Boo Bags

I got Boo-Bagged the other day and before you fuckers look it up on Urban Dictionary, it is nothing like being Tea-Bagged.



We were eating dinner or poking our houseboy with a stick or trying to figure out if the chicken or the egg came first when there came a knock upon our door. This sent the dogs into a barking frenzy, jumping about and knocking shit over. SuperDiva went to the door and found a cute little bag that said Boo! on it. She said she saw our neighbor D running away as she opened the door, so we surmised, through obviously brilliant reasoning, that D left the bag. In it was a bottle of wine, uh yum, some candy, scarecrow poop, some spooky socks and a kitty cat pen. Later I found out that I was to share these items with the kids. Boo! indeed.



So being the skanky bitch that I am, I decided to pay it forward and I put my own Boo! bags together for three ladies that I like. I included my favorite Menage-A-Trois in along with stamps and Halloween cups for their kids. Oh, and candy of course. Apparently one of the other neighbors is a real nosey twat and saw me leaving the bags and decided to spill the beans because Sunday we went to a Pumpkin Carving Party at an old neighbor's house and one of the ladies I Boo'ed was there. As soon as I walked in, she said "I love that wine. Love, love, love." I asked her how she found out it was me and she told me that manspout drinker from next door told her. Great! Way to ruin my surprise you dildohumping, mantywearing shitsniffer!



Anyway, I do believe in that old adage of what goes around comes around. Or is it a reach around. Never mind, I paid it forward. And it made me feel good about myself, so bonus.



Anyway, Happy Halloween. Now all you pimps and skanks go on and "rock out with your cock out."

P.S. My neighbor came up with a great item for a bag for the Stepford C - "How to Win Friends and Influence People"

Thank you Dale Carnegie!!!

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Halloween in Stepford

I may have previously mentioned that I live in Stepford. I really do. There are so many folks here who are so worried about keeping up with the Joneses or the Reynoldses or any other eses that it sometimes makes me want to weedwack their heads off. But I studiously try to avoid those people in favor of the other folks here who are like me. In fact, in the last two years, we have managed to make some pretty good friends in the area and I enjoy hanging out with them. But the other folks make me shudder. There is just something too creepy about some of these robots. I imagine that behind closed doors, one of them is beating the other while beating off or that they sacrifice chickens to Zoltan, god of the allmighty dollar. I am sure that they are just so different from the kind of person that I am, that I have a hard time understanding them, but to be honest with you, I could care less about that touchy-feely, share myself while understanding others crap.

So really, it all comes down to me again. And my dislike for so many of my species.

Now Halloween is tomorrow and while I am looking forward to the kiddies having fun, what I am not looking forward to is conversing with people I either don't know, don't like or outright loath. Yes you have spawn. Great, so do I. Oh, you don't work? Well I do. What? Why are you sniffing at me? I work. I like my work. Maybe you should try it sometime. Oh? You are too busy running after your kids, making playdates, scrapbooking, creating one-of-a-kind greeting cards that serve no purpose other than to let EVERYONE know how well your children are progressing, cleaning your house all day, running around to KinderGym, blah, blah blah? Do you see my eyes glazing over? Do you see them bleeding? So you see the utter lack of interest on my face? Please take your candy and go far, far away from me before I decide to be obviously nasty and grab you by your hair while kicking your ass down my driveway.

(Please note that I am not judging others who live like this and are cool, just the fucking twats who think that they are better than you because you work outside of the home. Trust me, if I could, I would.)

OK, I am not being fair. There are some cool people out there that I have not yet met. There has to be. With about 800 homes in our development (more like a small town), I am absolutely certain that I will make a new friend tomorrow. In my fantasy, this is how it will happen:

I walk up to a house, spawn in tow for another round of candy grabbing.

Hot chick dressed in a nurse's uniform..

"Hey, you're that famous blogger chick from 1234 Pop My Cherry Lane, aren't you?"

Me: "Uh, yeah, but not so much famous as infamous."

Chick: "Mike and I have two kids exactly your kids' ages and an older one who loves to babysit for free."

Me: "Cool, we should hang out sometime."

Chick: "Sounds like fun, but I have to warn you, my husband loves to pay for everything and won't let you spend a dime. Plus, we really like to drink and we have a vacation home on the beach in Mexico where we like to go for long weekends. Mike's company flies us out on their jet, but you will need a passport."

Me: "I'll think about it and let you know. Maybe we could start with dinner. Oh, I'm ADW by the way."

Chick: "Great name. I'm Calliope."

Chick: Handing me a beer from a cooler on the driveway.."here's our adult 'candy'."

Me: "Thanks, why don't you guys come over for the Buckeye's game this Saturday."

Calliope: "We'd love to, but we have tickets for the game. Hey, you wouldn't want to go with us, we have two extra tickets?"


......Don't you just love a girl whose fantasies involve other girls, drinking and sports?

Well Slap My Ass And Call Me Chappy

Yeah, I'm in a bit of a foul mood. Surprising? No, probably not.

Honestly!

You know when you feel like things are finally beginning to turn around and head in the right direction and you feel fantastic and fabulous and gay? And then the other shoe drops?

In my case, there really is no other shoe. Just life. And the living of it. I swear to the Almighty that I think Miss Britt and I are related somehow.....

Anyway, it all started with a bad hair day and went downhill from there. (I ripped this from a book, but it works) Instead of a bad hair day, mine happened from a rolled ankle. From kickboxing you ask? No. Oh no. This little medical malfunction came from my usual course of stupidity and clumsiness. I really have no idea how someone who can be so coordinated in some areas is a hopeless klutz in others. I don't have enough time in this post, and you aren't bored enough to read it anyway, to go into my medical history, but most of my hospital visits were from my inability to place one foot in front of the other, or intoxication. Sometimes both.

