My Skirt Fell Off In Parking Garage

* 5 years ago … It happened again. Different skirt, different lot. Meh!

As I was walking from my office to my car, my skirt hit the concrete.  I remained upright, standing there in front of God and everybody, in my top and underwear. I do not have a tan – on purpose, but I sure could have used one at that moment.  My legs look like abnormally long pieces of packaged chicken. Read: white.  Did have on nice underwear, but it just doesn’t compensate for the lack of skin color – in daylight.  Couldn’t grab the demon garment  because I was holding boards.  The wooden kind. Ignored the horrified screaming and running of garage mates and finally managed to pull that sucker up under my arms.  And took my boards to the post office to mail them.

Who mails boards? As in not- too- long- but- sorta- heavy boards?  Interior designers, that’s who.  I’m not a designer, I am the office ODDJOB.  Without the razor-brimmed hat.  My areas of expertise are research (“Here’s a picture of a painting.  We need to know who the artist is.  There is no information, no caption, no nothing, don’t even know when or where the picture of painting came from. Go!” I found artist and a silkscreen of painting to purchase in 30 minutes), food choices (“Everyone is dieting but I still think we should get a cake, should we get a cake?” Get the cake. Am genius), and mailing boards.

Had to stick my stomach out to keep skirt on in post office.  Happy foreign man says, “You want to mail boards?”.  I said indeed I did and the cost must be under $100.  He started laughing and speaking to himself in his native tongue. Am thinking that means cost will be well over the budget. Skirting the details,I return to office with humble, sad face.  Walked into designers bull pen, looking for my boss to tell her about expense.  That damn skirt went south again. My colleagues, all women, were nonplussed; they are used to my wardrobe malfunctions.  Paper-clipped skirt top to underwear and called it a day.

Did I mention I live in the city located just on the outskirts of  Hell?  Where it is 81-degrees at 7 a.m.? This morsel of info is only necessary because sweats are not clothing here, sweats are a perpetual state of the body.  Every body.  So skirt slippage was heat-related. As evening approaches, it is a brisk 80-degrees inside my house; the a/c is working its ass(?) off, making the same sounds that pierce the air when empty cans are put in dryer and dryer is turned on high. War zone ambience. Trying to relax and cool down.

Turn on the computer and get some news.  Apparently bird doo facials are all the rage in NYC; you, too, can have one for $180. So “Emperor’s New Clothes”, I can’t even wrap this.  My mind is grinding, so I’ll throw out an offer for bird poop facial aficionados …. you are most welcome to sit on my patio – all day long – for $10; you will be delighted by all the bird bombs that cover your entire self.  There is only one catch … bring earplugs… the a/c sound might disturb your bliss.  Come early and stay late.

Don’t even think I”m complaining, I’m not.  Based on what I read, hear, and see, I am beyond lucky.  If anyone needs a skirt fail, a scary loud a/c, a poop facial provided by numerous regional birds, and/or  boards mailings, you know where to look.

*P.S.  Always wear nice underwear, even if you aren’t riding in the car … you never know ….. just saying.

Later.  If I don’t melt…

Herding Unicorns

IMG_0317

Methinks herding unicorns is about as easy as hunting for a job.  As I am currently involved in the latter, I know of what I speak.  My Dad, the man who paid for my college education, suggested I apply to be a greeter at Walmart. While I’m sure Walmart greeting is a lovely occupation, I don’t think the blue apron thing is bulletproof and am far too snarky to smile for eight hours.  Unless the salary is a $500/hour situation.

My French friend, AJ, wants me to teach conversational English.  Bless her heart, she doesn’t know I have been a very bad teacher.  I don’t believe instructing her to say “Hell, no!”, “Are you kidding me?”, “Get lost!” and other pleasantries will be of much help.  At least she will never be bullied.  Could totally teach conversational cursing but don’t think the position exists.  If you’d like to take this course, it’s $500/hour.

