Happy Holidays Assholes.

Ahh, the Holiday Season...

The time of year where we all are kind and generous to each other and don’t run over other people with our carts at Target whilst trying to get to the last *insert unimportant item here*....

Wait, what?

It’s OPPOSITE DAY?

Oh well that makes so much more sense then.  Carry on assholes.

WTF Wednesdays: Rough, lesbian, sex

One of my favorite persons on earth (outside of the bakery lady at Safeway who gives out free cookies) is my friend Elle.

Elle and I have known each other for the better part of 20 years now (that's right, i started making friends when I was 2 years old...I'm a savant...deal with it), and we have become so close our conversations sometimes resemble that of elderly married couples.  That is to say that our conversations are often random and incoherent. 

Elle and I talk and text often, but we only hang out in-person once a month or so.  These rare in-person events always include several bottles a SINGLE bottle of good wine at a great restaurant. 

Unfortunately, neither of us has much of an alcohol tolerance so For no explicable reason, the evening quickly becomes a comedy of errors.  Thanks to a new app i downloaded which allows me to record things at whim, I was able to document one such outing and the conversation that followed. 

YOU'RE WELCOME.

Me: This is fun.  We should make this, like, a regular thing we do...regularly.

Elle: Like how regular?

Me: Once a month.

Elle: Ok, but this can't interfere with my sex life.

Me: What?

Elle: You know?

Me: What does your sex life have to do with us getting together for dinner and drinks once a month?

Elle: Because of the spa thing.

Me:  Are you propositioning me?  Because I don't find you attractive, no offense.

Elle:  I thought we were talking about going to the spa?

Me:  What kind of spa did you have in mind exactly?

Elle: I'm like '50 Shades of Gray'

Me: What?  Isn't '50 Shades of Gray' a book about sex?  I totally do not want to have sex with you, if I haven't already made that clear.

Elle:  What?

Me: I just want to get drunk over dinner once a month and NOT have lesbian sex at a sex spa.

Elle:  I like it rough, like the main character in '50 Shades of Gray'...the book.  I AM her.

Me:  I don't know how I can make it any more clear to you that I do NOT want to have sex with you...rough or otherwise.

Elle:  So are we going to the spa or what?

Me:  If this is a sex spa, I am not into you like that.

Elle:  Why do we always end up talking about my sex life?

Me:  I don't know, you brought it up.  I just wanted to go to dinner and then you were all like, "i like rough sex," and I was all like, I don’t want to have sex with you and you were all like-

Elle: No, no, no, not WITH YOU, with Joe (her boyfriend).  Why would I want to have sex with you?  You don't have a penis.

Me:  I don’t know, you brought it up.

Elle: I did not!

Me:  Um, yes you did.  I have it all here (tapping iphone).  It's all on tape.


This is where the conversation stops as I play back, for an incredulous Elle, her lesbian sex proposition to me....IT'S ALL ON TAPE.

In fairness, so as to spread the shame around equally, I should also note that immediately after this conversation-as we were walking from the restaraunt to our waiting cab-I spotted an ex-boyfriend (who is a police officer) performing a traffic stop on some poor motorist and proceeded to make a fool out of myself in public-which may or may not have included my making a proposition for "ex sex" to a sworn peace officer who looked remarkably similar to my ex-boyfriend. 

Becasue I'm COOL like that.

#boom

Pissing Cherubs, Buckets of Wine & Scooters.

A few weekends ago I went to a family reunion.

My family members have stuff like this in their backyard.

That's how we roll.

I chose to bypass the pissing cherub and instead headed straight for the bucket of wine. 

That's how I roll.

Yes, we're of German and Irish stock so there are buckets of wine at our family reunions.

THANK GOD.

And then this 10 year old that I am somehow remotely related to was all, like, "I'M A SCOOTER RIDING GENIUS!"

And, of course, I couldn't just let that claim go unchallenged. 

So then this happened.

GODDAMMIT APPLE; Why you fuck with me?

FYI: This post may or may not make any sense whatsoever.

You're welcome.

So Apple has released their most recent IOS upgrade

*insert magical rainbows and unicorns here*

We are all supposed to cheer and pledge our firstborn children to the cause....

Oh, did you miss the memo?

Your loss.

You see, I looked into the upgrade and I AM A BELIEVER.

No, no.  I did NOT immediately look at the upgrades and wonder, OMGWHATTHEFUCKISHAPPENINGANDWHY?!

NO.

Because I am a loyal soldier.

Okay, I'm sorry. That's as far as I can take that.  Do you want the truth?

HERE'S THE TRUTH IN THE FORM OF A QUESTION (in so much as I can sarcastically/passive-aggressively deliver it..)

Do any of the engineers who created the IOS7 actually use iPhones themselves? 

ha ha, JUST KIDDING!

That was a rhetorical question.

Obviously the answer is NO. 

Unless, that is, said engineers have teeny, tiny, miniature, magical MARSUPIAL fingers with which to effectively use the new keyboard...because otherwise why would they make something that's already hard to use EVEN F*CKING HARDER?! (also rhetorical...clearly they are malevolent evil-doers who've dedicated their lives to making it impossible for me to text rapidly)

In fairness, I do often text inappropriate things so perhaps I need something to make it slightly harder for me to text so as to allow my cerebral cortex to intervene...

Come to think of it, has anyone actually put any thought into WHO is behind "auto-correct"? 

I say, it's BARBARA BUSH.

You know who I mean.

Not the cute "Barbara-Bush" that-got-the-Secret-Service-in-hot-water-for-her-drunken-antics-while-her-father-was-President-and-therefore-seems-like-she'd-be-a-blast-to-get-drunk-with-Barbara-Bush AND/OR the Barbara-who-looks-like-she-may-actually-have-given-a-human-male-a-blow-job-once-or-twice-in-her-life-BUSH.

