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Jul 16

Dumping a load

Posted on Saturday, July 16, 2011 in arbitrary nonsense

Some things that are currently vexing me:

  • Sirens in songs that play on the fucking radio.. hello, that’s just stupid, if it scares the shit out of me, just think what it could do to an old person who already doesn’t remember that they’re driving a car
  • Assholes on the bike path who think they own the path. I’d like to spit in one woman’s hair in particular, just for being a stupid bitch–biking is great fun and a wonderful way to get exercise, but man, bicyclists as a group are comprised of some of the douchiest douche bags to ever walk the planet
  • Women who mess around with married men.  I don’t care if you dated him before he got married–it obviously didn’t work out for a reason, so move the fuck on with your life already.  I sincerely hope you can find someone to love your damaged, rotten face before you I move you along myself
  • Friends who didn’t remember my birthday.  Ok, I’ll make a mental note to cross you off of MY birthday list for next year
  • Our $400 water bill…WTF?  We must be filling someone’s swimming pool, daily
  • my neighbor’s dog who won’t shut the fuck up
  • teenaged girls who act like sluts–don’t they realize that they are still children and should cash in on that while they still can?
  • dog hair, endless dog hair
  • I really wish someone would wire Michelle Bachmann’s trap shut, and maybe forget to feed & water her for awhile
  • Men who say “pussy”, grow the fuck up already — if you were getting some, you wouldn’t take about it like that with your loser-ass friends
  • Men over 55 who say “pussy” on the radio, yeah, Jay Thomas, I’m talking to you
  • Christians who act like they are perfect and all forgiving, but then act like total bitches the second they don’t get their way, or encounter someone who doesn’t agree with their jesus crap.  This in particular is annoying to me because I have an ex-friend who hides behind religion to make people believe that she is a decent human being, but the truth is, she is the worst of the worst and I hope she gets what she deserves someday, I really do. I hope when she dies and goes to heaven, she gets turned away at the gates. In other words, burn in hell, bitch.

Boredom is killing me these days, if you couldn’t tell. But I’m feeling much better now.

Jun 2

What Facebook is NOT…

Posted on Thursday, June 2, 2011 in Legitimate concerns

The time has come.  There is now a need for what I call Facebook Etiquette, so listen up, assholes.facebook

Facebook is….

  • NOT a place to embarrass yourselves and your elementary school teachers by displaying your pitiful spelling and grammar skills
  • NOT a place to advertise “your goodies”, aka, photos of your tits, ass or your muffin-top
  • NOT a place to post wedding photos of a wedding you attended, BEFORE either the bride or groom does
  • NOT a place to constantly bitch about your life and the people in it
  • NOT a place to make other people feel like crap
  • NOT a place to force Jesus down others’ throats, not everyone wants a daily dose of “God Wants You To Know”. Hard to believe, I know.
  • NOT a place for parents and children to be friends with each other or each others’ friends, it’s just weird and the potential for invasion of privacy is just too great, and there’s just no easy way to explain to your friends why your 14 year-old daughter is posting inappropriate photos of herself and her boyfriend in compromising positions at your home (actually, your friends may already suspect that you’re an awful parent, this just confirms it)
  • NOT a place to dispense parenting advice (there are lots of parenting forums, so visit and contribute there)
  • NOT the place to ‘LIKE’ anything and everything your friends post, instead of actually involving yourself in maintaining the friendship by inquiring about their lives (this one will be hard because more than likely, you believe that everyone on your friends list is waiting anxiously for an update on your love life)

exclamation-mark-150x150And most important, if you can’t follow ANY of the above rules, try to at least follow the next rule: Facebook is NOT a place to inform family members or close dear friends of a death in the family or death of a beloved pet PERIOD–not EVER is this ok. It’s shocking and horrible to learn of a loved ones’ death, and to read it on Facebook is an absolute insult on top of the pain and grief.  If you can’t take 30 seconds to send an email or better yet, call KNOW THIS:  you are useless and everyone privately hates you.