You may wonder what my skill set includes. This would be laughing, walking my dog, reading, and eating.  I know, amazing, right?  Seriously, I do have experience in many areas.  Just have to find that golden ticket.  And I will.  Maybe it’s canning cornichons, testing trampolines … the possibilities are endless.  My only prerequisite is a salary.

The very best outcome would be to do what I love while helping as many people as possible. Please do not suggest customer service.

Off to jump in my bed and pull covers over my head.  Because this is such a productive activity and representative of stong motivation and focus. Gah!

Later.

Freaking Ridiculous

My brain blew into a million little pieces because:

  • Bill from idiotic doctor: Just got a bill from Doogie Howser; he charged me $28 to walk through his office to the lab. Which he doesn’t own. The independent lab bill has been paid. Have always “walked” free. Times may be tough, dude, but you aren’t getting a penny from me. <sticking tongue out at dumb doc>
  • Liar, liar, magazine on fire: Waiting for another appointment, I thumbed through a recent fashion magazine. One feature focused on how make up can make you look so rested. Then I saw the before/after of the woman in the photos. I knew her. She had everything from the shoulders up “redone” by a plastic surgeon before the photo shoot. Of course, the magazine failed to mention that , instead crediting her bright mug to new lipstick and blush. What a bunch of crapola! If you choose to believe it, the make up will cost you $30,000.
  • Running into old boyfriends: In the past few months, I’ve run into an unreasonable number of one of my friend’s old boyfriends. Better hers than mine, but this is getting ridiculous. Note to friend: run into your own old boyfriends. Thank you.
  • “So all you are going to do is work the rest of your life?” and “We are worried about you, financially”: Two comments, different friends. Note to friends: Here’s my bank account number; feel free to make large deposits frequently. Then I will be able to sashay about the planet and you won’t worry. Win-win.
  • Lose weight by watching tv:  If you want to lose your appetite, turn on Strange Addictions. I’m sorry these people do what they do. Even if you have a stomach of steel, five minutes into this show will, at the very least, produce some serious gagging and an aversion to snacking between meals. Wretched.
  • “Your wait will be 18 seconds.”: Groovy! Got this customer service message yesterday when calling about insurance. Change that message! Waited 20 minutes and then instructed to leave a voice message. Yeah, right. Customer service, my ass.
  • Phone rings. “Hello?”:  “What are you doing?” Oh, accepting the Nobel Peace Prize, building a rocket in the kitchen, rotating my tires …. I am answering the damn phone. And I thought it was obvious. Meh!

Enough! Ranting is no way to start the day. Better go check my bank account for large deposits.

Cockeyed optimist, I am!

Later.

Weirdos and Words: Get Your Freak On

I love words. Which means I am a logophile. Have used this as my defense every time I get a message from WWF player calling bs on my submission. Bam! I love words. Sue me.

It could be much worse. Sharing ….

alektorophilia – obsession with roosters or chickens

gynotikolobomassophile – nibbler of women’s earlobes

harpaxophilia – affinity for getting robbed

apodysophilia – “feverish desire to undress”

An apodysophiliac might want to meet a clinophiliac because the clino has a passion for beds. Ok, no more matchmaking.

labeorphily – student and collector of beer bottle labels

pogonophile – beard lover

spermophile – “member of family of seed-loving rodents”; this one is weird. I know a lot of rodents, but they are human and drive cars. Must ask if they eat seeds.

If you are a logophile, there’s a great new iPhone app, Wordy, The Logophile’s Primer. The word for today is ““grindhouse“. I thought it was maybe a mill for grits but no …. a grindhouse is a “low-budget film theater that shows primarily exploitation films”. Nevermind.

Now I’m bored. The word for that is “flighty“.

Later.

*Don’t take your kids to a grindhouse to see Mary Poppins. Not gonna happen.