Where was I? Oh, I remember. I rolled my ankle. Sitting down in my overstuffed, ubercomfy chair. Are you fucking kidding me?

I went to hop into the chair to read and veg out last night and kind of stepped on my own foot. I did feel something twist, but I ignored it since my whole body has been a bundle of aches and pains since I started kickboxing. Later on, I went out to the garage and noticed that my ankle was tender. I still ignored it. (Anyone see a pattern here?) I hobbled back inside and told the hubs that my ankle felt funny. Then I decided to look at it, so I rolled up my pants. Ohmyfuckingeverlovingjudaspriest! My ankle was the size of a softball. So I guess I did hurt myself.

So now, a day later, I am still in some pain. I bought an ankle serape and wrapped it up tight, but every time I take it off, it swells up again. Shit! If it doesn't get better by tomorrow, I guess I'm gonna hafta haul my one-cankled self over to the doctor. She's great. I may even get some drugs out of it.

But seriously. Now, I doubt I'll be able to work out this week and I'm out of town next week. I feel like all of the effort I have put into working out these last three weeks is going to go down the drain.

Now I am feeling sorry for myself. I am like a guy in many ways and my inability to deal with pain or sickness is one of them. And last night, instead of being at Avitable's Halloween party, where all of the great bloggers were, I was laying in bed with a heating pad, whimpering and whining.

So the moral of this story is:

If you have the chance to fly to FLORIDA in late October and you are from OHIO where it is forty degrees out, for a rip-roaring drunken Halloweenie good time, for the love of money, go!!!! If you don't, something bad will happen to you.

I should have been drinking, instead I hurt myself sober.

That is a direct quote from me to you and I may have this printed up on a T-Shirt for posterity.

I Can Rock A Pole Like A Cunt Stain

Ha! Let's see how many site searches this title brings me, but I was serious.

My new lady love Shrinking Kitty posted a pic on her blog that conveniently enough my hubby sent me last week. I wasn't sure if he was joking or not:

So, to live up to my husband's expectations of me, I set out to prove him correct in his theory that I am an accomplished pole slider. After my night out with BBS this past Saturday, I phoned home and requested that he have a Captain and Diet Coke waiting upon my arrival. You see, while I had a few beverages that evening, I was driving and didn't want to overindulge and I thought we could have a few drinks together before retiring for the evening. Of course it was close to 2:00 AM when I sauntered into the house, but that is neither here nor there.

Much to my surprise, he did have my drink waiting for me. Through the inner mechanisms of my mind, I decided that just one drink wouldn't do. Oh no! I force fed him a few beers in rapid time - he does not drink that often. Then I proceeded to mix up a few dozen shots for us.

By 3:00 AM we were fairly snookered and I was in the MOOD. You know, that mood. I also decided that it would be a bang up idea to treat him to a little show. He was amenable to my suggestion and even provided himself a chair to sit in and enjoy my gyrations. After fumbling around a bit to find just the right music - Christina Aguilera to be precise - I changed into knee high stiletto boots and gave him a rip roaring good time.

Well.... except for the part where I stomped on his feet. And then when I kicked him in the head trying to shimmy shake around him. And of course I shan't forget about almost breaking his penis. Apparently I feel that I have superhuman strength after my seventeenth shot. Alas, I did not and my poor husband was on the receiving end of the abuse.

Oh and it was Sweetest Day. Another farking Hallmark Holiday that is, I believe, only celebrated in certain areas of the country, including the Midwest. I do not partake in that crap, but I did stop off that evening before going to dinner and pick up a few toys from a sex shop. I gave them to the hubs. There's your Sweetest Day baby!

The next morning, I was perky and joyful. Not so much my drunker half. He had a hangover the size of Duluth and was sporting copious bruises about his midsection. If I were any type of considerate person, I would have provided him with an ice pack for his balls, but instead I laughed.

Oh c'mon, you would have too.

Well, until the kids came in to hop in bed with us and SuperDiva asked why my office chair was in the bedroom. I can't quite remember how I worked around that. But I did also notice that the bag from the store was laying out on the bedroom floor. Oh shite!!!

Me: "Um... hey what's that on the floor?"

Hubs: "I put all that stuff away."

Me: "Great. Good thinking. Pssstttt.... *whispering* How's the cock?"

Hubs: "Shut up. Just shut up."

So here's to all of the ladies who like to have a good time and pass it on!!! Just remember to lift your leg OVER his head. It works better when you do.

Halfway To 50

This past Saturday, I went out with BBS to celebrate her birthday. And what a celebration it was. Crap on a Cracker, we had great time. It started out as just the two of us for dinner and then we went to a honkey tonk for a night of good old fashioned country bumpkin fun. Yeah I said it. Country. That's right people, I have a huge hard on for country music. I have been dancing for over ten years and I love nothing better than to go listen to music I like and dance. I two-step and swing, cha-cha and chaddish and everything in between. BBS loves country too, but for some crazy ass reason, she was too much of a fuckin' pussy to go out on the dance floor that night.

Later on in the evening, one of BBS's other friends stopped by with her boy toy to hang out and party. They wanted to learn how to dance and it has been decided that I will host my first line dance slumber party. This is basically an excuse for us to get together, drink Sangria and dance around in our underoos. We're fun that way.

Liz and K work together and the clued me in on the most annoying laugh in the world. I practiced for a half a second and had it down pat. Shocking, I know.

I think the most fun we had all night was people watching. Some chick-a-doodle was staring at BBS (she is 6'1" and BUILT). So this is what comes out of BBS' mouth:

"Keep looking. Of course, you could have changed out of the sweatshirt BEFORE going out!"

I swear to you, right now, that one day I am going to get into a fight defending her honor. Fuck!