Sep 1

I’m pretty sure…

Posted on Wednesday, September 1, 2010 in That's the spot.

After a quick glance at the analytics for this blog last night (analytics is so very cool, it lets me know when people are looking at my site, and from almost exactly where), I’m fairly certain that the female accomplice to my husband’s successful attempts to stomp my heart to a standstill emailed me yesterday, politely posing as someone else, asking me to remove her name from my blog. While, at first, being a trusting human being who is working hard everyday to rediscover my faith in the human race’s ability to be good, do good, I not only removed the name, but all blogs associated with the whole mess assuming I had unknowingly slandered someone else’s innocent name. I then apologized in an email to this person. I didn’t even bother with the analytics, until speaking with my husband, who insisted that it had to be her, and that he wanted to write her a nasty email (yeah, go figure that one out–like he has ANY room to sling curse words at anyone, other than his own reflection in the mirror) because after lengthy (and expensive) counseling both together and separately, we’ve really made some progress towards healing (notice I said ‘towards’–not that we’d arrived at healing–because we haven’t) and now, in his words “this cunt-whore bitch appears to rip shit up again”. Ok. True, I could have done without the reminder of how shitty our first year of marriage was (moving, leaving my fulfilling job to be a thumb twiddlin’ housewife, a violent death that left a pretty big hole in the family and the devastating healing process that follows that, going to twice-a-week counseling to get my anxiety and insecurity under control so that my already lying husband wouldn’t take it the next step further and physically cheat on me….and then this). I also could have done without his CHOICE to hide things from me. I could have used a man with balls who hasn’t been brow-beaten by his mother and a long string of loser girlfriends who seemed to believe that their sole purpose in their relationship with him was to make him feel like shit. Ok, he’s knock-kneed…yeah…but…he’s tall and wraps his arms completely around me and makes me feel hugged from the inside out. Ok, he chews with his mouth open–so does my brother, dad, male friends…any dude with a dong, basically. He’s also brilliant–he can read anything and then do it. He has an amazing ability to sense when I am frustrated and lend a hand. He lies. To himself most of all and to others, to protect himself from rejection and conflict. No reason to make him feel like shit about the things that make him who he is and the things he’s dealing with at this point in his life. And it sucks now that we two damaged people managed to meet, fall in love, get married with the hopes of being happy only to discover that we’ve both been severely handicapped by the people who have been inflicted upon us thus far. But, all that being said: He fucked up. It was him. This girl owes/owed me no loyalty, we were not friends, certainly not married. So after laying awake for a few minutes last night, thinking about the situation as it is now, and I guess you could say I ain’t mad at her. She was just doing what she does–she did what she wanted to do with what she was presented with. Maybe she needed a little ego-stroking like he did. No need for the name-calling. I have called her a few things myself–but the disappointment lies squarely on my husband and believe me, he’s been called every name I can conceivably think of–to his face. It is true that she knew that he was married, and based on the fact that he was using a fake name for his email, being the smart cookie that she is, had to have known he was hiding her (and another “Friend”) from me, and at least the other friend had the decency to back off and stay out of it. So, yeah, she could have taken the high road, but the fact that she didn’t doesn’t surprise me. Lots of people think marriage is a joke or temporary.  I don’t happen to be one of them, but it’s really not my place to judge those who do.

It may be hard to believe, but this situation is just one in a long line of disappointments that have sprung from our relationship dating back to the very beginning of our time, and it’s kinda really the least troubling. We both have some serious scars to work through, and as far as I know, we are doing that now. I hope it works out. Either way, I’ll come out on top. I’m smart, capable, have a fantastic family to fall back on whenever I need them, and good friends who support me without judging me, or judging my husband through all of his mistakes. My husband is weak, but everyone is weak at some point or another to varying degrees. And having stood by his side through a lot worse shit than this, I guess I can stick around a little longer to see where we end up.