NO.

NOT that Barbara Bush.

I mean to refer to the Barbara Bush who-is-OLD-and-somewhat-unfortunate-looking-who-despite-having-birthed-children-appears-as-though-she-is-someone-who-HAS-NEVER-ACTUALLY-SEEN-A-REAL-PENIS-because-she-kept-her-eyes-closed-real-tightly-during-sex (don't pretend like you don't have a visual image of the type of prude i'm referring to here)-and-who-seems-to-have-never-had-any-fun-in-her-life-ever-looking-sour-puss-who-is-married-to-the-FIRST-President Bush, Barbara Bush. 

Are you following?

THE OLD BAG.  I'm talking about the old bag. 

What I was TRYING to say is that I suspect "auto-correct" is secretly run by the prudish version of Barbara Bush (the OLD one who was married to the FIRST Bush president) whom I suspect (going only based on her FACE here people) only saw a penis ON ACCIDENT and certainly never had one in her mouth.

That's just the impression I get.

EVIDENCE: I already had to turn off my auto correct because it kept changing "fuck" to things like "duck" and "luck"....when CLEARLY if auto-correct knew me at all it would realize that "fuck" is FAR more likely...

Fuck.

Now I've totally lost track of what was I talking about.

Nevermind.

Conversations on The Job: Ghetto Cred...I got it.

Welcome to a new series on this here blog that no one reads, in which I will chronicle actual conversations that actually happen at my job which I shall proudly call: Conversations on The Job.

I don't want to brag or anything, but...I got ghetto cred.

I'm not proud of this. 

I would much rather be a kept woman for some rich man, driving around in his Jaguar and wasting away my days getting my nails done, drinking champagne and complaining about poor people.

BUT NO EARTH, that is NOT my life...yet... (*side-eye* to any rich, jaguar driving, man who may be reading this blog whilst simultaneously looking for a lazy housewife...*wink wink*)

Sadly, my ghetto cred occurred by accident and I really couldn't help it.  So I have decided to embrace it for what it is.

I drive a 13 year old Toyota Corolla-because I'm poor I have ghetto cred (not because i'm poor).

My car is missing a hubcap and has a large crack in the windshield that stretches from the driver's side to the passenger's side, makes a very loud banging/clanging noise when running, has a bumper sticker that says 'I "heart symbol" Shih Tzus' (if anyone knows how to insert heart symbols into blog posts hit me up in the comments section THANKS!) and it's pretty dented up because I've hit lots of stuff to increase my street cred...because I'm cool like that.

Ok fine.  I hit shit.  DEAL peeps.

I'm not even gonna try and pretend like I have an excuse for hitting things such as poor vision or ADD or texting and driving or something.

I don't need texting to make me a bad driver, NO MA'AM.

I am a horrible driver all on my lonesome thankyouverymuch. 

Seriously, I would not drive with me if I were you. 

No joke.

Though you may be inclined to assume that the following is an exaggeration, IT IS NOT. 

I really do hit lots of stuff.  My current car is the FIFTH car I've owned on account of how I hit REALLY BIG stuff with my previous four cars.   I hit stuff A LOT. 

Just off the top of my head I've hit some light poles (4), a few hedges (6), a tree (or 3), a tricycle (unoccupied), two minivans (both of which were parked at the time, 100% my fault), a coffee table (at a garage sale, put waaay too close to the curb, 100% not my fault), several sedans (moving targets therefore only 45% my fault), more curbs than I can count (who designs those things so close to the street anyways, wtf?!), a pigeon (natural selection), a fire hydrant (long story), two arm-chairs (at ONE garage sale, so that counts as the same accident), two racoons and one possum (all were already dead but I couldn't swerve in time to avoid the carcass), 12 orange cones (in the same day during the same 'defensive driving' course therefore they should all only count as ONE cone), a "One-Way" sign, a "Stop" sign, a roundabout planter, and one human male (this was more of a tap, but I was dating him at the time so that doesn't count anyways).

One time, back when I used to drive an ambulance for a living, I hit a fire engine with my ambulance (in addition to a list similar to the above which included several more light poles...for some reason light poles are harder to see in an ambulance than when in a Corolla).  Ok, actually I a fire engine TWICE-actually two different fire engines one time a peice, but one of those times doesn't count because the fire engine was old and the crew didn't care that I put a "new" dent in it and also I may or may not have been sleeping with one of the firemen on said engine at the time which doesn't matter because the bottom line is that it wasn't "reported" and therefore it DOESN'T COUNT.  I also hit a police cruiser with my ambulance once, but I was "dating" (or whatever) the police officer inside of said cruiser and he was cool with it so that doesn't count either). 

I'm about to get real politically incorrect and probably contribute to some horrible negative stereotypes or something equally offensive in a hot second, so if you're easily offended you should just move along.

Go ahead, I'll wait.

Are all the pansies gone now?

Good.  

The county where I work is the 7th largest county (of 58 counties total) in the state.  It's a BIG space.  Just like any big space, there are widely varying degrees of socioeconomic status depending upon which part of the county you're in. 

At my work, our case loads are divided geographically, although "management" denies this.  I put "management" in quotes because there is some question as to who exactly has any authority whatsoever at my workplace, not to mention concerns surrounding their emotional maturity, general ability to serve etc etc....NOT that there are any clear hiring standards at all-OBVIOUSLY peeps hired me so, DUB TEE EFF-but frankly, any moron looking at the case distribution would be able to see that, CLEARLY, there are geographical divisions to case load assignments.  

For example, 2/3 of my clients live in a 48 square mile radius OF THE GHETTO in a county that encompasses 821.15 square miles total.  A short hop-skip and jump over to someone a few cubicles over from me and you'll find that 75% of their client's also live in a similarly small radius OF THE NON-GHETTO. 

