Monday, November 30, 2009

Stupid crap that women do, 7

Get pregnant.
You know I am NOT talking about the loving couple that has planned for their spawn.
No, I am talking about chicks that don't have enough self-respect and worth to consider what value they have without trying to hook a guy with an unplanned pregnancy. All these years, I have placed more responsibility on women to be the "gatekeeper" because it is women that typically pay the price for pregnancy and children but now am seeing the picture from the guy's angle. If he absolutely doesn't want to have children from a one night hook-up, casual fling or not-THE ONE-girlfriend, it's the guy that can now pay the price.
Dudes lie.
Chicks lie.
Chicks can lie about birth control.
Chicks can tear a condom.
In John Irving's book Cider House Rules there was a character named Herb Fowler that took great delight in flicking condoms to embarrassed folks but his secret was that the poked holes in every one. I read that book in college and never trusted a condom that was free for the taking.
Have you heard about the suggestion that guys should put hot sauce in their discarded condoms, if unable to flush away said jizz bag? You heard me. It is a deterrent supposedly recommended to stop gold diggers from bagging their ballers. Any chick that stoops that low to retrieve the seed deserves a fire crotch and ring of fire.
Dudes, you gotta be careful out there. Chicks will lie all day long and tell ya they don't want a relationship, they don't want children any time soon . . . and you can still be a daddy in nine months. Trust, schmust. The consequences are too dire.
Now, give me a guy with a vasectomy scar, I am intrigued and interested.

Saturday, November 28, 2009

It skeered me

Mom's new Siamese kitty cat Muffin is quite shy and hid the entire time we visited and ate Thanksgiving dinner. Even a pinch of turkey wasn't enough enticement to lure her from beneath the antique sideboard. Because none of us actually laid eyes on her, most of us forgot about her.
Y'know how I am always bragging about my superior peripheral vision? Well, just as we were sitting down for dessert, I see a quick movement in the corner of my eye, my heart pace quickened and I lifted my feet up to touch the bottom of the dining table before I let out an eek!
Then I realized it was not the longest mouse in the world, it was Muffin, running from one hiding place to another.

Friday, November 27, 2009

Attraction phases

Jay Thomas wondered aloud why females are attracted to young pale girly looking guys, like teenage movie vampires and English chaps.
Welllllll, it just depends on where she is in her Attraction Ladder.
Never heard of such a thing? That's because I just make it up.
Through a female's life, levels of attraction changes. Hopefully.
  1. Daddy
  2. Horses
  3. Pretty Boys - pale vampires, harmless boy band singers, gay-but-not-yet-aware classmates. These guys are not looking for sex so chick gets a Ken doll without putting out.
  4. Bad Boys - how better to lose the shame of the Pretty Boy phase than the extreme opposite? Bad Boy to some girls is a tattooed ex-con on a motorcycle but for some girls it's a guy that wears shirts without collars and skips church 3 to 4 times a year. After being repressed with the Pretty Boy, chick is happy to put out for Bad Boy.
  5. Good Stable Guy - tired of putting up with Bad Boy's shit, chick now looks for marriage material in a nice normal guy, kinda like Dad.
If chick skips a step on the Attraction Ladder, her dating development is screwed and not likely to improve without some major mishaps.
Get stuck on a step 3 and chick will be shocked when her husband of 20 years finally admits he is gay (or a vampire or both.)
And we all know the chick that got knocked up by the rat bastard lying and cheating Bad Boy, hung around to pop out another 4 kids and now she's stuck.

Respect the Ladder. And watch your step.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Happy Thanksgiving

if only
for the fact
there's no
at your
you have
to be
thankful for.
Bet you
didn't count
as one
of your

~ You're welcome ~

*pic glommed from got blog?

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Okrah ain't goin' nowhere, girl

I don't give a shit about Okrah and even I am aware that her exclusive television network debuts next year. For the love of money and her blind followers, here's hoping she doesn't lose her very own brand of banter with the blend of very proper enunciated English and a dash of insincere "hey girl" ghetto slang.
My, how the tight-ass white ladies wearing super pressed khakis and twin sets love that. "Okrah is just like us. You go, girl!"
Go indeed.
Go far far away.

