How hungry would you have to be?

To eat Vienna sausages?
Yesterday, while listening to the Whatever Girls on Sirius radio, callers described their favorite canned food. (I know, I know, a lame subject but my driving commute is about 4 minutes.) Anywho, a caller said that she really enjoyed what I heard to be "those veiny sausages". Ugh! I am thinking something gross like hog head cheese or some other fancy schmancy acquired taste food. Alas, no. This chick meant VIENNA sausages. THAT's gross but even worse was the mental image of veiny sausages in that oh-too-awful-human-flesh color that canned sausages impart.
(I just gagged.)
And I am not even going to the idea that they resemble baby penises.
So, just passing on the joy that has plagued me since yesterday.
Thanks for stopping by!
Hungry?

Favorite stuff

Khaki pants

Tretorn sneakers

Zero Halliburton luggage

Khaki shorts

Vintage watches

Charm bracelets

Plaid

Tartan

Gingham

Cute skirts

Cotton pajama pants

Old soft t-shirts

Shirtdresses

Burberry trenchcoats

LL Bean totes

Just another day at Sonic

Just another day at Sonic when I spy this guy.
Take a look. Yep, that is a riding mower. With an attached cart. And a dog in the cart.
Life in a small town, yeah, it can be amusing at times.

Ready to retire NOW

Today, this old fuck at the gym told me "enjoy my working years 'cause you sure will miss them when I retired".
ARE YOU eFF'in KIDDING ME, aging exerciser?
I have worked since I was 10 years old! My dear dad refused to allow brother Rollo and I to loll the summers away. We were expected to find odd jobs, weeding flowerbeds, painting fences. Later it was babysitting for me. When I turned 15 and able to drive (this is Louisiana, folks), Dad told me to get a job or he would find one. I figured babysitting would suffice ,um, nope. Next thing I knew I was told to report to McDonald's because Dad's buddy, the McD franchise owner, gave me a job. Never mind that I didn't WANT to work at McD's. Ugh! So I lasted a month or two before I called in sick and was caught. Dad was disgusted with me. Whatever.
I'll bore you with the next 2 summers another time.
How much longer do I have to work before I retire??? Just my luck, I won't make it.
Wish I had the presence of mind to tell the gym old codger that if he missed working, that his life plan was defective. Dumb ass. He probably just missed boring co-workers with his mouth.
My aunt just retired and I told her that if I caught her complaining about it that I would kick her in the hip.

Wanting to be a stay-at-home mom and wife,
without the children and husband,
I am,
SkitzoLeezra

Please add these words to your vocabulary

Palcohol - your buddy when one or both of you are drinking or drunk but not a person you would like while sober.

Prostitot - a young girl dressed like a junior whore (see: Bratz dolls) whose ensemble usually includes, but not limited to, leopard prints, "Juicy" or other quasi-sexual messages printed on buttocks, red satin, t-shirts printed with "Daddy's Little Girl". Pretty much describes every girl photographed at Glamour Shots.

Bastard factory - unwed mother of two children or more, all with different fathers.

Mastubatory - description of an act giving pleasure to only the performer. Though originally used as a sexual term, can also be used to describe amateur guitar solos, spoken word performers and serious karaoke freaks.

You can be TOO good at a job

Early career lesson: You can be too good at a job
While in high school, I worked at a steak house restaurant. The entry level job was Coffee Girl. Coffee Girl walks around the restaurant and asks if you would like coffee, prepares such beverage and tries to look busy when the manager instructs her to offer coffee every three minutes. Round and round the floor I would travel, interrupting diners to ask, AGAIN, "would you like coffee?" In short time, one learned the subtle cues, like eye contact and body language. The trick was to ascertain the cues but still look as if you are asking each and every diner.
Thankfully a new chick was hired and I was able to retire the Coffee Girl laps.