The fallacy of "geographic parameters" aside, who gives a shit?

As far as I'm concerned, there is only ONE official delineation. 

MY area of the county and EVERYWHERE ELSE I'D RATHER BE WORKING. 

And just so we're clear, I'm not talking about RACE, I'm talking about crime and poverty which, for you racists, are two TOTALLY DIFFERENT things.

You see, it just so happens that my "catchment" area includes the neighborhoods that are make the news on the daily for someone being shot/mugged/robbed/kidnapped/raped and/or for some riot/1% rally/occupy movement that occurred and created mass panic and chaos.

And by "occupy movement", let me be clear that I am NOT referencing peaceful beatnik protests nor the original, passive "occupy movement" occupiers who literally "occupied" something by sitting there and mediating peacefully whilst displaying home-made posterboard signs that said something like "equality for ALL" over a rainbow with puppies on it. 

No.

The "occupiers" in my neck of the woods are the mean, angry, jaded occupy movement-ers who break storefront windows with giant rocks and cause bodily injury to innocent bystanders as an expression of their rage occupiers, burning trash cans, setting off molotov cocktails, shooting AK-47's at the police, and rallying against "THE MAN" whilst simultaneously collecting tax-payer funded benefits and failing to see the irony in any of the above.

Our "occupy" movement-ers SCOFF at the other occupiers . 

You're not a real movement if the National Guard doesn't get called out.

#BoomBitches.

Twice in the last year the mayor of my catchment area has ordered a "lockdown" and I had to BEAT IT out of town like my ass was on fire so as to avoid getting caught up in violent riots.

My point being that my catchment area is the straight-up, hide-YO-fancy-shit-ghetto.

Again, not for RACE you racists, for CRIME.

The bulk of my time is spent visiting my "clients" in their homes which are (mostly, see above) in the poorest, most crime-ridden neighborhoods in the county so my 13 year old , dented, hub-cap challenged, Corolla fits right in.

One time my car was in the shop and I had to borrow my dad's 2010 Kia.

I got all kinds of weird looks that day, and the two clients I visited were all like, "ooooo GIIIIIRRRRLLL, is thatcho caaarrrr?" and I had to be all, like, no dude...those my DAD's wheels yo.

It was awkward for all involved.

Don't get me wrong.  There are those afternoons where, ghetto cred or not, I feel embarrassed and know I need a new car because small school children flinch and duck for cover as I approach. ...

Sorry kids, can't hear the noise over my Li'l Wayne mix tape...

Wait, WHAT?!?!

Tape decks aren't standard anymore?  DAMMIT.

But most of the time, having a car that looks like mine does works in my favor. 

Recently, I visited one of my clients and he insisted on walking me to my car.  And, while we were in a particularly bad neighborhood, I was a little bewildered because a client offering to walk me to my car does not happen neverever and, coming from this particular client, it at first* seemed very out of character. 

*I say "at first" because this is a client I am actually a little afraid of on account of how, not only is he a REALLY violent felon who has spent most his life in prison, but on the occasion of our first meeting, he casually described how he "beat the shit" out of someone using a baseball bat on the way to said meeting because this random individual "was having words" with "a lady" which my client found to be so inappropriate he felt it reasonable to indulge in a homicidal rage using a baseball bat. But then I realized, that was my client demonstrating CHIVALRY (though in a violent, felonious way), and I felt less afraid of him walking me to my car.  THE END.

Upon arriving at my 13 year old, dented, hubcap-missing, shih-Tzu loving Corolla the client kept walking.

Me: Oh, hey Bob this is me. (I said gesturing to my car).
Client: (incredulously) This?
Me: Yeah.
Client: This yo ride?
Me: Yup.
Client: (staring at me incredulously)
Me: What?
Client: I thought you drove a Range Rover.
Me: A what? 
Bob: You know, one of them fancy cars
Me: Nope
Bob: *staring at me incredulously*
Me: Bob, I don't even have a hubcap let alone a Range Rover.
Bob: Really?
Me: Nope. See? (gesturing to said hubcap-less tire)
Client: So...this yo ride? (more incredulous staring)
Me: Umm...yeah.
*LONG pause*
Bob: Aight...that's cool.

Bob seemed to accept this alternative reality, but I noticed he stood there on the sidewalk as I got into my car and drove several hundred feet to the end of the block with my clanging/banging dented, hubcap-less, shih-tzu loving car before making a U-turn heading back up the street toward the freeway.

Bob was waiting for me when I got back up to the corner of the block.

He stuck out his hand and waved.

I waved back.

And that's how I got Ghetto Cred, folks.   

Memes: Thank You Jesus

Does everyone know what a 'Meme' is?

Okay, WHATEVER, fine.  You're a GENIUS...happy now?

I, however, did not.  So I Googled;

"What is a meme and why can't you buy IV bags full of wine and ice cream to put directly into your veins so you don't have waste time metabolizing?"

Aaaand it turns out we are all morons for not thinking of this ourselves.

(Memes, that is.  Sadly no one has figured out how to make IV bags of wine.....yet.  I HAVE FAITH IN YOU AMERICA!)

Seriously.

Why didn't I think of this?

This is a "meme":

And so is this:

And this:

 

It turns out "memes" are merely internet excuses for making fun of things and/or stupid people.

Ummm, I've been making fun of things and/or people FOR EVER.

And now, thanks to memes, I MAY NEVER HAVE TO SPEAK AGAIN EVER.

I could just toss out meme's to people.

Memes may be the most awesome-ness of all awesome things that could ever have possibly been invented....EVER.

Not just regular 'awesome' but, like, 'hey-someone-figured-out-how-to-make-IV-bags-full-of-wine-so-you-can-bypass-your-own LIVER" kind of awesome (I HAVE FAITH IN YOU AMERICA!). 

