(scene - Wal-Mart gun counter; last night)

Very Tattooed Thug – And a box of .45's

Wall of Thug Meat – Lemme get some 9's too, man

Me – That's what I need, too. Two of the hundred round boxes of the Winchester 9mm 125grain full metal jackets, please.

WoTM – Damn, Girl, that was HOT.

VTT – yeah, baby, you a bad ass.

(/scene)

My father in law was recently downsized. Being that he's less than five years from retirement, he's not interested in finding a new career; just something to pay the bills.

So far he's applied to be a security guard, a Wal-Mart greeter (is that spelled right? The longer I look at 'greeter' the less it looks like a word) and most amusingly, a fish quality inspector.

Since he's been in the photography industry for the last 30 years, and the Navy before that, his resume is a little narrow. Undaunted, he filled out his application for the glorious field of salmon inspection. However, given his propensity for saying things like "windle" (window) "chimaley" (chimney) and things of that ilk, he called my mother in law to get clarification on his most legit claim to the job.

FIL - How do you spell Abbott?

MIL - Abbott? Like Abbott and Costello?

FIL - No, the other kind

MIL - (confused) Can you use it in a sentence?

FIL - "I am an abbott fisherman"

MIL - You mean avid A-V-I-D

FIL - No, I don't, I mean ABBOTT, like I'm good at it and I know stuff about fish? So, if you don't know how to spell it, just say so!

He didn't get the job. Apparently they're not interested in Abbott Fishermen. Go figure.

M & me are off to NYC tonight on the Jet Blue red eye. My mother keeps calling to remind me to do things like bring a coat. Silly me, thinking I was an adult.  Actually, I’ve noticed a bunch of random and insightful things this week. So I’m going to tell you ALLL about them. Because I love you, that’s why.

1) Even if you’re an adult living several thousand miles away, an executive at a multi-national company responsible for million dollar decisions and the parent of a teenager, your mother will still call to remind you to bring comfortable shoes when you go on vacation.

2) If your spouse really likes that recipe that you just invented he will casually mention that you should make some so that he can take it to work and share it with the guys. This is man-speak for "You are a Goddess and queen of my heart and you’re also talented and beautiful and I wish to brag about your prowess to those who I wish to envy me in my good fortune." So you will have to take your nine hundredth trip to the grocery store that week to get ingredients for another pan of Chocolate Chocolate Chip Rice Krispie treats with Score Candy Bar pieces.  (Yes, you will go into a sugar coma but OH MY GOD! delicious!)

3) If your teenager says that she has packed "fierce" clothes, you should check her suitcase unless you want her to look like either an a)hooker or b)homeless emo transvestite hooker.

4) That smell? Not good. And has anyone seen the puppy? SWEET 8lb 6oz Baby JESUS that is not right. NOT RIGHT. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD bring me a fire hose, sixteen rolls of paper towels, a nose plug and some rubber gloves. And tongs. STAT.

5) If your boss says "When ever you get around to it" he really means "now". When you give it to him five minutes later, he’ll be convinced you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to the company.

6)He will not give you a raise though.

7) Free stuff kicks ass. Our company teeshirts are completely biker fabulous. I look like a total bad ass wearing them. You know, if accountants could be bad ass. Which I assure you, we can not. But in my mind. Oh yes, in my mind I am a complete bad ass.

8) The Coke Machine guy, who is NOT my earstwhile heart throb is a price raising bastard. 65C. for a Diet Dr. Pepper? That’s like asking me to pay for oxygen. I NEED IT and it’s horrible of you to make me walk all the way back to the other building to get a nickle because you know full well that when I get there the phone will be ringing and it will be someone telling me their entire life story to get to the point of their question which will be "Can you transfer me to receiving?" because they just pressed random buttons until they got a live person rather than following the prompt and when you’re done with THAT idiot something else will come up and the next thing you know it’s 2pm and I still haven’t had a Diet Dr. Pepper and I’m ready to kill someone.

9) If I don’t get caffeine, I get cranky.

10) If you Twitter you can follow my tweets for an on going commentary on the hillarious antics of bridesmaid-a-palooza. My twitter address is http://twitter.com/Reverend_kiki 

Right. So, that’s all for now, I guess.

I’m headed to NYC for Bridesmaid-a-palooza (how can you tell I’m a teen of the 90’s? I add ’a-palooza’ to things) on Thursday night.

Now, I know that the East Coast is a little different from the West*. For example, they have weird accents. Also, they smoke. They embrace public transportation. They swear. A lot. In fact, the New Jersey flavor of EC’er maybe one of the most linguistically creative. I mean, who knew that you could use fuck as an adverb, adjective, verb and noun all in the same sentence? It’s brilliant, I tell you.