I Would Marry My Dog if He Could Talk and Screw in a Light Bulb

And a few other things … but that’s the truth. And, that’s exactly what I said to the last man who asked. When I get the “I thought you’d be remarried by now!” and the “Why aren’t you remarried yet? stuff, I’m very honest. I was married for 20 years, it didn’t work out. While I’ve had relationships since, none have been worth a lifetime commitment. Doesn’t mean it won’t ever happen, just that I can’t be a nurse and won’t be purse. Kooky? Yes. Stupid? Not so much. Until then, it’s me and him …..

Get me a beer, pronto!

Onto other kooky stuff –

I was in a great shop yesterday. A cute mom and her daughter, a blonde version of Holly Golightly, came in. “Holly” wanted to try on a few things while Mom took a seat for the fashion show. Do you know what a “hanger” is? The female human version usually has broad shoulders, is thin, and can wear anything. “Holly” was a hanger, so her options were endless. While Mom told me her life story as well as those focusing on the health of her extended family, “Holly” rocked the racks.

In the middle of this personal/retail therapy situation, in blew our town’s version of Mr. Fabulous (think Martin Short as Franck inFather of the Bride and/or the enthusiastic(!) Kevin Lee on Real Housewives of Beverly Hills). But our Mr. Fab is very attractive and has better bs. Nevertheless, it was double air kisses all around and he added levity to the therapy show. Mom’s stories were getting sadder and sadder, so I was damn glad to see him. When “Holly” came out in her 47th outfit (I kid you not), Fab turned to me and said, “Your top is amazingly beautiful”. So, being the truthful sort, I announced to the whole store, “I got it at Walmart and it cost $9.” Shut it down, shut it down, SHUT IT DOWN!

At the mention of Walmart, Mr. Fab had to dash. Mom and “Holly” weren’t far behind, not because of Walmart, but because the racks were now bare and Mom was about to gnaw her left arm off as she was starving. As for me, I just chalked it up to yet another adventure, drove home and collapsed after walking and feeding Himself. He didn’t give a bone what I’d been through.

When reviewing yesterday, I’ve come to several conclusions. Mom needed to talk and I listened. Next time, I’m charging for it. Mr. Fabulous is always in a good mood. “Holly” had a big time.  I’m keeping my fashion secrets to myself. And am rethinking dog marriage; he’s like the others, just wants to be fed. Thank God, sex is not in the equation.

Some adventures aren’t all they are cracked up to be. And a lot of people are cracked.

Be happy. It’s a choice.

Later.

I’m Not Your Type; I’m Not Inflatable

Now that is a line I could have used in the past. Don’t need it anymore but you are welcome to use it when necessary.

Total silliness reigns here.  On purpose. Because it is fun to be silly and laugh a lot. I did both at a dinner party last night, and the person seated to my left said, “WHAT KIND OF DRUGS ARE YOU ON AND CAN I HAVE SOME?“. No drugs, no booze – just some levity when surrounding conversation topics were focused on divorce, dead people, and 401K’s . Which have apparently been downgraded to 201K’s. Let’s lighten up here, folks.  Moving on …

In an earlier post, I disclosed that all my trees have faces; Smiley McStump was featured. Here is my latest reveal:

Grumpy rabbit with weird nose hole and scary eye

Today is my “day off”; have been working up a storm. It doesn’t feel like work and that’s a good thing! So is cash.

fun-fun-fun
more fun

Other thoughts 

    • Poor Wayne Newton has had a bad lip plump
    • If I eat breakfast, I feel sick all day
Must dash, pleading contemporary insanity …
Later.

Underwear Fail, Tribal Insanity, and Some Other Stuff

Today I am blaming EVERYTHING on Sean Kingston. For the life of me, I can’t get that 911 song out of my head. Nor can I get the lyrics right. I thought he was singing, “Someone call 911, Shortie’s on fire on the dance floor”. Looked lyrics up and they are, “Somebody call 911, Shawty fire burning on the dance floor”. What the hell is a “Shawty“? So I had to google that as well; a shawty is a “fine woman”. Hating on that whole situation. But let me share some more.

Underwear Fail  Seated around a restaurant dinner table with mixed company, this was the convo:

Bare Bottom: “I have to go put on some underpants. I forgot I didn’t have any on.”