In fact, if all of the awesomeness ever in the face of all awesome things on the whole history of the Universe got together...then they'd be all like....

You're Welcome.

My Resignation

I hereby officially resign my post as an adult.

If anyone needs me, I'll be in my pillow fort.

Halloween is AWESOME, BUT You May Be A Communist.

Halloween is the MOST AWESOME holiday ever.....

There may  be other holidays that are also  awesome, but I doubt it and thinking so probably makes you a COMMUNIST.  (wait, do we still hate communists or am I dating myself???).

Let's objectively evaluate the FACTS, shall we?

On Halloween the following occurs:

-people knock on your door and demand free candy then judge you if you're not giving out WHOLE candy bars

-people dress their bratty children as cute cartoon characters so you have to fake-like them or seem like a total ASSHOLE

-you can have disgusting teeth and it's ok because people will think it's your "costume"

-people cut open pumpkins, pull out their slimy, gooey, guts then leave them to rot on their porch

-people deliberately decorate their front yards to SCARE THE SHIT out of small children

-your union does not approve a PAID holiday off for any of the above

Wait...what the?

FUCK.

Halloween TOTALLY SUCKS. 

What the hell was I thinking?!

THIS HOLIDAY BLOWS CHUNKS (unless it becomes a union-approved paid holiday, in which case...YAY, free day off!)

Sound Advice

*I shared the below story with a few work colleagues and they just sat there, staring at me blankly. 

While I am accustomed to people staring blankly at me when I speak, on this occasion I was shocked. 

why are you not rolling on the floor in laughter?!  THIS SHIT IS HILARIOUS. 
 
As it turns out, these particular work colleagues have been living under a rock have some class, and therefore were NOT familiar with the below referenced slang term that I found to be so hilarious. 

So for those of you who also have some class aren't familiar with a certain word I use below, allow me to prepare you:  

From Urban Dictionary:

1. Queef

an expulsion of wind from the vulva during coitus; a vaginal fart.

EXAMPLE: Rumor has it that Thea can queef the alphabet*.

 

*that's Urban dictionary's example...not mine.

Now, commence reading the below blog post...You're Welcome.


Recently at The Job, I went to visit a client-who I shall henceforth refer to as "Bob".  On this particular occasion Bob needed some...unconventional help.

Because I'm a PROfessional and all, I was happy to oblige. 

The following conversation occurred:

Bob: I need some lady advice.
Me: Bring it
Bob: So I got this girl and we was talking for a minute but now she all up in my business
Me: Uh huh.
Bob: So I don't be into her no more.
Me: Sure, yeah.
Bob: But she don't feel me, you know?
Me: I think I understand the situation.  To summarize; You tapped that shit, and now you want her to go away, right?
Bob: yeah
Me: Tell her you have crabs.
Bob: huh?
Me: Seriously.  A "lady" don't want nothin' to do with a guy who has crabs. 
Bob: Naw
Me: That's sound advice Bob.
Bob: Nawwwwwwww.
Me: Can I see a picture?
Bob: (pulls out his cell phone and shows me a picture)
Me: Ohhhh.  I can see why you need advice.  It's not "lady" advice really because I'm pretty sure she doesn't qualify as such, but I see your dilemma for sure.
Bob: What you think?
Me: What's her name?
Bob: LaQueefa.
Me: I'm sorry, what?
Bob: LaQueefa.
*pause*
Me: Can you spell it for me?
Bob: L-A-Q-U-E-E-F-A
Me: And you're sure that's pronounced LAH-KWEEF-AH?
Bob: Yeah.
Me: is that a nickname you gave her or her God-given birth name?
Bob: huh?
Me: Nevermind. I got some advice for you, Bob. You ready?
Bob: Yeah
Me: Stay away from women who are named after vagina farts.
Bob: Uh huh.
Me: Frankly, that shoulda been a red flag Bob.  RED FLAG. 

Elevator Safety (w/ helpful CHARTS & GRAPHS).

I'm 'bout to pull rank on y'all. 

You see, recently it has come to my attention that there is an ENDEMIC of poor elevator-riding manners sweeping the country.

Aaaand, I don't mean to get all I'm-an-elevator-riding-expert on your ass, BUT when it comes to elevator riding, I consider myself something of an PROfessional. 

I have ridden in MANY elevators. 

This also means that I have much experience waiting for elevators in lobby's of buildings and what not.

Therefore, I am ALSO an expert on waiting for elevators (see below algabreic MATH equation...#boom)

I suspect, if there were some kind of certificate awarded for people based exclusively on their elevator-waiting/riding experience, I would be ALL OVER THAT SHIT.

I would have a certificate (at least if not a CROWN) on my perfectly-shaped-for-crowns head.

So, given the above evidence, can we all agree that I am somewhat of an expert on elevator waiting/riding?

Ok, great.

Now that we've established my expertise in this area, allow me to explain how elevators work.

(here's where things may become confusing...DON'T PANIC...I'm about to walk you through it y'all.

You, the human, enter a lobby and push the call button. 

Next the elevator responds, arriving at your floor.  

At this point, there will be probably, usually, in most circumstances be actual human people already ON the elevator when it arrives at your floor.

DO NOT PANIC.

This is totally normal behavior, and is customary for life here on Earth (so disregard if you believe you are an Alien Life Form (ALF)--you ALF's are excused from the aforementioned "normalcy"...CARRY ON WEIRDOS **if you're laughing right now, you obviously have NEVER been to San Francisco** )

In addition, to people being ON the elevator when it arrives at your floor, BE ADVISED, these same people may desire to EXIT at the very exact same place which you are trying to ENTER.

Rest assured, fellow elevator riders, that I have never, ever, ever, ever, ever IN MY INFINATE ELEVATOR RIDING EXPERIENCES seen one elevator door maliciously and deliberately try to shut it’s doors before those who are EXITING have completed the exiting process so that you who are waiting to ENTER cannot get on.

