To-do List = Screw it


There is a lot of shit I need to do today. I thought it might help me be “organized” and “productive” by making a list.

  1. The hole in my wall that my dog made needs fixed. I’m wondering if I can avoid fixing it right by filling it with unpaid bills and peanut butter.
  2. I found out that those bumpy things that African Americans can do with their hair is called Buntu knots. I want those but as a person of non-color, it is doubtful I can grow AA hair. Wig? Are there wigs like that? Google that for at least four hours.
  3. My loosely defined flower beds need weeded and the bushes trimmed. I hate yard work and there is poison ivy in with the actual ivy. I’m thinking about pouring gasoline on the whole damn thing and starting a new trend called Scorched Earth Gardening. Better call Southern Living and Better Homes and Gardens to book a photo shoot.
  4. Need to put baseboards back on the walls in the basement where I remodeled. I don’t like math or saws and figuring out how to miter the corners. Nevermind… this one is off the list.
  5. My eyebrows need grooming. They are growing all over my face. I saw an infomercial this morning for a home laser system. This sounds both dangerous and interesting. I would use it on the dog first. Rottweilers have eyebrows that I can practice on, and I have two rotties so that is 57 eyebrows. I’ll reiterate, I hate math.
  6. Need to look into changing my name so I’ll know what to do after I rob a bank. I’m thinking of Hugh Jaynus. That name changes my gender too so no one will find me.
  7. I got an email yesterday that my kid had better get on the ball and buy her textbooks for college. The listed books are quite expensive and I’m wondering if my kid can just “share” with some other kid. My kid has an iPhone and she can just take pictures of the pages to read later. It’s more eco-friendly and all that tree hugger bullshit, right?
  8. Laundry needs done. Hubs is wearing my underwear today. I’m not wearing any. I don’t mind going commando but he says his suit pants chaff the free range parts. We can’t have that, now can we?

Hope your to-do list is shorter today. I’m off to look at the shit that needs done and then go to the movies. Hey, at least I thought about doing productive stuff today. It’s a start.

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This is the hole my dog created by making the blinds swing into the wall because a vicious jogger was in the street outside.

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My planter with weeds and I think the other picture is marijuana in my flower bed. God, I hope so. I think I’ll leave it alone to see if there might be something to roll up and smoke later.

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The next time you see a picture of this dog, he will look like he got drunk at a party and someone creative shaved his eyebrow. There might be burn marks too. Then again, he might eat the laser thing before I get into the room with it.

My Drawers are a Mess


My underwear drawer is more full of crap than a colostomy bag. I am an underwear snob when I actually choose to wear undergarments. I buy them by the bushel and then 98% of them get worn once. Then they just take up space as I pass them up everyday for the comfortable ones. My damn drawer is overflowing with almost new undies.

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Sadly, this is the underwear drawer.

Now, I’m not talking about the sexy underwear that your significant other bought you apparently expecting you to suddenly begin staring in your own porn flicks. Those thongs and weird lacy things… nuh no… Hubs learned long ago my theory on sexy frivolous lingerie. And Dear Reader, I know that you are positively DYING to know that theory…. Goes like this 1) Itchy is bad. Lace is itchy, ergo, lace is out. 2) Wires are pokey. Pokey is bad, ergo underwire bras and bustier tops are out. Also any weird fetish stuff. Forget it. 3) Any and all of that shit either ends up right around your neck or in a heap on the floor anyway and is a waste of money.  You’re welcome.

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WTF?!

I have some blue undies that I bought a long time ago. I wear them everyday when I’m not wandering around like a homeless person in men’s boxers. I decided that I needed some new ones that didn’t have holes and look like shit, so I went out to hunt for them. And of course, as with any garment you actually LIKE, they don’t make them anymore. This vicious cycle is endless. When I wear my underwear out and can’t get them anymore, I spend at least six damn months looking for new ones. It becomes an obsession. I look for underwear anywhere and everywhere. Grocery stores, department stores, outlet malls… the hunt takes over my life. The children go hungry and the house is not cleaned (who am I kidding? I don’t clean it when I’m not underwear hunting! Bwahahaha!). Angels weep for me in my anguished hunt for comfortable underwear.

I must also mention that I like my underwear saggy. I buy it probably two sizes too big. This is because I hate elastic. Generally speaking, underwear must have elastic so that’s a real bitch for me. I don’t like waistbands that are too skinny or too wide, I like them juuuusst right. I hate tags but I can always cut those out. I don’t like frills or butterflies or stupid slogans like “kiss me I’m kosher.” Some dumb ass in the underwear design world decided recently that we need these bands of plastic silicone or whatever the hell it is around the leg holes to hold our drawers in place. Definite no-no. Bought some of those and they too languish with the other loser panties in my room.

