I know that post title is a little icky. But, so what. I try to name my posts so as to give a body some kind of idea what they might be reading... or not. Actually I just amuze myself by doing it. Both the words ROSES and SHIT will appear in the body of this here text.
So, the majority of my ramblings come from ridiculous shit and silly conversations that happen within my newly formed family surroundings.
Me and Big T have been together less than 2 years and only married for 3 months next week. Awwwww. Newlyweds. Even though we have spent alot of energy getting to know each other, there will ALWAYS be plenty more that the other doesn't know.
I reckon that's considered, the learning and growing process within a marriage.
Well, Big T knows the silly, mostly redneck, totally laid-back Diva. Don't get me wrong, he's seen me act all professional when dealing with these hoity-toity types with my job, but for the most part, he sees me as I am on a daily basis at home.
I'm sitting here trying to figure out how to write this crap without sounding like I have multiple personalities... too late.
Anyway, the last holiday season, we were together, but we both had our respective families to deal with and holiday functions to tend to and we did these things solitarily. OG (who is my friend and boss) is all about having a kick ass social life. We generally have a couple of company social dinners around the holidays, which includes folks from her husband's company and other highly edu-ma-cated types from the local scientific community.
I suppose that would be the set-up. This is how roses and shit tie in...
Big T is a wonderfully simple, extremely laid back total redneck with excellent social skills and exquisite manners. He's a blue jeans and long sleeve camo t-shirt kinda feller. He is totally not used to dealing with multiple people he doesn't know in a social setting. Which is cool, because as I said, the man has top notch manners.
Well, this holiday season, we be hitched. So, now he been thrown into this situation where he has to come with me to all of these functions. Last Friday night, after OG's gradumawayshun, we had our company Christmas party. There were OG, her man, me, Big T and 14 other people (all of whom Big T didn't know).
Actually, of all the 14, I only scarcely knew one chick and her man. I was in the same boat as he was on the knowing yer neighbor.
Now, in this type of new situation, Big T tends to clam up. He watches everybody and hears everything... but he says precisely ZIP, nada, nicht.
I on the other hand could make some shit up about anything and talk to any-damn-body about it. At the table were several Ph.D types along with many, many masters' of science types. Whatever. I am who I am, regardless of my surroundings.
Anydiddle, we ate, drank and I was super social and then we left to go home.
On the way, Big T had an epiphany about my social skills...
Driving down the interstate he says, "You know, you could fall into a bucket of shit and come out smelling like shit."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I seriously had no clue it was a compliment.
"Shut up and lemme finish. You could fall into a bucket of shit and come out smelling like shit. Just like you could fall into a bunch of roses and come out smelling like a rose."
"Hmmmmm. And this is a good thing?" Still not sure it's a compliment.
"Why yah. You can talk to anybody, anywhere about anything whether you know them or not. You're comfortable around everybody."
After a little thought, I figured he was right. I talked to a bunch of people about a bunch of stuff that night and never thought about who they were or how "hoity-toity" their life style is:
I was talking to a professor of chemistry about how I despise touching the door handles to get out of a bathroom because people are disgusting.
I talked to a librarian about my wildest drinking binge on a business trip in New Orleans.
I talked to a government contractor dude about how many Christmas lights are too many Christmas lights.
I talked to a labrat (a lil chick who does nothing all day but pipette samples into a tube for testing) about all of our collective children.
So, I'm happy Big T found me to be as socially acceptable as shit and roses. He should know by now I don't put on a front or act hoity-toity for anybody. I is who I is and I'm completely comfortable being me.
yay! Gotta go. I'm thinking way too much for my own good.
I know that post title is a little icky. But, so what. I try to name my posts so as to give a body some kind of idea what they might be reading... or not. Actually I just amuze myself by doing it. Both the words ROSES and SHIT will appear in the body of this here text.
First here, I wish to extend my warmest and deepest heartfelt wishes for this wonderful and joyous holiday season to each of you, my newest and bestest friends, here on Blogger's Lane. You are a blessing and each one of you has touched me with your stories. I've giggled with you and cried with you. Thank you for making every single day something to look forward to you.
How was that for mushy** gushy stuff?
Onward and upward... So, what jiggles & floats, but under no circumstance does it bounce?
Big T is long gone for work. He is a prince. He gets the coffee going for my anticipated awakening to the new day a dawning before he leaves every morning. It's 6:22 in the A.M. and the alarm has been going off for 2 minutes before I crawl across the bed to slap the snooze button My general M.O. is to hit snooze until around 7ish but I have to let Big T think I wake up earlier than that.
So, I slapped the snooze button and drop back down on his side of the bed, and off to zzzzzz-land I am again in mere miliseconds. I experience my slumbering bliss for another seven minutes when that bitch starts to scream at me again.
Welllll, I hopped up on all fours fixin to crawl across the bed to slap the snooze button again. Only problem with this scenario is the fact that I'm not on my side of the bed, I'm on his side and I don't have any bed to crawl across.
