Laughing All The Way

Thursday, October 05, 2006

She said she liked it better than Pirates of Penzance.

When I received the comment from Rhys, I almost peed my pants. This is a woman who writes about her life, her family and other stuff in such a way as to make me want to be Southern and just a touch redneck.

What’s that, now there are two comments! If I weren’t at work (PS. this is my last day at work, I move in a week to a land far far away) I would strip down and do a happy dance. No I wouldn’t. Well, maybe I would.

Seriously, a secret blog crush just commented on my blog. Oh, I guess that’s not so much a secret. Don’t worry, I won’t be attacking your loved ones with bees.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Stay with me now

Last night I broke my clit.

No really, it wasn’t working.

Well, technically it was working in the beginning, but by the end, I would say in my professional opinion, my clit was broken.

Bruce and I were talking on the phone (stop it you perverts) and we had a conversation that has been in the making for a few weeks. I voiced some very real, very worrying concerns and he answered them. I don’t know if I am satisfied but I can’t think about the what ifs for the time being. I have friends coming in from parts unknown (Houston) and I have a monster project at work that is going to necessitate some weekend work. I have my doubts, but I am nothing if not excellent at ignoring my doubts. I am very good at that (SimplyOops).

So, last night after the conversation, Bruce and I stopped speaking and I was suppose to be going to sleep. Instead I grabbed my vibe and went to work. I really did work. Work. Work. Work. It’s been a while since I’ve wanted to work, my libido was in a down-shift, it happens. I could feel the planets re-aligning my sex drive was quietly coming out of hibernation.

The first gear and second gear were easy as always, third took some doing, but like I said, I worked worked worked, and for all my hard efforts I was rewarded with a nice clitoral orgasm. But orgasms should be something more than “nice”.

But then fourth, we stalled out at fourth. No matter how hard I tried, I just could not get the G-spot. I mean, I twisted and rubbed and turned and thrust. Nothing. I have never had to work so hard with anything ever to get a orgasm. After a while I realized that I was chasing a ghost and turned my attention back to my clit.

After all, after fourth gear is fifth, and my third orgasm is usually the one that knocks me out to sleep. I knew that I had skipped the second one but didn’t figure there would be any harm.

Until I realized that with all the effort the get to my g-spot I had effectively vibed the hell out of my clit. The whole time I was focused on the g-spot the clit had been vvvvvvvv’ed and then rubbbbbbbed and then vvvvvvvvv’ed again and then…well you get the picture. I had gone too far and my poor clit bore the brunt of it. Poor clit.

So I broke my clit. I hope it gets fixed soon. I think I am going to need it again real soon.

Monday, August 21, 2006

Unexplainable Burdens in the Heat of the Night

Once upon a time
Not so long ago

I grew up in Rhode Island. Bluer than blue collar. Factory workers and mechanics. I drove a Chevy Cavalier. I knew every word to every Bon Jovi song (still do).

Tommy used to work on the docks
Unions been on strike
He’s down on his luck…it’s tough, so tough
Gina works the diner all day
Working for her man, she brings home her pay
For love - for love

We all knew that there had to be something better than this. Better than the life we had, the life our parents had, the life our grandparents had. We didn’t know that we were the same. Just like Scranton, PA, Booton, NJ, Albion, MI. Like some played out Billy Joel song. We were downeaster with thick accents that called us out with the first “ah”.

She says we’ve got to hold on to what we’ve got
cause it doesn’t make a difference
If we make it or not
We’ve got each other and that’s a lot
For love - well give it a shot

But we, we silly kids were lucky and stupid and stupidly lucky. My house that was a single family house, that had a distinct formal dining room, that had a side yard and a back yard, that had a private drive way setting the house off the street, that never housed distant relatives for extended periods of non-specific length, my house drew awe and admiration. I only saw where it was falling apart and the wood floors that left splinters.

Whooah, we’re half way there
Livin’ on a prayer
Take my hand and we’ll make it - I swear
Livin’ on a prayer

The promises were that we would fail. No one ever gets out. Everyone gets pulled back in. Really, they told us that we were only good enough to also run. Truthfully, they were right. Most of us did fail. Moved back to the place from where we were. Lived next to our parents and grandparent. The cyclical cycle to start again. Children born to parents who were too young to vote. Trapping a life and a future on a corrugated metal track to nowhere.