I am afraid that my provincial West Coast vocabulary may make me fodder for overheardinnewyork.com so I figured I better learn a really good, really shocking, really fucking awesome bad word.

And I have. That word is "Fuckmuppet". I’m not completely sure of the proper application for the word though. A taxi driver could probably be a fuckmuppet if he drives by you and it’s raining, but shouldn’t a fuckmuppet described an elevated level of douchebaggery? I’m thinking so. I’m thinking that fuckmuppet  probably is also something that you can say either to someone or about them. For example you might say  "Stanley, you are such a fuckmuppet" or you could say "Ew. You’re dating Stanley? He’s such a fuckmuppet".

Because you should be able to use fuckmuppet any situation where you might use asshat or fucktard it’s just that classy.

**

*I know this because the Real House Wives of New York are WAY bitchier than the Real House Wives of Orange County. I believe in research, you know.

**Another way you can tell how old I am is my enduring love of ALF.

Currently listening : Holy Fuck By Holy Fuck Release date: 04 December, 2007

I am the only woman at my office. I am the only woman that works for the entire COMPANY for that matter. There are no fewer than four men’s restrooms on sight, each with multiple stalls and urinals. There is ONE ladies room with one toilet. Fair enough, since there is only one of me.

But can someone PLEASE, PLEASE tell me why the men all insist on using the ladies room? I don’t want to see you pee drops on the floor, I don’t want to see your copies of “Biker” on the back of the toilet (the naked chicks featured on every page just don’t do it for me, maybe you could bring in Men’s Health?) and for the love of all that’s holy I really, really don’t want to see your pubes on the rim of the toilet after you’ve left the seat up.

Have a little respect. The ladies room is nice because I keep it that way. It’s clean because I keep it that way. It smells good because I keep it that way. If your bathroom is so disgusting CLEAN IT! Don’t use mine!

Sincerely,

Your coworker with boobs

When someone asks me to guess something, I make a point of coming up with something completely obscure and possibly inappropriate.

Guess what I want for my birthday?

Six pounds of butterfly cut pork-chops?

Close. A sea kayak.

My mother called the other day

Guess who showed up on our doorstep?

Snoop Dogg?

Close. FRED*!

I’m pretty sure that my white, green eyed ex boyfriend can’t be mistaken for a black rapper, but no matter what random thing I come up with, the guessee almost always says “close” to my guess.

Of course, I wanted to know why he was there, but that, my chickens, THAT is the whole point of this game. Feigned disinterest. That’s nice I tell my mother. Really I’m thinking that I bet he’s dying. Or maybe he wants to return the No Doubt CD that he “borrowed” in 1997. Maybe he’s recently come in to a large sum of money and wants to give me some because once, a long time ago, I let him see my amazing rack. I might have even let him touch it, but this is a G-Rated blog (sometimes) so I won’t say if I did or didn’t.

The truth was much less interesting, he needed my contact information so that he could provide me as a reference for a job he’s applying for.

Guess what else? My mother gleefully asked me. This is because my mother, above all things, LOVES gossip.  He’s missing all his teeth? I guess. Close! He’s married and they have a baby! I find this information less than interesting. I knew all that. I have Google after all. AND he’s fat! But not FAT fat, just kind of fat. This information I do appreciate. I appreciate this information because twelve years or so ago, he made a huge deal about how *I* had gained ten pounds or so. I’m already a big girl, does ten pounds really matter?  We should go on a diet he tells me. DIET? Um, Fuck You? I’m pretty sure the reason that you had no girlfriend for a long time before me was because you don’t have the brains to realize that telling someone whose vagina you wish to know in the Biblical sense that she needs to lose a few pounds is NOT A GOOD IDEA. So, yeah, I’m glad he’s fat, because me? I look exactly the same. That’s not true, I actually look better, because I can afford $60 hair cuts and bi-monthly mani/pedi’s and I have learned to dress to accentuate rather than hide my figure.  

Anyhoodle, back to him being fat. I’m pretty sure that the only thing that would make me happier would be if he had a really hideous wife. Not because I wish her ill, but because, COME ON, who doesn’t secretly hope that their ex, however amiable the split, is now dating someone that you have to look away from because other wise you’ll throw up in your mouth? Oh stop that. You know you’ve thought the exact same thing.

We chat a few minutes longer, but really I’ve lost interest in the subject. I mean it’s not as if he’s gone from homeless to billionaire and has just sold his memoirs for a huge sum to Paramount and wants to know if I’d prefer Jennifer Garner or Reese Witherspoon to play me in the movie.