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Juuuussst right. White granny panties say STOP RIGHT THERE MISTER!

I finally found some acceptable replacements the other day. I spent about $1000 on new underwear. These bitches better stay my favorite underwear. I don’t want to shop for them ever again. I’m going to clean out that drawer and divest myself of wretched and uncomfortable panties. If I can get it open all the way.

Grocery Shopping in Hell


I hate grocery shopping. I hate it like vampires hate stakes in their fucking cold dead hearts. Why the hell can’t my kids live on moldy bread, stale crackers and bird food? Go outside and hunt something down and kill it if you’re hungry! People expect too much out of me.

When I don’t feel like schlepping into town to get real groceries, we try and make do with the local food outlets – the Shell station, McDonald’s (don’t judge), and the piece da resistance, THE CRESTWOOD SUPERMARKET.

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Pretty ghetto, right?

 

Actually The Crestwood Supermarket has changed hands and been renamed at least four times in the last year. Its current moniker is The Crestwood Grocery Outlet. Now that’s a mouthful of generic canned baked beans to say. Whatever name it has doesn’t matter because this is the WORST grocery store on the face of the planet. Unless your normal grocery list includes expired milk and fruit so bruised and battered that no self respecting fruit fly would even lay its eggs on it. For God’s sake, we live in the middle of one big giant FARM. This isn’t some God forsaken arctic tundra where the food has to be brought in by trucks.

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Don’t these cantaloupes look delish?
 

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This is the saddest looking fresh cilantro I’ve ever seen. I hear Mexican food weeping.
 

I’m always amused by the outrageous prices and shitty food, but the best thing about the Crestwood Grocery Outlet is the two old ladies that work there. They are both approximately 110 years old, smoke like chimneys and give such a professional quality stink eye that children run in terror and cities collapse under that glare. It’s terrifying. I shit my pants when the evil eye turns my way at the checkout.

The one thing you would never, ever do is actually talk to these wrinkled battle-axes. Nodding and nervously smiling is all you should do. They sling your bruised and already inedible produce into bags none too carefully, daring you to open your pie hole and complain. If you complain those bitches will poke your taco lovin eyes out with their long, tobacco stained nails. And then they would laugh at you and kick you in the vagina. They scare me.

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This may be an actual picture of one of the evil twins. When they wear make up.
 

I went by the Crestwood Grocery Outlet today for some frozen garlic bread. They have added fluorescent orange signs with the inflated prices since my last visit. They also have a bunch of new employees with spiffy new polo shirts. The food is still shitty but the old ladies must have had the day off because they were nowhere in sight. I’ll bet they HATE those spiffy new polo shirts just like the vampires hate stakes in their hearts. Hell, maybe those two ARE vampires. That possibility is the most terrifying one yet. I’m going to stick with the Shell station from now on.

The Pottery Barn Fairy is a Bastard


Girls equate going off to college with shopping. As soon as that acceptance letter shows up in your mailbox, you are shopping for a comforter. Not just any old comforter will do. It must be a magical comforter able to immediately transform a dull institutional room into a palace that Cinderella and Nate Berkus would approve. Warmth, cost, made out of the fur of puppies; it does not matter as long as its transformative properties are intact.

You, Dear Reader, are wondering where these magical comforters are sold. I have that answer now. It was burned into me like a bad brand on a cow, lo these several months past. You will be relieved to know that instead of traveling the world to shop for this magic comforter, the Designer Fairy actually breaks into your damn house with the info.

The bible for the college dorm room comes to you from those bastards at Pottery Barn. Their designers sneak into your house at night and perform subliminal message therapy while the kids sleep. They scatter thoughts of beautiful dorm rooms that don’t exist in real life like pixie dust. They poop glossy magazines in piles upon your child’s floor, narrowly missing the piles of clothes already there. They heap words of discontent and disfavor on other rival brands with their little stinky Fairy breath. “Target,” they breathe, “is woefully inadequate. You will be a social outcast before the term begins if your comforter is purchased there.”  Then they up the ante. “Pottery Barn comforters are the ONLY socially acceptable comforters. You mother is a total bitch if she doesn’t buy one for you.” Thanks Pottery Barn Fairy! I hate you too.

So thanks to those assholes you have to at least exam the catalog that your daughter is waving around in your face 24/7. You put down your glass of wine so as not to spill it, and then you start laughing and your daughter starts frowning. You flip some more glossy pages from the bowels of your PB Fairy and laugh harder than ever.