Tommy’s got his six string in hock
Now he’s holding in what he used
To make it talk - so tough, it’s tough
Gina dreams of running away
When she cries in the night
Tommy whispers baby it’s okay, someday

Running away from a past is futile. Running away from a future is useless. You never get to get anywhere and in the end, you’re just running. But you can’t tell us that. We’ve run. Far and fast and long and wide. We open our eyes and refuse to see what lays out in front of us. They say you can never go home again, but who wants to go home to that?

We’ve got to hold on to what we’ve got
cause it doesn’t make a difference
If we make it or not
We’ve got each other and that’s a lot
For love - well give it a shot

Home is where mom lived. Home is where dad left. Home was the gaping wounds that no one else saw, (remember the house?). Mom would have been such a nice person if she weren’t our mom. Medication would have gone along way in our house. Bipolar. Split-personality. Psychotic. Anti-psychotic. Borderline personality. Manic. Depressed. Narcissist. Bitch. Is there a pill for bitch?

Whooah, we’re half way there
Livin’ on a prayer
Take my hand and we’ll make it - I swear
Livin’ on a prayer

They say that mental illness is hereditary. She got it from someone, she gave it to others. Let’s be honest, she gave it to us. The fear is that we become what we know so well. My sister is thinking of having a child of her own. I love my sister. I fear her anger. It’s so deep and hot and quick to bubble over into burning rage. I see it in myself, although I direct it at people who hurt me. My sister directs it at people she wants to hurt.

We’ve got to hold on ready or not
You live for the fight when it’s all that you’ve got

I know I need to work on my deeply vindictive anger, that’s what Some Girl does. I have an outlet. I have a voice that let’s me flex my anger and impress my words upon those who won’t ever really see me seether. Knowing my anger, knowing from where it springs, knowing how it feels when I am triggered, and knowing that at my worst, I’ve come nowhere close to my sister’s emotion, I worry. I see her go from a serene, happy, coherent woman to a manipulative, selfish, vindictive, raving loon. I don’t think she would ever direct it at her own children, but I don’t know if she will be able to hide it from her children.

Whooah, we’re half way there
Livin’ on a prayer
Take my hand and we’ll make it - I swear
Livin’ on a prayer

When I told her that I was leaving, that I need to beat a path away from our collective daemons, I know that she understood the exact parameters of my words. I didn’t know that she would be so sad to know that I wouldn’t be there for her child. As I put some perspective on my move, I realize that I am the person I always wished would materialize for me. The safe haven my niece or nephew will need, the person that can explain the unexplainable, the one thing for which I prayed, is no longer going to be an option for my sister’s children. And this makes me so sad.

Friday, August 11, 2006

You Can’t Touch This

There I was, minding my own business, as you do, going to the bathroom.

My pager, conveniently clipped onto my waist band, flipped onto the floor when I pull up my pants. The pager shattered into three distinct pieces: body, battery cover, battery.

Body and battery cover were fairly well behaved and remained at my feet. The battery, however, decided to make a run for it and rolled to the lowest point on the floor.

The drain.

You know that drain in public bathrooms where all the dirty water is sent after washing the horrible horrors that happen in the public bathrooms at hospitals? That is where my battery stopped. Also, with my battery, a pair of shoes. A pair of shoes attached to a set of feet. Feet that belonged to the young woman in the stall where my battery decided to take up residence.

I could have run, but I decided to be brave and face the poor person whose private time was interrupted by my freedom seeking battery. She was nice enough to pick it up and hand it to me. She was also kind enough to warn me: “It was kind of wet, I don’t know what it was in, here,” as she handed me my battery wrapped in toilet paper.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her what exactly is washed down that drain. I took it from her, and thanked her profusely, dried off the battery, washed my hand and left without further incident.

I now have a new battery.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Magic in Manhattan: When Calamity stole the drugs from the drug dealer

Okay motherfuckers, here we go. I’m not proof reading this, it’s too long and painful.

This past weekend I revisited my inner child and did a fuck load of coke. When I say my inner child, I mean my inner child over the age of 16 as I wouldn’t want to be considered unfit to care for my inner child. And when I say a fuck load, I mean why am I not dead from an OD because I clearly don’t know when to say when but I am pretty sure that I should have stopped sometime on Saturday morning, but instead went all the way until Sunday morning.