Friday, November 20, 2009

With you but thinking of someone else

everyone here
knows that everyone here
is thinking 'bout somebody else
"Back 2 Good" by Matchbox 20

The song is about being with someone you don't love and realizing the ramifications later but it also makes me think about how many times I've wished that I were with someone other than my present company.
When I was a teen, I imagined being on vacation, standing on a Colorado mountain with my boyfriend instead of my family.
The angst of my local boyfriends not being my New York crush of all time.
College beaus that weren't another guy I really wanted.
Vacations with friends that could be imagined with the missing part of my heart.
Christmas and New Year's celebrations in the right setting but with the wrong person.
Though I've lived alone for over 20 years, I never felt so lonely as the time I sat in a noisy French Quarter bar holding the hand of my boyfriend of 2 years while New Orleans Saints fans cheered and partied at the thought of finally going to the playoffs in the 1991 Wild Card game. He wasn't THE ONE and I had known for quite a while. At the time, I didn't even know WHO I wanted, I just knew it wasn't him.
Thinking about that today, perhaps feeling a bit hormonal, makes me sad.
If you are with the person that you would hope were there, you are blessed.
If not, change it.
For me, sometimes nobody is better than somebody.

Cancer and heart disease

Joe Jackson might have had it right when he sang "Everything Gives You Cancer".
Every couple years, a new theory places blame of growing cancer rates on microwaves, fast food, tap water, cell phone use, etc. Modern medicine diagnoses cancer better and faster now so we probably suppose that it is affecting more people. No one dies of old age anymore.

This morning I heard that researchers tested some 3,500 year old mummies and found 9 out of 16 with hardening of the arteries so perhaps McDonald's is not to blame for present day heart maladies.
I hope to die with a completely worn out body that looks like it shoulda kicked 100,000 miles earlier.

Not having a clue about my cholesterol numbers
not giving a shit,
I am,
Skitzo Leezra

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Quote of the day

heard this snippet today on Sirius satellite radio's Book Channel:

A jealous man has self-contempt ~~
meaning he supposes another to be better than himself.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Guest writer today

I actually have to do real work today so am glomming an old e-mail that I couldn't bear to delete from my fabulous friend Mallys. Hope you enjoy her writing style as much as I do.
Gee, I hope nothing is seriously wrong with my car," I murmur to Susan at the gym this morning. On the way TO the gym, it felt like a wheel was a little wobbly or catching something, maybe much lower on pressure than the others or something.

As soon as I got to the gym, I measured air pressure in the front wheels--both fine.

As I'm leaving the gym, within moments in my car, I realized the car felt so odd that it was smarter to go directly to the mechanic's than to go to work. I map out my revised route and revised day in my head, completely nervous about the car.

I turn to the mechanic (down Calhoun in residential areas) instead of to work (along busy busy Claiborne).

I'm driving down Calhoun, and Mr. Police Officer flags me down. Crap. Jeff just got a ticket in a speed trap not a month ago on Jefferson Highway, and I've been watching my speed ever since, save for today (with the worry over the car, how to get from mechanic to work, how to notify work that I'll be late).

Now, not only will we have to budget in Bend Over and Take It New Orleans homeowner's insurance and skyrocketing post-Katrina prices on everything from toilet paper to fish, now I'm going to have to get a second job to afford increased car insurance premiums, which even PRE-storm were enough to make one consider Dansko clogs as one's primary form of transportation.

Mr. Police Officer: Do you know what the speed limit is?

Mallys: 25 MPH.

Mr. Police Officer: Do you know how fast you were going?

Mallys: Honestly, I don't. I'm nervous that something is wrong with my car or my tire, and I'm trying to get it to the mechanic's on Magazine as quickly as possible and then get to work. So no, I don't.

