Miss Thystle's Guide to Life

(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.