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.