Mr. Police Officer, clearly writing me a ticket rather than taking pity: Do you have your insurance card?

Mallys, dig, dig dig: This is an old card. It's the same policy, it's been renewed under the same number, but I only have the old card.

Mr. Police Officer: Okay, I'm going to write you a ticket for that, but show up at court and they'll throw the insurance charge out.

Mallys, at the mention of "show up in court," digging more frantically, nay, insanely: No no no, wait wait wait, see see see, look look LOOOOOOOOKKKKKK, here's the new one. Here's the new one [thrusting it with such force that Mr. NOPD might have been afraid for his bodily safety].

Mr. Police Officer: Does your air conditioner work?

Mallys, whose air conditioner DOES work, but who isn't going to run it while Mr. Officer takes time to write her a ticket (add gas prices to the list above of homeowner's insurance, car insurance, and toilet paper prices), wonders if a non-functioning air conditioner is just as illegal as her MISSING TAIL LIGHT COVERS that someone stole in 2005 right after the storm and that Ford doesn't manufacture for an '89 Mustang any more: Yesssss, my air conditioner works???

Mr. Police Officer: Oh, 'cause you're sweating.

Mallys: Oh, yeah, I just came from the gym, and I'm rushing to get my car to the shop and all.

Mr. PO: I didn't think I was making you THAT nervous.

Mallys: Oh, y'all ALWAYS make me nervous. You ARE COPS, after all. But this is from the gym.

Mr. PO: You weren't wearing your seatbelt?

Mallys: No, I was. I always put on my seatbelt, even before I put the key in the ignition, but I took it off when you pulled me over. [Truth. Hell no, I won't drive MY car in THIS CITY without a seat belt. EVER.]

Mr. PO: How old are you?

Mallys, really and truly stumped, really thinking hard--my brain doesn't have room for THAT when I'm trying to get to the garage, get to work, etc.: Twentyyyyy, no no, wait, thirty-nine.

Mr. PO: Here's your ticket. I wrote you for 30 in a 25 MPH zone.

Mallys, thinking that it could be a lot LOT worse, not only because I probably was going faster than 30 MPH, and, what, with the sweating and the frantic insurance card digging/thrusting and the initial misstating of my age by AT LEAST 10 YEARS, and the missing tail light cover and the Illinois plates and driver's license despite a New Orleans address. Hell, he probably could've justified a field sobriety test, which I doubt I would've passed, owing to my complete and utter clumsiness: Thank you. Have a nice day, officer.

I drive two blocks. I'm second in line at a stop sign. #1 pulls off, now it's my turn.

But my car won't move. Won't move. Won't move in drive, not in overdrive, not in park, not in neutral. Won't budge.

I try two or three times to shift to different gears. Won't budge. People are honking.

I get out of my car and go to the attractive, well-coiffed, 50-something in the SUV behind me: Look, ma'am, I'm really sorry, but my car won't move. I don't know what it is, but it won't move. I'm going to try to push it. I'm really really sorry.

Well-coiffed woman gets out of SUV. Wearing adorable floral skirt, sassy t-shirt, chic sandals: "Well, then we're going to have to push it," she says, and walks to the back of my bumper. I can't budge it while trying to push it.

It's a one way street, cars parked on both sides, no room to go around me. People keep honking. Well-coiffed woman takes several steps back to face the traffic, puts her hands on her hips, and YELLLLLLSSS at all the people honking: Well, then, get out of your cars and HELP INSTEAD OF HONKING.

She shames three or four men into getting out of their cars.

Meanwhile, another woman getting into her parked car says, "I think I saw something leaking from behind your right passenger tire." She then goes back to the end of the row of cars and tells them to back up, find another route, etc.

The boys are now being boys: Take your brake off.

Mallys: It's not on.

Boys: Put it in neutral.

Mallys: It's **IN** neutral.

And let's face it, **I** could push that car, by myself (see above re: gym), if it were in neutral. The fact that I can't push it while it's now in neutral is the problem.

Boys: Pop the hood.

