don’t say, “I don’t care.” Say, “I want the Outback. I’m dying for some steak.” It’s not that damn hard. If somebody doesn’t like you, so the fuck what?! That’s their loss. There are billions of other people in this world to be friends with. If you see some kids picking on another kid, don’t walk by and ignore it. Say something! Tell those damn kids, “If you don’t stop bullying this child, I will call the police on you myself. You man enough to be Bubba’s girlfriend on the inside, son?” And it’s ok to be alone. It’s better to be alone than to be with someone who doesn’t treat you like the queen you are. Don’t be afraid and quit your damn whining, bitch!

Dis Crazy Bitch

This bitch is one loose cannon. She’s a little of all of the above with a dose of near insanity that’s almost scary. She curses like a sailor. She never backs down from a fight. She truly does not give a flying fuck if everybody likes her but she can polite you to death. She can drink an entire frat house under the table and still show up on time for church the next morning.

Recieving Communion #2(Liquor before wine, feeling fine, eh Padre?)

Her relationships seem to be little more than ships passing in the night (if by ship, you mean genitals and by night, you mean parking lot). She remembers everyone’s birthday but forgets her underwear. She’ll wake up one morning and pack up her life to move to across the country “just to see what happens.” She’s fearless but extremely self-conscious. She’ll talk to anybody and can tell you the life story of the guy who checked her out at the grocery store. She can go from happy as a clam to near suicidal to pissed as a wet hen to peaceful as a Zen Master in a matter of minutes. She’ll drunk text you quotes from “The Simpsons” at 3am and then laugh at her stupidity the next morning. She’s a peacemaker for her family and friends and her retirement plan consists of living in her sister’s basement and sharing Meow Mix with her 7 cats. Nobody knows what to make of her. This is my favorite bitch though. Because dis crazy bitch is me.

Despite it all though, I wouldn’t trade a single one of these bitches for all the men in the world. Of course, I’d happily kick them all to the curb for 3 minutes alone in a parking lot with Johnny Depp. And I’m sure they’d do the same to me. Damn bitches.


Weddings, Birthdays and Babies, Oh My!


So I know that there always seems to be some sort of exciting event in people’s lives at work. You can count on it in any office, big or small. It affects everyone. It seems that I see the people in my office more than my own family sometimes so naturally (before the Prozac wears off), I feel inclined to share in their happy times. But it’s seriously starting to get ridiculous. I don’t know how many more lunches/cakes/gifts/gift cards/cards/flowers/showers/singing telegrams/bottles of liquor/decorations and so on that I can donate to before I have to choose between paying my electric bill and insulting Jack in accounting. And God knows if I don’t share in the joy of Jack’s 150th anniversary of being married to that horrid woman who calls the office every day and still calls me Christie (I hate that name), I’ll never hear the end of it. And if I don’t give $10-20 towards the gift, then he’ll be pissed because one time I gave Melissa a stuffed animal I won out of the claw machine when her cat died.

sad man(Geez, I hit a cat on my way to work this morning and I didn’t get squat!)

The thing is, I like Melissa. She is my friend and she is a super nice girl. She knew all about that rash and the kerfuffle at the free clinic and she didn’t tell a soul! She’s fantastic. But I don’t like Jack. Jack is a dick. He is rude and lazy and a liar. He eats people’s lunches out of the fridge and thinks we don’t know and if you call out sick, he tells everyone you’re either hung over or knocked up. Why should I spend my hard earned money on someone like that? We’re not friends; we’re co-workers. Then there’s always the email that goes around stating, “If you would like to give toward the office gift, see Jane. But you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Yeah, right. More like, “You don’t have to give if you want to be known as the bitchy office cheapskate.” I’ve worked in small, medium and large offices. It doesn’t matter. Everybody knows everybody’s business. If you don’t give, they’re going to know. I’m not stingy but I could go bankrupt from buying pastel colored gift bags alone. It’s not that I want to be mean but jeez! It seems the gift giving requirements are getting more and more demanding every year.

office gossip(She can afford to get lunch from the 7-11 but not chip in for Mavis’ cruise? What an uppity bitch!)