Bruce hates this shit. He’s already expressed all the reasons why and what for (mostly I have no argument or recourse because it is kind of illegal) that he hates this (this being my wanton wantonness). I know that I should grow up and blah blah blah, but the truth is I don’t have to, for now.

I knew that this weekend in New York was going to be epic, we all did. I have been preparing myself for this for a month. Bruce was told that I was going to go off into the wild blue yonder and bury myself Pacino style (say hello to my little friend). A lasting hurrah before I moved.

(Someone brought to my attention the fact that I haven’t been totally clear. I am moving away from Boston this fall. Soon I will be coming to you from the other coast. San Francisco to be almost exact.)

So, because I am absolutely not allowed to be a coke whore when I move.

and before people get all shitty about this: I am really ready to stop doing drugs. I know it seems like fun and I am so very good at it. My friends here are concerned that I am sacrificing a piece of me to make Bruce happy. I just think that they forget, while they were all being good boys and girls and leading productive adult lives, I was doing K in London nightclubs and wondering why everything was moving so fast. I was dropping E while messing around with the gay glitterati living the life. Also, I was vomiting blow on the feet of the Virgin Mary. Quite frankly, I am tired of being so banged up all the time. I hate loosing my Saturday and Sunday because I played hard on Friday night. This shit is too good and too much fun and too heavy to go on much longer. It’s also not cool to get to an airport and worry that you might have a bag left somewhere that you forgot. Residue will get you 20 and I have no intention of going to jail for what happened last weekend, especially as I am not the one who caused all the trouble.

Ages ago I told Bruce that this past weekend I was going to go out and go hard.

See, that is the other thing. The Boston crew here keeps saying that they don’t think it’s right to have to hide shit blah blah blah. But I don’t. I know that they don’t believe me, but I really don’t. I wasn’t the one hiding from my best friend all night because she would be upset knowing that I was using drugs (that was the Pretty Boy) and I wasn’t the one saying that my significant other has no idea about what I do when I am away (that was Angry A). I am getting heat from the people here because they don’t get the fact that as up tight as Bruce seems (sorry babe!) we will never keep things from each other. Back to the point.

The Boston group found our way to New York, I flew down on Friday after work, which is normally easy except the Big Dig tunnels are closed because a ceiling panel fell on a car a crushed a woman to death (oops). Friday was manic and by the time I found my way to Calamity and Jane’s apartment I was ready to lay down and sleep. A bottle of wine prevented that and as the crowd trickled in and the lines were laid out, I miraculously found a wellspring of energy. Funny that.

Cut to Saturday morning, 4 AM and people are leaving the apartment and I have a moment of clarity. Except I’ve forgotten it now. What good are drug-induced epiphanies if you can’t remember them?

Saturday became a day of rest. Saturday night became a night of unrest.

We came to the party to party like it was 1999 (pot brownies and E were the plans) but the dealer fell through so we called in a back up (there is always a back up) and did what we do best. (Why hello Ben, so lovely to see you again, would you mind if I use you as a straw?) We also knew that we were going to get screwed on the bar tab (like always) so we set a plan in action. Our plan failed mostly because Calamity was too busy stealing the drugs from the drug dealer.

So, if you read the original story of Calamity, you know, already, kind of fucked up. But we’re his friends so we never think about what it really means when we say that he’s a mess. On Saturday night, Calamity noticed that the dealer was a mess (looked like a K hole to me). Calamity decided to take the drugs and not pay for them. He also decided to then leave the club, without telling his girlfriend or best friends.

The dealer comes to and realizes that he’s missing some money or someone took his stash. It was at this point, he loudly proclaims that he is going to kill the motherfucker who stole his drugs. We take this as a sign that it was time to leave the club. Which was a pain because we were in a perfect place (VIP lounge with no cameras so we had free reign to behave as we saw fit).

Returning to Calamity’s apartment was an ordeal of course because you know how it is. Who wants to go back to the apartment of the guy who’s about to be shot? After the endless drunken/high debates we all went back the Calamity’s place but the mood was decidedly dejected. Seriously, what the fuck?

