Y'all Gonna Make Me Act the Fool Up in Here

Yeah, I just made a complete ass of myself in front of my new next door neighbors and their children. Their tax return check was delivered to our house by mistake. Joe held up the envelope to the light and saw that it was for $23,000 and change. No wonder people make plans around their tax refunds.

Anyway, I knocked on their door and must have blacked out because I introduced myself three times, and made at least seven lame jokes about bearing good news. What a jerk. I blame it on the following:

1. I'm coming off a particularly bad bout of PMS during which I've been subsisting solely on Easter candy and spending my days bitching at my husband.
2. I accidentally got drunk at Bunko last night and had my first work hangover in years.
3. My car registered that it was 94 degrees out today.
4. We had to pay the IRS $5,000 this year, so I'm slightly bitter towards those who are getting back $23,000.

What? I Have a Blog?

ATTENTION ASSHOLES:

"Oh, you cut your hair" is in no way a compliment. Neither is "Oh, you cut your hair. What do you think?" If you think it looks that bad, just keep your mouth shut.

I Hope She Googles Her Name and Finds This

Today I was visiting my Dad and I made my twice a decade trip up to the attic. I found treasures like my Barbies and Little People and baby blanket. Even though the weather's been cool I found myself nauseated and feeling faint. I said to myself "just one more box before I pass out and/or throw up and Dad has to call the fire department to haul me down." In the last box I found every V.C. Andrews book ever published and lots of INXS cassettes. I also found a certificate from my 9th grade Spanish teacher. I have no memory of receiving this award, but it's probably because I block painful events. She voted me "Most likely to get lost in Spain." Why would you do that to a self-conscious 14-year-old girl? Did I laugh? Was I mortified? Probably both. But today I just felt angry.

I'm going to make my own certificate and vote Sra. Lemus "Most likely to wear her elastic waist pants backwards." Not only is she most likely to, but she already did. That's about the only thing I remember from that class.

Resolutions

1. Let the little things go.
2. Get my blogging mojo back for longer than 3 days at a time.
3. Say No more often.
4. Cancel all magazine subscriptions that don’t cause me to squeal with joy upon their arrival.
5. Work more, stress less.
6. Resist the urge to say Fo’ Schizzle as often as I want.

More Bitching

Last week I got my first speeding ticket in three years. I'd been so careful. No more 90 mph on I-10, no more zipping through residential areas. I was on a road that is more like a highway and I was in a great mood. As soon as I crested the hill and saw the motorcycle cops, I knew my three year streak was over.

CHiPs: Any reason why you're going 65 in a 45?
Me: Nope. {In my head - because my new car is sweet and I feel the need for speed.}
CHiPs: Didn't you see the sign back there telling you how fast you're going?
Me: Yep. {In my defense, I slowed down when I saw you.}
CHiPs: Don't you think that's dangerous?
Me: I'm not going to argue with you. {Please don't notice that I'm not wearing my seatbelt, Ponch.}

2 minutes later...

CHiPs: Because of the holidays, I'm cutting everyone a break. I just wrote that you were going 9 over instead of 20.
Me: Thank you. {You're far too kind, even though you were looking for a fight.}
CHiPs: Drive safely.
Me: You betcha.

I'm Determined to Get a Food Borne Illness This Holiday Season

This weekend I narrowly escaped eating tainted and recalled Honeybaked Ham.

Last night as I was cooking dinner and talking, I dropped my cell phone on the cutting board. The salmonella covered chicken cutting board.

This should send Christine to an early grave for sure.

Letters, We Get Letters, We Get Stacks and Stacks of Letters

Dear Pollyanna,

You’re the only person in my Bunko group who I’ve found I don’t care for. I’m sure you’re lovely, but you’re just not my cup of tea.

Maybe it’s the fact that you use my email address to try to sell your products. Maybe it’s your knack for turning every conversation back to you within 10 seconds. It could be that you never show any interest in anyone else or ask how she is. Oh, I know. It’s that we’ve known each other for almost a year, you’ve been inside my house, and you still call me Cary. That’s it. I refuse to correct you because I would then be denying myself an opportunity to roll my eyes at the women of substance surrounding you.

Step outside of your fantastic little life for a minute and get a clue.