Okay, I'm no mechanic. Far from it. I don't even like checking my tire pressure. But I know that this is not a hood-popping issue.

Fine, I pop the hood. They look around underneath, waiting for some magical What's Wrong With This Car teleprompter under my hood to give them the diagnosis. Boy #3 pulls out my oil dipstick: So this is your automatic transmission fluid. . . .

Mallys: No, that's my oil.

The boys are stymied. But they say, "Come on, let's push it again."

It takes FOUR big boys, big big boys in two cases, and multiple multiple tries to push my car 15 feet.

Hmmm, I wonder if something's seriously wrong. . . .

Nice girl (whom I later learn is named Katie and is beginning her doctoral program in my building) says, "Would you like to borrow my cell phone?"

Mallys, the last human being in the Western hemisphere to NOT own a cell phone and still not any closer to WANTING one, accepts gratefully.

I call my boys at Rollins auto repair for a towing number.

Meanwhile, the line of cars has passed, including a police car, and I really hope it was the cop who gave me a ticket so that he could have one tiny moment of guilt (granted, he could've been much meaner to me).

I call Boss to let her know that I'm standing in the street, dripping sweat, trying to get my hoopdie to the garage and may or may not make it to Canal Street today.

I call the tow truck. Come get me at Calhoun and Willow. They'll be there in 30 minutes.

I thank Kind Katie for the use of her phone, tell her I may see her in the building, and she goes on her way.

I wait, flashers on (I'm right next to a fire hydrant, almost into the intersection, so am not even TEMPTED to leave my car, lest I be given the opportunity to make ANOTHER donation to the City of New Orleans).

And believe it or not, MANY nice people stopped to ask me if I was okay, did I need anything, was help on the way. Including one typical undergrad, who I wouldn't have expected to interrupt her cell phone call--as she did--to inquire about my well being.

I'm sitting, waiting, fanning myself, having homicidal thoughts about the particularly aggressive gnat that won't leave me alone. Sweat is dripping dripping dripping. About 45 minutes later, Thor--a boy I know from the gym--pulls up. He gets out of his truck. We chat. He offers the use of his phone. I call the towing company.

Mallys: blah blah Calhoun and Willow.

Tow truck: Oh, you said CARROLLTON and Willow. The guy's been driving all around CARROLLTON and Willow looking for you. We even called Rollins to see if they'd seen you.

Mallys, in no position to get snippy: Gee, gosh, no **Calhoun**. Maybe I wasn't talking clearly, and the background noise and all.

I may not know how old I am, or how to find my current insurance card, or how to replace stolen tail light covers for a 19-year-old car, but if I were at CARROLLTON and Willow, I'd have walked the 6 blocks to my house and to my gin in my freezer where I would've had an early morning cocktail before tackling the recurrent question, "What's wrong with my car THIS time?"

Fine. Tow truck driver gets there in about 10 minutes. Drives me and the poor little '89 Mustang to Magazine street. I talk to my mechanics and instruct them that if it's a relatively cheap fix, they can change my oil, too. And if it's an expensive fix, it may be time to send the '89 Mustang off with Kitty Cat and Georgie Cat and JohnJohn Cat to play with the Girl in the Pink Pinafore in the Great Beyond.

I lug gym bag, tote bag, lunch bag, and purse 5 or 6 blocks in this sweltering, drowning heat (AFTER having stood in the sweltering heat for at least an hour).

Coffee shop #1: no phone [and still, inexplicably, I have no desire for a cell phone]

Bank across the street: let me use their phone, but cab dispatch line is busy and other customers are waiting to attend to their administrative banking needs. I write down the United Cab number and head to Coffee Shop #2, where the nice counter girl lets me use the phone. I get through, order a cab.

I wait, and wait, and wait. Cab arrives.

I kid you freaking not: Cab driver is Mr. freaking Magoo. He can't see. He can't HEAR [I keep yelling at him "2440 Canal Street," to which he responds, "Okay, 400 Canal Street."]. His FINGERNAILS are wayyyyy overgrown. HE WON'T TURN THE AIR CONDITIONER ON. And yes, he is wearing black socks with sandals.