Therefore those of you who are not so patiently waiting a lift to another floor, have no real reason to BUM RUSH those who are attempting to EXIT said elevator as they attempt to exit. 

Listen closely friends....elevators are designed to allow people to both exit and enter.

Based on my previously established expertise in this area, I can assure you that THE ELEVATOR WILL STILL BE HERE, DOORS OPEN, ONCE I GET OFF OF IT. 



I feel that perhaps a chart is necessary, given the abundant prevalence of elevator bum-rushing happening these days....



Got it?

 

GREAT. 


YOU'RE WELCOME.

Texty Tuesdays: Tweaking Twerking 12 year olds.

Welcome to Texy Tuesdays!  Posts in which I copy onto this here blog actual, REAL text conversations that occurred between myself and my sister, Meg...These conversations are real-despite what you may think after reading them such as, "what?!  THAT didn't happen...and even if it did, there's no way anyone in their RIGHT MIND would post that on the internets for the whole world to read." (that was you talking to yourself in my head)

Well rest assured, dear reader (reader, not READERS because there's only ONE of you that I know of) I am actually not IN my right mind for most of the time.  So there.

This post could also be called, 'Why I Should Not Be Allowed Around Children; Part 2,  Part 3,  Part 23,  Why I Should NEVER EVER Be Allowed Around Children Ever Again, which is also what I'm considering renaming this blog.

Recently my 13 year old nephew asked me to chaperone his school dance. 

Something he clearly didn't think through very well. 

I, on the other hand, was TOTALLY STOKED to have another opportunity to prove that, contrary to popular belief, I am the responsible sister.

My responsible prudish sister was understandably nervous given my past history.  Also see here, here, here, and here.

So I decided I would keep her updated regularly so as to reassure her that all was going well. 

BECAUSE I'M RESPONSIBLE LIKE THAT contrary to popular belief.

Once at the dance, I was given the all important task of manning the 'drink station'.  Clearly the Sunol Glen Elementary school staff had never met me before had faith in my ability to responsibly interact with children thankyouverymuch.

The following text message exchange occurred: 

Me: Convo in the car on the way over:
     Me: So, are you boys ready for some debauchery?
     Joe(nephew): No Mimi, no.
     Me: What?
     Joe: Control yourself tonight, ok?
     Me: I don't know what you're talking about.
     Joe: There'll be no wine there so you should be good.
     Me: What?!  There's no wine?!  What kind of party is this?
     Joe: Please don't embarrass me tonight.
     Me: Wait, you DON'T want me to embarrass you?
     Joe: No, please.
     Me: Well SOMEONE didn't fully think this plan through did HE?
Meg: lol

*47 minutes later*

Me: Just got scolded for allowing the kids to "linger" at the drink station.  I replied, "um...of course they are.  have YOU ever talked to me?!" was met with a blank stare
Meg: *no response*
Me: Aaand I just accidentally used the word ERECTION in front of one of Joe's friends.  ON ACCIDENT.
Meg: *no response*

*62 minutes later*

Me: I'm bout to holler at this girl who keeps hugging joe
Me: WATCH OUT BITCH
Meg: it's ok.
Me: Oh snap!  A conga line just broke out!  This party is OFF THE CHAIN!

*39 minutes later*

Me: Just gave a bunch of 11 year olds a twerking lesson.  YOU'RE WELCOME SUNOL GLEN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL!
Meg: Noooooooooooo
Me: *no response*
Meg: Ur gonna get kicked out!
Me: *no response*
Meg: Tweaking is illegal!
Me: Well ofCOURSE tweaking is illegal, they're clearly not old enough to be using meth.
Meg: *no response*
Me: Ok, how come the dj gets to play "your sex takes me to paradise" but I can't teach a bunch of needy children the latest dance craze?  UNFAIR.

Mabel & Fiona: Happily Ever After

Soooo, either Mabel loves Fiona....

OR she's putting the naughty bitch in a headlock...

My bet is on the LATTER.

Judgy McJudgerston

Yes, I do know it's only 2pm, your point?....What?...it's been a rough week....I can see you, you know. I can see you judging me.

First Rule of Fair Going....WINE.

Dear Four-Year-Old-Neice Who I Agreed To Take To The Local Fair,

The first rule of fair-going with your favorite Aunt is that the Wine Garden comes before the Petting Zoo. 

What? 

Don’t look at me, I didn’t make the rules.  I just follow them.  To the Wine Garden.

Love,

Your Favorite Aunt Ever (also the person who gives you candy when you're mom says 'No'...lest you forget) 

Letters to Inanimate Objects: Attention Stapler

Dear Work Stapler,

I’m afraid there has been some kind of miscommunication.  It’s not your fault, I TOTALLY GET IT. 

I mean, people put stuff in front of you and you eat it.

It happens to the best of us. 

Frankly, for the first two years of my life I thought I was here for the exclusive purpose of eating my own hand. 

But I was WRONG.

In fairness, you are (after all) a government funded resource, so perhaps you’ve not been privy to the very latest in stapler technology?  In fact, if my work computer is any indication, your origins are circa 1969?  So, allow me to be the bearer of new information. 

First off, as I learned the hard way in 1984, people will only put ketchup on things you are SUPPOSED to eat and NOT on those things which do not belong in your mouth. 

Have you tasted any ketchup on the things I have put in front of you? 

Think carefully now…no?

That’s right. 

So in the future, when something is placed between your jaws, if it does NOT have ketchup on it, it is safe to assume you are not meant to EAT it. 

You are only meant to gently place a staple into it.

That’s all.

I’m glad we had this talk, aren’t you?