Peace Out,

Cary

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Woman in the Publix Parking Lot,

Yes, I realize I was driving the wrong way down a one-way aisle. I did it on purpose. I assure you that no one’s car or person was in danger.

Did you know that as you pantomimed and bounced in your seat and said repeatedly that it was one-way I kept my face as impassive as I could as I stared at you? I understood what you were saying, therefore rolling down your window and trying to tell me a fourth time was completely unnecessary.

I sincerely hope this is the biggest problem you face today, as I don’t think you have the coping skills for a real crisis.

Best,

Your passive aggressive fellow driver

In Defense of the Fair

Every fall we go to the county fair. I love the fair. I love the cool weather and watching the sunset over the city and eating things on sticks. It would be easy to put the fair in the same distasteful category as theme parks because it true that they too are loud, crowded, germy, and dangerous.

This was a banner year due to the addition of Purell stations every 10 feet. I no longer had to plan the eating of funnel cake before the petting zoo, and I didn’t have to save my $7.00 bag of cotton candy until I got home. Also, there was this new ride that I was so excited about. I can’t describe it, but it required the removal of my shoes and shoulder harnesses. Because of his height, Joe has a hard time with shoulder harnesses. Apparently the workers (I was going to call them carnies, but I won’t now) couldn’t get the thing to latch properly, which would make the safety light come on. I have underestimated fair workers because I never knew there were safety lights, much less that they were enforced. I almost hugged the man as I thanked him for not allowing us to be catapulted into the next county.

We bought tickets from a woman who looked like the “after” part of a crystal meth advisory poster. If she had been operating the catapult, I can’t say I’d be here to write this.

It's Like They Planned the Menu for Me

When I met Joe he worked at an amazing company that threw amazing Christmas parties. I got to go to places I'd never been. Places you have to pay dues to for the priviledge of later buying dinner. Well, this company was bought and the annual entertainment budget was reduced from $25,000. (I'm not even kidding. This is mind-boggling to a girl who's only worked in human services.) Last year was the final straw. We were insulted when we received the invitation to the holiday party at the zoo. We protested by wearing jeans and laughed at the morons in their semi-formal wear.

Joe changed jobs in January. It's a small company, and we really didn't expect to have a party. Believe it or not, no party is better than a party at the zoo. Today we received an unexpected invitation to one of the old members-only clubs. The invitation has a menu card which I've been carrying around so I can look at it now and then. My mouth waters every time.

• Bacon wrapped shrimp with sweet chili sauce
• Duck spring rolls with plum sauce
• Stuffed mushroom caps
• She Crab soup
• Salad of mixed greens, glazed pecans, dried cranberries, gorgonzola cheese & champagne vinaigrette
• Chargrilled filet mignon
• Crab cake with lobster cream sauce
• Chocolate layer cake

We've been instructed not to wear denim. I think that's a fair trade.

Over/Under

Overrated

Appletinis
My Big Fat Greek Wedding
The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold
Dark Chocolate
Rachael Ray
Nip/Tuck

Underrated

Ina Garten of The Barefoot Contessa
Movie theatre popcorn
Coffee made with freshly ground beans
The first 39 seconds of Angeles by Elliot Smith
Cold Case
Low humidity

Conflicted

Like many women, I have a relationship with my hairdresser. Maybe it's just a relationship in my own mind, but I truly grow attached to them. I think that's normal with the level of trust I place in them. I know, it's just hair, but it's important in the grand scheme of things, especially if I want to leave the house during daylight hours.

First there was Abby who lived and worked in a big, pink Victorian house. Her hair was a frizzled, damaged mass of platinum blonde that stood out at all angles. Her kids and various ex-husbands ran in and out of the pink house, and it wasn't unusual for her to smoke and/or dye her own hair while cutting mine. Despite all of this, my hair never looked better. During those few years I took risks, I cut pictures out of magazines, and I tried cuts shorter than ever. The woman did great hair, but the crazy drove me out of there.

Next was Pete. He was flamboyant and had just won a huge transvestite contest when I started to see him. He was lots of fun in the bitchy, catty, hilarious way that draws me to gay men. My hair looked okay during that time. He never wrote my colors down, so I got something new each time. The last time I saw him he was completely sober and told me and another customer that the book "Flowers in the Attic" was based on him and his siblings. I was absolutely speechless. Again, crazy won and I was out of there.