As of today, I have scientifically proven that fat does not, in fact, bounce.
One paw in front of the other, off the bed I went. Like a cat, I managed to land on all fours, but my knee crunched and so I was laying flat on my face.
Yah, fat jiggles, fat floats, but it certainly doesn't bounce.
Ahhh, the things I did for public knowledge in the quest for excellent grades... Since I started working here and subsequently enrolled in my biology courses in college some years ago, I've been a total germ-a-phobe. Sad, but true, I'm 100% horrified to shake a stranger's hand because after the research I performed for one statistics term paper, I came to realize.... EWWWW... You just never know.
I mean folks might have been picking their crack:
Picking a booger *gagging*
Wiping their boooty after a rather scary dump session:
In addition you never can tell if a one has been wigglin the willy or spankin the monkey. Not that there's one damn thing wrong with Lovin Yaself... Not at all. You just never know.
Oh, back on task here....
I make such a big deal of this that people close to me are scared not to do it for fear I'll grow horns and fangs and break ninja on their ass.
But, it's all in the name of simple personal hygeine, kids. Kill the cooties!
What am I bitching about today, you're askin? The simple task of washing one's hands.
I was a super, nay, excellent student throughout my college career.
I did all kinds of nasty shit just so I could get an "A" on term papers and research projects. Call me an asskisser if you want, but all my professors loved it and I graduated pretty damn close to the top 'o me class.
This specific semester led me staking out the big handicapped stall in the ladies bathroom of the Clinton Hwy. Wal-Mart for more than 2 hours on a not very busy Saturday mid-morning. Sweet mother of all things Holy and not... the lack of sanitary personal hygiene was (to say the very least) disgusting, pathetic and totally lacking.
I hid out, acting as if I was in there for the obvious reason, making tinkle. What I was really doing is standing there with my little note book, peeking out towards the area of the pottyroom where the sinks are.
I would put a mark in one section everytime someone would enter one of the bathroom stalls. I would place a mark in the column for people who didn't wash hands if they didn't wash hands. I would place a mark in the column for people who half ass washed hands (less than 30 seconds) and a mark in the column when someone would finally properly santize hands.
In the two hours I suffered in order to get that almighty A on my research paper I made note of the following:
23 people entered a pisser.
11 people didn't bother to wash hands at all.
8 people half ass ran water over hands and dried.
4 people... ONLY 4, actually used soap and stood there washing hands.
Of the 19 people who did not bother to wash hands or didn't do it up right, 7 of them were employees of Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart DOES have signs that say: "For good health, please wash your hands before returning to work".
Ok, now I don't know about y'all, but that is just the ickiest thing I've ever seen or heard.
Being as obsessive and compulsive as I am by nature, my lil mind went wild. These 19 people would be touching shopping carts and money that will be for public use..
Then I thought, this is Super Walmart... what if they are touching the fresh fruit and/or vegetables?????
*gasp* OH GOD!!! What if one of them works in the deli/bakery!!!!!
By the time I turned that research paper in, I was so completely grossed out that I wouldn't touch anything without slapping GermX all over it first.
What do Kid Rock, Chippendales and Clapping Monkeys have in common? They have precisely nicht in common, other than the fact that these are the types of things that decorate my office at work. I have all the pictures and what not that everybody else has, but
There is no wonder why I love my job so much. Since nobody ever comes in our office other than our super sexy UPS fella, my boss could care less about anything I do as long as we're gettin the job done. Fact of the matter is, she picked some of this shit out.
Now I would like to guide you on a highlight tour of my Monday-Friday home. My office is like a teen-aged girl's bedroom.
The door to my office is tastefully decorated with 25 cent hula lai's and a stolen Chippendale's poster from my graduation party. (The girls took me to see them, but that's yet another story). Boys aren't the only ones who can have tacky, tasteless eye candy on their walls. Equality.. I love it.
Come on in... next we'll see my favorite reading material displayed proudly on my book shelf. This was a donation from OG. She realizes how happy Happy Bunny makes me. I appreciate her sarcasm.
Next to Happy Bunny is my pill crusher, pharmacy style baby!! I crush my aspirin and motrin and make a wicked cool combination in that bad boy.
On around to the filing cabinet... not only does my office have it's fair share of beautifully tropical plants, but it also has my daquiri glass from Excalibur where me and OG saw THUNDER FROM DOWN UNDER in Vegas. This was a helluva night. I was drunker than dammit and vowed to keep my pennies in this glass until I had enough to go back and see them again. REOW!! Ladies, we highly suggest you save your pennies too... it's worth every one...
Onward, shall we? Here we are at the wall of shameless shit. It's in plain site, so everybody that does happen to stumble in here, gets a gander at Kid Rock's sexy self. Mmmm, mmmmm, mmmmmmmm. In addition, please note the Van Halen 2007 Tour Schedule along side my pink teddy bear Big T gave me for Valentine's Day.