Me: “YOU DON’T HAVE UNDERWEAR ON? DON’T CALL THEM “UNDERPANTS”; THOSE ARE FOR MEN. WHERE IS YOUR UNDERWEAR?”

Bare Bottom: Left’em in the car hours ago. Just bought some around the corner. Where’s the restroom?”

Just like that – stomping around a windy city for hours, in a dress and no panties – and it takes 5 hours to figure it out?  That, my friends, is typical dinner conversation around these parts. Would say we are a pack of toothless, inbred  hillbillies if not for my mother’s recent convos.

Mama Says – After reminding me what my middle name was (not that I asked), she said “Five of our family members signed the Magna Carta“. Ok, so we might be toothless and inbred. When I went to visit my Dad today, she said, in this order, “Get a job. Your hair needs a trim. I’m exhausted.” Well, hello to you, too, Mrs. Happy Pants. I make myself scarce and go find my Dad.

Daddy Says – Let me give you a little “dad” info. Mine speaks in quotes, a lot. “She looks like 40 miles of bad road”, “That dog won’t hunt”, and “I am NOT a rich man” frequently pepper many a chat. When I saw him today, he was stoned out of his gourd, but he did ask me the same question he asks me every day. I’ve told him the long-winded answer. Every day. Except today. “What is the graduate doing?”. My answer – one word. “Plastics.” Which made perfect sense to him after a Vicodin cocktail. Thinking about all his ‘isms made me think of some other ‘isms my friends use.

Friends Say – The ones that come to mind include Jeez o’peep, Lawd A’Mercy, Reeeeeeally?, and one I’ve yet to figure out, “F*^k me running”. Could that be the same as “Cool Running”? Don’t know, can’t get a bead on that visual. Then I remembered what we would say in middle school when mad at one another. Start low, end high. “Get so mad, would ‘ya? Yes, I will, thank ‘ya”. Somehow, this stroll down short memory lane reminded me of what I just read.

WHAT I JUST READ

  • WHY DOES A PSYCHIC HAVE TO ASK YOUR NAME?”
  • “HOW CAN YOU TELL WHEN YOU ARE OUT OF INVISIBLE INK?”
  • “WHY IS THE NEEDLE STERILIZED FOR A LETHAL INJECTION?”
  • “SILLY CYCLIST … STEROIDS ARE FOR BALLPLAYERS!”

Wow.I am scaring myself. Would go find an adult refreshment but, whoops, ex-housekeeper drained liquor cabinet. Instead, I’ll just go all optimistic here!  Winner, Winner! It’s a Charlie Sheen day! Now where is that Dragon Blood?

Later. Maybe. Probably.

When the Clock Goes Crazy…

 

 

*This post is not sad, sorry, or whiney; crazy, yes. Anything else, not so much.*

Truth is stranger than fiction. I don’t know if you have a “clock” thing, but I do. I don’t wear a watch just because. When I do look at a clock – in the car, at home, wherever – nine times out of ten, it reads, “11:11“. I have a clock that belonged to my grandmother; it works, but always stops at the time of her death, no matter what. I just use it as an accessory. Unwound. It has been my experience, when a clock goes crazy, so goes everything else.

Last Friday, I noticed the enormous clock in my kitchen was crazy. Twenty minutes behind, then an hour ahead. I didn’t even think about the clock crazies. It can be good crazy, bad crazy, mixed crazy – but crazy, regardless. Sort of like me. Sharing:

  • My family of origin has been playing hospital tag for the past year. I’d planned on going to the farmer’s market Saturday morning.  Instead, was sitting in the ER. Hollering, “MORE MORPHINE, NURSE HOLLY”, as the patient was in severe pain. She was very accommodating. We are the Loud Family. I noticed there were four people in the room across from ours. And only the nurse was speaking. Being the Nosy Otis I am, I looked in there; everyone in the room was signing. How do you scream, “morphine”, in sign language? Before I pushed my bossy self in “to help”, a patient advocate appeared and all was well. In that room.