There’s more blow, but at this point, we’re just chasing a high. At a certain point, there is nowhere else to go but down, and while it’s great to put the down off for as long as possible, everything comes to an end eventually. Most of the crowd wandered off into the day (the day being Sunday) except the hanger-ons. The hanger-ons are the people who hang out until the coke is gone. Then they split. Never fails. The hanger-on in this case was possibly the biggest fucking tool I have ever had the pleasure of meeting (I FUCKED THIS UGLY GIRL WITH MY LARGE DICK. YOU WOULD FUCK ME WOULDN’T YOU? IT DOESN’T MATTER THAT I AM UNATTRACTIVE. YELL YELL YELL. I AM SO INSECURE AND ANNOYING I WILL KEEP TALKING ABOUT ALL THE SEX I WAS GETTING IN COLLEGE FOUR YEARS AGO). The guy was so full of shit and terribly annoying. Who admits to going hogging because they don’t think they can get attractive woman to a group of strangers? When he turned to me and tried to be very impressive I was my usual self and cut his small dick down to size (scorch scorch scorch: how do you like me now bitch?). Needless to say he didn’t have anything to say to me for the rest of the night (morning).

Dumber and his friends (who were brought to the party by someone we knew, but the someone we knew left at 2 AM) left at 10 AM on Sunday and we proceeded to sigh with relief. Sunday disappeared in a haze of sleep and hamburgers and bled into Monday.

Shit, Monday was yesterday. Yes. Indeed. My yesterday was fantastic. Especially the three hours in the middle of the day. I think I lost them. They were simply nowhere to be found. Flying home on Monday morning was terrible, but the idea of being on a plane on Sunday night was unfathomable.

Today is better. I no longer feel like my large intestines are fighting their way out of my body and the shakes have stopped. Always good because I have a big presentation today at work.

$360 will get you: roundtrip Boston to New York airfare, five cab rides, 1 bottle of wine, 2 pot brownies, several eight balls, a bunch of vodka, four packs of cigarettes (also I had a green curry, half a hamburger, and a piece of apple pie. Some Girl cannot live on drugs and alcohol alone).

PS. And when I said that Bruce seems up tight, he’s not, it’s just because he wears pleated pants and he tucks his shirt in and he hasn’t been to the beach in forever and couldn’t remember the last time he walked on a beach barefooted, but really, he’s not up tight. I swear. Okay, maybe a little but only when compared to my complete inability to be any sort of tight. Next to a normal person, Bruce is entirely normal. Well, that might be a bit of an exaggeration. That might be a ginormous exaggeration. Bruce is so not normal. What he is, is terribly annoying (you know you deserve that don’t you).

Monday, June 12, 2006

Like a pig in shit

There is a strange wind blowing on the Internet: a lot of talk of politics, religion, and sexuality leading to angry rants.

I have been (gently) getting into it with another blogger. There are no flames, just views (very politely stated). It’s unusual for me, I normally stay out of it, but the “it” of this instance is fairly close to home (about 3 hours by car). We’re not actually discussing the politics of the situation, more the social constructs. I much prefer the conversation about social convention, because politics bore the hell out of me.

This whole silly 666 thing and the Biblical floodings of the Northeast may or may not have something to do with the trend. I had a great religious upbringing that included all the highlights: learning Hebrew, having a Bat Mitzvah, going to Poland and Israel. Great, I know my shit. Really I do. Okay, so maybe I know some of the stuff because of all the art course I took and those Renaissance guys really loved to use Biblical themes and all. But a lot of the stories I know are from the 10 years I spent getting all educated on why we are the chosen people.

These days my opinions are far different than the ones I use to hold so dear (I’m more of a I’m going to pray to god, any god, when I fall down a mountain), but I still have the far reaching mundania that wows and amazes in small bursts. I recently explained in great detail the myth of Lilith, she of hermaphroditic existence and redheaded stepchild to great and powerfully (blamed) Eve. My cat-like reflexes are equaled only by my pachyderm-like ability to reminiscence. That which makes me an excellent student makes me a terribly frustrating girlfriend, I remember things and then ten years later recall some stupid fact to make my point. (Bruce on the other hand is far more selective in that he recalls things he thinks may be of importance as he makes some sort of mental note like “This might be important, I should remember this.” He also answers many questions with: “I don’t know, I wasn’t really paying attention” Poor Bruce has no idea what he’s in for in a decade.)