My "Grow A Pirate". Me and OG are waiting for the opportune moment to sling his ass in a 2-liter bottle and see how BIG he gets.
Lastly, but not leastly, my clapping monkey. He provides hours of entertainment and cures of the dead silence of some days. I used to wind him up often, but he has dusty bunnies in his ass. *hang on, I'm windin' him up*
Go monkey, go!
Finally, The piase de la resistance... this was found by OG in her boy's old crap in her basement. She found it soooooo adorable, that she brought it to me to proudly display. Oh yah.... your eyes are not playing tricks on you.... it's a penis flower vase and I dig it. Thanks to lil OG for being a perv in training.
So, that's my office. Hope you enjoyed finding out what a dork I am.
I haven't been around since approximately high noon on Friday. Yes, folks, I've been one busy beeeyach. Because I chose to be a holiday sloth, I'm officially paying for it now. Unorganized would be the word for it I suppose. I buy, I wrap and I remember yet someone else I forgot to get a lil sumpin sumpin for. Dammit! I got sick of the cycle last night, broke down and made of list of nasty lasty gifts I have to fight the crowds for again tonight. But this will be it. Finito. Done. No mas.
But, enough bitching. Leave us get to the topic at hand.
My girl, OG, who has been my life partner for damn near 7 years, took on a MAJOR life altering challenge a short 18 months ago. In addition to her multiple master degrees, she decided she needed one more. YOU GO GIRL!
Anyway, all the pain and suffering of having absolutely zero time to go drinking or anything else has finally paid off!! The lovely OG has finally reached the destination of grad-u-ma-way-shun. I shared with she and her man the joy of the University of Tennessee Hooding Ceremony for the ProMBA graduates, class of 2007.
So what does an uber educated, top-notch executive look like after 18 months of scholarly hell look like?
Congratulations, lil mama!! You did it!!! Now... go get a high-level, senior executive position and take me along as your beeeyach!!
Ok, before anybody goes and indicts me on charges of being a hateful, Christmas squashing skank, I am going to attempt to defend myself. I have officially pulled the Grinch out of my ass and found the holiday spirit, somewhat at least. I put two trees up and lit the outside of my house up with an ill flashing duck. I should really get a picture of it, it's ugly as hell. But since my daughter absolutely hates that cheezy duck sooo much, I find an added bit of joy when I plug the lights in and it starts nodding. Heh. She's since learned not to tell me when she doesn't like something as I go out of my way to rub it in. (But that's another story).
I've finally figured out what the hell has made me need liquid happiness the past few years. It's the complete commercialization and exploitation of a HOLY season by corporate assholes banking on us spending every last penny we don't have.
But being broke ain't the real problem, kids. Nah... Robert has already said he was gonna tell Jesus I'm broke, so I'm not worried about all that so much. I'm all caught up on the credit card bills by say mid-July of the following year. Nice, eh? Whatever...
Oh shit, I'm supposed to be defending myself against Bah Humbug Syndrome. Right, so here we are. I swear I'm in an awesome holiday mood. I'm just pointing out the obvious. Let's discuss all of the little things that make this season so jolly and bright.
- The parking situation. This time of year is a nightmare worse than Freddy Kruger chasing me in my unbuttoned button-up oxford shirt and panties through a lonely, dark street whilst I fight to wake up from the dream before he kills me. With people playing drag race down narrow parking aisles in an attempt to get that one spot that opened up close to the door.
I nearly got taken out three times in two parking lots Saturday while trying to get to a semi-non-populated part of each parking lot.
Since I drive Big T's big truck every chance I get, the front parking space means precisely dick to me. I'm not one who minds to walk to and from the store, even if it's pretty far. I park toward the back of the lot where all the asshats wouldn't dare park as it would mean they have to actually walk more than 20 steps to enter the shopping establishment. Which means it's less likely that a NASCAR slide into the parking space I have chosen is not very likely.
- Bargain hunters. Those ladies will run you down and put you into the wall, like Dale Jr. comin up on Gordon in the final few laps at Daytona, with their buggy full of goods to get that one thing that's on the other side of you. "Look! It's a tube of KY Jelly discounted 25% for the holidays!!!!!" she squeels as you feel the buggy ram your hip and said bargain beast rolls through the already packed aisle to get .
I really think shopping buggies are in dire need of horns, brakes and blinkers. No shit. I think I might just market that. There's cause for it as Wal-Mart and my local Food City are the spawn of satan year round anyway.
- The talker. Now, I admit it, I talk on the phone whilst cruisin the warzones (also known as Wal-Mart, Target, Bed Bath & Beyond, Goody's, etc, etc...). But I never have, nor will I ever, be so inconsiderate as to stop dead still in the middle of a friggin aisle to continue my conversation, creating a backlog of people waiting to pass by my fat ass. Look it sister, if you're gonna take about the corns on the big toe of your left foot, do it somewhere else. Don't stop mid-step, put your hand on your hip and share about it where all of your fellow shoppers have to hear it. I personally don't care about your corns or any of your other podiatric flaws. You are doing nothing more than creating an angry mob behind you, who (if held up too long) will pommel you to the ground stampede style.