So, I am tired, cranky and sore right now and I don't have much more to share other than the fact that we had a few adult beverages, danced our asses off (I wish that literally) and had a hell of a good time. I do have to bitch about the fact that we had quite a few people bail out on us that evening after committing to it weeks ago, but I will save that for another time.

Here are the pics:

The start of the evening, don't we make a great couple?

Me, Liz and K

Yeah, I am a farking douchenozzle, but what else is new?

P.S. I have gum in my mouth and I look like an asshole.

I am not fucked up. Really. It's not Captain Morgans' eye. Seriously. Don't you remember that I said I had an eye growth?

Damn, I am a squinty little beyotch.

Uh......

End of the night?

'Nuff said.

I Feel Better About Myself When:

I Feel Better About Myself When:

• I go to WalMart. Trust me, unless your family tree has no branches, it will make you feel better too.
  
• I shop. Shoes, clothes or accessories. It doesn't make a difference. It just makes me feel good and retail therapy is cheaper than sitting on the leather couch.


• I spend more than 10 minutes at the MAC counter. This means that I am getting my make-up done and I love it.


• I see ManHo Cho. Invariably, we will gossip and natter about all of the shit we hate and make fun of celebretards.


• A woman complements me. It means way more than when men do it and I get all glowy for a while.


• I use my rapier wit and sharp tongue to take someone down a few notches. Seriously, why are you such an asshole? Is there an appointment committee and if so where do I send my resume because I guarantee that I am better at it than you are.


• Someone tries to hire me away from my current position. I'm not going anywhere, but it is nice to be desired by other companies.


• I sell shit. That = $$$.


• My clothes fit. That's one of the reasons that I am working out now... not to lose weight, but to slim down and tone up.
  

Things I shouldn't feel good about, but I do anyway:

• Using my boobies, booty or any other feminine wiles to get my way with men. It is trite and the feminists are going to get all militant on my ass, but men are simple and if they want to give me shit, who am I to stop them?


• Kicking ass at Trivial Pursuit. There are very few people who will play this with me and one of my friends even accused me of pre-reading the questions. Aren't there like 2.6 million different questions in those boxes? I know I don't have a life, but I am not that bad.


• Seeing people that I went to high school with and making damn sure that they know how well I turned out. I went from nerd to "look at me now" and while you were busy teasing me unmercifully, I made sure that I studied hard and made something out of my life. Now here I am and there you are and, well, honey I'm sure you did the best you could...


• When certain people in a certain someone's family who don't particularly care for me, fall flat on their faces - AGAIN!!! You treat me like something you scrape off of your shoes, but we all know who the fuckups really are. I would love it even more if you didn't have kids who depended on you, but YOU are the ones fucking them up, not me.


• I see other people trip up a flight of stairs. That shit is always gonna make me cackle. It's just funny. 'Speciall since I do it too.
  

I don't have "it" today. You know that mojo that makes everything that comes out of my mouth sound funny..... What I do have is a fun little eye problem and I am now on steroids. My right eye will soon be able to lift a car off of the ground.

Peace Out Fuckers!!

BONUS PIC:

WENT OUT FOR BBS' BIRTHDAY...

MY NEXT POST WILL BE ALL ABOUT IT

HERE'S A TEASER

P.S. I LOOKED EVEN MORE LIKE AN ASSOLE IN THE OTHER PICS..

Please Just Read This

UPDATE 2.0:
Thank you so much to everyone who offered their assistance and input. Avi created the actual link that I used, but there were many others who offered their help as well!!!!!

UPDATE: If anyone knows how to take a picture and create a hyperlink on it via html code so that I can put the logo for the foundation in my sidebar, could you please help me?

Here in the bloguverse, I have a reputation. Yes I am a foul-mouthed, inconsiderate, self-absorbed freak, but even I have been touched by this situation.

There is a family that I know, through my daughter's soccer team who is fighting a courageous battle so valiantly that it sometimes brings tears to my eyes. Their youngest daughter was diagnosed with Tay-Sachs about two years ago and she is the strongest, bravest young lady that I have ever been blessed to meet. I can't even begin to explain to you the battles that Dakota has gone through or the struggles that her family faces every day. I am reposting an e-mail that was sent to me by Dakota's mom that can explain this situation better than I ever could.

Please take the time to read it and learn more about the disease. The family is not raising money for themselves, but for the Cure Tay-Sachs foundation so that one day, in the not so distant future, they can finally eradicate this disease.

Dakota is such a warm and sunny little girl, that you can feel better just by being in her presence. I am not asking you to donate money or time or anything else. What I am asking is that you take a few minutes to educate yourself and if you feel moved, pass along the message. I did receive permission from the family to post this information because they are fighting this thing tooth and nail and I am sure that I speak for them when I say thank you for your time.



Dear Friends,

As many of you know our beautiful little girl Dakota continues to battle Tay-Sachs disease. We have created a video to introduce the world to our very strong little girl. Dakota is now 8 years old and was diagnosed with Tay-Sachs disease just over two years ago. Tay-Sachs is a genetic disease that has no treatment or cure, and is ALWAYS fatal in children. Dakota risked her life nearly two years ago when she went through a very painful and complex cord blood transplant where all her blood was replaced with new blood, with the hope of eliminating the disease. The transplant may have helped, but the disease is still there. Dakota has been nicknamed the “Hope Child” by other Tay-Sachs parents because of her courageous battle to beat this horrible disease. But the clock is still ticking….

We have medical specialists all over the world that we are in constant communication with that have assured us that the cure is within reach! The challenge is the funding necessary to convert theory into clinical application. We have become involved with the Tay-Sachs Gene Therapy Consortium that has created an international team of experts dedicated to converting hopeful animal models into useful human clinical trials. We have no choice but to take matters into our own hands and raise the monies needed to potentially save the life of our daughter and her many terminally ill friends around the world. We need to find a cure for this disease so future generations of children like Dakota and families like ours don’t have to endure this agony.

