Who took the "Christ" out of Christmas?

Probably the same person who's about to take my foot out of their ass.

Seriously, I'm getting really sick of people having a problem with the majority. Let's face it, if you try to ban anything that centers around a minority - Jews, Muslims, Indians, fried chicken... society goes into an uproar. But hey, you want to suppress the majority? Go for it! Ban Christ from Christmas! Yea! Don't hire the qualifed white chick, hire the ex-drug dealing Mexican who doesn't even have a social security number...Double Yea! Let me be the first person from the majority to announce that it's getting old. Fast.

Let me tell you a few things: Obama is half white. Jesus Christ was a Jew. And no matter how many people you kill, Mr. Muslim, you will never get to bone 73 virgins in your so-called "after life." So for all you nutbags out there saying that the "white man is evil" and we need to shut-down "Christmas" because it makes minorities "feel bad" about themselves.... Are you kidding me? God, I sure hope not, because your jokes SUCK if you are.

Here's what I don't understand. The majority of the vote wins the election. The majority rules when you are hanging with a group of friends and you have to decide where to grab a bite to eat. So then how the hell does the *minority* get to decide that Christmas "offends," or is potentially "unconstitutional?" How is it that a black dude can produce a movie titled, "For Colored Girls," but I'm a racist asshole if I refer to the black guy working at Wells Fargo as "colored." Really?

Somehow, in this huge societal movement to be "politically correct" and "fair," we have really lost sight of basic reality. Guess what? People will judge you for being fat, for being a shitty dresser, hell, for writing a crummy blog about nonsense, regardless of whether or not there's a law in place to protect your sorry ass. Ironically, minorities will get the better jobs (thanks, "Equal Opportunity Employer") and smokers will somehow manage to outnumber nonsmokers (yet we will continue to make them smoke in the cold and in the rain, which would be "unconstitional" if we made any other group do that). That's life. Get over it. The bottom line is, I'm sick and tired of society being run by the same people who give their kids "time outs;" The same idiots who don't have the balls to smack some asses when their kids talk back or break a neighbor's window. It's lame, it's old, and it has slowly morphed us into the Salvation Army of the world ~ we'll take shit from anyone, no questions asked.

So guess what? Not only am I celebrating Christmas this year, I'm going to celebrate Russian Christmas, and then Christmas in July. And after that, I'm going to eat as much pork as my blood type can handle, I'm going to slap anyone who dares tells me "Obama will protect us" (seriously?), and if I want to tell an offensive joke, I will.

What's the best part about banging twenty eight year olds? (wait for it) There's 20 of them.

I was bullied. World, I HAVE arrived!

For weeks, I couldn't figure out why everyone else got to be bullied except for me. I mean, gay guys in New Jersey, kids in Ohio, Demi Lovato...pretty much everyone. Except me. This whole time, I couldn't figure it out. Am I too smart? Too funny? Too disgustingly gorgeous?!

And then...it happened. I logged back into Facebook for exactly nine days, just to hit a radar or two about my upcoming highschool reunion (because, you know, maybe I want to reconnect with some old cronies), and that's when it happened: I became one of the fortunate majority to be bullied. It was as glorious as I had hoped!

But it gets better: I have a blog. They don't.

So let me address you, Bullies, who had so much to offer on Facebook, with your snarky, asshole comments. Oh, don't worry, I'll change your names to protect your innocence. It's the least I can do...

To Nob Rotari: No one told you to date your best friend's ex-girlfriend in highschool. In fact, no one told you to go ahead and marry her. You know what happens when you do that? Karma. Translation: You end up having a big, fat, hippo of a wife. Ooo, ouch, that really sucks. What's that phrase? Something about powder and wet spots? Ah, shucks, it doesn't matter now. But it looks like you should have dated a little outside your social circle during those formative teen years. And ya know what else? You have a horrible laugh. You always have. It's an awful mix between a donkey and a goose. Heee honk! Heee HONK! I can't BELIEVE I had a crush on you in 8th grade. I am so glad I got my first period and came to my senses.

Moving on...

To Kill Bane: "Okay, Calvin." Ooo, you're a clever one. Good thing Bing was working that day, or you never would have found that quote I used. I think it's awesome that in the 7 years we went to school together, this is the most you have ever "said" directly to me. So do your parents know you're asexual yet? Because let me tell you something: I really hope you are ~ this world does not need your type reproducing. And is that a receding hairline I see? Don't worry, it matches the 80 lbs you put on since we graduated. It's all good. Now if only you can have those gums of yours trimmed back...

The bottom line is this: I never claimed to be cool. I never thought I was better than anyone, and I sure as hell was not popular. Not then, not now. I just wanted to log into my little social network site, reach out to a few people and carry on with my day. But apparently, some people can't help but be raging douchebags. And that's really unfortunate. Because for as bitchy as I was in this blog, it doesn't take away from the fact that it's all true.

I win. Suck it.

People who annoy you: N_ggers

Answer: NAggers. Jesus. What's wrong with you people? Racists. (or, if you answered correctly, you are a fellow South Park fan...)

I've realized over the past few days that there are two types of people: Dog people and cat people. And men and women. I'll start with the animals.

Dog people are normal. I am a dog person. I walk my dog, and I am okay with that. I don't want a box of poop or pee hanging around my house. I want something to greet me at the door. I want to share food with it.

Cat people don't care about any of that. I wouldn't even doubt it if cat people are more likely NOT to flush public toilets. And quite frankly, I don't even know why cat people bother naming their pets. It makes as much sense as naming a goldfish. Just like when you see a Lost Cat poster, it'll say: "Lost cat, answers to Fluffy, please call...." Uh, let's think about this. If your cat answered to anything, it wouldn't be "lost" in the first place. It also bugs me when a cat person says their cat acts "so much like a dog." Doubtful. As a fellow dog person said, "You show me a house with a cat, and I'll show you an animal that won't defend its home if an intruder breaks in. Makes me want to break into a house with a cat, just so I can beat up that cat and prove a point."

And my final point is this: Even people who don't like animals are more inclined to like a dog over a cat. Proof: Ever see a dead cat on the road? Yup. Ever run over a cat by accident? Once. Okay, now let's imagine it's a dog. People freak if they hit a dog, and you never see a dead dog on the side of the road. There's a reason for that: Even by society's standards, dogs are the "Caucasian, 35 year old males" of the animal world. They're like the Kennedys of pets. People just *like* them more.

Then we have men and women. No, I'm not about to launch into the "Mars and Venus" bullshit argument. That's stupid. But it has recently come to my attention that men have a different concept of time than women. Notice how "Back to the Future" and every other time travel movie is about men, not women? Exactly. When a woman says, "I'll call you later," she means she'll call within an hour, maybe 2 if she's shopping. If a man says he'll "call later," it could mean an hour from then, the next day, maybe sometime next week...one never knows. When a woman says, "I'm on my way," she's on her way. When a guy says, "I'm on my way," it means he is about to leave in 15 minutes and make two stops before he gets to your place. Not to mention the term "dressing up" means different things to each sex: to women, 'dressing up' means something that is in skirt form, requires pantyhose and heels, and needs extra jewelry. "Dressed up" to a guy means it doesn't smell. Wrinkles optional.

Men, women, dogs, cats...we're all so different, I guess that is what we have in common. But there are a few people I think we can all agree on, who are not like any of us (and more annoying than most). They are:

People who take elevators to go down.
People who "don't like" chocolate.
People who screw up a picture when you say, "Hey, smile when I take this picture." (although I admit, I'm guilty of that myself - but not that time!)
Mouthbreathers.
People who walk fast so they don't have to hold the door open for you.
People who won't go when the light turns green, because they're waiting for another car to go first.
Monkeys.

Okay, the monkeys was random. I just really hate monkeys. They creep me out. But you get the point.

People who annoy me: M_st Pe_pl_.

I've never been married, but I tell people I'm divorced so they don't think there's something wrong with me.

I seem to know a lot of people getting married over the next few weeks. The happy couple you see (look closely, they are there) is one of them – can you believe this is from their Engagement picture package? I asked the groom if the Firing Squad motif was their idea or the photographer’s. Either way, it seems awkwardly appropriate, doesn’t it?

Marriage jokes aside, weddings are a really good time. Not so much because you’re celebrating the next stage in a couple’s life, but because you get free food, free booze, and all the people watching you can handle. As with anything, there are always certain types of guests that you see at every wedding, big or small. Here is my rundown:

The Slut: This is the girl in the exceptionally short, tight dress that is either an incredibly bright color, or (my favorite) white. She is typically a cousin’s date (yet she is not his “girlfriend”) and by the end of the night, has danced with every guy at the reception who is under the age of 27. No one ever knows her name, and after the celebration, she is never seen again.