I am a little confused though, why she pretended to be someone else..had she emailed and said “Please take my name off your blog, you whiny bitch” I would have done the same thing, partially because I need to move past that time, and partially because I understand where she’s coming from, sortof, and partially because she said ‘please’. It would have been nice to at least be leveled with. I follow the “own your shit” camp, but it’s definitely not for everyone.

Jul 11

I still hate Twilight and I’m not sorry.

Posted on Sunday, July 11, 2010 in Someone please pay me to bitch.

So I recently turned 30 years old, and in honor of my birthday (or so I thought at the time), a friend I haven’t seen in many years whom I’d reconnected with on Facebook, flew out from Chicago to visit. I had been really looking forward to her visit, as I have not made many new friends yet in our new town and was feeling lonely and unable to be with family, this visit appeared to be, on the surface, a real treat. My husband was excited that I was excited and we were both really looking forward to her company, me because I needed a female friend, he because he needed me to get the fuck out of his face for five minutes. As the day of her arrival approached, I made various plans about what we would do, what it would be like, etc…basically setting my expectations maybe slightly higher than they should have been, based on the simple fact that I hadn’t seen this woman for over 8 years. I worked hard at cleaning the house and creating a nice atmosphere for my dear old high school buddy. I even bought her a little gift that I had been eyeing with her in mind, wrapped it nicely and wrote out a little note of appreciation of her visit.

The big day arrives. Her flight doesn’t arrive until 9pm, so I have all day to be excited and anxious. At no time in that whole day did I rethink over the past 16 years of knowing her–all of the times she let me down, walked all over me, demanded things of me that no friend has any right to demand of family, let alone a friend, treated me and others around us like expendable characters in her never-ending, completely self-involved “All Melissa, all of the time” show in her mind. Come to think of it now, I am comfortable saying that I hated the bitch. I hated the bitch so much that when I flew back to Chicago to shoot one of our mutual friend’s wedding, I avoided her like the plague and immediately lost the phone number she passed to me through a guest at the wedding via my boyfriend (who is now my husband). I hated that bitch so much that even though I’d heard that she’d been divorced and had two kids and had plenty of life-changing experiences, I had no interest in reigniting our friendship. Not once did I think any of this (had I, I might have just told my husband to turn the car around, let’s save our time and money, honey!).

My husband drops me at the arrivals gate, so I can run in and find Melissa, while he loops the parking areas so we don’t have to pay for parking–(hey, airport parking is a total bitch and complete waste of time under all circumstances). I walk through the doors to see my friend, waving frantically, moving at me at a slow shuffle run. Words like “I’ve missed you so much! I can’t believe I’m here” were aplenty. O.K. so far, so good. We go to look for her bag that is just coming off the conveyor belt, and before I know it, I’ve been snapped into a horrible photo opp of her and I–me in my pajama’s practically, not really at all prepared for photos–and before I know it, it’s been announced to the whole world via Facebook that she and I have reunited and that I now look like an middle-aged lady with horrible (or no) style, a tired face and, as was so eloquently pointed out to me in a repeated & louder than hell fashion–I, gasp!, have GRAY HAIR. Forget about the fact that the whole baggage claim area is going to need chiropractic assistance after craning to see my shout-worthy GRAY HAIR, forget that one of the worst pictures in existence is now floating around on the world wide web….it’s great, right? It’s fine! This is a wonderful reunion that I couldn’t wait for…..right.