With the help of our family and friends, we have started a fund raising campaign called “Dakota’s Dream,” designed to raise money for the Cure Tay-Sachs Foundation (which is a 501(c)(3) tax exempt foundation). We are declaring November “Dakota’s Dream” month, where corporations, schools and churches from all over are collecting money on our behalf. On Saturday, November 24 we are organizing children of all ages to collect money in their neighborhoods to support Dakota’s Dream. We hope to have 1,000 kids each collect $100 on this day. Hopefully we will surpass that number of kids helping other kids.

Please take 5 minutes of your valuable time to watch the DVD that was made to give you a small understanding of the magnitude of the situation. Yes, we need money. But more importantly we need to educate people about Tay-Sachs disease. After you view the video, please feel free to pass this e-mail along to anyone and everyone you know. The disease is found in every part of the world, among all races, religions and genders. This is one disease that we CAN and WILL find a cure for in the next few years - but only with your help.

Thank you for taking the time to listen. Please watch the video and visit our web site for further information about Tay-Sachs disease and how you can be a part of Dakota’s Dream on November 24, 2007. Thank you and God bless.

Link to Dakota’s Dream video: http://www.curetay-sachs.org/dream.shtml

Link to Cure Tay-Sachs Foundation web site: http://curetay-sachs.org/



OK, so if you all aren't touched by Dakota's story, then there is no hope left. I never ask ANYONE for ANYTHING, but this is the one time that I am asking for your attention.

I promise that I will get back to posting about swearing in foreign languages and my close encounters with my hairdresser.

Thank You from the bottom of my heart!!!!!

ManHo Cho is in the Know

**UPDATE** Blogger can suck my ass. It completely fucked up the layout I had set up for this post. To use Avi's new favorite word: cockslapping monkeyfuckers!!

This morning I called ManHo Cho up to see when he could fit me in for a much needed hair therapy session. Much to my surprise, he said that he could fit me in at 8:00 pm. Normally he is at the gym by then, so I knew that he was skipping his workout sessions to stay late and work on my nasty follicles. The following is a rundown of what was discussed in this evening's fun and games:

• I finally fessed up to ManHo that he was a much featured and highly commented upon figure in my blog. Of course, I also had to describe what a blog is after he told me that he owns a computer, but hasn't turned it on in over six months and doesn't know how to check e-mail.


• ManHo Cho thinks that his blog identity is hilarious.


• ManHo is getting married. To Red Lobster Boy. Seriously. Next spring. I am invited to the wedding and I have never been to a gay wedding before.
  
• The words Gay Wedding just have a fun connotation.


• I have a feeling that I will get at least a dozen blog topics by attending the matrimony of ManHo Cho and Red Lobster Boy.


• When they get married, I'm gonna have to change his name, since he can no longer be a ManHo. I am thinking of ideas and open to suggestions


• I wanted to go dark again. He talked me out of it. We compromised and he was right as usual. I am going to try and post a pic of my new hair below.


• Somehow.... we ended up talking about sex again. I told ManHo that I would totally do him. He said he would do me right back. I responded with a resounding "yeah, if you liked vagina." That made us both crack up so loudly that other people stopped what they were doing and stared at us.


• One of the other hairdressers made me show her my shoes. I guess that's my reputation. I have had worse ones.


• ManHo got a new car. A Mercedes Benz 4-seater convertible: black on silver. It's fucking hot as hell. I called him a bitch. He rebutted by saying: "yeah, but now I be looking like a rich bitch." I'm jealous.


• I am having a tough time with the upcoming birthday. I told ManHo that my hubs said that I don't look my age and ManHo said I didn't either. He must have sensed that I wasn't buying it because he then said: "you already tipped me, so you know it come from da heart."


• I responded with: "yeah? Well when my husband says it, it comes from the Hard On."


• More laughter ensued and I fell down. I do that a lot around him.


• ManHo is getting hitched at his friend's house. By house, I mean giant mansion on Lake Erie. By giant mansion, I mean that it was featured in a VERY RITZY magazine devoted to living on the water. Seriously loaded. The house is amazing. I don't know that I have ever been this excited to go to a wedding. I hope there are drag queens.


• I always end up leaving the salon looking like a cross between a porn star and a Texas Beauty Pageant contestant. ManHo abides by the old adage "the bigger the hair, the closer the God."


• Oh and a big congratulations to ManHo for being the #1 stylist in the company. The salon that he works at has stores all over the country and he is the top stylist for the last six months. Pretty cool.


• I have been invited to go to a gay bar with ManHo and RL Boy. I hope we go sometime soon.....
  

So I tried to take the pics of my new hair by myself, but it didn't really work too well:

I look kinda mean here. I mean, I am mean, but it usually doesn't show on the outside...

So I asked my hubs to help me. I told him to get some close up pics of mah new hair so that I could share it with all of you. I think that he really wishes that I quit sharing myself with all of you. I told him that I only get four readers a day. Shhhhh...... I know it's eight, but we don't have to tell him. So this is what I got when I asked him to take a picture of my new hair:





Thanks Honey!!!! That is NOT my hair.


OK, let's try this again:

Please ignore the fact that I am not wearing any make-up. Look at the hair. It doesn't show up as well as I had hoped, but it is a gorgeous color and very flattering for my light eyes. ManHo gave himself props for being such a great colorist. Seriously, I LOVE IT!!! I wanted to go a very rich, dark brown, almost black, but he talked me out of it and I'm glad. The color down is what I like to call Caramel Macchiatto. Seriously. It is much better than the almost platinum blond that I had it, my roots won't look so trailer trash within two weeks and I was getting SICK of the old color. Normally I change either my color or style at least once a year, more often in my youth. I have had this exact same "do" for over two years now and I am thrilled with the change.