I mean, congrats on your new baby. Babies are great. I don’t have one but I hear they’re endlessly amusing despite the smell. One of the attorneys in an office I worked at had no fewer than five, count ‘em folks, FIVE baby showers! And yet I’m still supposed to give her something!? What the hell else could that kid possibly need? It’s dressed better than me at this point. It’s insane. Who has that many baby showers and still asks underpaid staff for more gifts?

AngryBaby(Yes, a baby massage table is a necessity. I HAVE STRESS!)

And if you don’t pony up, you get that look of, “What did poor, pregnant girl/bride/birthday girl ever do to you?” or “Why do you hate babies?” or “Oh, of course you don’t want to give the bride a gift. You’re divorced. You hate love.” No, I don’t hate love. I just hate your love. But if I try to argue the point, I just look even more pathetic and hateful. It’s better just to hand over some cash and keep my mouth shut.

kid money(Congrats on your bris, kid. Though this won’t be much comfort about a half hour from now.)

I want to know when us single people are going to get showers and parties. There are always a few of us in any office who are not married and do not have kids. We’re getting stiffed here! Shouldn’t we get some sort of gift-related recognition for being able to properly use a condom and not joining our lives to the first person who asks out of fear of dying alone? I think we should. Not gonna happen but it would be awesome.

redneck couple(Yeeaahhhh, totally worth it. Maybe my standards are too high.)

Bottom line, I am sick to death of being guilted into buying anymore gifts for anyone in the damned office. If we’re close, I will know what’s coming up in your life and be happy to gift you for it and vice versa. As for the other 98% of the office, let’s try “don’t ask/don’t tell”. Don’t ask me for gifts and then I don’t have to tell you no. That policy has to be good for something.

embarrassing(No, no, don’t explain. I should’ve known to knock before I opened the supply closet.)

There are, of course, birthdays. I think it’s nice if the office wants to have maybe one cake per month for all the birthdays in that month. It would save us all a lot of time and money. As for me, I love my birthday. Yes, I’m sprinting towards middle age like a starving cheetah on crack with the Sizzler in its sights but I still love my birthday. It’s actually more of a week span of celebration but I still call it birth-day. I have my family and friends who are required to celebrate and appreciate me accordingly. I don’t expect anyone at the office to get me anything. If you notice me wearing my birthday tiara and want to say “Happy Birthday. I can’t believe you’re only 29”, that’s great. And we can go to lunch together but I can pay for myself. Unless, of course, you insist. But if you are not family or appointed friends, then don’t spend your money on me. Just cover my donation next time Jenny gets knocked up again.

lots of kids(Dear God! Don’t you people ever just watch tv?)

Dear Idiot (Part Deux)


A while back I did a couple of entries regarding people who annoy the ever living crap out of me on a constant and daily basis. I don’t remember exactly when because whenever there’s a new season of “Project Runway” on, time loses all sense of meaning. Regardless, you can read them here and here. They’re pretty awesome. They got good responses, so I thought I’d write another. As time marches on and I grow older and wiser, one would think I would also grow some patience with my fellow man. It turns out, it’s quite the opposite. I’m more irritated by people than ever. Why are people such jerks? I get so mad! Why?! Why are you like this, you damn freak?! I just want to punch you until you cry and then yell at you to shut up!woman-going-crazy

(Why can’t you be normal? Like me!)

Dear Idiot: Talky-Talkerton

I’m a friendly person. I have lots of friends and acquaintances. I love talking to them. The sound of my own voice is charming. But I know how to pick up on the non-verbal cues that my charm is wearing thin. Not everyone is as astute as I am though. Some folks will just keep talking. And talking. And talking. And talking. This drives me crazy. If you see me peeking at the clock over your shoulder, slowly backing away from you or putting my fingers in my ears and singing “Baby Got Back”, you need to stop talking. Please, shut your face hole. I don’t want to hear anymore. You are boring me. And I hate being bored. It ranks right up there with watching the news and eating broccoli. I might be a great actress but even I can’t act like I give a shit about your upcoming weekend of wallpapering your grandmother’s bathroom but for so long. Even though wallpaper paste makes you nauseous like that time you threw up funnel cake at the Salem Fair where your favorite ride is the Scrambler but they don’t even have it anymore, but they do have the bobsled thingees where you ran into your ex’s new girlfriend and she hasn’t barfed up any funnel cakes lately because HA, she’s gotten fat, God how you hate her. Sometimes, to try to distract the talker, I’ll start talking. Ok, I listened to you talk for 42 ½ minutes. It’s my turn to talk now. How about you listen to me for a bit? Quid pro quo, Clarice. But you know what that gets me? The stink eye for interrupting! I’m like, so rude.exasperated-woman