The Drunk Buddy: Quite possibly my favorite guest. He is wasted by the time dinner is served but still stocks up on his Gin & Tonics before the meal just in case they shut the bar down. If he’s got a date (operative word being “if”), he’ll drink her champagne if she doesn’t finish it during the toast. By the time the DJ plays YMCA (he is always a robust Y), he has already hit on the bride’s grandmother. He is usually a former friend/acquaintance of the groom and was only extended a sympathy invitation because they ran into each other at a sporting event 3 months prior. By the end of the night he is slumped at a table, shirt and tie undone, and can be seen picking apart the flower centerpiece. No one knows how he gets home that night, and no one cares.

The Casual Guest: Usually a man, usually 65 or older, and he’s the one wearing his best blue jeans, suspenders and a crisp, white button down. You’re never surprised to find out he’s the bride’s father, and Goddamn it, he’ll dress any way he wants because he paid for the reception. He gets pissed when the DJ refuses to play Charlie Daniels. You can see him trying to get a second steak dinner (to go) from the waiter. His wife usually convinces him to have at least one slow dance, but he spends his time on the dance floor asking everyone if they liked the food.

The Couple No One Wants to Be: The girl – chubby and wearing a lot of ghetto gold. The guy – super skinny with at least 2 visible tattoos. Bonus if either one has a hickey. The girl is the ‘relation,’ but not by blood. She is the stepdaughter of the groom’s uncle, who remarried last year. They begin the evening by heavily making out during the cocktail hour, but by the time and bride and groom cut the cake, they are in a full-blown fight. She can be seen pouting at the table while he is playing Bejeweled on his cell phone.

The Pack of Single Guys: They can be guests, or groomsmen or both, but whatever the combo, they are rowdy and get seated together. Because they’re still drunk from the night before, the non-groomsmen typically wolf whistle as the bride walks down the aisle and then heckle the groom during the ceremony. At the reception, they alternate between drinking Heinekens and smoking outside. They have no problem hitting on your wife or girlfriend in front of you. They eat too fast and crash other people’s tables, even if they are still eating. By the end of the night they’re inviting everyone to accompany them on some bar hopping.

I love a good wedding.

So there you have it – the classic Guest List. Keep in mind, if you can’t identify one of the guest’s above, then chances are YOU are that person. And to everyone out there getting married in upcoming weeks: Congratulations and Good Luck (you’re gonna need it)!

No, I don’t have kids. They’re sticky and they touch all your stuff.

I was in Arizona last week, hanging with my sister and her family. She’s got a 6 year old and 16 month old, both boys. I offered my babysitting services, which seemed like a good idea at the time. Pretty ironic, considering that not only do I not have children, but I am rarely around them.

Day One: The sister and brother-in-law leave for work, the 6 year old goes to school. Now it’s just me and the baby. It is 8:30am. This won’t be bad, I think. He’s a peanut of a person. Well let me tell you, peanuts can MOVE. He heads for the doggie door (which he can fit through because it is for their 150 lbs English Mastiff). I block him. He cries and then makes a break for the lamp on the end table. I block him. He bounces over to a box of toys and starts pulling everything out. He brings me a dog chew toy. He jumps into his plastic car. Back to the doggie door again. Another block, more crying. I try to get him to sit down with a book but he won’t stop moving. I check the time; it’s only 8:32am. Really?!

By 9:30am he was getting grumpy (and I was exhausted) so I put him down for a nap. I took one, too. An hour later we both woke up and I fed him…on the run. Lesson learned: If you don’t put a baby in his high chair, expect to chase him around the house, shoving pieces of ravioli into his mouth. He was like a mini-criminal on the lam. You couldn’t stop this kid! After awhile, I gave up the Doggie Door Block and let him go outside. I followed him, curious about what he was going to do. It pretty much went down like this: Splash in the dog’s water dish, play in the sandbox, more splashing in the water, run over to the play-set, pretend to want to play with the toy lawn mower, watch your aunt pretend to cut the grass, then back to the water dishes… Time: 12:08pm. I couldn’t help but wonder if 9-1-1 worked in Arizona, because I needed saving.

1:15pm: Time for a snack. He was wet and sandy, so I stripped him down to his diaper. I figured now was a good time to take some pictures...”Proof of Life,” if you will, since I had no idea what the future held. I found a container of blueberries and stuffed his hands and cheeks with them. I later found blueberries on the coffee table, on top of the garbage can, in the dog food…

They say time flies when you’re having fun (or chasing a toddler), and before I knew it, the other kid was due to get picked up from school. I threw clothes on the baby, stuffed him into his car seat, and went to the school.

3:15pm – We go to McDonald’s. I asked the 6 yr old what he wants to eat, he says 10 Chicken Nuggets and French fries. It sounds like a lot of food to me, but hey, he should know how much he can eat, right? We get our order and head to the play area. I see kids in plastic highchairs and I’m too ashamed to ask the ‘real’ moms where they got them. I am trying to pretend I’m a mom, too - all the while I have a 6 year old who has opened 4 Sweet & Sour sauce containers and dipped a nugget in each one, and a toddler on my lap who is sucking Sweet & Sour sauce straight from the container. I’m not fooling anyone.

3:27pm – The kids get done eating and want to play in the playground. I tell the 6 yr old to keep an eye on his brother, and they both disappear into the labyrinth of plastic tubes and crawl spaces. I sit at the miniature picnic table and do breathing exercises.

3:45pm – I can see the 6 yr old but the baby has gone MIA. I grab my older nephew and send him up a plastic tube slide – “Go find your brother and bring him out!” To everyone else, this was just a playground. To me, it was now a search-and-rescue military op. My sister sends a text to check in: How are the kids? I respond by telling her everyone is fine, but I’ve been sending her older son into the playground on recon missions. I see the Marines in his future.

4:30pm – The kids are sweaty and tired. I put them in the car and we head back home. I find the loudest, brightest kids’ show on TV and put it on. It distracts them for a bit, long enough for me to go to the bathroom. I think I forgot to wipe. It doesn’t even matter.

6:00pm – The 6 yr old tells me that “At six – zero – zero Mom gives him (the baby) a bath.” I look over at the toddler, who is now eating pieces of dog food as he crawls up the stove. “Let’s go, buddy,” I say and scoop him up. He licks my face. I barely notice.

6:07pm – I toss him in the tub and scrub him down. When I attempt to dry him off, though, he sits and won’t budge. So I dried off his top half and picked him up. Dangling over the tub, I (lightly) shake him back and forth to get the excess water off from his waist down. He giggles (doesn’t it figure that he’d like it?) so I shake him some more and wrap him up in the towel. Note to the public: The child is fine, he does not have Shaken Baby Syndrome, so calm down.
6:23pm – I find one-piece pajamas. I ask Nephew # 1 if his brother wears these, he answers in the affirmative so I squish the baby into them. He’s squiggling as I stuff his chubby thighs into the suit – why can’t kids hold still, ever?? I barely get him zippered up when I hear the garage door open. MOM’S HOME, THANK GOD! We run downstairs and the little guy is psyched to see his mother. Had she not taken the baby from me, I would have jumped into her arms.

Needless to say, I survived my time out there, but it was very much like an extended, drunken night – I found several mystery bruises all over my body when I got back home and I have no memory of how I got them. However, I can proudly declare that I didn’t even cry. Not once. But I still think I’ll stick to dogs.

Fat people are eating all our food. Oh wait, that's just me.

I want to begin by declaring that I survived my first family vacation with the guy I'm seeing...and his whole family. I am soooo not even joking about that. I'm talking aunts, uncles, grandmothers, mothers, sister, cousins, the milkman (I didn't ask); it was crazy. But hey, no pressure right? HA. Thankfully, the location was their cabin that is *in* an amusement park, which kept everyone busy. Let me tell you, it's fascinating to walk onto a front porch and see a rollercoaster about 100 feet away. Oh, it's also loud as hell, too. But still pretty cool.

The first day, I hit up the food stands with my boy, his mom and aunt. I grabbed a chili dog, a cheeseburger and french fries. As I was eating my burger his mom looked at the rest of the food and asked, "Who's the chili dog for?" In between chews I said, "Mine." She looked shocked, so I followed up with, "Don't judge." I could tell she did anyway. Talk about foreshadowing.

Overall, it was a fun few days - a lot happened. I used a public restroom and had a white trash lady walk into my stall. (no, the doors did not have locks) Who doesn't look under the Goddamn door?? THAT scumbag, apparently. She saw my 'goods' and I didn't even get dinner out of it. I was pissed off. Literally.

The whole family (all 18 of us) jumped on the bumper cars. I got the impression they thought I'd be easy pickins (they all have this really twisted impression that I'm a "nice" person). Little did they know the last time I was on the bumper cars I was 7 years old and called a little boy a 'son of a bitch' for crashing into me. All I can say is, if Grandma didn't have arthritis before, she did when I was done with her.

I went on the wooden rollercoaster and walked off with a few mystery bruises. Did I mention I got a little drunk before going on? Yeeeaaaah, I'm not a huge fan of rollercoasters.