Thanks,

Your owner (or, at least, the current occupier of the cubicle in which you’ve been assigned)

You Are A Dumb Twat.

Recently, a totally reasonable person said something reasonable. 

This person, who also happens to be the President of the United States of America, and who shall henceforth be referred to as P.O.T.U.S.W.A.H.T.N.B.A.D.T.

(aka President Of The United States Who Also Happens To Not Be A Dumb Twat)

said this:

"I do think what's shifted is a notion that the wealthier you are, the more conspicuous consumption you engage in. The more successful you are, the more society should stay out of your way as you pursue the bigger house or the fancier jet or the bigger yacht," Obama said.  "Were there things that all of us might have liked to have? Sure. But partly, I think, there also has been a shift in culture. We weren't exposed to things we didn't have in the same way kids these days are. There was not that window into the lifestyles of the rich and famous," the president said. "Kids weren't monitoring every day what Kim Kardashian was wearing, or where Kanye West was going on vacation, and thinking that somehow that was the mark of success."

Aaaand, you may or may not have recently read the response from Kim Kardashian's "momager" Kris, who shall henceforth be referred to as T.D.T.W.S.S.S.A.P.U.

(aka The Dumb Twat Who Said Something Stupid As Per Usual)

 

which went something like this:

"Blah blah blah blah Kim Kardashian is the hardest-working young lady in the world. blah blah blah"

I think, in fairness, P.O.T.U.S.W.A.H.T.B.A.T.R.H.B. used multisyllabic words which probably confused Kris as to what exactly "hard work" meant.

Or she's a dumb twat.

Do you want my honest opinion?

No?

Well then GO AWAY.  This is my blog.

I say this:

FYI: T.D.T.W.S.S.S.A.P.U. (aka Kris Kardashian): IMO, you calling your daughter the "hardest working woman in the world" is an insult to women IN GENERAL, but in particular to all of us women who WENT TO COLLEGE & earned advanced degrees to launch our careers, as opposed to HAVING SEX ON THE INTERNET and then selling the tape for profit you dumb twat....

Anal Penetration. For No Discernable Reason.

My beloved shih-Tzu (and blog name sake), Mabel, has a severe heart condition.  This means that often we need to go to the vet for check ups, which inevitably involves a thermometer up her ass.

Why?

No real  discernible reason.

Because, really, what does her heart condition have to do with her anal regions?

Nothing, I contend.

But none-the-less, here comes the anal penetration every single time.

My sweet Mabel is not the sharpest tool in the drawer.  She seems initially confused...

 Every. Single. Time.

Totally oblivious to the anal penetration to come...

"Hi MOM!!!  This seems like, fun!  Lot's of great smells....what are we doing here, by the way?"

And then...reality sets in.

"Wait...you're going to do WHAT?!?!?!"

"With WHAT?!"

MOTHER FUCKER!!!!!!

Dad-isms: Watch Out For Stalkers

My dad just walked into the living room (where i am watching TV and trying to think of something clever to blog) and closed the blinds that face the not-so-busy street...

And then the following dialogue occurred: (I swear, I could not MAKE this up)

Dad: (staring at me accusingly) um, what if there's someone out there stalking beautiful women?

Me: That depends; what kind of job does he have and what kind of car does he drive?

Dad: *without missing a BEAT* He kills women and I can't tell because he's parked around the corner

Me: Well then, by all means, lock the door while you're at it.

WTF Wednesdays: Really Charles Darwin?

Dear Charles Darwin,

Please accept my formal resignation.  I'm afraid I have to defect from the club. 
It's not that I don't believe, it's just that evidence to the contrary seems....abundant. 

No offense. 

I really thought you really had it nailed, but then I walked outside and...WTF?

CLEARLY, you appear to have been mistaken.

It was a good theory though, and MAD props to you for thinking of it....better luck next time.

Sincerely,

Me

Dear People for Whom I Am Housesitting...

Many interesting things happened whilst you were gone (none of which demonstrate irresponsibility on my part) including, but not limited to:

1) I fed & watered your Black Labrador Retriever, Rosie.

2) My Shih Tzu ate some of her own poo (and maybe Rosie's too...it's hard to tell, but nonetheless your yard is FREE of poo...you're welcome).

3) I learned how to...make AWESOME homemade pizza.

 4) I accidentally set fire to some pizza dough in your oven (you really should check the batteries in your smoke detectors…no reason, just a feeling I have…that maybe you should do that, but not because of flame or smoke or anything)

5) I ate some really awesome homemade pizza

6) Rosie ate nothing but the dog food that I was supposed to provide for her and did NOT get diarrhea from eating burned pizza dough because she ONLY ate her own dog food which I gave her as instructed.

7) I slept on your couch and received 22 different bites on my person from some unknown/unseen blood sucking insect that may or may not be bedbugs or mosquitos or fleas or whatever else might be hiding in your couch that is NOT spiders because THAT would be gross.

8) Rosie ate a pair of my socks which have yet to come out her nether region so I'm gonna need to ask you to let me know if those show up. (seriously, those were $4 socks so...)

9) Also, I may have forgotten to flush one (or all) of the toilets before I left (some of which were full when I arrived....no judgement, just sayin).

WTF Wednesdays: Why I should not be allowed to talk to children.

Ahhhh, Summer.  The time of year when my sister allows me to take her children out of the house unsupervised.

whoops.

Recently, my 13 year-old nephew and I hopped in the car and began our drive across town.

That's right about where things went....awry.

My nephew spotted a large pick-up truck with a cooler, a chair and a baby stroller strapped to the bed.