What do you guys think?

Come see me at Hooters

Finally, another Hooters story. I know how long you have all waited for this one.





As a Hooters Girl, I was constantly involved in promoting both the brand and our local Hooters restaurant. We went to rib cook offs and all types of sporting events, bikini contests, concerts and any other place where we could find people to give them Free Wing coupons. At any of these events, we were expected to wear either our Hooters Uniform or the $120.00 Hooters Track suit that was fabricated from some highly flammable material along with a white Hooters tank underneath.





One weekend, I was roped into working a golf show at the IX Center. The building itself was used during WWII to manufacture B-29s and again during the Korean War to make army tanks. The building was used in various operations over the years but was finally remodeled and opened as the IX Center in the mid 80's and has been used to host various shows since then. The monstrosity is a staggering 300,000 square feet and during the annual Golf Show in March, the temperatures tended to hover close to hypothermic conditions because the place is extremely expensive to heat. Because it was so cold, we were allowed to wear our warm ups to work at the show.





So happily I trotted off to the Saturday morning show where I was scheduled to work from ten in the morning to three in the afternoon, after which I would then have to race into downtown Cleveland to make it to work in time for my four o'clock shift that evening. Throughout the day, we handed out coupons, made small talk and sold Hooters paraphernalia. We signed the new swimsuit calendars - we weren't in them, we would just pick someone who looked like us and sign it as them. I kept telling people to come in and see me that evening since I was working at the bar and not waiting tables.





Three O'clock rolled around and the new shift of girls arrived. I packed my stuff up and headed into work. When I arrived, I touched up my make-up and changed into my full uniform. We had our "shift" meeting where everyone was assigned sections and off I went to the bar, perky and full of caffeine.





About an hour into my shift, I saw four guys making their way into the bar. They sat down at the far end of the bar and caught my eye. It was a group of fellows I had met at the show earlier in the day. Fancy that!!





I bebopped my way down to say hello and get their drinks orders. The guys were super friendly and all smiles and told me how cute I looked out of my warm up and in my regular uniform. As I worked my way down the bar, orders started coming in faster and faster. I was the only one working a 30 + stool bar that evening and even though I was used to getting good tips, people were literally throwing money at me. I had the mojo that night. For the next thirty minutes, I was propositioned no less than twenty times. What the hell? I knew I looked good and I had a great banter going with the crowd, but they were really starting to get rowdy. Whistles and catcalls abounded. These guys were starting to get out of control.





As I desperately struggled to keep up with drink and food orders, my mind was racing. Why this night? What was so great about me today? I didn't have a lack of self-confidence, but something was off and I just couldn't put my finger on it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the guys that came in from the golf show flagging me down. As I made my way down the bar, I felt like every set of eyes in the place was staring at me. I finally reached the end and the guy motioned me closer. As I leaned over the bar, he placed his lips at my ear and whispered something that I hope I never hear again:





"Sweetheart, you might want to adjust your tank top."





I whipped around and looked down to see the top of my tank askew. My right nipple, Mrs. Buttersworth, was staring back at me. As quickly as humanly possible, I adjusted my top. Face flaming, I turned around and thanked the man. He shrugged back at me. It was then that I realized what had been going on. Here I was trotting around with a tit out, while happily collecting all of the money thrown my way and not ONE PERSON said anything to me about it.





Now it takes a lot to embarrass me these days, but back then I still had some feelings and I was mortified. Oh my hell. I wanted to run out from behind the bar and hide. My stomach was doing flip-flops and I was almost certain that I was going to lose what little I had time to eat that day. Instead, I brazened it out and acted like none of it bothered me, all the while I was dying inside. I couldn't get that horrid feeling of embarrassment out of my system. I replayed the scene over and over in my head and each time, my stomach threatened to lose its contents.





These days, if something like that were to happen, I would laugh it off and go on my merry way. I would have something extremely witty at hand, some self-deprecating comment to make everyone crack up and I would manage to keep my head up and not be ashamed of an accident like that. But then... then I was beyond any level of humiliation I had ever experienced.





I guess that little incident taught me a valuable lesson:





Be humble when you receive interest from the opposite sex because it might not be your fabulous self that is garnering their attention. They may just want a closer look at Mrs. Buttersworth.





Thanks to Bottle Blonde, my scissor sister, for reminding me of this story. See, you aren't the only one who has this shit happen to them.

It Figures

You know those days when you are driving down the turnpike and you stop to pay the toll (fucking Ohio does not have EZ Pass) and you realize as you are pulling up to pay the fee, that you have no cash and then you have to dig around to find a bunch of hair and candy covered change to pay the toll?

It Figures!!!

Or how about starting your period on the one day that you switch purses and don't put any tampons in it and then you have to wad up some toilet paper to use as a makeshift pad until you can dig one out of God knows where?

It Fucking figures!!!

And I just love going to Marc's and having an overflowing shopping cart, just to find out that I am out of checks at the one place where they still don't accept credit cards. Argghhhh.

Fuck!!

But even on the very worst day possible, you still have this great new workout class that is kicking your ass and hopefully reshaping it into the powerhouse, man-drool inciting, heart-shaped piece that it once was. Right? Oh yeah, and then you walk in to find that Stepford Cunt is also taking classes there and was only absent the previous week because she had a sprained ankle. Shitpissfuckdamncuntfacedjackassdonkeyfuckerjerkoffbitchtittylickingsonofaskunkcock.

It really fucking figures!!!