I did a lot of eating, a lot of drinking, and a lot of inappropriate joke making. Surprisingly, my jokes went over well. Ya know that horrible situation in Louisiana where those 6 kids drowned in the river (none could swim but they went into the water anyway)? I casually commented that it was either a tragedy or natural selection - and the picnic table went WILD. I stole a joke from a comedian about how there's a silver lining to just about everything... even serial killers who bury people in their backyards... at least they're homeowners. They ate it up! By the time I left, I was signing autographs.

So speaking of eating, on my last day there I was approached by my guy's mom. Not like she cornered me or anything, but while we were taking a drive out to a deer farm to grab some venison jerky (it was kinda like "redneck fastfood"), she made the statement that I had a "healthy appetite." I have to admit, I was annoyed. My eating habits were examined the whole time I was there. And the crazy part is, I toned it down! Believe me, it broke my heart to only get one chili dog at a time, especially since I get no less than 2 texas weiners AND gravy fries when I hit up my hometown diner. She wouldn't know a "healthy appetite" if it bit her on the ass.

Mmmm, biting. Chewing. Food. I think I'm gonna get me something to eat.

Soccer is the most popular sport in the world. Thank you, third world countries. - Tosh.O

Summer office attire pisses me off.

Rule number one: If your arms can double as thighs, you should have no legal right to wear sleeveless shirts. If you have vision that is sufficient enough to operate a vehicle, then your sight should be clear enough to recognize that sleeveless, button-up shirts are absurd and should not be worn. In fact, they should not be manufactured. 1985 called, they want their sleeveless, button-up shirts back…all of them.

Rule number two: No flip flops. Feet are gross and yours are no exception. I don’t want to look at your gangly toes when I pass you in the hallway and I don’t need to smell your feet during a meeting. Plus, I have my own bunions to worry about. I don’t need yours in my face when I’m waiting to use the copier. And flip flops on men? Completely deplorable. The only articles of clothing that are acceptable on both sexes are jeans, t-shirts and baseball caps. If you’re a guy and you wear flip flops, you may as well get a bowl haircut…you have no fashion sense. You deserve to be dateless on every national holiday.

I work in a semi-professional office. I use the term “semi” because I’ve seen things at work that could make the People of Wal-Mart look like they’re at a black tie event. For this reason I tend to stay at my desk all day. I venture out for food, water, and to use the shitter. It never ceases to amaze me the crazy things I see during my brief moments outside of my sweet, neutral-toned, cubicle walls.

Take today, for example. If I had a nickel for every burly woman I saw wearing a tank top, I could’ve called off work and not even used a vacation day. One woman was wearing a sleeveless, button-up shirt, and I had a clear view of her beige bra through the arm hole. Well, I assume it was beige, and not a white bra that just gave up. It was one of those industrial bras, the kinds with the super wide straps and 4 clasps in the back…the 6-string bass guitar of bras, if you will. It was almost like seeing the Loch Ness Monster, without the coolness and excited picture-taking.

Don’t misunderstand me. I am not, by ANY stretch of the imagination, a fashionista. I have 3 basic rules to my style: 1. It’s gotta be clean, 2. Don’t let the ass hang out, and 3. Never try matching blacks. Maybe that’s why I don’t understand 90% of what I see, like kids wearing pajamas in public (when did the universal nightmare become socially acceptable?) and too-skinny girls who probably cut themselves, wearing knitted scarves indoors. When has anyone ever commented on how chilly their neck was? It’s a senseless fashion from every angle. If I walked around wearing only earmuffs, people would think I looked stupid. Why? Because I WOULD.

I’m not usually this angry. I blame it on a book I’m reading. It’s a Jodi Picoult novel, and holy shit, she’s one of those slit-your-wrists writers. But she’s clever – she lures you in with false sense of, “This is quirky but interesting,” and then right when you’ve invested too much to turn back (somewhere around Chapter 4), her style morphs into that of a sad, anemic, my-uncle-raped-me-when-I-was-12, tortured 19 year old song writer. The only problem with that, is it only works for 19 year old song writers, not pre-menopausal women who should’ve used their Liberal Arts degree for a better purpose, like writing blogs and working for The Man (ooo, burn on me, I’m a clever one).

I may be angry on the outside, but I’m happy on the inside. My vacation starts in approximately 25 hours, and I can’t wait! I’m tagging along on my boyfriend’s family vacation, and I am fairly certain it will be blog worthy. And if not, I’ll just lie my face off when I blog about it.

"My need to pee trumps YOUR need to pee." - quoted by me, to my dog, 5 minutes ago.

In my defense, I've had a few beers. You don't mess with that. ANYWAY...

See this girl? That's my half-sister. Technically, she's really my 2/3 sister. Super-duper long story short, my biological dad is a scumbag whoremonger who deserves to have his dick fall off. And down a storm drain. Never to be seen again. (I'll give you a moment to let that sink in) Needless to say, the only genetic difference between this chick and me is that we have different grandmothers. Our grandfathers were brothers, our mothers...first cousins. Well, that and I have waaaay better hair. So there's your "WTF" moment of the day. You're welcome.

It's no shock to anyone who knows me that people have said I was "mean." The reality is, those people have no sense of humor. Thankfully, I have discovered that the 'mean gene' is, in fact, for real. I found my 2/3 sister's Facebook page (thank you, Bing). Unfortunately (for her), my nosy ass discovered she only had most of it privatized (if that's a word...it is now). Luckily for me, she's *just* enough of an attention whore that she made one page public. Here are some blurbs from her posts:

"Money doesn't buy happiness but I'd rather cry in my Ferrari."
"Move out of the way, children, I've been waiting 11 years to see Toy Story 3."
"I don't like chicks with tans; it means they've been out of the kitchen."
"I don't care if the spider's 'not hurting anyone.' I want it DEAD."
"The amazing feeling of victory when you see karma kick someone's ass..."
"I'm gonna kill this bug...HOLY-SHIT-IT-FLIES!"
"Locking your animal in your room to make it spend time with you..."
"I will sit in my car an extra 10 seconds to hear part of a song."
"You cannot fathom the immensity of the f-ck I do not give."
"Saying 'Oh my God, I almost died!' when you really didn't."
"I can't hear you, so I'll just laugh and hope it wasn't a question."
"People saying 'We can still be friends' is like saying 'Your dog is dead but you can still keep it.' "

Be honest: if I didn't preface those phrases with, I didn't write these, you'd probably think they were me. Creepy, huh? Especially when you consider I've not only never met this chick, but she's a decade younger than me. Apparently the Douchebag Gene is a strong one. I dare say it's stronger than AIDs...well, if AIDS was a gene. Which it's not. But if it were...I'm gonna shut up now.

The point of the lesson is this: Genetics are a strong, strong, force. It's like the Jedi of Biology. Remember that the next time you have sex, and please, use a condom. Because that person only seems that cool 'cuz your drunk.

Write much? (warning: this is a scattered blog)

Alright, fair enough. I haven't written in awhile. But check it out: I was sitting outside earlier and watched an ant carry his dead ant friend back to the ant...place. Hill? Hive? Wherever ants live. I thought it was a sweet gesture in the natural world. There's your "awww" moment. Now shut up.

We're in the middle of a heat wave right now. If one more person says, "Hot enough fer ya?" I will set them on fire and say, "Actually, until THISMOMENT, it wasn't. So thanks."

Where am I going with this? Nowhere.

I just finished eating a bowl of spaghetti made with homemade sauce I found in the freezer. I admit, it's a sauce that my ex "fiance" made. I use the term "fiance" lightly, since we were engaged for all of about 3 1/2 hours. Anyway, I think this sauce was the only productive thing he did in all of 2008 (and maybe even 2009) - assuming you don't count the ridiculous amounts of masturbation and the massive amounts of bacon he made (both of which were usually followed by a nap). But I digress. It's good stuff, regardless of how much he sucked. I only hope he washed his hands when he made it.

As I'm sure you all know by now, I like food. I look foward to summertime (heat aside) because of the parties. Where there are parties there is food. Hells yeah!

I hit a party a few weeks ago. While I was on my 5th serving of pulled pork, pasta salad and shrimp cocktail, the heroin-addict brother of the hostess approached me and asked, "Where have you been all my life?" I eyeballed him - too skinny, needed haircut, faded black jeans and I KNOW that Slayer hasn't performed recently, and I responded, "Uh, probably at school or at a JOB." I stuffed my face with cheese and walked away. Was it rude? Absolutely. But drug addicts don't count as real people, everyone knows that.

Later on (same party), his drunk hostess sister came over to me. Side note: Here's the thing about parties - they are very much like poker games. If you look around a poker table and can't identify the sucker, then it's probably YOU. In this case, if you look around a party and can't spot the asshole, guess what?