Nephew: Hey look at that truck!
Me: What?
Nephew: It has a stroller in the back...that's not very manly.
Me: I don't know...I think that's sexy.  It's very manly to be a good dad....
Nephew: (no response)
Me: Or he's a pedophile and that's gross.
Nephew: What's a pedophile?
Me: someone who abuses children sexually and that's illegal.
Nephew: No, no, no. STOP!
Me: What?
Nephew: Just stop.
Me: How do you not know what a pedophile is? 
Nephew: STOP
Me: Does your mother, like, talk to you at all, EVER?
Nephew: No Mimi...
Me: You're like, thirteen now right?
Nephew: I don't know these things.
Me: Well, that's just weird.
Nephew: NO.  Stop.
Me: Well...
*awkward silence*
Me: I mean, you asked.
Nephew: I know.  I changed my mind.
*longer, even more awkward silence*
Me: I mean, you should know by now not-
Nephew: I know, I know, don't ask Mimi anything. *DRAMATIC, EXASPERATED EYE ROLL*
Me: Whatevs dude.  Don't blame me for pedophilia...

WTF.

DAMMIT Harry Styles

You are making me look like a TOTAL SLUT.

Good Luck Unborn Baby...GOOD LUCK.

Dear Future (Hypothetical) Unborn Baby,

YOU ARE FUCKED.

I'm sorry. 

First of all, at this point I'm pretty convinced that I'm going to have to PAY somebody to make you happen and, historically speaking, I've not demonstrated that I'm very good at financial planning so that makes your manifestation slightly less  likely....

Although, in fairness, only a teeny weeny  bit less likely than the traditional manner of procreation (ie; finding a lovely boy to willingly  marry then subsequently impregnate me) which is extremely  unlikely at this point so...I guess, basically...

GOOD LUCK ON YOUR EXISTENCE.

Secondly, I know I'm supposed to be all, like,

 

"oh ovaries, I shall feed you nothing but organic produce and do lots of Yoga and think happy, peaceful thoughts until I am ready to use your follicles!"

Buuuuuut...the truth is I have been drinking way too much wine and eating way too much of the produce that is "on sale" as opposed to that which is labeled "organic" (that is, when i eat produce at ALL as opposed to subsisting exclusively on wine and hummus), so.....OOPS.

Lastly, I suspect there's an undiagnosed "crazy" gene running prominently through our family tree (see here, here and here for examples) sooooo...

Yeah.

Good luck.

Texty Tuesdays: Firecrotch & Ratchets

Welcome to Texy Tuesdays!  Posts in which I copy onto this here blog actual, REAL text conversations that occurred between myself and my sister, Meg...These conversations are real-despite what you may think after reading them such as, "what?!  THAT didn't happen...and even if it did, there's no way anyone in their RIGHT MIND would post that on the internets for the whole world to read." (that was you talking to yourself in my head)

Well rest assured, dear reader (reader, not READERS because there's only ONE of you that I know of) I am actually not IN my right mind for most of the time.  So there.

The other day I was at my sister's for dinner.  As per usual, the conversation quickly deteriorated.  I have gotten in the habit of recording conversations I have with my sister (and my dad) on my phone when they appear to be headed south. 

On this occasion, I was too drunk to record the whole conversation neglected to record the pre-amble to the conversation, so I was pretty confused when I reviewed my notes prompting the following text exchange:
Me: Can you help me recreate this conversation accurately?  I took the following notes:

Meg: What's a firecrotch?
Me: U don't know what firecrotch means?
Meg: No
Molly (Meg's 14 y/o daughter): She doesn't even know what 'ratchet' means.
Me: What?  How is that possible?
Meg: I don't know.  The kids use it a lot.
Me: They what?!  Why?

Meg: Well, I thought firecrotch was a term for a gay man.  Like the word flamer or something.  Which brought up my apparent ignorance on teen slang which is why I asked why kids referred to themselves as ratchet.  To which you were shocked and appalled that one of my kids rolls with someone who called themselves ratchet.  Whereupon we looked it up and I called the teacher.
Me: OMG.  It's worse than I thought.
Meg: Um, YEAH.
Me: No.  That is NOT the meaning of firecrotch. lol
Meg: Yes.  U clarified for me.  This whole time I thought he was a flaming gay guy.
Me: *sigh* what will we do with you?
Meg: I kno.  I'm hopeless.

WTF Wednesdays: Cutting the Cheese

I held off writing this post for a while because I didn't want people to think I was racist.  Or culturally incompetent.  Or predjudice.  Or a moron.  Or whatever. 

Aaaaannd then I was all like, DUH. 

WHO GIVES A SHIT? 

No one reads this stupid blog anyways.

So *hashtag* whatevs. 

Here's my (first of many, most likely) potentially racist, incompetent, prejudice blog post.

YOU ARE WELCOME.

First of all, does everyone know what "cutting the cheese" means?

It means you've just farted. 

Are we clear?  Good.   Moving on.

Anyone else go to the gym on a regular basis?

Raise your hand....

Aaaand how many of you, who go to the gym regularly, also bathe regularly?

And use DEODORANT?

What?  I can't hear you...Oh, EVERYONE you say? 

No f*cking SHIT. 

Guess that makes you a normal, regular, considerate, and-DARE I SAY-reasonable human being. 

That makes you like most other normal, regular, considerate, reasonable human beings who share the Earth.

Unless, except, apparently, OF COURSE, all of those of you who use MY local gym.

My neighbors apparently have neither access to reason, consideration, running water, deodorant, nor FUCKING FEBREEZE*

* there is a grocery store ~76 steps from said gym that I know for a fact sells Febreeze...but I digress...

Or they're just assholes*

*probably the most likely explanation given the aforementioned availability of said Febreeze for purchase....

It's up for debate*

*not really, I'm just saying that so as not to appear like a TOTAL racist.

Let me be clear.  I don't mean that my neighbors smell just a little bit. 

NO.

I mean that they smell so bad that it makes me want to scream at the very tippy top of my wee little high pitched girly lungs....