Here a gay, there a gay, everywhere a gay gay. Let the gays get married, no don’t. Okay, enough. It’s going to happen, let it go. I think I might be tired of it because I live in Massachusetts. But, you there, gay person from another state, stop fucking chiming in on the debate about rights in MA, because if you want to move here and be legally wed, great, otherwise shut the fuck up and don’t talk about how you would move here except for the cost of living and the taxes. Taxes are high because we’re a bleeding liberal state that covers the cost of healthcare for people who can’t afford it and we like to fund things like education. We also are so bleeding liberal that we let the gays get married. See how that fucking works. And the cost of living, you don’t have to live in the city assholes, there are plenty of places outside of Boston that are perfectly acceptable places to live (I think they are called the suburbs, they have trees and shit) that don’t require a private loan to pay for food and utilities. Each state has the right to blah blah blah, so if you are all against the gay-love, coming to the State House of a state, in which you don’t live, to protest or hand out flowers or sing songs, thereby making me walk the long way to work, really pisses me off. And believe me when I say this: some of my best friends are gay (Hey Pussywillow! We have to plan some alone time when I go to London.) but I am tired of all the gayitude. Okay?

I know, I know, this is all very exciting, whether you believe gayness is a choice, genetic predetermination, disease, or lifestyle, but still there is really no more need for any more commentary. I don’t think anyone is all that surprised when Bush the younger is all, “Hey. I don’t want the gays to get married.” Why the sudden uprising of craziness on the Internet in response to something that we already know to be true? I mean if Baby Bush had said that he was hoping that Congress would pass a law dictating that all elementary-school aged children were to wear muzzles in public, I could understand the kind of resounding “Huh?” that would have swept across the land (except for those people who always complain about the loud children sitting next to them in restaurants and on planes. Those people would have been all: “Hell YEAH.” But I digress). Basically, I am requesting that people on the Internet stop being boring and stupid talking about boring and stupid things.

Also, I have come across some super disturbing shit on the Internet this past month. Bruce is probably tired of hearing about “WHAT I FOUND ON THE INTERNET TODAY!!!” (remember there was a bit on Sesame Street where the announcer would say something and it would be all loud and echoey like at the Monster Truck Rally, not that I’ve ever been to a Monster Truck Rally?).  The most notable thing I have found thus far, a blog that may or may not be entirely real. I was with the couple until they talked about diapering. Seems that he’s “Daddy” and his wife of sometime likes to be a baby. In a diaper. In which she defecates. Even though she has all of the physical capacity to walk herself to the bathroom. And flush. There was more, but unless you ask for it directly, I am going to refrain from presenting you with a mental image that requires bleach and copious amounts of vodka to scrub your brain clean.

The Internet, there is strangeness.

PS. Turns out I have been Some Girl for a year and ten days.

PPS. Just in case you think I am mocking or in any way derogatory regarding the diapering couple, what you do with your own time and space is your business, and trust me I’ve got my own things, I just have a hard time with excrement. That shit grosses me out (see what I did there?).

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

Chug! Chug! Chug!

Caw caw, motherfucker, I wish that he would leave her alone. But I wonder, wonder, wonder, what IS the word? I have a vested interest, and a selfish one at that…we all need to do the check and balance of where I fit in the bell curve. I hope that I fit somewhere in the peak, I love being the peak, but only if it is good news, if not, I would like to be part of the 2% that is above average. I also love being above average.

There are sheep that I can pet and Bruce is resistant. I wish he would bend to the will of Some Girl, because, we are going to spend some time in the closed quarters of his house and I worry that the bad parts are going to be all up in the joint (but not made of marijuana because that would be illegal). What was I saying? Oh yeah, bend to the will of Some Girl because, I am reasserting the loud piece that has been awfully quiet these days.

Pete, who is less than angry, saved me from having to do something because of a backslash. He saved me, can I get an AMEN, and I asked if he wanted to make out….he politely declined, but I feel like he totally wanted to suck my kiss (let me be vain…and drunk…and dependant on the ellipse). But I refused the good advice to clean out a file, (IT TAKES FOUR CLICKS!!!) is what he said [look at me making full use of punctuation this evening], and I thanked him for being so concerned about my carpal tunnel syndrome. I think we were both appropriately sarcastic. Now the captchas are working and should fully deter spamalot. I am working on sprucing up the list (Pete, if’n you’re reading, I totally figured out where the list o’words lives) and making it appropriately ironic.

Buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks, I don’t care if I never get back. The sox, RED of course, have been superfantastic and blowing shit up, yo. Tonight the game was a joke. Joke I say, and last weekend I went to the game, and saw some things and the things were there and stuff.