My husband swoops in as we exit the airport, and I am relieved to just be near him again—NORMALCY…someone safe, someone who denies my gray hairs, no matter how many times I point them out in every type of light possible…anyways, needless to say, the meeting of these two worlds, the world of my past and the world of my future, did not go so well…

As we head toward the airport exit, my husband and I try to make awkward conversation with someone who has their nose completely buried in their cellphone–texting someone–anyone. I felt like the square parents with their nasty teenaged sourpuss of a kid in the backseat. This incessant texting was to become a pattern throughout the trip. It became such a huge annoyance to my husband that he started texting me anytime she was texting other people so that we could talk to each other and ignore her back (no, we’re not in 5th grade anymore, but it sure does feel like it…!). She would go into a texting coma several times over the next couple of hours and days. I can only imagine the texts were a mixture of “OMG, LMFAO, she has gray hair!”, “OMG LMFAO, I’m in New Mexico!”,” OMG LMFAO, I miss you so much, I can’t wait to get home, LOL, TTYL,”….OMG, LMFAO, I’m pathetic!” Ok, so that last one would never cross her mind, let alone fly out of her fingers onto her keypad, but hey, whatever, it’s my story, so it stays.

We get home, I tried to point out a couple of times where she might find the Sandia Mountains, and various landmarks along the way..all answered by some variation of the words “uh huh, hmmm and ok”. (At this point, my hopes have fallen quite a bit, and I’m contemplating throwing her phone out the window on I-25) When we get home, my husband sets off blowing up her inflatable mattress while I try to talk with her about what the week will bring and how much we have to catch up on…everyone is pretty tired by this point, so we all dress in our pjs, my husband takes off to read for a bit in bed before sleep, assuming that she and I would want to stay up and talk a bit before bed. I’ll admit that I kinda thought this too. At some point while I’m taking care of the dogs, making her bed and getting ready for bed, she gets on the phone. I sit in the chair near her and wait for her to get off, assuming that this would be a short call. I waited, and waited… I soon realized that this was not a “I made it, I’m safe, I’m tired, talk to you later” call, it was an “OMG, he DID NOT say that! OMG, tell me more…tell me what you were wearing, what you said, and then tell me what he said..and then tell me what anyone else you told this story to said…OMG!” conversation. I’m not kidding you. All the while I’m sitting there yawning, twiddling my thumbs like a dumb ass. At some point during this conversation, I got up and went into the bedroom, for what I’m not sure. My husband assumed that since I’d been gone so long, we’d had our initial catching up chat and I was coming in to go to bed. Not so. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to go to bed, but didn’t want to be rude (no, going to bed without saying good night to this thoughtless bitch would have been too rude for me), but I didn’t know how much longer I could stay awake and I was pretty sure my impulse to punch her in the face couldn’t be held off much longer either. Finally, after an ETERNITY, she reluctantly gets off the phone. She then begins to tell me this long drawn out story involving she, him, them, who-ever-the-hell-else-who-cared-to-be-involved. At this point I assumed she was telling me the unbelievably crazy story she’d just spent 35 minutes or so listening to in order to explain her blunt rudeness. Nope. When I asked if her friend was calm enough to go to bed and get some rest, she said “oh, this happened last week–that was someone else on the phone.” What the hell? I went to bed just shaking my head. Duh.

I'm pretty sure this is her "I'm peeing in the pool" face.

I'm pretty sure this is her "I'm peeing in the pool" face.

The next day was my birthday, and I had decided before getting out of bed that I would start this day fresh. Let bygones be bygones…except for the fact that what was to come next was a nonstop cellphone party for this friend and all of her friends (you know the ones she sees all of the fucking time when she’s not over a thousand miles away visiting a new place and an old friend..) What kills me is that at one point, because it was my birthday, I was responding to a birthday text from a friend, and she was in the middle of telling me a long story about how this guy or that guy likes her but won’t date her, and she’s like “um, am I interrupting you?” Bitch, please! Mind you, this is her second day, and it dawns on me that I’d been wishing she would go home since about 9:30 the night before. My husband was very sweet and made sure that despite this rude cow’s presence, I had a nice birthday. And despite that rude cow, I did. It was a pool party, like when I was kid, with balloons and pizza and presents. The whole sha-bang. Thanks, honey!