But then, you’ll never guess what happened! He sent the ‘rents a couple of pictures of himself and his family! And then the DaD MaN send them to me! HAHAHAH. Okay, breathe deep, Thystle. Ahem. You know what? He is fat! And balding! Hee hee! Alright, so the baby is cute. But he’s a baby after all so that is kind of a given. His wife is alright. Not hot, but not hideous. She *was* wearing Mom jeans so that made me happy.

But you know what made me really happy? His house is a mess! I’ve no idea why I’m so thrilled with this, but really I am. He used to give me ten tons of grief over the fact that my apartment was cluttered. Now, I’ll grant you that it was, but the apartment was about 500sf, so what do you really expect? I sew, I write, I read (all the time) and I’m a teeny-weenie bit obsessed with clothes, shoes, make up and all other things related to being a girl. Also, I lived alone so really, if I left three months worth of magazines and six bottles of nail polish on the side table who was it hurting? No one except (apparently) someone who should have been happy just to be allowed in to the incense scented pink glory that was my single girl apartment.. Now, all these years later seeing that his house is ten times as cluttered as mine (a feat, I assure you) gives me no end of amusement. It’s like Karma backed right up and dumped a hot-steamy load all over him. Because that Karma? She’s a bitch my lovelies.

P.S. If anyone needs me, I’ll be feeding handicapped nuns and orphans homemade chocolate cake this afternoon. In case you see Karma hanging around or anything.

*Name changed because it makes me seem more mysterious that way.

me: ...and your most favorite thing ever for after dinner

J: I didn’t realize they were selling them in packages now.

me: What?

J: blow jobs.

Those of you that know my husband will attest to the fact that he’s more Al Bundy than Danny Tanner. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing, since I’m more Peggy Bundy than June Cleaver myself.  However, when I am sick we run into a problem.

The trash can is over flowing, everyone is wearing uncomfortable underwear and there is nothing to eat at the house. I am sure they are whining about it, but honestly? I can’t hear a damn thing. Both my ears are plugged, so everything is muted about 50-75%. Takes a lot of the work out of ignoring them, let me tell you.

I did manage to stumble to the living room the other day and you know what? It looks exactly like Mc Donalds and Burger King had a baby named Jack In The Box and he spent all day playing with his Taco Bell. The dogs are loving it. So many tasty pieces of garbage to eat! To Shred! To strew happily about the dining room! Upon seeing me upright for the first time in days my beloved offered me food. That he would produce himself! Whatever my heart desired.

This, let me tell you, is an unprecedented turn of events. It may be a sign of the apocalypse. I’m pretty sure it’s the first time in, oh, YEARS that food has emerged from that kitchen not prepared by me on a day other than a holiday. The request obviously required some thought...steak? Hmmm....steak. But that requires chewing. And, you know, *having* steak. I’m pretty sure a trip to the grocery store is out of the question. (total side note; Ladies, have you ever noticed how hard it is to grocery shop with a man? WTF? I always come home with twice as much food and way random things.)

I half contemplated telling my beloved, "thanks but no thanks". But then I remembered, in the kitchen, in the fridge, there was the most perfect of all foods. The food to which all other foods bow. Bacon. Just bacon.

You know what? It was the best dinner I’ve had in ages.

I'm not dead yet. But, I am still sick.

I have been sick for nearly two weeks and you know what? I am not sure I remember what's it's like to not be sick. I have a lovely racking cough where it sounds exactly like I'm trying to use my lung muscles to extract and expel my shin bone. Repeatedly. It's charming.

Before I got the plague I went to Ross and I planned a great little blog about the horrors of shopping at a discount store deep in the heart of the ghetto. I remember it being so funny that I laughed right out loud at my own cleverness.

Yeah. Um. So. I'm sure it will come back it me. In the mean time, this will have to tide you over.

Why did I take it's picture? Maybe because it's hideous and its baby looks like a penis.  We'll probably never know.

My boss has an 88 year old grandmother who is the very model of what I aspire to be.

You see Grandma, after losing her husband, took up with a spry 97 year old. She flew cross country to live in sin with him and apparently went at it like geriatric rabbits until he kicked off.

Then, she wised up. You see the elderly keel over at an alarming rate, so she hooked up with a younger man. A mere whip of an 83 year old. All was well until he had the nerve to decide to reunite with his ex-wife. He wrote Grandma a "Dear Phyllis" letter and mailed it to her.

Understandably, Grandma found this to be déclassé.

However, her solution might have been a tad extreme. This morning she drove her Cadillac right through the elderly Lothario's house. Right. Through. The. House.