So, that was my shopping experience from the weekend. Swear to all that's Holy, I'll at least consider Christmas shopping around the 4th of July next year.
Thank goodness I'm nearly done with it except for the "mystery gifts" for the Dirty Santa festivity with Big T's family on Christmas Day. (Blog on that one to come.)
xoxoxo Love all ya'll. xoxoxxo
I got home from work yesterday afternoon to find Big T building a big ass fire in the fireplace down in the love den. He takes pride in his fire building abilities and I respect that. Without his love of fire, I'd freeze my ninnies off.
He'd just got that bad boy blazin' strong when the boy came down stairs to find out what, prey tell, I intended to make for dinner because dammit, he was hungry.
"Why don't you just order pizza??" He asked with actual hope I could detect on his desperate teenage face.
"Oh hell, no. I'm not ordering pizza." I take such joy from raining on his happy parade.
"Fine. I'm goin upstairs." He gets all snappy when i rain on his parade.
"I'll be up in a minute to sling some soup on for ya, pal. Wanna lay the can opener out to expedite the process?" Inside I was gigglin like a school girl.
Eyes all rolled back in his head, "Why don't you ever make anything I like??"
That's all I needed to hear. "Um, who's fault is it we are such a picky eater? Who won't eat anything if it's not chopped, processed, formed and them flash frozen, only to come out of our freezer when you get hunger pains? Who won't eat anything that isn't a breaded piece of fake chicken, pressed and deep fried??"
"God. You are wicked." And off he goes, stomping up the stairs, making enough noise that you would think it was a heard of friggin cattle.
I smile at Big T, who remained silent throughout the pizza banter. Mmmhmm, he has to come to bed with me, he knows who's side to be on.
"Ya wanna go get a pizza?" I asked. He knew I was just dishing out a load of shit on the boy. That's how I get along with said boy. If I'm not being semi-evil with him, he thinks I'm mad. So, really I'm keeping the peace by being my bitchy self.
"Yah. I'm hungry. I'll tell the boy to come on."
Big T had been seeing commercials for CiCi's Pizza (which makes me gag and spew) and he wanted to go there, as it was on his list of things to do before he dies. *rolls eyes*
It's about 25 minutes to either location of CiCi's in Knoxvegas, so off we went.
We were tooling down the speedway in on a pizza quest at warp speed.
"What do you want for Christmas?" Big T's been on me for months about what do I want from Santa.
Always one to give a good answer, I reply...
"Baby, I got all I could ever want this year already. I have my girls, I have Lil T and now I have you, the boy and a dog. What I want didn't cost anything."
"Whatever. What do you want?? I have everything, but I still always want something. So, just tell me what you want!?!?! I've been listening, I swear to God I have and you haven't said anything or dropped any hints." He's getting frustrated.
"I'll think on it and get back to ya, ASAP." Conversation over.
I really wish he'd just go get me some kind of sentimental, mushy, big ass diamond like they show on the Kay Jeweler commercial, but I'm not gonna tell him that. He'd do it and we'd be broke until Jesus comes back.
Out of the backseat the boy comes up with this, "I think you guys act like Al & Peg Bundy. Well, except you work and don't have flamin red boofy hair."
"Do what? Al & Peg Bundy? Married with Childrens like? Have you lost your goofy teenager mind, boy?" I adjust the rearview to get a good evil look at him eye to eye.
"Well, dad comes home and sits on the couch and just listens to your crap." The boy had an opinion. Nice.
"You're dad does lots of shit around the house. I don't know where you come up with that. Look at the big ass fire blazin'. He's good at makin fires and he doesn't do that from the couch. He's all the time doin somethin to one of the cars and he doesn't do that from the couch."
"Whatever.. I'm right and you know it." He's gloating now.
"Like hell you are. If you're gonna compare us to anybody, I'd say we're more like Dan & Roseanne Conner. I work, I have an opinion about everything and I'm always right. And your dad is always tinkering around with something to look busy, works hard to provide for us, and lets me say and do what the hell ever I want."
Big T chimes in, "Besides, I look more like Dan than I do Al."
I wondered if what the boy was saying is true or not. So, I took a poll within our family. The results are as follows:
4 said we are like Al & Peg.
7 said we are like Dan & Roseanne.
My opinion is that we are some jacked up combination of the two, which is cool. Life will never be boring.
I reckon I should be glad he didn't go and compare us to Homer & Marge.
When I have a mental block, brain fart or other such phenomena that interupt my otherwise snappy, quick witted and generally sarcastic train of thought, what do I do? Play MEME.... that's right. I was nosing through Mr. Underhill's page and found this little ditty that he came up with all by his lil ol self... Good for you, man. You're keeping me occupied during this time of crisis!