The next step up was Salad Bar Girl. Really, this was a shit job but it was a step towards the more desired level of Order Taker Girl with Microphone. I decided to kick ass on the salad bar so as to get to the desired microphone. I filled in empty containers, fluffed salad, wiped and wiped and wiped spills. The worst part of salad bar duty was clearing the bar after closing. At hunch back posture. Coffee Girl was gone, Order Girl was gone and I have 20 feet of food and ice to make disappear. Alone. So, with no help, I wrapped food, poured endless gallons of hot water and wiped and wiped and wiped.
But hope was around the corner. Newer Coffee Girl hired so New Coffee Girl is next up to take over salad bar.
WooHoo! First night at the microphone! I am shining. My uniform does not have bleu cheese stains. My big job is to replenish cheese cake and Jell-O desserts.
Until.
Until new Salad Bar Girl flounders. Cute but trampy former Coffee Girl cannot seem to maintain salad bar in a timely manner. Salad is low, the counter is a mess and at least 12 items are low. During a lull on the microphone, the manager asks me to assist Salad Girl. I jump in, being full of teamwork attitude, ask her what she needs. Her big eyes look at me in wonder. Which items are low? You don't know? Go look. She tells me three items. I look. More like thirteen now. I instruct her to write down the items, go to the supply refrigerator and pull the items meanwhile I tidy the area. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Finally I go to see what the hold-up was.
Little BITCH is calling out orders. What the HELL? The manager tells me that Little Bitch just cannot seem to keep up the salad bar and would I mind taking over for the evening? I am PISSED. Will I have to do break down? Oh, no, he said, she will help you.
He lied. She leaves, I am doing the food sling again. I ask him if she will return to salad bar. Of course.
Next day, guess who is working salad bar? Guess who is New Order Taker with Microphone? You are so smart. Smarter than a 15 year old me.
The life lesson smacks me on the head: YOU CAN BE TOO GOOD AT A JOB.
Little Bitch is happy and bubbly. Manager is happy. Old Salad Girl is bitter. As the night goes on, Old Salad Girl's inner rage boils. Manager actually DARES to utter one minor critique of appearance of salad bar.
Old Salad Girl loses it. She does the unthinkable and shovels a piece of cheesecake in her mouth while shivering in walk in 'frig. She slings food. She curses. She gathers lettuce. She scoops out jalapeno peppers. And then she stops.
That's IT. It helps her deal with her unspent anger. She actually grins. She finds her inner peace and takes a long cleansing breath. Her eyes sting a little as the jalapeno juice is poured from a gallon bucket to coat the perfectly cut lettuce. Back to the salad bar, the manager smiles as the bountiful greens are filled. Salad girl smiles back.
In just minutes, a diner motions to her and asks for a glass of water. "Something in the salad is really HOT and spicy."
"Sure," she says, "I will tell the Coffee Girl to bring some water right away."
She sees Coffee Girl but says nothing. And smiles.

Play fair OR Life ain't fair

Which is it?
One of the first lessons you learn in life is to play fair. Rules are set. Herd mentality is in place. Shame is instilled. "Y'all play fair now, y'hear?"
Just as soon as your young mind subscribes to the whole concept of fairness, you learn to yell, "Hey, no fair!" You let the words fly because you trust that it means something. You believe that the authority will correct it. Why else would they constantly cram fairness down your throat?
So the day you and your pals yell out is the same day that some old geezer drops this little gem: Life Ain't Fair. And he snickers. AT us. Life Ain't Fair, kid.

What?
And the more you yell foul, the more you hear this utterance.
What the hell?
So what exactly are you saying? I DON'T have to follow the rules? I DON'T have to be a good sport? I SHOULD take every advantage? As a teacher and coach, you AREN'T going to set an example and stand for fairness? You are just going to sit there and say nothing?

The lesson sucked but it was a good one. But the lesson was that adults would expect you to behave a certain way and then when you wanted reciprocation, you were told to grow up.

So I grew up. I stopped being a good sport. I booed other teams. I accepted every advantage.

And when I hear kids shout "hey, no fair" I say it in my head but try my best not to say it aloud. Life Ain't Fair, kid.

Put 'er On The Rack, Boys!

Received this e-mail from my friend Chrysanthemum today:

Although it is not Breast Cancer Awareness month, I am taking this time to share my mammogram experience with those of you not fortunate enough to experience this. And those of your UNDER 40, have much to look forward to.

As a woman over 40, and the daughter of a breast cancer survivor, I happily(?) go for a mammogram each year. Now we all know about the horror stories of smashed boobs on cold metal.....they are very much true. Your journey will start in a lovely decorated waiting area. Here you will be given a white waffle weave spa robe (one size DOES NOT fit all) and told to strip from the waist up. You will be told to remove any deodorant you might have on and given a locker to put your belongings in. Then you are herded to another room where the fun begins. After the smashing, tugging, and squishing of each boob, you are sent to a holding area. Several women are here, also there are snacks and a television. You wait there until you are told that the x-rays are good and you can leave. I never get to leave. I always have to go back for MORE x-rays.

Once released, you are told that results will be in a week or two, by mail.....unless there is a problem. They always call me the next day. I need to see a surgeon for a biopsy. I know the drill. I am given forms to fill out and told to be at the hospital on a certain date, have a responsible person with me, wear lose clothing and a bra.