 

  • Ok, so Mother’s Day Brunch was not happening. Miss Peach (eldest daughter) and I went to the hospital. Where I got to storm the nurses’ station, with the same request, “MORE MORPHINE, NURSE HOLLIE”. Two nurses, same name … what are the chances? Peach and I left, picked up some food, and came home. Then a crazy beautiful bouquet of flowers are delivered to my door. On Sunday. From Miss Peach. Love. But Miss Peach says they are wrong. They look right to me. Then I get a text from McPaddie’s beau. McPaddie is youngest, texting, calling, emailing me love bombs from the basement of her house where she is trying to finish last project for graduation. Bless her bones. Her beau’s message was also crazy beautiful – to a mother’s eyes. It said, “Happy Mother’s Day. Thank you for McPaddie“. Crazy good. Love my girls. Went to bed at 4 pm.

 

  • Morphine. Cowgirl explained hospital morphine to me; apparently it is diluted somewhat – not pure. So you can ask for it a lot. Good to know.

 

  • Monday was Pro Flowers Day. I called customer service, told them the arrangement wasn’t what Peach ordered; they were lovely and another bouquet was on the way.

 

  • Tuesday was big crazy. Patient to be released from hospital, no diagnosis, but no pain. Rah!? I get to go to see Lien. She makes my hair look amazing – even though it is not amazing as I am growing it out. Last month, I looked like Justin Bieber before he cut his hair. When I got to her salon, she seemed fine. She had to excuse herself, mid-cut, for about 20 minutes. I think she’s preggers. For the first time ever, she phoned in the hair. I left looking like Dan Fogelberg (RIP!). A tall, skinny, white woman does not look good with Justin or Dan hair. That’s ok, she wants to be pregnant and I can wear a baseball cap for three more months (her estimate).

 

  • Am failing mightily at this housekeeping thing. So today I walked into my dry cleaners/wash-n-fold for the first time in two years and handed over the laundry pile. Standing behind the counter is my favorite friend, Pung. She screamed, “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” Pung and I have history. We have laughed a lot, we’ve cried together, I love her. Crazy good reunion. She wants to get pregnant, too. What is in the air?

 

  • Ding Dong. Pro Flower delivery. Open that big green box up and … oops, not what Peach ordered. Got back on the phone with customer service (they are so nice). And another bouquet is on the way. If this continues, my house is going to resemble a funeral parlour. Not complaining. I love flowers. So, crazy good because Pro Flowers has excellent customer service. Taking extras to patient’s home. Win-win.

In between, my friend sent me a great piece of writing I love by Oriah Mountain Dreamer. She’s very cool and I feel good when I read her writing. Am also reading essays by Regina Brett and enjoying her writing thoroughly. Am thoroughly pissed off at Angry Birds Rio/Rovio/Apple/Blue Sky Productions/ Chillingo because the promised May update hasn’t appeared. So I guess that makes me an angry bird.

I must go as I am very busy. I must pray for family health, great friends, babies for Lien and Pung, deliver flowers, take the damn clock off the wall, and remember to be thankful for good crazy, healers, calm during storms, good writers, amazing daughters, baseball caps, and anything else I will remember after I push the Publish button.

Favorite quote today: “If I keep a green bough in my heart, the singing bird will come” (Chinese proverb)

Off to mop the kitchen floor. Tomorrow. Maybe. Or not.

Later.

Snarky Thursday: A Book, A List, & Questionable Songs

 

It’s a beautiful day in Snarkville. As I sit here at my desk, looking out the window, my eyes fix on two birds. One is big and fat, the other needs more meat on her bones. I know she is a she because BIG FATTY is trying to have his way with her. I must say, he is not subtle. He has repeatedly jumped on her back and bounced around. GET A ROOM NEST WHY DON’T ‘CHA!