But I paid penance, for the drinking and had to take a bus home. I was the keeper of the things and as the keeper I was suppose to remember that I had keys and phones that didn’t belong to me and as I walked in the other direction looking for a cab, dawn came and I cringed in fear while horror washed over me and I realized that I was still the keeper. I tried to find a cab, but there was no cab to be found. A 30 minute walk, while Bruce bitched me out for walking in the not so nice place, and a 10 minute bus ride, and then a 10 minute walk later to get home, in my heels because who wears reasonable shoes to a baseball game? NOT ME!

And now, this weekend seems to be filling up with things with the people who know me and want me to do things that include copious amounts of alcohol. Yay! If I get my way, my weekend will be a big shebang because I need to shape up and ship out to make things A-Okay with Bruce.

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

Fun with search engines

Perusing my sitemeter this morning, I clicked through some of the search entries. I like to see how people get to me…

The one that makes me the proudest, insofar as I feel like I might be doing some good in the world, was found in an MSN search: Touretts and vocal ticks
... number of individuals attacked by blogger B in any number of places were all very vocal on ... Eventually, Bruce is going to be a social outcast made up of a series of ticks and Touretts-like symptoms ...

It’s enough to think that I am providing some well put together insightful ways of dealing with Touretts. Poor Bruce recently complained that I no longer call him annoying. I think that just block it all out. Plus you shouldn’t call your almost boyfriend annoying, that’s just rude.

Some of the blogger searches, like: laughing cougar
Cougar: I’m holding on too tight. I’ve lost the edge. I’m sorry, sir. Holding the difference between persona and person was easier when I wasn’t so content. I was going to use the word “happy” instead of content, but to be completely ...

and: Dirty talk
Now, I’m a girl who has heard some dirty talk in her day. I mean, I don’t actually mind the “dirty slut”, “my hot bitch”, “fucking whore”, and “wet cunt” stuff that can flow during sex. Some guys say it, others don’t. ...

are pretty normal (laughing cougar?) and I’ve come to expect these. Dirty talk is one of the usuals because it’s in my tag line.

And from google, we have: Maverick and Goose Sing
Goose: She’s lo… [catches up] Goose: No she hasn’t. Maverick: Yes she has. Goose: [objecting] She’s not lost that lo.. Maverick: Goose, she’s lost it man.

with a typical: Anaconda don’t want none
My anaconda don’t want none unless you’ve got buns hun. ... My anaconda don’t want none unless you’ve got buns hun.  Bleed Like Me (0) Comments (0)

Considering this is a category, I’m not too surprised that I am a search result for this. I am surprised how often someone seaches My anaconda don’t want none.

Additionally, google comes up with: dirty talk in bed examples,
Laughing All The Way: There will be no anonymous dirty talk here… ... Then you had to roll your beached-whale ass off the bed.

which is similar to: dirty talk rub breast,
Laughing All The Way: There will be no anonymous dirty talk here. ... Ask me if my breasts are real. Tell me that you are into the Poly scene because: well

we also have: Centerfold Boston Brunch,
What’s brunch…the meal between breakfast and lunch ... Boston has two strip clubs, Centerfolds being the nicer of the two, was our destination. ...www.somegirlislaughingalltheway.com/someblog/ index.php/site/whats_brunchthe_meal_between_breakfast_and_lunch/

as well as: Should I fuck a married woman
But you asked me whether I should have made that determination for her. ... take care of each other, whether or not you want to fuck a married woman or not

and to that last one, yikes of all the things to google. Man, you should just use the magic 8-ball and be done with it. Especially as the reference here is from a disreputable source and all that.

But there was one result that really stood out from the rest. Apparently when someone googled: “anal sex” “with my brother in law” -gay, this is what they got,
I had gone outside to smoke with my brother-in-law and I think I mentioned something about ... Apparently when anal sex is being had sometimes there are ...

They must have found that so disappointing!

Monday, March 27, 2006

He knows a guy named Igor

I found a new blog. It makes me laugh. I was afraid it might be a mommy blog (and by that I mean…“Isn’t it great that child X learned how to eat his own snot today. He is just so smart and funny hahaha.”) But it’s not. It’s funny (and well written) and funny.

Did I mention that I am fighting a sinus infection(so please excuse the weak writing)? This morning I was taking my antibiotics and noticed the following cautions: DO NOT take dairy products, antacids or iron preparations within one hour of this medication and MAY CAUSE DROWSINESS .