Back to my story. The drunk hostess comes over to me and starts chatting me up. I've met her a few times before at other family functions. Blah blah blah and 20 minutes later she says, "I really like you. We should hang out sometime!" I looked at her, smiled and said, "Absolutely!" pause "But what's my name?" I'm sure if I listened closely at that moment, I would have heard her poop a little in her pants. And let me tell ya, it's funny enough when a drunk person slurs, but add a panicked stutter and the results are PRICELESS. She had no idea who I was, and I had to break it to her that my name was Michelle and I only hung out with people who knew my name. Who brought the asshole?

A few weeks later I went to another party. This time, the hostess was a close(r) friend of mine and while we were sitting around her patio table, she asked when I had my nose pierced. She apparently mistook a mole on my nose as a piercing scar. Funny enough, when I was around 14 years old my mother mistook this same mole for a blackhead. She spent 15 minutes trying to pop it before I realized what was happening and stopped the action. I had to explain to my friend that it wasn't a self-inflicted scar, that (unfortunately) I was born this way. Before she could respond, I said, "Oh, and before you ask, NO, I was not in a fire. I just have a shitty complexion."

I guess it could have been worse - she could have asked when my baby was due, or insist I take my backpack off (and I wasn't wearing one). I find it refreshing when other people have a 'foot in mouth' moment - usually I'M the one who does that kind of stuff...like when the blind guy at my gym walked by and said, "Goodbye," and I responded with, "See ya later." And I NEVER say that! Of all days...

This is all I've got. See? All this waiting for a blog and it's a whole lotta nuthin'. OH! I almost hit a rabbit on my way into work this morning. And as a result of that, I almost hit a mailbox and then a bike some kid left in his front yard. There's a little juice for ya.

The picture of Justin Bieber is just because he's a pretty big deal right now, and I'll do anything to be trendy. Besides, if his own mother can exploit him, why can't I?

The coolest thing about grandparents is when they're your own parents.

My mom is currently visiting my sister's family (they live across the country). In a clever attempt to keep us visiting, my sis went ahead and had some kids. It worked. I mean, we all lived in the same house for over 20 years. We've had enough face time and could care less at this point - that's what email is for. But the grandchildren/nephews? Where's my carry on?

It goes without saying that everyone loves when Grandma comes to visit, especially the Aunt from Philly. It means that's a weekend she doesn't have to worry about Grandma showing up at her house and rearranging her cabinets and linen closet and telling her she doesn't eat enough and maybe that picture belongs over there instead...

Anyway, I was talking to my mom on the phone a few days ago. While I forget the details of the conversation, there was a moment when she had to spell a word because my 6 year old nephew was in the room (obviously, the comment was about him). The thing is, my mother spells ridiculously fast. She does it with phone numbers, too. It drives me nuts. She'll say, "Call your Uncle Wally, his number is 4738782..." and she sounds like an auctioneer. What really sucks is that I have a unique problem with writing down numbers quickly - I transpose some into letters. I've actually written phone numbers down as: 342-N63F. Not only can't my brain keep up, but then it mocks me. It's a pain in the ass at work because it forces me to listen to voicemails at least 3 times to get a number for someone I don't even want to call back 9 out of Z times.

Okay, so anyway, I'm talking to my mom and she spells a word: RISFBAJCHU [as heard in my head] Wha? I'm like, "Ya gotta slow down. Now neither of us (me or the kid) knows what the hell you're talking about!"

My mother and I have this unspoken, mutual agreement to antagonize each other in these ways. Every so often I kidney punch her and check her pants to confirm she's not wearing "old lady" pants (the kind with the elastic band), and she returns the favor by rearranging my house, overfeeding my dog and spelling too fast. It's all about balance.

In her defense, though, I've put my mom through a lot. I remember when I was around 14 years old. I found a strange bump on my stomach and thought I had chicken pox or the plague or something equally dangerous. I found my mom in the kitchen and asked her to take a look at it. Unfortunately, I miscaluated on the shirt-lift and the situation quickly turned from "Hey, can you look at this?" to "WHOO! IT'S MARDI GRAS, BITCHES!"

She said it was a spider bite, I accepted that answer and we both know she didn't see anything except her own genetics staring her right in the face. Talk about awkward. But that's how we roll.

I guess the point of this blog is to remind you about Father's Day next weekend. If it wasn't for your mom, your dad wouldn't be a dad. If it wasn't for my dad, my mother would be Black Jack dealer in Atlantic City. But nooo, she had to go ahead and have that 3rd shot (at his suggestion) of Wild Turkey and well...here I am.


This blog is dedicated to the memory of William Allison (11/26/23 - 6/10/10). I wish I got to learn more about you, outside of you being in the Navy, being allergic to peanuts, loving cookies but most especially, for being the only guy to ask me what kind of panties I was wearing and not getting slapped for it. Rest in peace, dude. You earned it.

I took a personality test the other day. Turns out my main personality trait is being severely judgmental. Like I needed a test to tell me that.

I enjoy being judgmental. I'm not ashamed to admit it. It's what I do, but in my defense, I judge pretty much everything/everybody. That includes myself.

I judge my hair (awesome, as always). I judge my skin (I have freakishly large pores). I judge who I am as a person (highly judgmental yet utterly hysterical). And if there's something I don't like about myself, I try to fix it.

Several years ago I judged my internal organs. I felt I needed something to spruce them up, a "spring cleaning" if you will. My intestines felt a little sluggish, my spleen was a tad more worthless than usual. After much soul-searching (aka Googling), I discovered The Master Cleanse. Let me tell you all about it:

It is a concoction of purified water, lemon juice, maple syrup and cayenne pepper. It's the only substance you're allowed to consume for however many days you choose to be on the cleanse. If you stay on it long enough (they suggest at least 10 days) you go from being starving to being angry to feeling like you were dying, then hoping you were dying. But after that you'll start to feel like a million bucks. I couldn't make it beyond the third day, so I wouldn't know about that 'million bucks' thing. I would rather get punched in the ear 5 times a day by a pissed off anorexic (bony knuckles...ouch) than go through another cleanse.

Oh, and I just realized I lied. Aside from the random kitchen ingredients-mixture, every morning you have to chug 2 quarts of sea salt water. Now this is the tricky part - you're supposed to give yourself an hour to deal with the after-effects. In case you've considered a crazy crash diet to prep for that new Speedo you bought this summer, here's my story (or rather, warning):

Day 1 - I drank the rancid "lemonade" all day at work. I got home and drank some more. I was starving. I was moody. I was eyeballin' the dog. I was losing the will to live. I went to bed at 7:30pm.

Day 2 - Woke up and chugged 2 quarts of tepid (sea) salt water. It sucked, but it was doable. Wait an hour? For what? Or maybe I was supposed to drink it over the course of an hour...? I started getting ready for work. (45 minutes pass) My stomach begins gurgling. I barely make it to the bathroom in time.

20 minutes later I'm still on the can. Salt water is like nature's Draino. Note: If you're ever constipated, don't worry about eating fiber. Screw Activia. Chug 2 quarts of salt water.

30 minutes later and I'm peeling my butt cheeks off the toilet seat. My legs are numb. My mouth is dry and I'm sore in ways I never knew possible. I would have cried but the thought of more saline sickened me. I was fairly certain I lost 15 pounds and I think I passed my gallbladder during the ass explosion. Hesitantly, I get dressed and leave for work. I must have been totally cleaned out as there was no "activity" during my commute. Unfortunately, I was 15 minutes late and not about to tell my manager why. I mumbled something about menstration and a house fire and hoped he would drop it. He did.

I continued to drink the lemonade that day, and I had a bad case of Ring Around the Ass. I was bitchy and impatient, and sadly, no one at work noticed a difference in my demeanor.

I got home from work and went straight to bed. Let me tell you how hard it is to fall asleep with the sun in your face and birds chirping loudly. It's HARD. Now imagine you've been starved - a billion times harder.

Day 3 - I woke up late, skipped the salt water reverse enema. Started drinking my 'juice' at the office. 10am - bought a bag of chips. 12:17pm - Grabbed Wendy's for lunch...double burger with double cheese, all the fixin's, super sized fries and an extra large Frosty. The "cleanse" was officially over. The way I see it, if I'm going to feel like death warmed over and my ass is going to function as its own autonomous unit, I'm at least going to enjoy myself on the journey to self-destructon and body shut-down.

I don't know if this little story is enough to talk sense into you, but for your sake I hope you take my advice: Any diet/cleanse that can promise you will lose 20 pounds in 10 days is going to make you feel like horseshit on pavement in July. Don't do it. But if you decide to do it anyway, good luck. You're gonna need it. And be prepared to hate life. That's all I'm saying'...

Facebook spelled backwards is Koobecaf, which is a German word meaning “dumb.”

I firmly believe Facebook is stupid. It never ceases to amaze me how intense these online communities become and how people lose touch with themselves and reality every time they log in.