What-In-The-Name-Of-ALL-THAT-IS-HOLY-Did-You-Roll-In-

And-When-EXACTLY-Did-It-DIE?!?!?!?!?!?

No joke.

Almost every day I am on the treadmill/elliptical/stairmaster/etc. thinking to myself..."WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU EAT, and WHY THE FUCK HAVEN'T YOU BATHED IN THE LAST YEAR?"

To be fair, I live in an area of town nicknamed "Little Kabul" for it's large Afghani population.

So there's a cultural difference of opinion, I suspect.

Which I respect*.

*not really, because WTF? why can't you just buy a bottle of Febreeze and spritz yourself?!?!

I feel especially grateful for this cultural discrepancy when I am hungry-which is 75% of the time.

I loooove Afghani food.  LOVE it.

Being as white as one could possibly be when it comes to food (salt was considered a "spice" in my home growing up), I really appreciate any so-called "ethnic" food (meaning everything other than meatloaf and potatoes).

The flip side of this coin is that I feel particularly UNgrateful when I am at the gym working out-which is five afternoons a week.

Just for your reference, I am NOT cool with ODORS in general.

I have a very delicate olefactory system.  See here for evidence.

If you stink, I WILL smell you. 

I don't know why my neighbors smell the way they do.  I don't know if it's the food, the culture, the religion...I don't really care why you smell.

The fact of the matter is that you smell like you rolled in a rotting animal carcass for a bit whilst consuming an abnormally large quantity of garlic AFTER having abstained from bathing with SOAP for the last decade.

You smell SO horrible that I feel FAINT.

And I feel resentful because I PAY actual CASH MONEY to come here and work out which makes me feel entitled to a relatively UNscented environment when I work out.

Maybe, for $45/mo I expect it to smell like EFFING flowers in there Goddammit.  Especially when I know for a *hashtag* FACT that Febreeze was on sale for $2.75 at the store around the corner last week....

Also I'm a SOCIAL WORKER so I make exactly $0.0001 more than your average Taco Bell drive through operator.

Except that I owe ~$45K for my fucking useless MASTERS DEGREE.

Soooooo...bottom line neighbors, if you want to stank up your own home, FINE. 

But when you come to the gym to work out right next to OTHER HUMANS with functioning olefactory glands, your ass better have bathed in the last 24 hours, and/or be wearing deodorant, and/or have spritzed yourself with an anti-malodorous perfumed body spray and/or Febreeze (which is ON SALE right around the corner for less than THREE EFFING DOLLARS) and/or any OTHER spray that is designed to mask the odor of garlic coated decomposing flesh prior to your arrival at the gym.

Which brings me to my main point. 

IF the person next to you on the stepper at the gym smells as though they rolled in dead animal, ate superhuman quantities of garlic and haven't showered in a decade, I do not think it's unreasonable to deliberately "cut the cheese" before moving to a different machine.

BOOM smelly bitches. 

You just got schooled. 

W.T.F.

 

Welcome (reluctantly) Fiona!

Recently I posted that I have lost this angel.

What I failed to mention is that I acquired this naughty bitch shortly thereafter....

My four-year old niece named her Fiona.

She was a gift.

I should mention that I have never owned anything other than Shih-Tzu's before.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Shih Tzu breed, these dogs were bred to be lap warmers for Chinese aristocracy.  They have laid back, docile personalities and prefer to lay around like adorably useless lumps for most of their days.  

Like so...

Shih Tzu's want nothing more than to be sleeping near to their human and require almost nothing from you other than food, water and an occasional pat on the head.  They don't actually need a lot of direct attention, they only need to be near their human.  They will unfailingly follow you from room to room, but they wont demand to be picked up.  If you sit down, they'll be right up there next to you on the couch, falling into a sound sleep. 

Like so...

But a Shih Tzu wont bark or cry or whine if you are inaccessible.  If they can't be right next to you, they are happy to sit at your feet or near your feet or even just in the same room as you on a different couch. 

Even if that means they stare at you creepily from across the room.

Like so...

Yorkshire Terriers, on the other hand, NOT SO MUCH.

This creature has to be right directly ON TOP of you  OR-ELSE-THE-WHOLE-EARTH-WILL-IMPLODE-UPON-ITSELF.

Like so:

 

And so:

 



 

 

And so:

 

And so:

 

 

 

And so:

 

And so:

 

 

And so:

 

 

And so:

 

 

Needless to say, after a decade plus of low maintenance lap warmers, I'm a little out of my element.

 

This creature is pooping and peeing and yippy-yapping ALL over the place.  Anything that moves this dog thinks should be chased whilst YIPPY-YAPPING at the TIPPY-TOP of her lungs. 

We have failed out of puppy class TWICE. 

 

For failure to "sit" on cue. 

 

Yes.  That's right.  We cannot even master SIT.

When I say "sit", Fiona just stares at me....like this..

 

You want me to do what?  YOU want ME to do WHAT?!

If something moves in the vicinity of my Shih Tzu, she may not even notice, let alone chase said moving object.

Not Fiona. 

It doesn't matter if it's a shadow, a dust bunny, a leaf, a GIANT creature TWO TIMES her size-whatevs. 

If it moves, Fiona will chase after it barking and yippy-yapping as though said moving object has just committed any number of felonies and ALL-LAW-ENFORCEMENT-PERSONNEL-SHOULD-COME-IMMEDIATELY-RIGHT-NOW-OR-ELSE-EARTH-WILL-IMPLODE-UPON-ITSELF.

Case in point...

 

 

*that video is WAY funnier w/ audio, which it HAD until the day this post landed and *POOF* the video is all F**ked up and NO audio....motherfuckers*

Audio or no, it's clear that this cow was having NONE of her nonsense.

I wish I could say the same.

*sigh*

I would re-name this blog, mabelandfiona.com....if I knew how to do that.