(As I was saying, Lowe’s didn’t have Grammy’s plaid wallpaper so I had to go to Home Depot. And then…)

You know what? Just shut up. Stop talking. Forever. Leave me alone. I don’t care what’s happening in your life. God only gave me so much time on this earth and I don’t want to spend it listening to your endless prattle. Just. Stop. Talking.

Dear Idiot: Stranger Danger

Dear Stranger. Don’t touch me. Ever. Why are you touching me? Seriously. Stop it. Why in the hell do people who don’t know me, touch me? Back when my commercials were on tv, I had a few people who would come up and poke me and say, “I know you! (poke-poke) I saw you on tv. (poke) Omg, I totally know you! (poke-poke)” Ok, you did see me on tv but you don’t know me. And stop poking me, dammit, before I bend your bony, pokey finger so far back you’re whistling Dixie. But I’m not on tv anymore and still, kids, old ladies, grown men, etc. all seem to think it’s ok to touch me. They pat me on the back, hold my hand or arm or even touch my hair. It happens in grocery store lines, at Wal-Mart, at work, in restaurants and so on. When I lived in Glendale, a couple of guys would stand right up behind me, put their face in my hair and smell me! I know I’m kinda soft and usually smell good but don’t touch! What is wrong with you? I’m not a dog that’s been left tied to a lamp post. It’s just freaking weird. Don’t get in my personal space. Especially if you haven’t even bought me dinner yet. And I know it’s not just me. I see strangers touch other people’s babies. Cuz I guess the best way to strengthen their weak little immune systems is to expose them to as many dirty hands as possible. And the worst is when you see some stranger rubbing some pregnant lady’s belly. Holy crap! Keep your creepy hands to yourself. A baby bump is not public domain! How would you feel if I just walked up and started patting your tummy? Though my guess is you would probably like it, freak that you are.belly

(Go ahead, touch it. It’ll bring you luck…I SAID FUCKING TOUCH IT!)

Dear Idiot: Don’t Ask

God, I hate this. That damn person who asks your advice just to do the exact opposite. WTF. And they’ll ask over and over. I told you what I think. It’s obviously not what you want to hear. Why do you keep talking?

Idiot: Should I wear brown shoes or black?

Me: Black.

Idiot: Hm…I think I’ll wear the brown.

Idiot: Should I color my hair blue-black?

Me: No. You’ll look horrible. Like a middle-aged, goth Elvis.

Idiot: I’m going do it. I love Elvis.

Idiot: Do these jeans make me look fat?

Me: They do give you a certain manatee-esque quality.

Idiot: I’ll wear them with this tube top. I think I look sexy.

Me: For a manatee, maybe.

Don’t ask me for my opinion if you’re going to do whatever the hell you want anyway. It shows you have no respect for my opinion. Which is fine. You don’t have to respect my opinion. But then why the hell do you keep asking me? Just do what you want and leave me the hell out of it. And don’t you dare do something stupid and try to come back at me with, “Why didn’t you stop me from <insert personal disaster here>?!” I tried but you wouldn’t listen. Why didn’t I stop you? Because you’re an idiot, that’s why.ugly-guy-hot-wife

(He wants my ATM card and the keys to my car. I should totally give it to him, right?)

Dear Idiot: Fisherman

I don’t particularly care for fish. And by that, I mean I despise fish. I’m not interested in putting anything in my mouth that swims and eats and breathes in its own poop and sex water. Regardless, I have no problem with fisherman. You like fish and fishing, good on you. But that’s really not what this entry is about. It’s about people who fish for compliments. Yeah, those people! And especially the ones who do it by insulting themselves first. And it’s up to you to correct them and reassure them they are amazing. Knock it off, you asshole. Now, I’ll admit that sometimes I’ll make a joke about my weight or age. But first, it’s cute when I do it. And second, I’m not looking for a compliment. I’m just trying to be funny. It’s like when you have some impossibly fit and sexy friend who moans about being fat, you just want to stab her in the forehead.thin_girl

(I’m huge. I just can’t seem to get back to my birth weight, no matter how hard I try!)