I have a business associate who, by all outward appearances, has his shit together. He is 36, a partial owner of a successful business, is very much involved in his local government, drives an environmentally-friendly SUV, owns his home and is decent-looking enough that I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers. Yet the other day when I was talking to him about his recent break-up, he said (and I quote), “[My ex-girlfriend’s] Facebook status still says, In a Relationship, so I don’t know WHAT to think.” HUH? They hadn’t spoken in over 4 weeks, are you kidding me?!

As far as I’m concerned, his stock plummeted because of his dependence on Facebook. Unfortunately though, it seems more common that the only way we know where we stand with people is by checking their “status” online. (You have a raging case of herpes? When were you going to tell me?)

Good thing Facebook covers all bases – you can be Single, In a Relationship, Engaged, Married, or my favorite: It’s Complicated. Really? Is it complicated? And do you really want your 672 friends to know that you are still banging your ex while flirting with his best friend and trying to pick up that guy who works at Starbucks (you’re fairly certain he’s 18…)? It’s amazing the information people give out when they feel they are posting with a certain air of anonymity. The irony of the deep-thought status updates and personal insight is the 15 photo albums attached to a profile. Don’t post 37 pictures showing yourself at a party last Saturday, documenting your progression from sober to sloppy drunk and ending with you being passed out in the bushes with puke in your hair, and then post a quote from Nietzsche on Tuesday, waxing philosophical. That does not make you smart. It just means you know how to Google “intellectual quotes” and you’re an idiot.

And stop giving so much damn information about your daily, mundane life. I don’t care if you’re at Panera Bread and the guy in front of you can’t make up his mind. I don’t care that you got your period while you were stuck in traffic. In fact, I don’t even care that you have a busy weekend planned or that your kids are sick. I’d rather pull my toenails out than hear about how you don’t want to go to work tomorrow or how you’re having tacos for dinner (again). I could care less that you’re “in love” or that you won $2 on a scratch-off ticket. And guess what? I’m not alone. NO-ONE-CARES. Not one person. In fact, I bet you don’t even care; you just don’t get enough attention from society and this is your lame attempt to get into the spotlight. So stop it. Wear tight clothing, preferably spandex with animal prints if you need attention, and stop being boring online. Or maybe ask your mom to hug you more. Do whatever it takes if it’ll get you to shut the hell up already.

What started out as a simple social networking site to find people and keep in touch has mutated into an online monstrosity wrapped in narcissism. For a society so concerned about “Big Brother” and the government taking away certain privacies and privileges, we sure have no problem telling the online world that we’re at a Red Sox game, that we rented “True Romance” last night or that we’re going out Friday with our friends to PF Changs (mmm, lettuce wraps). The simple fact is, people spill their guts online and then get pissed at Facebook for selling their information to advertisers. Why? If you didn’t post that you were single then you wouldn’t get pop-up ads trying to connect you to local single people in your area. If you didn’t mention going to the gym last Wednesday at 5:23pm, Facebook probably wouldn’t have linked you to an advertiser who is pushing pills to “flatten your stomach.” This isn’t rocket science…it’s your own fault. You’re not that important…or interesting. Sorry to break it to you.

What we need is to make up our minds. In a society that only knows extremes, we need to pick a side – public or private. We can’t have it both ways. And besides, I’m sick of your stupid status updates. They suck.

Okay, I’m done preaching and insulting you, Kind Reader. Tune in next time for my views on teenage pregnancy and MTV shows that glorify it. In the meantime, I will be working until 4pm, then I’ll hit the gym until 5:30pm, maybe have tacos for dinner (again) and if I’m lucky, I’ll hang out with this guy I met while getting hot wings at my favorite bar – I’m pretty sure he’s 18…

There's a huge spider in my laundry room...

I saw the bastard once. It ran under the washing machine before I had a chance to stomp it. That's my cardinal rule in life: Once you cross the threshold of my house, I reserve the right to kill you. Otherwise, I try to save all creatures whenever possible.

My parents came to town to visit. We hit up a charity plant sale at the local 4-H Club. My dad, a Master Gardener, was in his glory. At one point I saw him flash his "credentials." He got all "MG-CSI" on those volunteers. And then a bird shit on him. Twice. It was a foreshadowing of things to come.

After the plant sale we decided to hit up Shady Maple. If you don't know what that is, Google it. I think it may be the biggest buffet in the world. The place is always packed and it's the largest buffet I've ever seen (and I know my all-you-can-eat buffets). The only downside is that the whole area (Amish country) smells like poop from the surrounding farms. It's the exact opposite of ice cream stores in the mall that pump out artificial cookie smells to entice you to buy ice cream. The last thing I wanted to do after having a nose full of shit-stink is go eat twice my weight in food. Being the trooper that I am, I did it anyway.

Crab cakes? You betcha! Weird fish stuffed with other fish? Uh, sure, I'll try that. Some kind of gravy with meat in it? Hook me up! Pecan pie? Perfect ending.

We rolled out of there an hour later, busting at the seams. The drive back was a quiet and stinky one. We passed a field where an Amish farmer was stirring up manure. I can only imagine how bad the smell was from his perspective because it was gag-worthy in the car.

We get on the turnpike - Almost back to civilization! So we're cruising, and suddenly, I smell "it." I ask my parents, "Do you smell that?" They both say no. I persist. "How can you NOT smell that? I'm in the backseat and I can smell it. Someone obviously just shit their pants in this car!" They both tell me again that they can't smell anything. Unbelievable! How is that possible? Then my dad looks out the window and says, "Look, we're driving past a farm. That's probably what you're smelling."

Now I'm getting annoyed. Flustered, I say, "It's NOT the farm! It's a different kind of poop smell....clearly, it's human. Are you both breathing through your mouths? Is that how you can't smell it?!"

Being the awesome parents that they are, they both laughed at me. It wasn't cool; it wasn't funny. It was disgusting and I couldn't believe they laughed it off. We had been smelling poop for awhile. You can't tell me that's safe. I thought I read once that farts were air with poop particles on them. I'm sure the miners thought they were fine until they developed Black Lung. I won't be surprised if I get diagnosed with Poop Lung in the future.

We'll see who's laughing then.

Bring Your Child to Work Day – what a dumb idea.

My company is holding its very first BYCTW Day today. I am not at all amused. These cretins are loud, annoying, and apparently they only travel in packs.

When I come to work, I want to be left alone. Today is not my day for that. Kids are bouncing all over. People are being loud. But I’ve figured out a way to keep them away from me. I had one coworker introduce me to her 10 year old son. I said HI and shook his hand…and lingered on the handshake as I commented on how “pretty” his eyes were. I don’t expect to see him for the rest of the day.

Then I told another coworker’s 8 year old daughter that I heard there would be pony rides this afternoon. She started getting excited and her mother had to break the news that I was only joking. Was it mean? Yup. But it’s the Bus Thrower coworker and as far as I’m concerned, her daughter probably has the bus-throwing gene, which makes her my enemy, too.

I really don’t feel bad about any of this. First of all, the Bus Thrower is a bitter, 50 year old woman who also has a 6 year old. It’s not MY fault she felt the need to get knocked up in her 40’s in an attempt to make her 2nd marriage more “legitimate.” She and her old husband should’ve gotten a dog. At least it’d be dead by now and they’d be able to travel more. Again…it should not become my problem when a third party makes shitty life decisions.

I ran down to our cafeteria to grab lunch. Bad idea. There were kids EVERYWHERE. They’re like Goddamn locusts. They have no self-awareness, they get in everyone’s way, they can’t make up their minds and they smell funny. All I wanted was a sandwich. Instead I got a whole lotta aggravation. All today is doing it convincing me that if I ever have kids, I’ll have to raise them “special.” Here’s the plan:

I will not buy them toys. If they have toys they will be more inclined to stick around the house. No toys means they will hang out at the neighbors’ houses and play with their toys.
I will condition them to eat 3 times a week. Back in caveman days humans survived without eating every day. Imagine the money I’ll save!
Beatings will be commonplace. If they think it’s the norm, they will not rat me out to school officials.
I will never bring my children to work, even if it’s a designated day. Why? BECAUSE I DON’T WORK IN A DAYCARE CENTER.

Kids belong in closets, not in an office. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Let's talk about something fun, like MAGIC!

Picture it: 8:30pm, 76 degrees and I'm out on my patio with a beer and a stogie, writing this blog. As my father once said, "You look like an asshole." Which makes me chuckle, because people tell me that I take after my dad.

Now that I've set the mood, let me tell you about my doctor's appointment earlier this week. I needed a physical as a requirement for this volunteer gig. Easy enough, right? Pulse, temperature, reflexes... Not sure why I had to get it done at all - I'm under the impression I'm only volunteering to provide companionship, not to be an ass wiper or anything. Anyway...