Then came Barbara. Exceedingly normal and I didn't get the feeling that she talked about me as soon as I left. What I liked most about her was her obvious disdain for the human race. She treated me fine, but I could pick up on it in a kind of "takes one to know one" way. I grew attached to her. I felt like I knew her family, and she even did my hair for my wedding. It felt great to sit in her chair with the knowledge that she would cut and color my hair properly with minimal drama. In two years I followed her around to four different shops in my neighborhood. I thought this was weird, but chalked it up to her low tolerance of others. A few weeks ago I called her shop to make an appointment and was told she hadn't worked there in a month. I felt so hurt and betrayed. I felt like I had been so loyal to her and she couldn't even call me to keep me informed. I went ahead and made an appointment at the salon with another stylist. I now look like a middle aged woman with matronly hair, or even a man when I'm not wearing makeup. When I have my glasses on, well, I don't even want to talk about it.

She finally called me yesterday. I don't want to encourage this brand of crazy, but I also don't want hair that requires four different styling products just to look normal. I don't know what to do.

Mr. JT - Whatcha Got For Me?

This morning I rose early to download Justin Timberlake's new album, which was released today. My plan was to burn a CD so that I could show it off to all the 12-year-old girls on my street. They would be like so jealous, you know. Unfortunately my iTunes account wouldn't work and I pitched a complete fit. I had to go to Target to buy it after work (totally worth it.) I don't know what bothers me more - that iTunes is a butthole, or that I had to wait an extra 10 hours to get it. Somehow I'm not bothered at all about my taste in music, for I'm in very good company.

I Still Have The Skeeves

Because I like to believe that I'm more sophisticated than I really am, I chose a fancy-pants restaurant for my birfday dinner.

Because I like to throw away hard-earned money, I ordered the tasting menu (7 courses of pretentious, small portions of food).

Because I like to please others, I consumed FOIE GRAS-INFUSED STRAWBERRY ICE CREAM. I put it in my mouth and swallowed it. I really did.

I don't know if it was supposed to cleanse my palate like sorbet, but whatever. I have very specific food rules: no veal, no tuna from companies who kill dolphins, and no liver from a goose who was force fed to death.

Lesson learned. Just because it's expensive, just because your waiter looks and talks exactly like Stephen from Top Chef, and just because the restaurant is critically acclaimed does not mean it's good. Next year will more than likely find me at Applebee's eating baby back ribs.

How I Prepared For My Class Reunion

2 months before: Decide to order a brown dress to be “different” since black is my signature color.

6 weeks before: Receive the dress in the mail. See that it's the ugliest brown ever created, complete with copper threads running through it circa 1982. Look online to see if the dress is still available in black. Of course it isn’t. Swear a lot.

4 weeks before: Bleach teeth, get hair did.

3 weeks before: Threaten best friend with death by dismemberment for bailing on reunion.

1 week before: Resigned, look for ugly brown shoes to match ugly brown dress. Buy some; bring them home to find that they don’t match. Drink a bottle of merlot. Get the bright idea to see if the dress is available in black yet. Of course it is. Begin to sweat as I order it. Am told it will arrive in 5-8 days.

4 days before: Am told the reunion is postponed due to Tropical Storm Ernesto. Sing Hosanna in the Highest.

3 days before: Am told the reunion is back on since Tropical Storm Ernesto has become Thunderstorm Ernesto. Weep into my fists.

2 days before: Go to salon to get nails done. Tell the hairless young Asian girl “I’d like some waxing done too.” She says “Your eyebrows? You probably want your lip done too.” “Yeah, um, thanks” I reply.

24 hours before: Miraculously receive black dress in the mail, and it is beautiful. Sit on the couch and tip m&m’s bag directly into my mouth while thinking “Maybe it will be canceled again.”

Decide it might be wise to make a hotel reservation. Do so. Do last minute tweezing, bleaching, waxing, sanding, scraping, and polishing. Put 3 Biore Pore Perfect strips all about face. Asked by husband if I’m auditioning for Braveheart II.

12 hours before: Awaken with a knot in my stomach.