This also goes for smart people whining, “I mean, learning Greek, Latin, Russian, Japanese, Chinese and Hebrew were a breeze but I am just too dumb to pick up the subtle regional accents of this ancient Aramaic. I’m such a loser.” Yes, you are. But not for the reasons you think. And the guy who says, “The only work I can get is as Channing Tatum’s lookalike stand in. Curse these chiseled features and taut physique.” Shut up, you walking air and space museum. I know you just want me to tell you how smart or thin or good looking you are. But I’m not going to do that. I can’t afford to feed your ego and my crippling shoe addiction at the same time. Get over it. Appreciate and accept the gifts God gave you. And stop bothering me.

Dear Idiot: Lonely for a Reason

Ok, this goes for both men and women, so guys don’t get all mad because I talk from a woman’s point of view. This is about the idiots from both sexes. I hear from people and see on Facebook all the time that guys “just want a nice girl.” That is a lie. A big, fucking, vicious, dark and terrible lie. You don’t want a nice girl. If you did, you’d have someone. There are nice girls everywhere. But the truth is, you want a hot, young, rich, sexy, model girl who, for some reason, finds middle-aged desk jockeys attractive. This is not something you obviously advertise but there is some small part of your heart and brain and penis that thinks there honestly is some vague possibility this could happen for you. So you don’t give “regular” ladies a chance. Because surely there is some 19 year old Victoria’s Secret angel just waiting to spend her time with you listening to you talk about how much better music was when you were growing up in the 80’s and what kind of wallpaper your grandma likes in her bathroom. Then she wants nothing more than to get some sweet, hot monkey love from you all night long because you are just a machine, baby. And you know what? It’s fine to have that thought. Go for it. It’s not going to happen. Ever. But much luck to you just the same. I would be happy to meet a nice and funny guy. I’m ok with that. Is there a part of me that would prefer to get down with Lou Diamond Phillips circa “Young Guns, II”? Of course! ldp

(Chavez y Chav-…awwww, dayum!)

But I don’t go around complaining I can’t find anybody. I’m sure I could find someone. If I tried. Which I don’t. But that’s another story. So for the love of God, stop acting like all you really want is “a nice girl/guy”. Because nice girls are just that. Nice. And usually funny and smart with a nice smile and may have a few extra pounds around the middle and some gray hairs at the temples or slightly uneven boobs or a weird little mole somewhere. And all this goes for you too, ladies! But if that’s not ok with you, fine. Just stop your bitching about not being able to find someone. There are lots of someones. Apparently, just not for you.

So that’s it for today. Thanks for tuning in. I hope you enjoyed this entry of what’s pissing me off. By the way, if you take a shot of your favorite liquor for each time I tell someone to shut up and/or stop talking in this article, you’re probably feeling pretty good about now.

As Seen on TV


I’m addicted to “As Seen on TV” stuff. I mean, I don’t buy it. Well, a couple of things. But I love watching the commercials and trying to understand what kind of mind it takes to invent this stuff. I know that the world is full of idiots and these inventors not only know it but exploit it dramatically to make mad money by convincing said idiots that they cannot live without vital products like a small blender called “The Magic Bullet”, a frying pan that won’t leave a carbon footprint called “The Ogreenic Pan” or a giant cupcake mold called “Big Top Cupcake”. And how in God’s name did we dare call ourselves civilized before we had a blanket with sleeves called a “Snuggie”?! This could be an immensely long post and I know we would all love to listen to me wax poetic on many products but I’m easily distracted and there’s a “Chopped” marathon on Food Network tonight, so let’s just start with a few of my favorites.basket

(Your dessert basket ingredients are arugula, gummi bears, vegimite and goat legs. Start cooking…)