When her bemused son arrived to bail her out she quite calmly informed him that "The Bastard was rude not to tell me to my face!" because while felony vandalism is excusable, bad manners is not!

Real Post to follow, but for now....

Six married or single fathers will be dropped on an island with one car and 3 kids each for six weeks.

Each kid will play two sports and either take music or dance classes

There is no fast food.

Each man must take care of his 3 kids; keep his assigned house clean, correct all homework, and complete science projects, cook, do laundry, and pay a list of 'pretend' bills with not enough money.

In addition, each man will have to budget in money for groceries each week.

Each man must remember the birthdays of all their friends and relatives, and
send cards out on time.

Each man must also take each child to a doctor's appointment, a dentist
appointment and a haircut appointment.

He must make one unscheduled and inconvenient visit per child to the Urgent Care.

He must also make cookies or cupcakes for a social function.

Each man will be responsible for decorating his own assigned house, planting flowers outside and keeping it presentable at all times.

The men will only have access to television when the kids are asleepand all
chores are done.

The men must shave their legs, wear makeup daily, adorn himself with jewelry, wear uncomfortable yet stylish shoes, keep fingernails polished and eyebrows groomed.

During one of the six weeks, the men will have to endure severe abdominal cramps, back aches, and have extreme, unexplained mood swings but never once complain or slow down from other duties.

They must attend weekly school meetings, church, and find time at least once to spend the afternoon at the park or a similar setting.

They will need to read a book and then pray with the children each night and in the morning, feed them, dress them, brush their teeth and comb their hair by 7:00 am.

A test will be given at the end of the six weeks, and each father will be required to know all of the following information: each child's birthday, height, weight, shoe size, clothes size and doctor's name, the child's weight at birth, length, time of birth, and length of labor, each child's favorite color, middle name, favorite snack, favorite song, favorite drink, favorite toy, biggest fear and what they want to be when they grow up.

The kids vote them off the island based on performance. The last man wins only if...he still has enough energy to be intimate with his spouse at a
moment's notice.

If the last man does win, he can play the game over and over and over again for the next 18-25 years eventually earning the right To be called Mother!

After you get done laughing, send this to as many females as you think will get a kick out of it and as many men as you think can handle it.

So I've decided to get a new tattoo. Actually, I decided that like a year or maybe two ago, I just haven't found anything that really, really makes me say "That! I want THAT on my body for ever and ever and ever".

I've got an idea of what I want, a kind of compliment to my existing tattoo. Not being an artist and also being an visual thinker, I feel that the best plan is to find several pictures so that I can take it to the artist and say; "I like the colors of this one, the feel of this one, the layout of that, etc" until we come up with exactly what I'm picturing.

To that end, last night I googled for some pictures to get started. I got a ton of pictures that are really, really...well...you'll see

I think that these are good examples of things that you'll regret. Come on Ford Mustang? I bet he's got a yellow 1989 Hatchback model with "chrome" accessories from Auto Zone.

Or then there's these

I mean, it's cool that you're 37, a virgin and live in your mom's basement, but we already knew that because you're still wearing your Geek Squad uniform and all you ever talk about is Everquest.

Then there's the poor sororstitues that think that they will be able to sustain a life time of flat tummiedness by abusing laxatives and eating only on days that rhyme with "Fun-day"

Two words for you my precious, Caesarean Section.

There were of course some examples of what happens when RedNecks get a little spending money

And there were funny ones

The cute ones

There were tattoos that clearly went wrong

Like the ones above, which should have been lovely, but just turned out scary and the one below in which Jen & Becky clearly didn't tell Anna that by "Words to Live By" they didn't mean "Don't Wear Pants"

And of course the ones that are gorgeous but not quite right for me

And the ones that make you kind of see the sum of someones life right flash before your eyes

 (Now)

 (in fifteen years)

And the ones that you have to  see  to be believe.

In the end though, what I found out was that in about forty years, there's going to be a lot of this

at the Early Bird Buffet.

I'm back from San Diego and wearing my totally cute Roxy flats that I bought for $2.99.

That's right, chickens, $2.99! So I bought six pairs in various styles. I also bought an adorable Coach bag for $50 (and it's not an Assistant Coach, either!) and a totally fabulous oil painting for my living room.

Of course, there is the small matter (well, not *small* exactly, LOL) of sunburned boobs and a pale white face making me look vaguely ridiculous in a touristy way. 

I'd have to say, In My Professional Opinion, it's a Good Idea to wear sunscreen not just on your face, but also on your boobs. Especially when they stick out futher than the brim of your fabulous hat

Because if you don't? Dorky tan lines.