Let’s see, since I realize now that I am kind of rampaging and not getting to my point, I’ll try to hit the highlights:

  • We paid for a great many of her meals without her offering to chip in (my husband wanted to hit her)
  • She told endless stories about the guy who is the love of her life, the guy she’s in love with (because somehow the two are different), the guy she has a crush on and the guy she has no feelings for but answers his booty call when he breaks up with his girlfriends
  • She made a few more comments meant to be direct blows at my self-esteem, as if turning 30 hadn’t left me feeling fragile enough
  • She went on and on about how there are tons and tons of guys in love with her, but none of them would date her because she’s too good for them (right!)
  • I was so desperate to figure out how to entertain her (a glob of human flesh with no interests outside of FB and texting) that I suggested we go see…(I cringe…) Twilight, knowing that she was a ridiculously huge fan. As was expected, the movies was crap, and all of the people who were there to see it were morons, and I am only sort of glad that I now know that I was speaking correctly in my last blog about how stupid this Twilight stuff is. Literally the movie was over and I was wondering why there was no climax to this movie and why everyone around me was crying or sniffling or some combination of the two
  • She continued to post awful pictures of me on FB and send them to her friends which is just not cool
  • She picked her zits until they bled and then later turned to bruises, then presumably rubbed her nasty face & hands all over the sheets and comforter and anything else she touched
  • She left her clothes around everywhere, never made her bed (which just happens to be in the middle of the living room) and left empty coffee cups on the table, literally feet from the trash can
  • She spouted on and on about how she’s now an evangelist about Jesus, OMG, I just love Jesus.
  • She helped herself to anything and everything in our cupboards–in constant forage mode, much like a locust
  • She squatted on my computer so much that my husband got into the routine of actually cutting off the internet to my computer so she could no longer surf Facebook and PlentyofFish.com (a website devoted to connecting skinny dudes who like fat chicks with fat chicks who like skinny dudes, apparently)

When it was finally time to discuss what time she needed to be at the airport to return home, she suggested 2 hours beforehand, and before she could even finish getting the words out, my husband says without looking at me “That sounds good!”….lol, poor guy, he’s been very understanding. I let the fact slide that being at our particular airport two hours early is silly because they are very efficient and security is quick no matter the time of day. Needless to say, I was as eager as he to be done with this ordeal. The night before she was to leave, my husband and I are lying in bed, playing on our iPads, relaxing, just praying for the morning to come soon so we can be rid of her awfulness, I’m feeling mistakenly confident that the situation can’t get worse and that the worst has passed. I then hear the doomed, and in hindsight, dreaded ‘ding’ notification that I have a text message. Confused at who would be sending me a text this late, I go to look at the message. It’s from her. The message says (mind you I am quoting word for word, hence the horrifying grammar and spelling) “hope u dont care but im lookn at the hood pics…FUCKN AWESOME! why r u not doing this for a living???” Upon reading this, I’m a little confused because no one has seen these photos, the bride, my friend, hasn’t posted them on FB, and I haven’t posted them anywhere either. The only place she could have possibly seen them is….on….my….computer….. Surely she didn’t. Surely she didn’t get on my computer without asking. Surely she didn’t start looking through my personal files….surely. Right? I text back nervously “Where are you seeing these?” She responds “on your computer duh… i check my fb and saw “hood wedding” i was like oh…good.” I’m panicked at this point because I feel totally and completely violated. The wedding file was on my desktop….OOOOOoooohhh shit. This bitch has the nerve to treat me like shit all week, eat on our dime all week, basically toot her own horn all week and act like she’d rather be in our shitty ass hometown from whence she came all week???? Oh hell no. My husband became alerted to my panic and starts angrily getting out of bed as I finish stuttering out what horrible deed she has just committed, presumably to go knock the living shit out of this ungrateful bitch. I stopped him, telling him not to go, knowing I had to do something, feeling for the second time during her visit that I’m not sure what to do, but know that something must be done, but I don’t want to be the one to do it…blaaaarg….dammit you nosy worthless human being! I felt completely powerless and, well, for lack of a better word, little. I just wanted it all to go away. This was, to me, the ultimate betrayal, you really can’t go back on that one. I don’t really remember what I said as I entered the office to put an end to this bullshit, but she got the message, very clearly. She was up and out of my chair like a flash. Nighty-night, shitstick.