Ok, I actually bought these. I like eggs and usually have egg whites for breakfast. I thought this would be a fun, easy way to make eggs and have them ready several days in advance. Aw, hells no! First of all, each Eggie comes in 4 pieces. There’s the top, bottom, ring and plug. None of the pieces thread together properly because the damn thing is made out of some sort of melted Barbie doll plastic. You better make damn sure you get it put together tight though or your egg leaks out into the water and floats around like some sort of marine afterbirth. You then have to grease, with oil or Pam, each Eggie. You have to pour the egg in the top of the Eggie which has a hole the about the size of a dime. Yeah, go ahead and practice with a shampoo bottle. Let’s see how much egg makes it in the bottle and how much all over your hands and counter. Then after they cook, which takes longer than a regular egg due to the thick plastic of the Eggie, your eggs come out misshapen and tasting of oil. These things were a God awful waste of time and eggs as well as some of my best swear words.eggs

(The most important membrane leavins of the day.)


Q-tip conspiracy theorists, rejoice. Apparently, we have been lied to our entire lives from parents to grandparents to teachers to doctors. Warning: Q-tips are NOT to be used in your ears. Ever. Apparently, you can actually deafen yourself. If you’re lucky. More likely, you will puncture your brain and you will either die or become so mentally disabled you will enjoy watching the Kardashians (I so fucking hate them) which is actually a fate worse than the previously mentioned death. Instead, you need to ram a battery powered hand vacuum into your head and suck out whatever ear sludge may be hanging out in there. I’ve never seen one in real life but I hope it has suck settings like “Dustbuster”, “Vampire” and “Compton Ho”. That would be cool. Regardless, you know the dude who invented this is rolling in the green, laughing at all the losers who would rather pay $19.99 for a WaxVac that either won’t suck or will take the skin right off your ear rather than pay $1.99 for 4,000 Q-tips. Side note: To avoid brain poking, just don’t jam the cotton swab so far inside. It’s really just that easy.waxvac

(Khloe still am the koolest.)

Gray Away

You’re late for a party or a business meeting and suddenly realize you’re channeling Bea Arthur instead of Angelina Jolie. What to do?! Well, the quickest way to fix that problem is spray paint your head! Yes, Gray Away can save the day. It will make you look younger and fresher and…damn. Even I’m not a good enough actress to sell this crap. Despite the fact I color my hair religiously, the gray comes peeking through within a couple of weeks. But this shit will not come off with brushing, rubbing or sweat. I feel so dumb. And, according to the ad, it comes in “shades to match every hair color”.gray away

(Whether it be brown or dark brown!)

I wonder if the Gray Away people realize they are asking the same customers who are so inept at personal grooming that they cannot be trusted with Q-tips to spray hair color that won’t come off around their hairlines and not get any paint on their faces, hands, counters, loved ones or pets. Just saying.

Perfect (insert food name here)

As the Neanderthals with indoor plumbing we really are, it has become obvious that we can barely feed ourselves. Therefore, we are in desperate need of products to help us make the perfect meat loaf, perfect tortilla bowl and yes, even the perfect brownie. Now, you can buy the Perfect Tortilla Bowl and, with the tortillas themselves (sold separately), spend about $15. Or, at WalMart, you can buy some already made taco salad shells, 6 for $3.99. Yeah, I know. Math is hard. As for your meat loaf, which by design is an entree that screams for perfect presentation, and your brownies and so forth, let me offer you another solution. It will cook almost all your meals from casseroles to cakes, bread to meat loaf and yes, even those hard to manage brownies. I’m totally going to sell the shit out of this. It’s called…pan

(A pan. Yeah…just use a damn pan.)

Tag Away

This stuff is scary. Some people have skin tags. It’s not really a big deal. Some people have moles. Some have freckles. Some have weird little bumps on their wrist their sister insists is a rotting tumor. (Shut up, Melanie. It so isn’t.) These are all part of the little things that make us the special, happy, unique unicorns that we are. But if your skin tag bothers you, for the love of God, GO TO A DOCTOR. Do not medicate yourself with what I’m assuming is a mixture of Compound W, Old Spice and Guatemalan acid! Yeah, it might eat your skin tag but it might just eat a hole in you and you know you’re going to want to stick your WaxVac in it and that’s just going to make it worse. And what if your little nubbin happens to fall off into your boss’s coffee as your setting it before him as he prepares to give you your annual performance evaluation? Then where will you be? Please, leave removing pieces of your person to the professionals.kitten

(I don’t want to look at picture of dried, dead skin chunks, so here’s a kitten instead.)