As he's driving, he keeps his foot on the accelerator for 4 seconds, then takes it off, for no identifiable reason--it's not an intersection, there's no traffic in front of us, just keeps hitting the gas, taking his foot off the gas, hitting the gas, taking his foot off the gas, braking for no reason, gas, no gas, gas, brake. This was THE only point in the whole ordeal that I thought I would either cry, or felonious assault someone else. He says as we're turning onto Canal Street, "Okay, 400 Canal Street."

Mallys: No, 2440 Canal Street.

Mr. Magoo: Huh?

Mallys, louder and enunciating: Twenty-four forty Canal Street.

Mr. Magoo: Right. Four hundred Canal Street.

Mallys, contorting her lips into painful exaggerations of the words and screaming at the top of her lungs: FOURTEEN FORTY. FOURTEEN FORTY. TWO BLOCKS FROM **HERE**. FOURTEEN FORTY.

Mr. Magoo: Oh, well let me know where it is. I don't want to pass your building.

Mallys: It's right past the light.

Mr. Magoo: Huh?

Mallys, loudly, enunciating, screaming: RIGHT PAST THE LIGHT.

Mr. Magoo: Oh, I should've turned RIGHT?

Mallys, yanking the car handle frantically: Let me out here. RIGHT HERE. RIGHT HERE IS FINNNNNE.

Why the hell NOT walk another block in the heat, after my morning?

This little escapade began at 8:05.

I was not entering my blessedly frigid office building until 11:10.

And here I sit.

Hmmmm. I hope there's nothing seriously wrong with my car. . . .

Adventurously yours,

Mallys in Dunderland [aka, Sweaty McScofflaw]

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Don't say that

When I was a kid there were a few stoopid things that I vowed not to say when I "grew up" and recently said one of the dreaded phrases.
  • "Oh my gosh, the last time I saw you, you were so small/tiny" to a tot-sized child. Ugh, I hated hearing that when I was a kid. What the hell is the appropriate reply from a child to a dumb ass adult? "Last time I saw you, you were younger and less fat." Hope to gosh I don't slip and say that again.
  • "There's nothing to see here, move along." Anyone that says that is a douche and a liar. Of course there is something to see. That's why we want to see it because we don't trust you to ever say "hey check it out, there's something to see".
  • "There's no 'I' in team." ```rolling eyes and dropping head towards back```HEY JACK HOLE! THERE IS a M AND a E! AND THAT SPELLS ME!!!! Grab a new phrase.
  • "If you look in the dictionary for ____, you'll see _____'s picture." So very tired, so very lame. Never say it again.
  • "People who curse have no better way to express themselves." True, but there's nothing like the simple shorthand of a succinct "fuck you" which is what you'll hear if I hear any of the above.
Have a nice day now, y'hear?

Thursday, November 12, 2009

The day the cat fell to the earth

Quote of the day

Better to be shot at and missed then shit on and hit.
--Jill Conner Browne

Monday, November 09, 2009

Wisdom from my brother Rollo

My poor brother Rollo gets all my calls for help. This single girl can fish a small snake out of the pool but Rollo has been put into service to retrieve a larger snake and even a thoughtlessly released hamster. (It looked like a dead rat but happily, a live and grateful hamster.) I digress.

After hurricane Rita, it was Rollo scrambling on my roof as we attached a temporary tarp. Rollo hooked up my ceiling fan. Rollo rescued me twice this year, once when my truck slid off the road and got stuck in mud and later, when my battery died. Poor guy. He's not married but still doing all that stuff for his sister. And contrary to what you may think, bothering him frustrates me. I try not to ask others to do things I can do myself.