Out of all the crap that I am being handed on a daily basis, the one thing that I am excited about is the fact that I am finally taking charge of my body and actually doing something about my shape before the travel, bad eating habits and ensuing weight gain are irreversible. So when I bounce into class on Saturday morning, who should my little eyes spy but SuperMom (one of my friends calls her this and it is nicer than Stepford Cunt, but who cares). I about choked on the bile as it backed up into my throat. Fuck!!! Seriously?? Shit.

Oh well, there is another girl in class who lives down the street from me and she is freaking hilarious, so it almost makes up for the fact that I now have to share space with someone I can barely tolerate from afar.

Seriously??

What the fuck?

Battle of the Ballers

***UPDATE*** I have a question - is it possible for your nipples to hurt after working out? Just finished my 3rd kickboxing class... I'm a little obsessive. Seriously. I think I ran out of muscles to hurt and the pain has moved into other areas like my taint and my left labia. What. The. Fuck???


In my family, we have a lot of love for the sports. In fact, since I drive all over the land for work, I listen to a ton of radio and most of it is SportsTalk. Mike and Mike in the Morning, Jim Rome (I know, love him or hate him) and then some local guys in the evenings. I LOVE football, basketball, hockey, boxing and baseball. I am extremely proud of our Ohio teams and I will root for them no matter how shitty their season is going. So I am ecstatic that the Tribe is in the ALCS for the first time in a long time.



That love fest out of the way, it's time to talk about RIVALRIES. My hubs and I are, of course, fans of the best college football team to ever don a helmet, the Scarlet and Grey, THE OHIO STATE BUCKEYES!!! Then you have my sister Tree and her husband Chief B. He is from Michigan, so even though he isn't that into football, he is a dirty, hated Michigan fan. Then you have my other sister B's hubby who is a Georgia bulldog and I have a cousin who went to both undergrad and med school at Florida. So we have the Ohio State vs. Michigan rivalry and the Georgia vs. Florida rivalry all in the family.



Both of the Brother-In-Laws are in the Navy and while I have the greatest respect and utmost gratitude to those who choose to serve in our Nation's armed forces, I cannot in good conscience allow those two to keep on believing that they have any superiority over me - Chief or not!!



So..........................



It's really good to know that the RIGHT people are protecting our nation:

Fall, Spring, Summer and Winter... and Kickboxing

Do you all see the title of my post? The four seasons. Something that we here in Cleveland, Ohio do not have. Really.

Where does this post come from? Well when Avi asked me his 5 Questions, one of them happened to be: ......is there anything good about Ohio? As part of my answer, I stated that: "Obviously we are missing 9 months of sunshine, but no place is perfect." Now I would like to be allowed the indulgence of elaboration.

First of all, for those of you who have ever been to Cleveland during the wintertime, I apologize to you right now. For those of you who have not and are planning to one day travel here, or more likely are one day forced into flying here against your will, please aim for June through August. It doesn't usually snow here then.

Point? Ahem? I do have a point to this rambling mess of a post and that point is that here in Cleveland, Ohio, home of the once burning Cuyahoga River, we do not have seasons, per se. What we have are two weather options: freezing your ass off, blowing snow or roasting in the seventh circle of hell, hot as ball sweat outside.

Right now, we are in the midst of a blistering heat wave in October. Only in Cleveland would the baseball season begin with cancellations and moved games due to snowfall, only to turn around during the playoffs and have record temps in October hovering close to ninety. Although, now that we have shut down the Yankees, I feel free to send all of my little Canadian Soldier friends (that's what we call them thar' Midges) a huge shout out for swarming the Bronx Bombers. And I mean BOMBERS!!! Whoo hoooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Go Tribe!

Of course by the end of this week, the temps are supposed to drop back down to "fall weather". And I really do enjoy that crisp smell in the air when it gets down to the fifties. I love to sleep with my windows open and have the blankets pulled up to my chin. However, since fall only lasts for about 3 weeks 'round here, I am sure that the first snowfall is not that far off in the distance. If there is one thing that I DESPISE about living in Northeastern Ohio, it is the snow. One day soon, I will explain to all of you non-Great Lakes residing folk about the wonders of "Lake Effect Snow" and how it can get cold enough to freeze your tatas to the inside of your WonderBras, but as I am typing this, I started feeling a little sick to mah belly just thinking about all of that unending snow, ice and cold, so I will quit before the flashbacks begin.

I know that there was a whole point to this post, something about the seasons, but I can't really remember right now because my entire body is on fire. Why? The kickboxing class I took with a couple of ladies I know. My neighbor (one I like), told me about this new class and how it is close by (my old gym ended up being a 40 minute drive one way and I ain't a Ladies Workout place kind of gal) and reasonably priced. Plus you can pay by the month which is great for me because my attention span and commitment issues have taught me to never sign up for anything long term.

So off my happy ass trots to what amounted to be the most horrific 60 minutes of my life. Satan, and he is the Devil incarnate, had us running and punching and kicking and lifting and doing all kinds of shit that my Captain Morgans swilling, Virginia Slim smoking, carb eating, lazy fat ass would never desire to do in my lifetime. Then he had us do something so heinous that I wouldn't wish it on all of the Stepford Cunts in the whole wide world. I believe that they are called suicide drills. No, that isn't the right name, but I can't remember it now, what with my brains leaking out of my ears and all of the blood gushing out of my nose, but the name fits since I am ready to drive a spork into my jugular. Basically, these fun little exercises are accomplished by laying flat on your stomach, jumping straight up in the air, running to the other side of the room, dropping back down to your belly and doing it all over again. Twenty awful, horrid, painful assholecocksuckingsonofabitching times. By the end of that little treat, I didn't know whether I should pass out or take what little remaining strength I had left and hunt down a gun and shoot the sadistic sumbitch. When we were finally finished, I had a chunk of hair hanging over my eyes, I smelled like the inside of a skunk's asshole and my face was somewhere between the color of a baboon's backside and those fun spots that you see when you close your eyes after staring at the sun for too long.