Lazy Ass

There’s not really a product called “Lazy Ass”. It would be cool, though. But there are a ton of items for people who are just damn lazy. Forever Comfy is a seat cushion. If your chair is hard or you ass hurts, just get a damn pillow. I’m sure there are several in your home to choose from. There’s a product called Easy Feet, which is a shower sandal with little brushes in it to wash your feet. Seriously?! Do not be too lazy to bend down and wash your own feet. If you don’t like bending over or standing on one foot is hard for you or you’re just too drunk to do so (like me), then sit your ass down in the shower and wash them. It’s not like everybody’s watching you. Also, you don’t need an automatic soap/lotion/toothpaste dispenser. Mankind has survived millions of years and I honestly don’t think anyone has ever died because they had to squeeze/pump their own toiletries.toothpaste

(Won’t someone please think of the children?!)

On the Other Hand

I do have to say though, there are a couple of products I have bought that are really awesome. Heeltastic is this foot balm that makes the gnarliest of feet super soft and smelling like foot and cough drops. Also, the Robostir really is helpful to stir stuff so you can step away to work on another dish or, if needed, to go pee. I love my Spin Pin. It’s a little corkscrew shaped hair pin. One pin will hold up my entire white girl afro. It’s truly amazing. And the Bump It made my Peggy Bundy Halloween costume a first prize winner. So at the end of the day, I guess they’re not all bad.

But for the safety of you and your family, don’t forget…qtip

(Death Sticks)

Car Log-Day 5: Are We There Yet?


Chectoah, OK to Memphis, TN

I can tell we’re getting back into the South. I stopped for pee and snacks and the lady who rang me up said, “That all for you, baby?” and when I checked into the hotel, “Three-twen-sebn fer wi-fi, honey.” (Translation:$3.27 for wi-fi) I heard one lady say something about going to MAC-Donald’s. Not McDonald’s, or as you hear in SoCal, Ma-Donna’s. People are starting to talk right! Y’all know how great it is not to be the only person saying y’all? And the country is getting so pretty. Especially as we got closer to Tennessee. It’s all rolly and green. And my windshield is a veritable cemetery for bugs. That makes me very happy. I hate bugs. I know some people like them (like my young friend, Ethan) but I LOVE killing bugs. I hope all the families and friends of all the insect carcasses on my windshield are crying and miserable and understand the example I am making of their loved ones. If you are a bug, do not fuck with me. I will literally smash your thorax so violently that your insides are decimated and and your organs and vital fluids will come bursting out of your body and you will cease to exist.

(What do you mean “anger issues”?)

So this was my last long day driving. 5 ½ hours. The speed limit has gone down from 75 to 70 to a mere 65. I feel like I could’ve gotten out and walked faster. And as we get closer to civilization, there are more cars. Of course, after living in L.A. for 9 years, traffic doesn’t bother me. But I have never had so many pickup trucks so far up my car’s butt. It’s like I was getting a Ford F-150 enema. I was getting very annoyed.

(If you’re going to ride my ass, you better pull my hair.)

We’ve been in the Central time zone for 2 days now and we’ll be in it tomorrow and part of the day Saturday before we drive into Virginia and normal Eastern time. Central time sucks. I don’t know how people live like this. Prime time tv starts at 7pm? WTF? The Simpsons come on at the wrong time. Adult swim starts at 8pm. Jeopardy is on at like 4:30. Is that the same time people eat dinner around here? I really can’t handle it. After finally falling asleep at 11 pm last night, while my brain kept saying, “It’s only 9.” Scuppy decided she needed to go out at 3 am. Yes, at 3 am, she came and kept digging her beak into my armpit until I got up, got dressed, and took her out. She made 3 drops of pee then sauntered back in. Stupid dog.

(Who goes to work while I sleep all day? Yeah. Who’s stupid now?)

So tomorrow is an amazingly short 4 ½ hour day to Crossville, TN and then a little more than 5 hours the next day and we’re home! Less than 10 hours. Wow. As long as this trip has seemed and as tired as I am of driving and eating crappy food, it’s actually gone by very fast. But geez, once I get there, what do I do then???