On my designated morning, I arrive at 7am, as instructed. I fill out more paperwork and go to the nice room where I put on my waffle weave spa robe. The nurse takes me to the room where the procedure will be performed. The nurse is nice and tells me what will take place. Here is what they don't tell you:

You will be stripped down to your loose fitting pants or skirt.
You will then climb onto a large table with a big hole in it. Guess what goes in the hole??
Now lay on your stomach and put the one boob into the hole.
Now the other boob is back up on the table and being squished under you.
Put your arms by your sides.
Turn your head to the side.
You are very uncomfortable.
Now the table is raised up in the air. Am I getting my oil changed?
The nurse is now standing underneath the table and looking eye level at my boob.
Nurse puts boob in some type of vice and takes x-rays.
The computer now give the coordinates of the site. Are we tracking a hurricane?
Large needle/machine gun is lined up with coordinates.
Surgeon appears and extracts samples.
Surgeon leaves to speak with responsible adult that accompanied you.
Nurse lowers table, and helps you up.
Bandages are applied.
Nurse helps you hook bra.
Nurse gives you an ice pack to put inside bra to reduce swelling and bruising.
Nurse escorts you to responsible adult.
Responsible adult is hungry and wants to go to McDonald's for breakfast.
You are in a t-shirt with an ice pack in my bra.
It is JUNE. Ice pack begins to melt.
You are in McDonald's with a big wet spot on one boob.
Go home and take it easy the rest of day.
Sleep in bra.
Take shower in the morning and realize that your boob looks like is has been beaten with brass knuckles.
Wait for results of biopsy next week.

No doubt a man designed this whole procedure.

Wishing that none of you are ever "up on the rack",
I am,
Chrysanthemum

I Don't Understand Rich Fat People

Just don't get it. Back in the day, girth was symbol of wealth. No more.

Rich folks can
* staple their tummy
* get liposuction
* hire a trainer
* employ a personal chef
* sign up for prepared meals by mail
* purchase diet pills
* undergo behavioral management therapy
* correct a metabolism inbalance
* consult a nutritionist
* stay at a fat farm

Whatever.
"One can never too rich or too thin."

Take Care of Your Girlfriends

Ladies, I have long thought that you should cherish your girlfriends as well as nurture their friendships. Elevate them. Even above your honey or husband. You heard me. Let him THINK that he is the most important thing in the whole wide world but make sure your friends believe the same thing.
BECAUSE, when
* you get engaged, it is your girlfriends that throw a shower, purchase the godawful dresses, show you a good time at the bachelorette (how I hate that word) party. They listen to your endless moaning about wedding plans.
* you move, girlfriends help you pack. Sure, men will do the heavy lifting but they will mar your grandmother's dining room table, drop the Fostoria tea cups and scratch the newly painted walls. Girlfriends take better care of your antiques, glassware and fragile items. (In fact, try NOT to use males unless completely necessary.)
* you are pregnant, girlfriends will tell every single boring/awful detail about their pregnancy but they will also include some helpful information. These same girls will give you yet another shower and all kinds of baby stuff like beds, strollers, maternity clothing, you name it.
* you are sick, they will go to the drugstore for you, clean your kitchen, and make sure your children have something good to eat. Your best friends know what you want while in the hospital, be it crossword puzzles, a Big Mac or illicit frozen daiquiri.
* you are depressed, girlfriends know when to commiserate and when to kick you in the ass. They will bring you chocolate and wine and maybe even share pharmaceuticals. (Remember: what goes around, comes around.)
* you have a birthday, girlfriends know if you want to celebrate it and which number you are claiming.
* when you go through a divorce or break-up, girlfriends are there with chocolate and offers to break legs and tap phone lines. They will listen to you cry and tell you when it is time to shut up.
* when your husband is sick, girlfriends rush in to do your laundry, drive you to Sonic for a quick trip out of the house, and just listen to you.
* when your husband dies, your girlfriends take care of the things you haven't and cannot think about. They clean the house, they warm the food, write down names of friends that dropped by, and press your clothing so you will be well dressed for the funeral. They will not forget about you when you find yourself newly single.

Who does more than a girlfriend? Maybe Mom but she cannot do it all. Mom probably will not look you in the face and say that maybe you should do more Kegel exercises.

Imagine living a long life as a girl that "just doesn't have female friends" or "girls don't like her" or "men are so much easier to get along with". Those girls are not to be trusted.

Take care of your friends. They will take care of you.