I get in and the doctor's assistant weighs me, takes my height and blood pressure. For a brief moment it felt like I was being prepped for slaughter. She takes me back to the examination room, and then it happens: Ms. Vo-Tech Medicine pulls out The Gown. I'm like, "Hold UP. The Gown is not necessary. The doctor can check my vitals with my clothes on." The response I get - "You have to." Me: "You really think so?"

In typical female fashion, Ms. Not Smart Enough For Med School shoots me the stink eye, throws a gown on the exam table and grunts, "You can keep your bra and underwear on," before she walks out. Oh yeah?? Well the joke's on you, lady! I'm not wearing underwear and no, I don't have a tuna sandwich in my purse!

Soooo....I put the stupid gown on. But I wasn't happy about it. And it could be worse, I thought. A few years back I went to this same doctor and the nurse told me to undress for The Gown, then left the room and forgot to leave one out for me. I didn't realize it until AFTER I stripped, and well, I'd be damned if I was going to get dressed, only to get undressed again. Thank God I brought a jacket that day - I ended up wearing that as my own make-shift gown. When the doctor walked in and saw me, I copped some serious attitude and said, "Uh, the nurse forgot to leave a gown out for me." Can I tell you how hard it is pulling off "pissed" when you've got nothing on but socks and a windbreaker?

Anyway...back to the present.

I waited in that room, in that gown, for almost 40 minutes. Lame. I looked through all the drawers and cabinets. I even glanced in the "hazardous waste" garbage can. That only got me through 5 minutes. I considered shuffling out to the waiting room to grab a magazine to read, but I figured they wouldn't appreciate me walking around without shoes on. I opted to kick back on the exam table and proceeded to take a nap.

20 minutes later, voices in the next room woke me up. As luck would have it, I could clearly hear the doc's conversation with the patient in the adjacent room. It was a mother-daughter team and the daughter was going on birth control because she was going away to college. Now I know how "accidental" pregnancies happen. It's more like "stupidental."

The girl was asking all sorts of idiot questions - Can I take 7 pills at once and be done for the week? Can I take two pills every other day? And then the mom - What diseases will this prevent? Will alcohol make the Pill less effective? The apple didn't fall far from the tree.

I wanted to knock on the wall and yell, "Hey girl, you're putting the cart before the horse. You're not even that cute!" I didn't, though - I was afraid the HIPAA police would arrest me.

Eventually my doctor showed up. She eyeballed me, looked in my mouth, my ears, made me take deep breaths...then looked at my height/weight and asked, "Do you work out?" Yup, I do.

We talk about why I need this physical, she says she thinks it's nice that I'm volunteering and then she asks, "So, do you exercise?" Uh...YEAH. I do. She makes notes in my file. From her hand positioning, I have a sneaking suspicion she drew a picture of a cupcake.

We shoot the shit for a little bit longer, she tells me about her dogs and how she recently changed to a vegetarian diet, I tell her how I love pasta, Kenny G and long walks on the beach and then she asks, "Do you ever work out?"

OKAY, I get it. I'm too chunky for my height. On paper I could pass for a bowling ball. Whatever. But in real life I think I look fairly normal. Oh sure, I can pack food away like a Tupperware container. But like I said 3 different times, I work out. And what's it to her? She probably graduated last in her class anyway.

It just confirms that vegetarians are bitches. But we all knew that already.

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but I’m gonna repeatedly kick you in the balls." - Stepbrothers

I have decided to go out on a limb and donate my time to a local Hospice organization. It is only for one hour a week, and I really want to be able to tell everyone that “I see dead people.” Plus, my ultimate goal is to meet a rich man with a heart condition and I figure this will help me get a foot in the door.

ANYWAY…One of the things I need in order to be ‘cleared’ is to pass two rounds of TB testing. I hate needles, but hey, it’s for a good cause. I went for test # 1 today during my lunch hour. All I can say is, God is a prankster.

I walked into the room for my test. The nurse turns around to introduce herself and she’s as cockeyed as the day is long. Like, BIG time. At first I thought I had something on my shirt, or maybe she was looking at my shoes? Or the wall behind me? I didn’t know what the hell was going on. I even tried to figure out if she had one good eye (because sometimes they do, and it’s just the other goofy eye that throws it all off). No luck, I’m fairly certain they were both fricked. And here she came with her alcohol swab and needle. Jesus Christ. Is this because I didn’t go to mass on Palm Sunday?!

As she looked simultaneously at the ceiling and at the “Eat Healthy!” poster behind me, she explained that I wouldn’t feel much more than a pinch. In all honesty, I didn’t feel anything when she did it. Turns out, she stuck the needle into my leather watch band. I didn’t say a word and got the hell out of there. Negative TB test # 1, here I come!

That's it for today's blog. Just a little blurb from my life before I forget it even happened. I'll let you know how Test # 2 goes.

I think I'll end with some sage-like advice: Never do anything you wouldn’t want to explain to the paramedics.

Stop [trying].

There is a stop sign in a shopping center down the street from my house where someone spray painted “trying” under the word Stop. I love it. I laugh every time I see it. I need to get a picture sometime.

This particular morning, I needed to hit an ATM machine so I ended up driving past my favorite STOP sign and over to my bank. After snagging some cash, I jumped back in my car and pulled away…and saw a duck standing in the middle of the parking lot. A mallard. He was just hanging out; I assume waiting for one of the shops to open.

But it got me thinking. Some days you wake up and you are ready to take on the world. And then other days, you’re just a random duck, bored and loitering in a parking lot, waiting for Subway to open.

Socrates I am not.

Take the company where I work, for example. There is a guy in the office who has been talking to me for the past 4 months, and I’m not quite sure who he is, what he does, or where he sits. Yet, I saw him this morning and he not only knew my name, he knew I was in California last week. How did he do that?

Then I went to the corporate Snack Shack for a drink. The woman who runs it is named Judy. She is known throughout the company for remembering every-single-employee’s name (there are close to 900 of us here)…except mine. I’ve told her my name at least a dozen times. About 2 weeks after I started, she called me Michelle. Then, four months ago she called me Katie for about 3 weeks. Now she doesn’t call me anything, which is just as well. Now come on. How hard is it to remember my name? I’m a white girl who doesn’t strip for a living, named Crystal. The oxymoron of it should be enough to burn my freakin’ name into her memory.

There's a lot I don't understand.

Like why the term “colored” is considered derogatory when referring to black people. The “C” in NAACP stands for Colored. If it’s good enough for them, then why can’t the rest of us use it? I might try bringing it back.

And then there are the traffic signs at intersections that read, “Wait for Green.” I get confused - can we turn right on red or not? Is this like the “partly cloudy/partly sunny” debacle of the traffic sign world? Wait for Green vs. No Turn on Red? Do they both basically mean, "Keep your fat ass parked until we say it's safe to go?"

And what about the time frame in between serving sizes? I love Oreos. But, a serving size is only 3 cookies. So how long do I have to wait between eating my first three and my next three for the servings to be considered two snacks independent of each other? Thirty minutes? An hour? If they can tell me the daily value of dietary fiber in each cookie, then Goddamn it they can tell me the time frame in between servings.

Jesus, that’s a lot of questions. Sorry about that. Here I am, tossing all sorts of highly intellectual thoughts your way without any answers. In order to balance that out, here are some bits of random information you can use the next time you’re stuck waiting in line at the Port-O-Potty at the next Prince concert:

Ants cannot walk backwards, only forwards.
The king of hearts is the only king without a mustache.
Elephants cannot jump.

Now get back to work.

If you still have Christmas decorations up, you also probably think acid washed jeans are still in style.

They're not. Throw those jeans away and take your decorations down. Immediately. You know who you are, and I know you live on Morris Road in Ambler, PA.

Let me apologize to all of my loyal readers for the lack of blogging. I have no excuse, except that I'm kind of a big deal. Okay, I'm not. I just sorta scrapped the blog thing (unintentionally).

I got back from crashing my sister's family vacation last week. We hit up Disneyland. It was pretty fantastic. The only thing that blew my mind was the hotel room. We stayed at a nice little place that was one block from the park. Our room was right across across from the hotel pool, which was conventiently located in the middle of the parking lot.

Our first night there we kept hearing a loud banging sound. Not knowing what it was, I started guessing. "I bet the pool has a diving board. Yeah, that's gotta be it." I walked over to the window and started parting the curtains so I could confirm my thoughts. "Totally a diving board..." (shuffle shuffle shuffle) "That's what it sounds like every time they jump off." (shuffle shuffle shuffle)

Several minutes into it, I'm still not looking out the window and still fighting with the curtains. They were the never-ending! I looked at my Brother-in-Law. "How the hell many curtains does this window have?!?!" (shuffle shuffle shuffle) I was totally frustrated. He and my sister started laughing, and my BIL opened the room door for me to look out.

Super long story short...it wasn't the damn diving board. It was the stupid fireworks from the park. My village called, they're missing their idiot. But in my defense, that sound really could have passed for people bouncing off a diving board. Plus, that window had at least 25 layers of curtain.