1. Post a picture of your cat. Don't tell me you don't have a cat - you are a blogger for fuck's sake. Just post it!
Rather than just a picture of my cat that has a major identity crisis and personality disorder, I thought I'd give you a picture of my cat molesting my infant chihuahua puppy. She has no clue.
2. What meds are you taking? Again, you're on blogger.I know you are on pills. Now spill the beans!
I am a Midol addict. When I can't get Midol, I will take Premsyn PMS. Hell I'll even take Pamprin. Those are, of course, accompnied by mega-doses of Motrin or other OTC pain relievers. PMS is a hateful whore.
3. What/who did you eat for lunch?
I damn well didn't eat lunch because my head is pounding and I was afraid I'd yack.
4. Do you knit?
Hell no, I don't knit. I'm a young whipper snapper. My hobby is taking naughty, dirty pictures and scrapbooking them.
5. What song do you intend to listen to when you commit suicide? And don't choose freebird. That one's mine!
Bittersweet Symphony - The Verve (super great depressing mo-fo of a song).
We generally have friends over on Saturday nights. Not because we don't dig going out, because we do. But going out all the time does tend to get old, plus you have to worry about the PO-PO pullin your ass over in the middle of the night.
Of course, I'm a spoiled, lucky girl. I have a designated driver at all times and I dig it. Regardless of that, it's nice just to stay in, cook a smorgassboard of tasty good stuff and drink hot toddies or beer or wine or Jack....
Well, on tap for the past weekend's buffet was pork tenderloin, rosemary potatoes, steamed snow peas and a variety of other crap.
I must say, I've never cooked a tenderloin before and I rocked the balls out of it.
Baked it sloooooow in the oven, double wrapped in foil filled with every herb you can think of. After being on slow bake for 3 hours, I jerked that badboy out of the foil and slung it on the grill... G-R-U-B!!
Everybody ate way too damn much.
I, of course, was no exception. Quite the contrary. I started drinkin whilst cooking. The flavor of the day was Meridian Chardonnay, mighty good.
I asked Big T to open me the first bottle and it was on. Between me and Taucha, we polished off close to three bottles. A little much.
I paced myself, like a professional New Orleans drinker. Sipping all night long. It's hard to tell how much wine one has consumed when one's glass never quite gets empty before somebody happens by to freshen it.
So, it's 1:00am, and everybody is leaving. I had been giving Big T the eye and making obscene gestures toward him all night. REOW... come here big daddy.
He was sitting on the couch in the love den, when I crawled up in his lap and made close up obscene gestures at him before departing with my clothes and heading toward the bed. I knew it was a matter of 1.8 seconds before he'd be following me that way.
Woooo! I was feeling my oats. I was gonna tear his ass up. I was gonna make him scream my name and write bad checks. I was gonna make him beg for mercy.
Let the makin out and major league cannoooodlin begin!
I kiss my way down into a desireable spot. Somehow, don't ask me how... I passed out. His goodies right in front of me and I pass out. Of course at first, he thought I was thinking or taking a breather....
He taps me on the head. "Baby, are you ok? If you're gonna go to sleep, release that and get on a pillow."
"I'm not asleep. Swear I'm not." As I sit up and leave a drool puddle on his belly. "Ok, so I might have been asleep."
"That's ok, baby. Go to sleep."
So I did.
Well, I woke up to him staring at me. "Gotta hang over?"
My head was spinnin, "Hell ya. I'm dehydrated and my head's spinnin."
"Why don't you go back to sleep?" He picked. "You do remember falling asleep last night, right?"
All day long, kids, I had to hear him slip in little comments about my inability to handle my alcohol and still be sexually fucntional. I mean, granted, it was all in fun, but how embarrassing is that?
"Sorry, baby. I swear I'll never drink again." Rolling my eyes. "Gimme some aspirin."
"Yah. Yah." He gets me aspirin, "You know you got yours and you were done, ready to go to sleep. Sometimes I think our roles in this marriage are jacked the hell up."
"I know, huh? I spit, burp, and fart better than you." Smiling at him like the cat that ate the canary.
Pick on me again some more.
There's nothing Diva digs more than a fiesta. Well, unless beer is involved. And what would ya know... I got both over the weekend. My bestest friends Holly, Mario and Tausha heard through the rumor mill that I was making enchiladas and such for dinner Saturday night and that was enough for them. Holly said she'd bring some good stuff and we'd have a fiesta. Complete with rice, beans, salsa and chips.... and BEER. Yay! Come on over boys and girls. There were all us adult types, 6 teenager and 2 munchkins. So, I was cooking my ass off listening to the VOLS get spanked. (Sorry drifting off, a little annoyed it didn't go any better than it did... interception throwin mama's boys)... Anyhoo...I made Chicken enchiladas and homemade red sauce (mmmmm) And beef enchilada casserole Rice n Beans (refried beans just aren't pretty, so there's no pic). And Holly's grub-ass homemade, garlic filled, spicy as hell salsa
We were playing kamakazi karaoke in the lair when "Just a Gigalo" came on. This is the point where Lil T (the 2year old grandson) informs me that he is, in fact, a gigalo. Big T confirmed to Lil T, that it's ok to be a gigalo.