10 hours before: Book it south to meet my girls for lunch. Witness a horrifying car accident directly in front of me that makes me shake for the rest of the afternoon. (No one was hurt – we stopped)

6 hours before: Eat lunch with my girls and their various infants. Feel pains in my uterus that I will away with hard liquor.

5 hours before: Curse my sorry ass when I begin to develop a migraine from drinking in the middle of the day.

4 hours before: Make futile attempt to nap. Take 2 aspirin.

3 hours before: Shake fist at the sky. Take 2 Excedrin.

1 hour before: Realize that I left pantyhose and slip at home. Curse some. Drive to Walgreens to buy hose.

30 minutes before: Realize that I have no time to shower. Get dressed, put on mascara for the first time since my wedding.

During: Stand in a room with a bunch people I don’t know anymore (my girls excluded). Drink Jack Daniels, rock out to 90’s tunes. Take more aspirin. Laugh at self and others as we sit around with coffee mugs in hand complaining that it’s past our bedtimes.

Dear Me,

Hi! How are you? Fine I hope.

Listen, I've been meaning to talk to you about your ugly-ass work shirt collection. What gives? You used to have standards and acceptable taste. You've always liked solid colors and simple patterns. That's why I can't understand why you continue to purchase garments like this:

Not only is the pattern hideous, but the cut? I don't think that was ever in style.

And how about this next one? Just because something costs $7.99 at Ross does not mean you need to own it. And while it's a plus that it doesn't require ironing, that doesn't mean it won't melt if exposed to an open flame, or your car seats for that matter. And who is this Susan Lawrence and Suzie in the City of whom you are so fond? I've personally never heard of either of them.

And this one? That you wore with black pants in public TWICE before realizing it was actually dark brown? Grotesque. It may be passable if it was the only ugly shirt in your summer wardrobe, but lo it's just one of many. One of many.

Here's my advice: quit your bitching and go back to the mall for clothes you plan on wearing outside of the house. If you do happen to stumble into Ross, stick with the solids. Please heed my advice, I'm trying to be a friend here.

Regards,

You

I Probably Shouldn't Have Access To A Debit Card

Last week I had to train a bunch of people at work, therefore I had to make a trillion copies and assemble packets. I gave myself a 15 minute window to complete this task. Surprise! I was the only person in the office and the copy machine was out of toner. I couldn't tell you where extra toner was, and highly doubt that we even had a backup. I booked it to Kinko's and made the copies just in time. For the low price of $45.53. I'm almost afraid to submit the receipt for reimbursement.

Later that day I went to the grocery store and noticed that they had manchego cheese, which I'd been wanting to try. I couldn't find a price, and didn't think it would cost that much. When I got home and looked at the receipt, I saw that it cost $7.83 for a 4 oz. piece. I don't normally spend that kind of money on cheese, being lactose intolerant and all. The worst part is that it's so delicious and I can't wait to buy some more. Only 57% of the calories come from fat, so I don't see why I shouldn't.

Stop It Already

So Jerry Hall is the latest person to perplex me. I have been so strong, and not watched her reality show once this summer! I don’t care about her looks or love life or whatever. It’s her goddamned accent. She needs to pick either Southern or British—preferably Southern since she is in no way British—and stop fading in and out and overlapping them. Shit. She is right up there with Madonna and Kathleen Turner. Is it a conscious decision? Because we all know the truth ladies: Texas, Michigan and Missouri, respectfully. Cut that shit out.

My current project is copying all my cds to my computer, selling all my cds, and applying all proceeds to buying an iPod. This is a brilliant plan on so many levels: a) clutter fucks with my my feng shui, b) I am cheap, c) it makes me feel smart that I know how to copy music onto my hard drive. Who knows, sending pictures by email might be next.

In other boring news, the doctor thinks the inner ear infection is now an allergy. I'm on antihistamines and ear drops that kill "bacteria and fungus" - ugh. This theory explains the post nasal drip, the chest congestion, and the feeling that my head is going to explode via my cheekbones. Since I am highly qualified I prefer to diagnose myself, preferably with the worst possible ailment. I disagreed with her decision and thought about it for the rest of the day.