Thankfully, the rest of the vacation was uneventful. The only thing I want to mention is about the exceptionally large amount (no pun intended) of morbidly obese people I noticed in the park. I mean, I'm not one to judge (ha ha ha, I crack myself up), but I think the only reason it was so warm in Disney was because of the friction from all those thighs rubbing together. I saw more fat ass cracks hanging out than I ever care to see ever again. And to think most people thought the Tower of Terror was scary - as far as I was concerned, the general public in the park was HORRIFYING. If they weren't so moist and sweet-smelling, I would've shaken them and told them to pull their pants up or at least tuck their ass cheeks in. It helps that I'm not a toucher, either.

Seriously though, good times were had. And even if Disney in California can kind of be the equivalent of a dry Sea World, I'm cool with that.

Live and let live, right? As far as I'm concerned, curtains are the work of the Devil himself.

Oh, I'm sorry. You've mistaken me for someone who gives a shit.

I had to get my drivers license picture taken today. I figured I'd go on my lunch hour. It's a Wednesday, the eve of a snow storm...I put the time frame at about 15 minutes, tops. HA.

Silly me. The thought never crossed my mind that the dregs of society would be out in abundance, waiting for their drug dealers to wake up. Karma slapped my ass again.

I walked in and had to take a number. I was 47. They were calling 41 when I sat down. Not terrible, I thought. This should go by quickly. And then White Trash Mom sat next to me with her bastard child, Richard. Richard was all of about 18 months old and looked like a little girl. White Trash Mom made it very clear how involved she was in her child's life, leading me to believe she wasn't involved at all. She kept mentioning "Daddy," also leading me to believe she had no idea who the father was. She had the kind of face only Stevie Wonder could love. I disliked her immediately.

What should have been a 10 minute ordeal turned into 30 minutes. As I waited, I watched as Old Lady # 1 sat in front of the blue curtain and asked the picture-taker if she could make sure her CANE wasn't in the shot. A cane? Are you freakin' kidding me?! And she's allowed to operate a 1-ton piece of Death on Wheels?? It didn't help that the whole time I was also forced to listen to: "Richard! Are you excited to see daddy? RICHARD! You're not acting as confident as you usually do!" (I swear to God, she called the kid out on his lack of confidence.) That's when the realization hit me that Richard would probably grow up to be that meathead guy who picks bar fights with girls. Thanks, White Trash Mom. I can only hope I don't have kids of my own for another 3 years, to ensure our children don't end up in the same high school.

Number 45 was up. So close, and yet, so very far away. I couldn't leave now. I had so much invested!

So there goes #45. I'll have to guess, but I'd say she was no less than 1 billion years old. And then her questions started: Should I keep my sweater on or take it off? What about my glasses? Can you take that picture again? Can I re-sign my signature, I don't like how the "K" came out....

Between Richard and #45, I firmly believe I was in Hell, or at the very least, Purgatory. Either way, it was apparent that I pissed in God's Cheerios this morning.

Long story longer, a half hour later I finally had my new license along with a new disrespect for human life, and I was on my way back to the office. Thank the good Lord this only happens once every 4 years. I think next time, I'll show up and pass out condoms and Depends.

It's all fun and games until I fall down the stairs.

I will never die in a car accident. I will never die of a heart attack. I feel very comfortable saying "never" because I am the clumsiest person I know. I can say, with much certainty, that I will die in a freak accident, much like I almost did today.

On my way out of the office, the heel of my left foot got snagged in my right pant leg and I went ass-over-tincups down the steps. I'd say out of 12 steps, I was probably around the 6 step mark.

I don't think I yelled out - I think I just crashed down to the first floor in silence (well, vocal silence, anyway), which was probably really creepy for the lady who heard the chaos from the second level. I landed flat on my back and for a moment was so stunned I couldn't move. I'd like to think if we had cameras in our stairwells that the security guards may have given me a "7" for my landing. I definitely got a "2" for the dismount, no doubt.

The lady starts yelling, asking if I was okay. I answer in the affirmative and noticed I'm missing a shoe. Getting up is when I realized how much I hurt and that my shoe heel snapped off. Then I saw that I ripped my pants. Then I realized that when I started out at the top of the stairs, my hair was pulled back in a ponytail. By the time I hit the bottom of the stairs, my hair was down. Geez, if I play my cards right maybe tomorrow I can do it all over again but this time pull off a French Braid. Or maybe even highlights? (ooo, highlights would be nice) Who knew all a gal needed to do to change her hairstyle is throw herself down a flight of stairs? Office Chic on the 2nd Floor, Carefree Party Girl at Ground Level.

So all this story does is prove what I tell people all the time: I have as much coordination as Dick Clark. Actually, he might even have more. And I really think it will ultimately lead to my demise.

Stairs - 1
Me - 0

Concrete stairs, you win. This time.

'Regrets. I've had a few...but then again, too few to mention." - Frank Sinatra

Valentine’s Day. It comes every year and yet, it somehow sneaks up on me every single time. Ugh.

I was never a huge fan of Valentine’s Day. Personally, I think it’s kind of bullshit. I’m not one for flowers or “romance.” Flowers will die and “romance” is overrated. You show me a comfortably romantic man and I will show you a guy who has been to every Cher concert since he was 12. Any other random act of romance is nothing more than a ploy by dudes to either get into a gal’s pants or to avoid sleeping on the couch that night (and really, that’s just because the cushions are too soft and it’s covered in dog hair – otherwise, they consider it ‘camping’).

I’ve had this argument with sappy chicks in the office who try to convince me Valentine's Day a great holiday because of chocolate and candy hearts and the out-pouring of love. I call those chicks idiots. First of all, "love" is relative. Just ask Oprah how she feels about a bucket of KFC. And as for the rest...It’s not like you can’t get chocolate all year round, and those little heart candies don’t even taste that great. Besides, the sayings are stupid. AND, I always manage to get the boring box where the phrases are either, “Be mine” or “Kiss me.” Ooo, nonstop excitement. What they should do is mix’em up – “Be me” or “Kiss mine.” I think I’ll send a letter to the candy heart maker with my ideas.

I guess at the end of the day I should respect other people’s decisions to enjoy a sappy, overcommercialized holiday whose sole purpose is to rape the wallet, get people laid and make single people feel less worthy because “you’re not really somebody until somebody else loves you.” But guess what? I don’t want to (respect decisions, just to clarify). I want people to feel ashamed to have been suckered into such a sucker of a holiday. And to prove my point, I am going to swap holidays this year. Instead of celebrating Valentine’s Day, I’m celebrating the Chinese New Year, which, coincidentally, also occurs on Feb 14th. It is the Year of the Tiger and if you put a tiger in a cage with a box of chocolates, the tiger is going to win. And if you put me in a cage with a tiger and a box of chocolates, I am going to win. Because I’m a winner and for every winner there are dozens of losers…and chances are, you’re one of them. You just have to strive to NOT lose to an old man in a flannel shirt or a fat lady who irons her jeans. Losing to either is unacceptable. Always.

Happy New Year.

People shop for a bathing suit with more care than they do a husband or wife. The rules are the same. Look for something you'll feel comfortable wearing. Allow for room to grow.
-- Erma Bombeck

Remember George Carlin's "Seven Dirty Words You Cannot Say on TV?" Yeah, so do I.

And apparently so does my boss. And a few other people in my department.

The unspeakable happened to me the other day in the office. I was called onto the carpet by my manager and reprimanded for my use of the F word at work. (I'm going to pause and let that sink in).

I would like to remind you, dear Reader, that I am a 31 year old homeowner who pays taxes, doesn't do drugs, will occasionally vote, has never had an abortion and by society's standards, is a fairly decent human being. Thank you for listening.

She told me I had been overheard saying Fudge loudly, it was found to be offensive and she feels it is a poor reflection on our department as a whole for me to use that kind of language. Let me tell you what went running through this noggin of mine:

I didn't use it in an offensive manner. I think that distinction should be made, and I think it means a world of difference. [for the sake of public decency I will be replacing the offensive "F" word with "Fudge" in the following paragraphs.]

When Fudge had been dropped, I was admittedly pretty pissed off. But it wasn't like I told someone to Go Fudge Themselves, or to Fudge Off. I didn't even say Fudge You. I used the word as an adjective, like, "This fudgin' agent is trying to make me crazy," or "If I have to do any more work on these fudgin' quotes I'm going to burn something down."

Using it as a descriptive term as opposed to an active verb should count for something. I should be given some kind of literary leeway in this area. At the very least, I should be held to a kind of bastardized Corporate American version of the FCC rules. Ya know how you can say, "I'm pissed off right now," on the radio but you can't follow it up with "...and I also have to take a piss" ? Yeah, something like that.