I tried to explain to him "You should be a pimp, it pays better. Say pimp." "No! Gigalo!" He screams and runs off. It's true. If ya have a choice, for goodness sake, be a pimp. Look, he could pimp his auntie and her friends out. He's got every one of those girls wrapped around his pinkie finger...
And its official. I crowned my BFF (Holly) my beeeeyach. She's a skank and I love her more than a squirrel loves a nut.
She is now in charge of kitchen clean up every time we drunk at the house. She is quite good at it. Reckon if she would have known I was gonna blog her ass and slap her picture up on the internets that she would have stayed in her PJs? Heh. Again, I say, you are a skank, but you are a damn fine kitchen cleaner upper.
Not only do I need a support group for my klepto issues, but I am also an addict. That's right, kids. If I don't have an I.V. drip of strong ass coffee every morning, then I'm about as useful as a pantyliner is to Bruce Willis.
I consume no less than a pot of the stuff before I even leave my house in the morning. That's just the regular, rut-o-the-mill crap too. The the games really begin when I get to the office. Oh yes, I have it made there. My boss is sympathetic and spoils me with Seattle's Best beans. For Christmas 2 years ago, we acquired a mac-daddy espresso maker that grinds the columbian beans into powder and then spews boiling hot water through it with extreme pressure so as to extract every last bit of the caffinated goodness inside. God bless espresso and the occasssional vanilla latte.
If I don't get my daily dose of good stuff, I become as foul as an 87 year old school lunch lady who's sloppin cole slaw food stuff onto the tray of a smart ass high school kid. It's cool. I don't do without much.
However, I have went on strike from Starbucks. Pisses me off that I have to pay around $4 for a latte that I can whip up here for nearly nothin.
Nevermind the fact that I feel like the total redneck as I am ordering my "Non-fat venti vanilla latte, please" with my thick ass southern drawl. I always feel like they give me my total, ask me to drive around to the window, all the while making fun of the redneck chick with the funny accent.
Plus, I'm highly influenced by what I hear. And I a little squirrley told me that StarSchmucks is evil. He doth spout the truth!
(If you're offended by extremely foul language, I advise you not to click that down there. And I apologize in advance for being so easily amuzed by such profanity. Please know, my mother raised me better than this. I am a black sheep.)
Ok, so they really actually reach over and smack my goodies, no. Too bad, huh? They actually cyber slapped with a meme. After they reads my answers, they'll think long and hard (heh I said long and hard... =)
With the fact that I'm pretty boring in mind... everybody knows I love my kids and family and all the good stuff people tend to take for granted, so I shall give insight into who I am on a deeper level.
All Of The Eight Things You Didn't Want To Know About Me
Eight Things I am Passionate About:
1. Widdling down Big T's many collections.
2. Coffee (need I.V. drip STAT!)
3. SEX woooo hoooo! yah, I said SEX in all caps.
4. Taking the boy to see the monkeys the zoo at least once a month.
5. Bill Clinton being first lady gets me hot.
6. Karaoke. I AM DIVA, hear me roar
7. Blogging cuz ya'll put up with my whining and verbal vomit.
8. Ignoring people who are drama freaks.
Eight Things I Want To Do Before I Die
1. Invent something cool that will get my name in the news (any ideas?)
2. Give forth one more mini-me that will in turn drive me crazy like the others do (uh, maybe. It might just be temporary insanity)
3. Route 66 with Big T, a camera, & a cooler of cold beer (Cold beer and the worlds biggest ball of yarn!!)
4. Quit being flaky and actually go to a blogfest (I suck)
5. Join the mile high club (I travel alot and I just want my wings)
6. Lose enough weight to wear sexy slutty tight around the ass jeans (just once)
7. See Van Halen and the Police in concert (I missed it back in the day)
8. Get Dancin with the Stars good at Latin Dancing (reow sexy sexy)
Eight Things I Say Often
- "For fuck sake"
- "Bite me"
- "And you want me to do what about it?"
- "I'm gonna love you forever and ever. Amen."
- "Stop bitchin'. You're goin' to school!"
- "You suck!"
- "Good morning, 'insert company name'"
- "What are you thinkin?"
Eight Books I’ve Recently read
1. It's Happy Bunny. Life, Get One. (only 10 pages with big pictures)
2. Killing Yourself With a Fork & Knife (read half)
3. Elevate Your Life (one month devotional with short stories)
4. Tuesdays with Morrie (still working on it)
I have ADHD and can't sit still long enough to read a book very often. I stick to recipes, blogs, and magazine articles.