Car Log-Day 3: My Kingdom for Cruise Control


Grants, NM to Amarillo, TX

What a much better day we all had today. But what a damn boring drive. I drove for over 5 hours and almost 400 miles with only one stop through some of the most bland country. I really wish my car had cruise control because I really could’ve used a nap. And not even one dead armadillo! WTF? I did score some points by calling “Name that Critter…fox.” But that was about it. I thought New Mexico was supposed to be all full of mesas and gulches and grizzled old prospectors. Apparently, once again, tv and movies have lied to me.

(Pictured: Not in New Mexico. Boo!)

We were given rooms upstairs at the hotel. Scuppy stopped and stared at the steps. It took a minute before I realized, she’s never seen stairs before! It was so funny. After much encouragement, she put one giant paw on the bottom step, followed by the other paw on the same step. She took the first 5 steps with both paws on each step at the same time. She kept looking up at me like, “Are you serious about this? Am I doing this right?” It was hysterical. Then when we walked later, she managed to get herself wrapped around a tree. After all this, she required a 3 hour nap rife with snoring which mysteriously stopped every time I tried to record it.

(Amarillo. We have a problem.)

We’ve lost another hour to time zones and I can’t find any decent tv besides endless marathons of Law & Order: SVU. There sure are a lot of gaps in the law and what I’m sure is NYPD policy and procedure. Still, the show is quite mesmerizing. Micha Barton is in this episode as a prostitute. Boy, does she suck. I mean, as an actress, not as a….um, never mind. I digress. Anyway, Amarillo is just as ugly as I remember and I couldn’t find a place to feed me steak to save my life. Stupid Texas. We did order a really yummy pizza though. The hotel is nice and clean despite the questionable décor.

(Nobody looks sexy sleeping in a rust colored bedroom. Nobody.)

Not much else to post tonight. Time for a bath. Some people (Mom) seem to think that last night’s creepy jacuzzi time does not count as bathing. Pffttt, whatever. Why do you think God created chlorine?

(I’d rather drown than be forced to listen to one more minute of their insipid conversation in the car.)

Tomorrow…Chectoah, Oklahoma. Woot?

Bust a Move


So I am leaving the bright lights and unending heat and traffic of Los Angeles to move back to my hometown of Roanoke, Virginia. There are a lot of reasons why, which I won’t get into here because honestly, they’re just not that entertaining to anyone but me. And my stalker. We all know moving is a royal pain in the ass and moving cross-country in 5 weeks is even more so. But I don’t want to talk about the moving process of going through your shit, packing shit, trashing shit, selling shit, donating shit and so forth and shit. I want to talk more along the lines of the stuff you don’t put on your moving list. And at the end of the day, Johnny Depp needs to understand that if this relationship is going to work, he’s going to have to do his part and chase me a little. He knows where Virginia is. He can come after me for once.

(I thought we agreed it would be me in the car and the dog in the box.)

Old Gray Mare, She Ain’t What She Used to Be

I hurt. Seriously. My muscles and bones ache like you can’t even imagine. My mom and I have gone through and packed 9 ½ years of our lives and that stuff is heavy! We’re not hoarders. Never have been but still it’s a ton of stuff. My arms hurt, my legs hurt, my shoulders ache, my back is killing me, I can’t hardly sleep. This is a lot of activity for a 37 year old, legal desk jockey who’s most recent idea of exercise was getting up to change the tv channel when the remote didn’t work right.

(I’m in shape. Round is a shape.)

Now, I’m toting and hauling and heaving like I’m some kind of ant trying to drag a cheese doodle 537 times my size across the driveway. I even sweat! And I don’t sweat. Or stink. I’m currently doing both of those things on a daily basis. Despite numerous Icy/Hot patches, bubble baths, flasks of vodka and bottles of aspirin, my body is just not handling this well at all. I keep trying to tell myself, “Come on, self! We can do this. We’re still young and incredibly sexy. One more car load to Goodwill. You can do it. I believe in you.” Then my body looks at my bed and says, “Eh. I don’t think so.” Thankfully, the bed’s being picked up tomorrow and will no longer pose such a temptation. Then again, that floor does look kinda comfy even without any carpet…Anyway, this whole thing smacks of effort. And we all know how I feel about effort.