As I was crawling to the chair where I left my shoes, Master Turdhead comes up to me and asks me how I liked the workout. Somehow, experience I am guessing, he was able to interpret my wheezing as the universal sign to shut the fuck up and back away slowly. BUT!!!!! The class burns about 800 calories. In an hour. So as much as it pains me to say this, I think I am going to start working out. Thirty is staring me straight in the eye and that bitch ain't lookin' too pretty. I need to tone up, slim down and get healthy so I am around for a long, long time to torture everyone around me.

Fuck. Me. I am guessing that I may have a new weekly "thing" to post about though, so that is a bonus. Sorry for the rambling jumble of words which I am certain contains a ton of errors, but my hands aren't working so great after beating up a standing punching bag.

Hugs and Kisses Fuckers.

Bad Bluddy

I'm really trying to make Bluddy the new word. It should get some momentum soon. If not, then it's back to the drawing board.

Not too long ago, I answered some questions that AVI posed to me. But about a month ago, I told Miss Britt to do the same thing. I checked my in-box for a few days and no questions. Hmmmmm.... Weird. Oh well. I just figured my little blond honey had forgotten about me. Well lo and behold, I was clearing out my spam box and *GASP* there was an e-mail from my Peninsula Lover. Shitcrapdamnfuckcocksuckingdillwad. OH MY HELL!!! I missed her questions. How dare I blow her off like that? (C'mon fellas, that one's a gimme.. too easy)

Anywho, posthaste I send the Florida Fellatiator a quick little love note apologizing and groveling for her forgiveness. Being the kind benefactress that she is, she only lambasted me for not being a freak about checking my spam box. I was expecting a "how dare you have my e-mail sent to the dark recesses of you dirty little spam box?" But being the gracious and kind person that she is, she let it slide this time. I am wondering if I let it happen again, if some sort of redbottom session is in order? We shall see.

So, without further filler, here are my ?'s from the Little Blond CorBritt:

1. OK, so now that we all know you're hot, what's something women should know about you that would make us..er... them not hate you?

How does one answer that kind of question without coming off either conceited or fake? This is a hard one. OK. So I am a typical Ugly Duckling story. When I was in Junior High and for most of High School, I was a Ginormous nerd. A 4.0 student, thick glasses, stunted social skills, the whole works. So it still comes as a bit of a surprise to me when someone thinks that I am hot. BUT, I LOVE it when a woman tells me that I am attractive. For the most part, they do not have an ulterior motive (*ahem* getting laid *ahem*), so that makes me feel really great.

I really don't know how to keep someone from hating me, but I have been lucky enough to acquire a large group of girlfriends. I am usually the first person that they'll call if they have a problem and want some advice (maybe not the best idea) or a shoulder to cry on. I have in the past, and I am sure will again in the future, driven many a mile early in the morning to pick a friend up who was out drinking all night. I may speak my mind, but if I have a problem with someone, I tell them to their face instead of talking about them behind their back. I think that I am a great person to have as a friend - guy or gal.

2. If I happened to randomly show up on your door one weekend all dressed up and squealing "play with me!" - how would you entertain me?

This one is easy. I would take you up to my guest bedroom where my hundreds of pairs of shoes reside in individual clear plastic containers labeled with type and color and let you run wild. Then, we would go out honkey-tonkin' and let cute little cowboys TRY to pick us up. After that, it would be slumber party time and we would listen to Prince, watch our favorite movies, brush each others' hair and have a spa party.

3. What the hell makes you think you're qualified to blog? (Or... how long have you been blogging, why'd you start, etc. etc. etc. - you know, the run down)

I am completely unqualified to blog and I started this past March on a lark. I don't even know how I got the link to Blogger in the first place. Assclownopolis (who isn't blogging right now), Anonymous Coworker and Kalleigh Hathaway were my first three commenters. Somehow, I found links to a ton of great sites that I started visiting and here I am.

The ironic thing is that a lot of my friends and family were surprised at what they like to call my "witty sarcasm". I think that being the nerdy smart girl as a kid doesn't jibe with the person I am today.

4. If Avitable showed up at your door one weekend, all dressed up and squealing "play with me" - how would you get him to go away and leave you alone?

I would wax him all over. Then I would give him a case of Diet Coke with Lime and ship him home to his hot wife, freshly smooth and soft as a baby's rump.

5. Clearly, I am your favorite blogger. Why?

Oh yes clearly. Fishing for compliments much? Okay, since you've had a rough go of it lately, I will deign to humor you.

I am in constant awe of the ways that you can turn every day normal occurrences, like thinking that you forget a tampon inside your pooter, into extremely witty and amusing blog posts. I also like that you write about things that most of us are either going through, went through, or will go through in the future. Plus I am trying to take some nice lessons and I thought you would be a good role model.


Fuck I come off as a wee bit sappy today. So to counterbalance the rainbows and unicorns that are fluttering about from the first portion of the post, I will give you all another foreign language swearing lesson. Today's educational session is brought to you by the country Russia, another place I have yet to get a hit from.

Mandavoshka - this sweet little word means Cunt Louse. I am not certain if louse is in reference to their personality or little pubic nits, but I like it.

Petookh opooscheny - this phrase, loosely translated, means prison bitch. I want one of these for myself.

Passossee mayee yaitsa - Suck my Balls. 'Nough said.

Zhopu porvu margala vikoliu - I'll rip your ass and poke out your eye. I hope that you use lube to complete your mission...

Chlen marinovanii - This means a MARINTED DICK. Apparently a delicacy to our Ruski friends. If we knew about this 30 years ago, the Cold War would have been over before it ever got off the ground. Yum, yum.