PB Teen magazines are nothing but LIES on a colossal scale. The photos show beautiful fake rooms with wood floors, big windows and coordinated bedding. Seriously, have you ever been in a dorm room that looks like this?

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Yeah, me neither. None of the dorm rooms that I saw at the roughly seventy-jillion colleges we toured had beautiful large windows that make the room look like a loft in a tonier section of NYC. The rooms we saw looked, well, utilitarian. They were what I expect my future room in the local nut hatch will look like only without the bars on the windows or those nifty hooks in the wall to tie you to… institutional living at it’s finest. The most telling details that these pictures are fake dorm rooms are the beds that are made and the lack of clothing on the floor. The rooms in the pictures are all sunshine and smell like a lavender breeze when in reality, dorms smell like hospitals; Lysol with pee undertones. You can’t fix that. It’s like putting lipstick on a pig.

Even though you try to explain this fact and that you are not taking out a second mortgage to pay for shit from Pottery Barn for a dorm room, you daughter is likely to remain pouty for a time. The PB Fairy is a busy little sort and once he knows you are on to him, he departs for greener pastures at some other kids’ house.

Needless to say, my kids did not get anything from PB for their dorm room. Somehow I think they’ll survive.

 

I Married a Metrosexual Man


My hubs is a lovely man. Good natured and laid back for the most part. He is also kind of metrosexual. He doesn’t get his nails buffed or any stupid shit like that because I’d divorce him if he went that far, but he is a HUGE J. Peterman fan. He buys weird clothes from there and thinks they are so very fashion forward. Then he puts on his Tilly hat and destroys that illusion in a second.

He was at the grocery store one time stocking up on Brie, chardonnay and face scrub when the helpful teenager at the register asked him a question. “Is that a Tilly hat?” Hubs replied with a giant shit eating grin because this young lady obviously KNEW about fashion, “why yes, it is!” Register girl says, “Neat! My grandpa wears one too!” Poor hubs… his sense of self was destroyed. That and she did not ask him for his ID and helpfully gave him the senior citizen discount. Just FYI, we are no where NEAR AARP status yet…

Back to J. Peterman. Hubs gets so excited when the catalog comes in the mail. He can and does shop online as well, but dances around waving his hands in the air like he don’t care when the catalog shows up. There is something about its pretentious recycled paper cover and faux colorized pictures that excite him. He also enjoys the illustrations of clothes without people in them. Hubs caresses his catalog and exclaims with glee as he turns the pages to the textile wonders advertised inside. Me? I glance at the prices and laugh. I must admit to reading the ridiculous stories about the clothes. I could write those but they would be much more entertaining.

This past winter J. Peterman had a SALE TO END ALL SALES according to hubs. He showed me what he wanted to purchase. Most of it was okay except for this one shirt. I believe it was called something like a Bolivian Sheep Herding Peasant Top. I voted nay on that item. Hubs kept coming back to it and whining about how the Bolivian Sheep Herding Top was woven from the legs hairs of newborn lambs by orphan children and how soft the shirt would be. I held my ground. Hubs placed his order after I fell asleep cuz he kept talking about sheep.

The next week two boxes from the estimable J. Peterman Company came via UPS. The guy in his brown pants and shirt snickered as I signed for the boxes. I don’t know what he was snickering about given his attire. I took the boxes inside and forgot about them.

Hubs came home from work and spied his packages. He chewed through the packing tape with his teeth and started oooing and ahhhing at his new clothes that were each hermetically enclosed in its own heavy duty plastic bag and sealed with a kiss from none other than Mr. J. Peterman, Esquire himself. All was well because they were approved purchases. Then he pulled out the Bolivian Sheep Herding Top. I sighed, resigned to his fashion sense. Then I saw that not only did he purchase one of those shirts, but TWO in the exact same color. When I asked him why he got two he muttered something about comfort and giving Bolivian Sheep herders a job.

He wears those two shirts a lot. At least I think he wears both. He might only be wearing one. I can’t tell because they are the same. I guess I was wrong about him buying two of those crazy looking shirts. I still love the guy even if he is a little metrosexual. J. Peterman would be proud to know him.

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The Bolivian Sheep Herding Top. I can’t believe I found a picture of it.

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The Fake J. Peterman from Seinfeld

Adventures in Shopping, Part 1


Since it was raining yesterday and the chances of getting to go lay by a pool and drink beer all day seemed less and less likely, hubs and I decided to do the next best thing: electronics shopping.