Concentra…oooo, Shiny

My concentration is shot all to hell. I don’t know how they expect me to continue working at work when (a) I never really cared in the first place and (b) I have so many other things on my mind. Things like “Will the cat be good in the car on the trip?” and “Will the dog like her new yard?” and “Will Mom start chasing deer again?” and “How can I best embarrass my nieces in public?” Not to mention all the thoughts of turning utilities on and off, what’re we taking in the car, how much money can we save, how long until Johnny finds me, packing and unpacking, where’s the nearest liquor store to the new house, I need to get a job, etc. And on top of all this, the firm still wants me to be a productive legal assistant?! Isn’t that asking a bit much? Also, all this crap overloading my brain has been keeping me from blogging! I know you’re all very sad about this. I haven’t meant to neglect you. But it’s hard to be creative when I’m thinking about my new life and still having to spend most of my day pretending I give a damn about the 3 millimeter crack defect in the construction of a bazillionaire’s pool!

(Dear God! How am I supposed to live in this hovel?)

So I putter through my days. I take 2 hours to do something that used to take me 20 minutes. And I hate to say it but I really don’t care. I’m so excited about moving home and I’m so focused on that, I’m just taking up space at work until I get can get my last check. Oh, and I’m collecting a lot of free lunches, too.

Dealing with Idiots

Obviously, when you’re moving, you have to deal with a lot of idiots. And not just your everyday garden variety idiot. These are extra special idiots set up in different moving in/moving out utility companies that are hired with the highest expectation of keeping you on hold eternally as well as making your utility changes as long, complicated and miserable as possible. The exception being Britney at Highland Propane-I love you, boo! Seriously though, here is an actual exchange between me and a Verizon representative regarding returning my cable and internet boxes:

Me: We’re moving cross-country in a couple of days and haven’t gotten our labels to return our equipment yet.
Verizon: Let me check on that. You’re moving to another country?
Me: No. I said across the country. This country.
Verizon: So will you still be in the United States?
Me: <banging head on desk>

(Do they speak Virginian over there or English?)

The water company in Virginia:

Rep: You can just stop by anytime today to drop off your application.

Me: I’m still in California.

Rep: So that means…um…what? You want to come by tomorrow?

Me: No. I’ll still be in California. Can I email it to you?

Rep: Oh no, honey. I don’t do “the email”.

Me: <banging head on desk>

This has gone on for two solid weeks now.

Al’s My Pal

My room is haunted. My landlord’s father died in the room I am currently sleeping in about 6 months before I moved in. He’s not mean or anything. Just annoying. He turns the tv on in the middle of the night and sometimes closes the bathroom door, stuff like that. He started up two nights ago, which is the first I’ve heard from him in months. I think he’s going to miss me but seriously, I said to him out loud “I’m trying to sleep, Al. Stop fucking with the tv and leave me alone.” We’ll see tonight if he was listening. The first time he did this, it freaked me out. I asked my landlord about it and said something like, “But it’s not him, right? He’s in heaven with your mom.” To which landlord said “Do you change clothes in that room? Then yes, he’s there. Watching girls change clothes is his heaven.” Ew. You’re a dirty old man, Al.

(Not tonight, Al. I have a headache.)

But I’ll miss you just the same. Be nice to the new people. Unless they suck. Then you have my full support is scaring the everliving shit out of them.

Road Trip!

Sunday morning we (Mom, me, Buttons and Scuppy) will be piling in the car and heading east. We’re taking our time and taking a whole week so we can relax and enjoy ourselves. I offered to tie Mom to the roof of the car for the journey so she and the dog would both have more room to stretch out but for some stupid reason she’s refusing. Just to be contrary, I’m sure. I will be posting mini-blogs each day of our trip so you can experience crossing the country (America) with us. I’ll have pictures and stories about our beautiful country, how much fun the dog is having, how dismissive the cat is about the whole thing, how many time Mom asks “What state is this again?” and how many times I have to stop and pee.

(This is Tennessee, right? We’re almost there!)

 Look out, Star City of the South. Here we come!