Just finished “Bossypants” by Tina Fey. She’s funny. She thinks funny, she writes funny. I wonder if she has an extra pair of bossypants? Mine mistakenly went into last year’s Goodwill pile. Speaking of pants, I was horrified when recently wandered into the lingerie department of Nameless Store. All of the undies were psycho neon but that wasn’t the problem. Every pair were size 70XXXL granny panties. Must have wandered into alternate underwear universe; happens all the time.

Have been inventing jobs possibilities; the latest are:

  • Passive/Aggressive Mean Letter/Email Writer
  • Bird Hotelier (see above)
  • Telemarketer Whistle Sales – ok, this is GOOD. I could sell a line of whistles that attach to the phone. When telemarketers call, you answer the phone and immediately blow that sucker with gusto. Presto! Your number is off their list. I know of what I speak and this is a necessary item now that the sneaky telemarketers have started using cell numbers. Also effective for all sorts of people in your life. Think about it.

I’m not a fan of questionable song titles. But they do demand an answer, non? I blame this rant on Miss Britney Spears‘ cover of a Bellamy Brothers’ song. The rest of those listed are real as well. Meh!

  • “If I Said You Had A Beautiful Body, Would You Hold It Against Me? No, but I will punch you in the nose.
  • “Why Does It Hurt When I Pee?” Because you are stupid and have a urinary tract infection which is nothing to sing about.
  • “How Am I Supposed To Live Without You?” Not. My. Problem. Stop. Whining.
  • “Why Can’t We Be Friends?” Because you suck. 🙂
  • “Can You Feel The Love Tonight?” Zip up your pants and beat it, Buster!
  • “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?” Nope, but I think your pants are way too tight.
  • “Where Did I Go Wrong?” You were born.
  • “Tommy, Can You Hear Me?” No. Duh. Deaf mute.
  • “How Can Anybody Possibly Know How I Feel?” They don’t. Shut up.
  • “Am I Going Insane?” Yes. Yes you are.
  • “Why Bother?” My point exactly.
  • “What If No One’s Watching?” Trust me, they aren’t.

Gotta dash – it’s time to watch paint peel. I will leave you with today’s snark; tuck it away as you might need it.

“I’m going to memorize your name and throw my head away.”

(anonymous)

Sooner or later.

 

Are You Superstitious? Part 13

 

Parts 2-12 do not exist. But if you  are superstitious about that number, you can call it, Part 2. Am currently wearing a press-on device, $7, guaranteed to give me a brow lift in one hour. Which would be proof that I’d believe anything … including superstitions, except for the following:

  • “Wear your underwear inside out for good luck.” Trust me here, if you turn that frown upside down with inside out panties, you will NOT get lucky. And you might be drunk.
  • “A dog chasing its tail brings tornadoes.” No, no, no! Rabies? Yes. Tornadoes? NO! Rabid Luck … or drunk dog.
  • If you have a hole in your jeans, you will have a visitor.” Especially if the hole is in front of your privacy. A bit too “come and get it” for me.
  • “Eating a hair from a horse’s forelock is a cure for worms”. Let’s think about this. If you have worms, you are either dead or sick – if the latter, go to the damn doctor. If you can’t find a doctor and think this horsehair/forelock thing is the way to go, please wear a helmet. This is a recipe for a head injury, indigestion, and an isolation unit until the end of time.
  • “A cat onboard a ship is considered good luck.” Well, double duh and slap me silly. Of course a cat on a ship is good BECAUSE of all the rats on the ship. Purr Luck.
  • “Never bring a hoe in your house.” Especially if you can’t spell and you are a married man. Bad juju.
  • “If you drop a dishtowel on the floor, a worse housekeeper that yourself is coming to visit you.” Not. Possible. At. My. House. Dirty luck.
  • “If you sleep with a teabag tied around your head, you are an idiot”. ‘Nuff said here.

Must dash off to the store. The one hour, $7 brow lift worked! It lifted every piece of skin, from brow to scalp, right off the front of my face. As my skull is exposed, I either need to tie a pirate bandana (arrghhhh!) around my head for 4-6 months or find a perky, come hither, man magnet skull-cap. Ta Ta For Now!

Later.