If there's PMS involved and something bad happens at work, I should be entitled to Fudge the Shit out of whatever statements I'm about to make. We're all adults here. It's not like I work in a day care. There is no one over the age of 85 that will get offended. And for the record, I have yet to work in an office where the norm was NOT cursing like a drunken sailor. In fact, I've been in offices where had I been blindfolded, I could easily think that I worked on a loading dock at a sex toy company with a bunch of ex-cons with Tourettes.

Will I drop the actual F-bomb again? Not if I can help it. But there will be much Fudgin' substitution going on, to the point of being highly annoying to my coworkers. And yes, that is my goal. Aw, I'm sorry, you thought I was offensive? Well pull up your panties, I'm about to annoy the ever-living FUDGE out of you. If I have to suffer, they have to suffer. We're in this together.

So let this blog be my official announcement to the world: I am bringing FUDGE back. "Oh," you say, "But it was never 'in' in the first place!" You are correct. Which is what will make its comeback GLORIOUS.

You heard it here first. Get it started, pass it around, and go Fudge Yourself.

"Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody." - The Catcher in the Rye

WARNING: SERIOUS BLOG AHEAD.

This week marked the end of an era. A friend of my family's passed away late Tuesday night ~ Mr. K. He was a great man. He was in his 90's and was one of the very few honest men left in a crooked town. Ironically, he was also one of the best lawyers my small hometown had ever seen.

He enjoyed a strong cocktail and classical music on a Sunday afternoon. He read Dante's "Inferno"...in Latin. He liked feeding the stray cats living in his backyard. He never raised his voice and he never cursed, and I mean never. No doubt, he was one of the last "true gentlemen" left in our warped society.

JD Salinger also passed away this week. His most famous book was "The Catcher in the Rye," written for adults but adored by angst-ridden teenagers. He became reclusive in the 1960's and the more he shunned fame, the more it banged down his door. He was 91 and full of piss and vinegar.

Two completely different people with two completely different ways of going through life. One marched along strong and silent; the other tiptoed, but managed to bring the house crashing down around him anyway. I'm sure they will have much to talk about where they are.

Given how full their lives were, it's hard to actually feel sadness for them. The more I think about it, I'm not sad for them...I'm sad for us, the world they've left behind. We're the ones who have lost great people, great minds, great ideas. And it's an even bigger shame that there are people out there who don't even know what we've lost.

I think the craziest thing about it all is the theory behind it. The opposite of Death isn't Life. The opposite of Death is Birth. "Life" has no opposite. So then where does that leave the rest of us?

All I know is, before drinking my next cocktail I will pay silent tribute to those few great men who still take their hats off indoors, open car doors for women, take pride in their work and who respect themselves enough to have no regrets.

What I was really hanging around for, I was trying to feel some kind of a good-by. I mean I've left schools and places I didn't even know I was leaving them. I hate that. I don't care if it's a sad good-by or a bad good-by, but when I leave a place I like to know I'm leaving it. If you don't, you feel even worse. ~J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye, Chapter 1

Virtue is its own reward. Sin pays better. - Adrienne Gusoff

I think it’s time we changed the rules on dating, or at least the order. Hell, even women who buy sperm get comfort in knowing their anonymous spunk has been genetically tested. So why is it that the rest of us schleps are forced to interact, to date people, then go on to blindly marry into a bullshit family? By the time we realize what kind of extended family we’re up against, that silly thing called “love” gets in the way and before we know it, we’re marrying into it. For a civilized society, we’re sure going about things in an ass-backwards way.

Here’s what I think we should do. If you see someone and you think you might like him/her someday, put the brakes on immediately. Then, go look up that person’s family – parents, siblings, cousins, grandparents, you name it. Date the family for 6 months and if you’re still cool with that end, circle back and start up a real relationship with your person.

It sounds ludicrous, but if you really, really think about it, you’ll realize it’s ingenious. I’m sure if most of us realized what kind of nutcase families our significant others had prior to getting emotionally involved, we never would have returned their calls in the first place. Would I like to go on a second date, Cousin of Lurch? I don’t think so!

From my own personal experience, if I had known that the one guy I dated had a retarded sister whose daily goal was to not shit herself, or the schmuck with the crazy mom who howled at the moon, or another guy with the schizo uncle who ate toilet paper, or that other dude whose mother’s “claim to fame” was simply the fact she gave birth to 7 kids (oh sure, she was missing teeth, had a bad dye job and one kid dragged her leg ~ but who cares about that stuff?), I would have seriously reconsidered getting involved with any of them in the first place. I mean, aside from the potential that I could have ended up being legally bound by default to any of those families, there’s a genetic concern to consider for my future spawn. I don’t need to give birth to some cretin child who eats paperclips and shoves forks into electrical outlets all because its dad comes from a long-enough line of weak-ass, mutated genes.

Now don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying I’m a diamond mine of material when it comes to DNA. As you’ve read in previous blogs, I used to shit all over the place when I was a kid and I befriended bike tires. It’s amazing I haven’t died in a freak flossing accident up this point. But all in all, I’d say I’m generally okay and that my family is fairly ‘normal,’ at least in a FOX sitcom sense. We might have a few drunks scattered around, but no serious mental problems or delusions.

I guess my point is that I simply want all information up front. I’ll be providing the cookie batter and the dude will be contributing the chocolate chips… and it’s just so hard to tell nowadays that with my luck he’ll give me raisins. And let me tell ya, nothing pisses me off more than when I bite into a chocolate chip cookie and find out it’s a raisin one instead. Which is why meeting the family before emotions get involved should be the proper way to do it. If I see that the dude’s family has a large number of grapes throughout, then I’ll haul ass out of there and go get a sandwich. That saves everyone time, energy, and (especially) money on presents throughout the year.

My mother - my best friend, my confidante...my pimp?

I admit, being 31 and single hasn't been a total cakewalk. I'd say 90% of it has been kickass. The other 10% is made of up being pressured by my one ridiculous girl friend who wants to go "boy hunting" every single night, and then there are those guy friends who propositioned me for dates 3 minutes after my engagement was called off. Jesus, I wish I was this popular in high schoool. (I pause to rethink that statement) Nah, I probably would've gotten pregnant and herpes...not exactly in that order. I suppose after-the-fact popularity isn't so bad. But that 10% is still a real pain in the ass.

So you can imagine my surprise when my Mom, the woman I trust with 1,000% of my being, called me last week with "news." It appears she had a busy day in her Allstate office last Wednesday.

For the past few months she's been talking to one of her customers, a nice Russian man, straight off the boat, about setting me up with his son. (this is news to me) Oh sure, the kid's only 21, but he's got a job. Thankfully, Mr. Russia decided I was too old for his kid. Unfortunately, it didn't end there.

This past Wednesday Mr. Russia stops in my mom's office and hands her a piece of paper. It's got an email address on it. He tells her that this is a really nice young man, hard worker, who would be good for her daughter. Then he asks my mother for my phone number so he can give it to this guy.

At this point in the story, I'm just shaking my head. I have no words. Does she know anything about this Russian guy except for what his insurance rates are? Does anyone know anything about this 3rd person, Mr. Email, who is obviously so desperate he'll hand out his contact info to a burly, 55 year old Russian man?

I flashback to a few summers ago, when my mom thought I was a lesbian. It could be worse, I tell myself. On second thought, though, I'm not sure how. It appears that when it comes to my mom, I'm only getting two options: 1. Be a lesbian, or 2. Go out on blind dates with potential date rapists who have email accounts. My mother, the eternal cockeyed optimist, once told me, "Even Jeffrey Dahmer was a homeowner!"

I jumped back into the conversation and asked if she gave him my phone number. "No," she said, much to my happiness (which was short-lived). "I gave him your work email address. So expect to get an email from a Chris from Allied."

Greeeat. It's official: I'm getting pimped out by my mother, the same woman who offered to pay for an Eharmony subscription for me for Christmas. I finally caved. I told her I had gone on a few clandestine dates with someone over the past month, and he's a really great guy. On paper, maybe not so much my type, since he's a contractor with hands that appear to have been soaked in battery acid and a smoker to boot (the GASP heard around the world, I know ~ smokers are gross), but he tells off-color, racist jokes like it's his job and he doesn't get offended that I call him a pussy when he orders the "mild" wings instead of the "hot." So far, what's not to like? I may live in a white-collar world, but I definitely have a blue-collar attitude.

She took it well. I think she was actually relieved to hear that I haven't been sitting around, making lists of cat names for when I start bringing them home from the shelter. No one wants their kid to be the scary lady in her neighborhood.

Not sure if I'll ever hear from "Chris from Allied," but if I do, I'm sure he'll be a super nice guy who goes to church every Sunday and never curses in front of his mother. And I don't doubt that if I strike up an email communication with him, I will ultimately offend him with my jokes and make him cry with my sarcasm because honestly, I've done it before. If I had a nickel every time a (now ex) boyfriend said to me, "You're so mean!", I'd have a lot of nickels.

It's not that I'm mean. It's just that you're a pussy. So order the hot wings.