Me: But I don't have allergies anymore.
Kitty #1: Sure you don't.
Me: I had my colon cleansed. I didn't go through that for nothing.
Kitty #2: Can you brush my nappy coat for me? Oh, and there's a hairball on the couch for you.
Kitty #1: Mom, can you pick up some more Head and Shoulders because this dandruff on my back is really interfering with my social life.
Me: Son of a bitch.
Joe: Unable to comment because he ran out the back door and broke into cartwheels at the thought of getting rid of his beloved Barf and Bagpipes.
Me (yelling out the back door): They're staying Jerky!

In the meantime, my mucus membranes are presently looking for a good home and will be at the local Petsmart adoption fair this Saturday between 8:00 am and 4:00 pm.

I Got Your Tossed Salad Right Here

I am a terrible blogger. I am blaming everything on my inner ear infection. My ears have hurt for two months now. First I was diagnosed with "swimmer's ear" and told to stop using Qtips. Eew. That is as implausible for me as not using deodorant. I was very disciplined for weeks, albeit less than well groomed, and my ears continued to get worse. During my flight to and from NY last week I was in such agony that I was fantasizing about a plane crash to put me out of my misery. Tired of running into walls and afraid that Joe would make good on his threat to commit me to rehab for addiction to prescription pain killers, I made an appointment with a new doctor. She diagnosed me with an INNER EAR INFECTION, which I had diagnosed myself with two months ago. I am feeling much better despite the fact that these antibiotics make me feel like I have lost IQ points.

It took me two solid weeks to make it through the recording of "Rob and Amber Get Married." That doesn't bode well for CBS if a reality show junkie has to portion out a show as to prevent projectile vomiting. I didn't realize my standards were quite this low. I may as well start watching that new Jerry Hall show. These two assholes are millionaires, got a house as a wedding present, got a Colin Cowie wedding for free, then had the gall to cry about how stressful it all is.

Best Buy is teetering on the edge of my shit list, whose other members presently include Orbitz, Independence Air, Saturn, Wal Mart, and Rob and Amber, Inc. A couple of weeks ago my laptop was seriously ill. Everything was dark and I couldn't play Alchemy at all. We rushed it to the Best Buy hospital and were directed to the emergency room which is run by the Geek Squad. I shit you not. They are even dressed like the geeks in their ad campaign. It would have been funny if I had not been so upset at the time. We met our geek, and things quickly went downhill:

Joe: I think it's the monitor bulb.
Geek: Hmm (turning the computer over) I think it's the monitor bulb.
Me: I think it's an inner ear infection!
Geek: I will have to ship it to Sony since it is under warranty.
Me: How long will that take?
Geek: 2-3 weeks.
Me: Ok. Can I have a loaner during that time?
Geek: We don't do that.
Me and Joe: WHAT?
Geek: Or you can take it to an authorized Sony repair shop.
Joe: Do you know of any?
Geek: No.
Joe: Can you rush it?
Geek: Yeah, I can escalate it. (I don't think that is the proper use of that word, but whatever).
Me: Ok. You can ship it off, but first can you hook it up to a monitor and copy my documents onto my jump drive?
Geek: We charge $59.99 for that service.
Me and Joe: WHAT?

I was so mad by this point that I was shaking and using all my relaxation techniques. Bear in mind that this is my work computer also. We stomped out of the store, but not before Joe bought a new digital camera. I have decided that Best Buy is to Joe what Target is to me - crack.

The computer arrived via Fed Ex after one week. Boy, that escalation works every time. I credit the wonderful people at Sony with this, as Best Buy would have wanted to charge me $89.99 for the additional service.

I was just watching Everyday Italian on the Food Network and the host said that
she was going to toss her salad. I giggle like Beavis every time I hear that out of sickening context. I think it is the only time I act like I'm 12. That, and when I don't get my way at Best Buy.

Insult to Injury

The Saturn guy just came and towed my car away. Since the trunk popping device does not presently work, I had to climb over the passenger seat, fold down the backseat, and use my Inspector Gadget arm to get something out of the trunk. While I was contorted in my car, ass end up, I split my fucking work pants! Not just a little, but all the way up the back. I then had to walk back into the house in front of the tow truck guy and try to be cool and act as if my thong wasn't hanging out the back of the 12" hole in my pants.