Eight Movies I’ve Recently Seen
- 1408 (kinda creepy)
- Mr. Brooks (extremely psycho)
- Premonition (easily confused me)
- Oceans 13 (I needed a nap anyway)
- Come Early Morning (Jeffrey Donovan makes me wet)
- Elizabethtown (actaully a good movie after I got over Orlando being in it)
- A History of Violence (Ed Harris made me sad cuz he was evil)
- I Now Pronouce You Chuck & Larry (Hahahaha. I highly recommend)
Eight Songs That I Could Listen To Over And Over
* You're In My Heart - Rod Stewart
* Your Man - Josh Turner
* Candy - Will Smith
* Forever - Will Smith
* Rocky Top - Pride of the Southland Marching Band
* Rapper's Delight - Sugar Hill Gang
* Gold Digger - Kanye West
* The Most Beautiful Girl - Prince
Eight Things That Attract Me To My Best Friends
(I'm keepin it real and keepin Sugar's answers to this one. Kudos.
Eight Things I Have Learned This Past Year- You can't merge two families and not expect kaos.
- Don't get pissed, make fun of it.
- I found out who my friends are.
- I went around the mountain ten times but got the wedding planned and executed. I will never plan another wedding, ever.
- My baby girls can accept change and go with the flow.
- No matter how nice I am to my EX, that's he's always gonna be a dick.
- Life is lived one day at a time.
- I need to relax more
Eight People That Should Do This Meme and Not Complain:
- Chuckie @ What's Up Chuck?
- Lenae @ Flat Coke & Flies
- Ms. P @ Fresh Taste of Banana Puddin
- Robert @ Observations from the Back 40
- m@ @ Animal Mind
- Mark @ Blogitude.com
- Lee @ Vicinity of Obscenity
I know you, my friends on Blogger's Lane, are really getting uptight thinking "What the hell would Diva want for Christmas??"
I'm here to help. I don't want to end up with another toaster.
In no particular order, I will list the items you are welcome to put under my tree this year. We'll have a hot toddie and discuss the fun uses for these lil ditties.
First. The Yodeling Pickle. Anybody out there who wouldn't want a pickle that yodels? I for one am just bubbling with anticipation for Christmas morning! Wake up, all dreamy eyed to a beautifully decorated box... and out pops the pickle.
I'm also amused at the thought of getting this cute little smoking monkey. I think I could teach it to spit, fart, burp, cuss and drink beer too with enough time and training.
Lastly, I want this so I could always have a weinerschnitzel in my hand.
There ya have it kids. I promise not to regift.
I swear to all that is Holy... I'm trying my bestest to get into the holiday spirit. It just ain't me. But I'll not sit here and spew a bunch of Bah Humbug and tinkle on everybody else's happy happy ho-ho-ho.
Quite the contrary. In my efforts to pull the Grinch out of my ass, I have found that a nice alcolhic beverage can be very beneficial. My drink of choice? Ahhh, a nice cup of fresh brewed double shot o' espresso combined neatly with a shot of Bailey's Irish Creme. Yes, it is tasty. Mmmm, mmmm, mmmmmm.
So, one cup of cheer at a time, I have managed to begin my holiday-ing with relatively little pain and suffering.
I slung up two Christmas trees this year. One in the living room where everyone hangs out and the other in the Den Of Love downstairs.
Wanna see? I know you do... even if you don't... here it is in all it's blinged out glory!! This is the silver & white tree. This sucker glows by the light of the fire even with the twinkle lights not plugged up.
"Silver balls..... Silver balllsssss... it's Christmas time in the Lair"
This is the wooden tree. Tastfully decorated thanks to JoAnn's craft emporium. Everything on it is made of wood. We like it. Eco-safe, tree parts that will be used for years to come. Poor thing still needs something on top, but I've yet to find me a wooden angel or star or santa...
Up close with my fave ornaments.... The sappy but sexy LOVE BELL... When I get lucky, I run upstairs in all my nekkid glory and ring that bad boy... (Scary thought, huh?)
Now just because I have my own forest of Christmas trees doesn't mean that this tree or this tree are safe.
I made a promise to myself that I would go steal them and leave ransom notes for each tree if either tree owner turns their respective back for more than 2 minutes.
Happy Holidays, boys and girls.
I have decided on what one of the most annoying occurances in a woman's life can possibly be.
I was at work and everything was coming up roses. I had an super great hair day. I even woke up early enough to slap on some war-paint.
I had a box to pack up for a customer who is in a shit panic to get something done RIGHT NOW, after he had been advised a week ago that he needed to take action.
Whatever. Lack of planning on his dumb ass part, does not constitute a shit panic for me. None the less, I went ahead, as a good colleague would, and got his stuff put together for him and was putting the large part (a 50 pound instrument) into the box when I felt it.... SNAP! The underwire in my most favoritest bra gave out.
That kids, is annoying. My boob popped out of said bra into my shirt, making my the girls look all awkward and crooked. Needless to say, the bra came off and I wore my sweatshirt for the rest of the day.
I made an attempt to be stealth like a ninja this weekend. I did, really. I waited for Big T to get up and go to work, acting totally and convincingly asleep. He was out the door and I jumped up to take a shower. I hi-jacked the truck and snuck all the way to Pigeon Forge to the Music Outlet.