Now let me tell you how I actually FEEL about shopping for electronics… I’d rather have a root canal while being crucified and set on fire. Hubs is in charge of TVs and stereos and shit and I’m in charge of computers so when we shop for his crap, I’m bored silly.

The particular item we were bound to spend our children’s college tuition on was a TV. The one in our man cave is about 8 years old and dying of capacitor blockage. I called a friend who knows a guy whose aunt’s cousin knows a shade tree TV doctor. He said our current set is terminal and that we needed to euthanize it and put it out of its misery. Thus the shopping for a new TV ensued.

After determining that the wretches at Costco had closed their store for the holiday, we moved on to a place I hate like fire; Best Buy. Before we get to the adventures of Best Buy though, I have a mystery when I shop anywhere that maybe you Constant Beloved Readers can help me solve.

Whenever I walk INTO a store, the security thing goes off. I can’t figure out why. I’ve dumped my purse out and made sure that a gun with a security tag wasn’t innocently hiding in there… I just don’t get it. So if you can figure out why this happens, I’ll give you a prize. Maybe some glitter from unicorn wings or something.

So back to Best Buy. We walked through the glass doors into Hell. The alarm goes off. I immediately drop to my knees and lock my fingers over my head and scream unnecessarily “it ain’t mine!” After the little old lady manning the door frisked me and determined that I did not have an AK-7 or a stolen shopvac shoved up my vagina, we were allowed to pass into TV Armageddon. Simultaneously, our 10-year-old TV Expert appeared. Hubs explained to him why we were there, “we need a TV” and off we went to exam these technological wonders.

As they blathered on about hertz rates and I wondered why they were talking about rental cars, I spotted a corner that held interest for me – two nice leather recliners facing a TV the size of a semi. The TV was on and obviously had a 3D movie on. I started my way over there to settle in for a while. Just as I was about to plop my ass down, about six kids came running over and stole my seat. God damnit!! Well, those little bastards had found their match in me that day.

Since the snot noses had taken three to a seat and were squirming all over whilst putting on the 3D glasses, I walked over to the TV they intended to watch. I waited until they were all settled in and was pretty sure their little red devil eyes were glazed over. Carefully, as to not draw their attention, I snaked my hand around the back of the TV and unplugged it. The reaction from the snot noses was instant and hilarious. You’d have thought someone ripped their legs off and beat them with the bloody end. Good times.

Meanwhile, hubs had determined that Best Buy did not carry the TV he wanted to look at. We bid the 10-year-old sales boy a fond adieu and moved on the next Paragon of Electronic Hell.

Come back later for part II. I gotta go feed my dogs before they rip the hinges off of the door. It’s like having my own personal pack of hyenas out there.

Happy Birthday ‘Murica!!!


Happy Fourth of Joo-lie!!! I suppose I should write something patriotic and about how grateful I am to live in this country, rah, rah, siscumbah, but…. naw… that’d be BORING. This blog is for entertainment purposes, mostly my own, but whatevs.

It’s raining here off and on right now, and it’s supposed to be storming later today. That’s a good thing for me but rain just delays the inevitable.

Hillbillies and fireworks go together like Rick Perry and stupidity. I live in Kenfucky. Kenfucky is a nice place – don’t send me hate mail – but talking about all it’s finer points is for travel blogs and old ladies and not here. I may live in a nice neighborhood and these hillbillies drive nice cars, but they are still hillbillies. And they embrace and celebrate their hillbilliness whenever they can with fireworks. All damn day and night. I walked outside to get the paper this morning at 9 am and what did I hear? Not what I SHOULD hear that early in the morning, that’s for sure. I should have heard beautiful song birds chirping and horses neighing softly, but nooooo…..

As I was taking the local paper out of the box, and looking at the bunny crouched in my neighbor’s yard, a god damn CANNON went off somewhere. The terrified bunny ran off, destroying my plan of letting my dogs out to get their own damn breakfast. I also shit my pants. What a start to Independence Day.

The booming has just begun but it will go on for about three more weeks or until the hillbillies run out of ammo. I know from past experience that asking them to stop gets me nowhere. When I have asked in past years, I get hostile glances, guns pointed in my face and advice to take my commie ass back home. And that’s just the kids. The adults are worse but they are usually busy grooming each other’s beards for leftover hot dogs or knocking each other’s remaining tooth out. That is entertaining in and of itself.

So the booming will be lessened today but I expect it to start back up whenever the rain stops. I’ll be sure to wear a diaper tomorrow when I go out to get the paper.

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Twin B seeing her first fireworks on top of Mount Poppy