So that's all I got for today. I miss you all.

The Queen of Procrastination and Other Bad Traits

Oooohhh, oooohhh did I get my arse handed to me yesterday. By my boss. Over something kind of trivial. I guess the honeymoon is over.



As you may note by my blog post title, I procrastinate a bit. It is a huuuugeeee issue with me. If I was in school, I would wait until the last damn minute to write the paper, study for the test create that presentation, et cetera ad nauseum. Now, I put off tasks that I find bothersome and it sometimes gets me into trouble. There is no valid reason for me to prolong the work, other than my intense hatred for any type of administrative task and the end result will be me getting reamed without lube, but I do it anyway. And here I thought that the only difference between us and the rest of the animals was our opposable thumbs and reasoning skills. I guess that puts me squarely in the red-ass baboon category.



So I thought I would make up a list of some of the BAD habits, personality traits and so on that I have and here goes:

• I am opposed to cleaning. Not cleanliness, but the act and process that gets you there. I will let dishes rack up in the sink and I do not vacuum. I fucking hate to do laundry and I would rather tweeze all of my crotch hairs one by one than mow my actual lawn. The end result is a messy house that I spend days cleaning when I could save myself the time and energy by just sucking it up and creating a list of chores that need to be completed every day. I think that being used as a virtual slave from the ages of 8 to 17 may have something to do with my fear of housework, but I am an adult damn it and I shouldn't let this shit pile up on me. My mom keeps telling me to have a maid come in once a week, but they only do the surface shit and to be honest, I don't really trust strangers in my home. What I really need is some website, maybe 3worldlabor.com, where I can buy someone to clean my house. I would be really nice to them though. Probably.


• Because I drive so much for work, I practically live in my vehicle. That being said, the previous bullet point comes into effect. My car is normally a hog pen full of fast food bags, diet cokes, shoes, clothes, bottles of booze and a various assortment of drugs and paraphernalia. I shovel it out every few months with a renewed declaration that "this time I am keeping this bitch clean." I don't make it a week.


• I am mean.


• I swear. A lot. It especially sucks when a cunt or fucker or hellspawn whorebag crotchjokey spills out in places of worship. I have tried to curb my swearing, but the closest I get is trying to keep it at "prison yard" level. My parents get a little disturbed by this.


• I speak my mind when someone asks me to. Now you might not think that this is a bad thing, but I am usually pretty good about keeping my opinions under wraps. Until someone either a. asks me for it, b. starts whining about their life or c. I drink more than a few. Then I will verbally lash you up one side and down the other. Except on the subjects of politics and religion. I find those two things loathsome to discuss and a buzzkill.


• I fart. In bed. With my husband. Sometimes, I even Dutch Oven him. It's gross and blah blah blah and my girlfriends think I am crazy. I don't give a fuck. Why let the ass gas back up?


• I yell.


• I smoke and drink. The smoking is horrible. Trust me guys. I know.


• I can be self-destructive at times.


• If you piss me off, I will come at you with the wrath of a wounded lioness.


• I have physically attacked two people in the last 8 years. They were both men. I'd do it again too.


• I am not the most compassionate person in the world and I tend to be a bit self-centered.


• I am loud. Really, really loud.


• I tend to say the wrong things at the worst possible time. Like I am stuck with the social skills of a five year old kid.


• I don't really like the human race as a whole and I downright despise a good portion of people. I hate people who never take responsibility for their mistakes, but constantly take credit for the work of others. I also can't stand when people play the race, sex, religion or any other kind of card out there. Fuck off. If I made it out of the ghetto campground that was my childhood, you can too. Everyone is fucked up in one way or another. Yeah, I'm talking to you Kanye West, you hypocrite douchnozzle.


• I crack my knuckles. Of course, by now most of you probably think that they drag the ground anyway.

OK there are a ton more bad things that I could list, but I'll save those for another time.

Peace out bitches!

Sporadic

Hey blog world!!!

I know that some of you may have noticed that my posting and commenting has been very sporadic lately and unfortunately it won't get better any time soon. On the plus side, work is going gangbusters, but that is the source of the problem. Last week, I think I put something close to 70 hours in when all was said and done and I feel like yesterday's garbage.

For those of you who don't know what I do, I manage a sales territory in NE Ohio for technology. Specifically, I am involved in voice, data, wireless, video, security and surveillance in the public sector market. This is probably boring to most of you, but I LOVE my job!!!! I moved into my new position and new company in November of last year from a much smaller company and I couldn't be happier about the transition. However, as with any sales position, I am under the gun for a specific goal and I only have another 3 months to meet that goal.

So..... I hope that you all can be a little understanding with my lack of posting and comments and stick it out. I will understand if my readership falls off, but a gal's gotta prioritize. Ya know what I mean? I will do my best to keep up with your blogs and will comment when I can. Hopefully I will have time to fill you in on the nutso world of my life here and there.

I will leave you with this:

Stepford Cunt, one of the neighbors on my street, invited us to her Halloween Party. I would rather gouge out my eyes with a salad fork. I was outside talking to some of my other neighbors on Tuesday evening (after a hellacious day) with a glass of wine in my hand. A bee landed on the hand holding the wine and I am allergic to bees. Sooooooo... I of course freak the fuck out and flail about like a wounded wombat splashing wine to and fro. At that perfect moment in time Stepford Cunt goes strolling by with one of her kids. As I am attempting to drown the bee in a great little Red Wine, she comments:

"What is that, 8 or 9?"

Stupid bitch. I really loath that she-devil.

I think I may go to her party, just to instigate and then post on the outcome. Plus I wouldn't be above splashing a little red on her white carpets. I mean who in their right mind puts in white carpet when they have two kids? Blech.

Later Turdlets.