I cried on the sales fella's shoulder about how I had to have the camo Morgan Monroe guitar case, of which they only had one and was already half paid for by some psycho woman.
Being the spoiled brat I am, I tried to talk him into giving me that one and ordering her another one, but to no avail. Kids, I haggled this dude for 20 minutes before his son said, "Dad, I think there might be one upstairs in the storage room."
The waters parted and the heavens opened when I saw the boy coming back down the stairs a mere 30 minutes later carrying the last one they would ever have.
I am such a good wife that I pay attention to all the stuff Big T says. And I specifically remember him making a mental note that he was going to go back and get that case one day. Check. I made a mental note too. I was sure it would get me a free pass for a wicked roll in the hay. Woo!
Anyhoo, I get home and try to get in the house before Big T can come help me in with the stuff. But, I didn't make it. He was out the door before I could fart and run from it.
He asked obviously annoyed that I would have enough nerve to put something back there when he had specifically told me not to.
"What's that in the back of the seats? I thought I told you not to put anything back there, baby."
"I know you did. It's for Natalie (my kid) and it's lightweight. I was afraid it would blow out of the bed if I put it back there." I protested.
He rolled his eyes and said "Unlock the door, let's get it out and take it in the house."
What could I do. I handed him the key. Mind you, he's had a hard-on for this particular item for a little over a year.
He pulls the box out and looks in it. I swear, I thought he was gonna cry. The look of horror on his face that he had found one of his Christmas presents.
Oh well, his bad. He ain't gettin it until Christmas day. I'll wrap that bitch up and put in under the tree anyway. He better act surprised and he better still give me some major league nookie.
So much for being a ninja.
Taco Bell gets a stay of execution for now.
As promised to Ms. P, I went ahead forewent my diet in order to keep Taco Bell in business. I have had a burrito and large Diet Dew two days in a row. There is no need for anybody so sweet to die of hunger because of my vanity. What the hell was I thinkin anyway? Maybe that is why I broke bitch in like 1.3 seconds... maybe it wasn't PMS... maybe it was lack of bean burritos with extra red sauce.
Thank you, Puddin, you saved me from myself.
What is a school zone? A school zone is a place where flashing lights, crossing guards and cops all come together with one goal in mind... to slow folks down in order to avoid mowing down of any munchkins.
I respect the school zone and all of its components. However, some asshat in an SUV, who apparently woke up a little late, doesn't.
I drive my kids to school every single day, as she is too much of a princess to ride the damn bus. Which is fine. I too was a princess. I take into consideration that I might just run into traffic in the school zones, and allow this into my alotted time for the AM commute. Generally I take it for what it is and am a mellow driver. I don't suffer from road rage very often... until today. Today was the day I finally snapped.
Anyway, the forementioned asshat decided that he was in a hurry and as a result his SUV was raping my poor little car he was riding so close... like right up the tailpipe raping. Not like I could go anywhere any faster with the half mile of folks trying to do the same thing I was.
I didn't think about my daughter (16) sitting next to me when I finally got pissed off. I rolled down the window and yelled back at him "If you're gonna ride my ass, at least pull my hair, asshole!"
Ooops. Of course, my kid busted out laughing and looking back at him. He must've been humiliated cuz his boy was laughing his ass off as his dad yelled at him. Good. Back off and don't ride other people's bumper. It's just consideration.
They found a lump in my Mom's breast today at the doctor's office. Please send a message to the Big Guy upstairs for her, please. Breast cancer is scary.
I think I need a 12-step program. I have a major problem that, no matter how much effort I put into it, I can't seem to fix.
Big T comes to my office now and then to visit. One afternoon, he popped by and asked us, "Do you have any string or twine or anything around here. I need about 2 feet of it."
I, forever and always being the helpful & loving wife that I am, say, "Well baby, I have this left over blue ribbon from the bridesmaid bouquets if that'll work."
I toss him the ribbon and think nothing else of it. He says he loves me, gives me kisses and goes on his merry little way.
Fast-forward to 5:15pm, when I get home from work. I come in as usual and Big T gives me my hugs and kisses as I head upstairs to start dinner... when it caught my eye...
That ass-munch had duct-taped the ribbon to his lighter that sits on the end table. The other end of the ribbon was inserted into the slate slabs that make the top of the table. It looked like one of those pens that the bank tries to keep safe by chaining them to the teller spots.
Why would he do such a sarcastic thing?
Because I am Diva. I have a problem. I steal lighters.
Yes, my friends, I'm a kleptomaniac.
I found that I am attracted to steal lighters like a monkey will steal your wallet at the circus. It is bad.
How bad is it, you ask. When Big T asked me to empty my jacket pocket and purse, the lighter count was seven (7). Ooops.
Moral of the story is.. Until I get the proper help, if we're out drinkin' together, please (please, please) keep your lighter in your pocket or at least come get it back from me.
Consider this fair warning. I can not be held responsible.