Okay, so as I downed half my large latte before this morning’s dose and then grabbed the frickin’ pills, I am wondering what the side effects will be…oh no, I am not wondering…dizziness and nausea…

Well, considering the damage is done I figured that I would finish the latte. MMMMyummy. Then I started to wonder about the DROWSINESS. I didn’t notice any drowsiness this weekend, then I remembered that I was triple dosed on the antibiotic, Nyquil and Tylenol PM. And I slept a lot. A real lot.

Thursday, March 02, 2006

This will never do

There was a comment left: Actually, I think he is partial to orange spray paint. Posted by Friend O’ Bruce on 03/02 at 03:27 AM…

Aaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeehh.

Friend of Bruce in my mind equates to FOB which makes me think of my cousin who several years ago, while on the porch at the beach house proclaimed: “Well, my sister is an FOB.” To which I went blink blink and she was all, “You know, Friend of Bill…Clinton.”

And as I sublimated my urge to carve my eyes out with a plastic spoon, I just numbly smiled and at an appropriate interval slowly backed away.

See the thing about my family is that they are all about the oneupmanship competition about whose child is bettersmarterstronger who has more money and a bigger house. When she was all FOB I was all, shut the fuck up.

And now, this is where I had a nightmare last night about my younger cousin reading my blog and leaving a comment. And then his mom read my blog and was all: “I know what you’ve done.” I am suppose to go to lunch with her in the next few weeks and now I am all freaked out. Of course this is not helped by the fact that this branch of the family hates my grams and calls her all kinds of things like mean (which is true but still, why they gotta bag on the old lady?). It’s okay, because my grams hates them back. She recently told me that the entire group of them are “Big Jerks” which are fightin’ words from the octogenarian.

If I weren’t in a cycle of really weird dreams I would be even more concerned, but two nights ago I dreamt that Megan Mullally and I were getting dinner and we had a big fight. We were both crying, I begged for her forgiveness, and in the end we made up. Then we died in a flood.

All of this is just a touch worrying, but not nearly as worrying as the google search for Pussy Chat “Mating Dance” that lead to my blog. That guy must have been pissed off when he ended up reading a story about Pussy Willow.

The short of the long of it is, Friend of Bruce, I’m changing your name to Jennifer. I know that’s not your real name, and there’s no real reason to call you Jennifer, I just kind of made up my mind when I read the comment that you should be Jennifer. I think because then it’s kind of like Bruce Jenner.

Haha. I rule.

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Prime example as to why I think it will work

ETA: When you click on a link, if it’s all squiggly and weird, hover on the lower right hand corner, you should get the handy dandy viewer thingy that will expand the image to regular size…will post today about why all the weird and the handy dandy.

There is a program here at work that is called Be Fit. It’s some weight loss thingamajig where people have to agree to weekly weigh-ins, four days of cardio, three days of weights, and the tip of the penis off your first born son. They seem all nice in print, but several of my co-workers have told me the skinny (or rather the not so skinny).

The program has been going on for a year, and while I am not a member, I do enjoy the meals made in the food services and nutrition department. Generally they are full of yummy stuff and make me go YUUUUUUMMMMM. But…The Be Fit Lentil Spinach Cranberry Plate has a side of hummus that tastes like cack. I am the girl who will will make her own hummus just for the right mixture of garlic and lemon juice. These people have not only forgotten the garlic and lemon juice, they also forgot that it tastes like cack.

Here’s the thing, I got this plate the last time they served it. And the time before that. And the time before that. I think you see where I am going with this. I wonder when I will learn to stop eating the hummus. The cack hummus.

As a side note, I saw her tits (scroll down)and I almost went blind. I belong to the gym at work, which is were all the Be Fitters join for their Nazi training sessions. She is one of the trainers and is apparently not at all body conscious. I know this because I saw her tits. Laying there. Flatly. Limp. Looking at me. I mean if you have cock-eyed tits (um?) shouldn’t you not let them loose in public like that?

The next day I needed some help on a weight machine, just who do you think was the trainer on duty…yeah flattittywoman. I couldn’t look her in the eye because all I could think was: “Wow, if my tits ever do that I am selling my children and using the money to get them lifted back up.” (I hear the white slave trade is going like gang busters in the middle east).

I just took another bite of the cack hummus.