Aggravated by being forced to ask for his help yet again, I once remarked that maybe I should be married because my husband would be there. Drawing upon his once married experience, Rollo remarked that even if I did have a husband it didn't guarantee that my husband would do the things I needed when I needed. He imparted some wisdom gold that day. It's true. My married friends constantly bitch that their husbands don't perform the barest minimum of tasks so why would I presume that my experience would be any different? It stopped me from idealizing marriage, even if for only the honey-do lists.

All these years of being single and doing (mostly) everything alone would give a greater appreciation of a help mate. Can you read between the lines on that one? No? Okay, dummy: Dude does for me. I would do for dude.

My single friend Maura and I discussed that very thing but neither one of us are quite ready for commitment. She and I have concocted the perfect plan. We will both date a tradesman and then pass them on to the other. She dates a plumber, I'll date an electrician. Six months later, we'll switch then later it's a pool guy and a carpenter. We'll be nice, they'll be handy and nobody is hurt.

Friday, November 06, 2009

How was your day, honey?

My co-worker's daughter Lacy is currently stationed at Fort Hood in Texas. Lacy was on base yesterday and left only 20 minutes before the shooting began. Matt's wife and Lacy's step-mother saw the news report on television and became very alarmed when she couldn't reach Lacy on her cell phone. Matt's wife called him here at work and he quickly found the report online. He immediately tried to reach Lacy or her husband.
No answers.
30 minutes passed.
Matt finally got through to Lacy's husband. She's okay but 12 people are dead.

Anything interesting happen at your office yesterday?

My plastic surgery request

Were money and pain no object, I could totally be up for some plastic surgery but the very first request would be for something that isn't currently offered. Y'know those lick and stick plastic wall hooks? I want one of those embedded into my right shoulder because my purse straps always slips. That hook is just the thing for purses, totes, carry-ons. Hands-free shopping, I tell ya!

Thursday, November 05, 2009

He doesn't deserve to breathe air

Convicted DC sniper John Allen Muhammad asked the Supreme Court to block his execution. The mastermind of the 2002 three week long killing spree had a hand in snuffing 10 lives. 10 families forever changed and haunted by some sick fuck that shot them from the cover of darkness, like a coward. And now this waste of space and food wants the court to reconsider his case because he is mentally ill. I agree, he is ill and the prescription is an injection to the arm and a nice long burn in hell. If an ill dog killed 10 people, the dog would be "put down". Same for him.

10 families lost their loved ones in a split second but the "mentally challenged" killer wakes up another day to prepare a delay on his own death. It boggles my mind that he can ask for the very thing that he denied for 10. Another day, another chance, another reprieve. He decided the exact time of death for his victims. They didn't deserve another day, another chance, another reprieve but he does?

Here in the lower left hand corner of Louisiana, the anguished mother of a convicted cop killer cried on local television that "her baby" was going to prison for life and she would never hold him in her arms again. Huh. Unbelievable that she could say that in front of the dead officer's wife, mom and dad. She could talk to her murderous spawn through glass for who-knows-how-many years. What wouldn't the officer's family give for just one more minute? Just one minute to hug him, look him in the eyes, say that they loved him and would miss him forever?

Wednesday, November 04, 2009

Good, good

That jack-hole racist Louisiana Justice of the Peace Keith Bardwell that I ranted about a couple weeks ago resigned today. Not quite as sweet as him getting booted but Governor Bobby Jindal commented that Bardwell's resignation is "long overdue".
See ya later, idgit.

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

A funny

Watched Chelsea Lately last night and snorted, that's right, snorted when I heard huge black guy Lavell Crawford say "Black folks don't nothing about bulimia! We don't throw up food, hard earned food. We will not throw it up. That is ridiculous! Your momma would kill you if you throw away food like that. 'You vomited? Well you know what? It's soup now.' "

Monday, November 02, 2009

First time, thousandth time

Listened to Elton John's "Rocket Man" today and for the first time caught Rocket Man's dig toward his spouse
"I miss the earth so much, I miss my wife"

Geez Louise, I've heard the song a thousand times especially when riding around with Mom, back in the day. War, Jim Croce, Elton John - the soundtrack of my childhood.
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