I’m not sure where we stand now, and to be honest, I wouldn’t care to ever see or hear from her again. After dropping her at the airport and enduring the chilly goodbye, we threw a mini party in the car on the way  home, just happy to be free of her non-stop “Aren’t-I-Great” party. It’s exhausting, really. We get home and head up the stairs feeling utterly liberated. As I begin the clean up after her destructive departing, I notice that the gift I thoughtfully chose for her was in the very place she left it after tossing it aside thoughtlessly the night I gave it to her. Even knowing what I now knew, about what a thoroughly nasty person she is, I was sad and a little offended. She also left behind a pair of shorts and a pair of holey underwear. What sweet memories I have of those parachute panties when my husband accidentally picked them up, not even thinking that anyone would lay their dirty unmentionables out on the patio for just anyone to see, assuming it was a swimsuit since everything else out there was swimming apparel of some sort. I’ve never seen him move so fast to drop the panties and run to the sink, just in case a communicable disease lingered. This is pure class, for sure. In the guest bathroom, I found all of the towels in a ball on the floor (because at our hotel, that is our policy apparently) and in the trash dangling precariously on the edge, ready to topple out at any moment, was a USED MAXI PAD, not wrapped in kleenex or even somewhat concealed in any fashion. Apparently even her used maxi pads are gifts to be honored and cherished. It’s being dipped in gold as we speak.

Feb 2

It’s shit, that’s what it is.

Posted on Tuesday, February 2, 2010 in Legitimate concerns

I'm mad.

I'm mad.

A little over a year ago, I designed and built a website for a friend, at a deeply discounted rate. I charged a measly $300, for something I should have charged over $1,000. Not only this, but I designed brochures, printed them, and helped this selfish bitch hang them around town. Additionally, I made several changes and updates throughout this last year. FOR FREE. I did it all because I knew that the business she was advertising was something she really wanted and would be good at, because she was my friend. On top of all of the free advertising I did for her, I asked her about her business, on a regular basis, genuinely interested in her success and funny, albeit stupid stories about clients.

Over a year later, she’s paid me half of what she owes me, and it’s looking like we won’t see the other half any time soon. To be a little more specific, after doing the math, she has paid me $11/month. That’s cheaper than cable! Cheaper than Netflix. Cheaper than the pot and liquor her boyfriend buys on a weekly (maybe daily) basis! What a selfish user she is. Ugh, she makes me so mad- I can’t wait until she is a nearly forgotten memory!

Dec 7

The richest asshole in my town.

Posted on Monday, December 7, 2009 in Someone please pay me to bitch.

My husband and I went to dinner, on a date, to watch our favorite football team. We have this place that we go, they serve the best chicken wings in the state of Colorado. Our plan was to grab a table with a T.V. and watch the game, have some tasty wings and drinks and just relax.

We arrived at the restaurant and seated ourselves at a table next to a huge T.V. and asked the waitress to change the channel to the game we were looking for. My husband ordered a margarita for me, so at this point, all is going really well. As soon as I made the mistake of making this assumption, a short, pug-nosed lady with a wreck of a haircut shows up with a little girl who appears unable to stop neck dancing. For those of you who may not be familiar, neck dancing is where you bob your head and shift your shoulders in the opposite direction of your head in some form of a rhythm–think of an uncontrollable seizure. Anyways, these two characters show up and begin pushing two tables together, basically right in front of the T.V. Now, this is not the problem, not really. The T.V. is up high and so obstruction is not what I was worried about.

Shortly after this occurs, more of the brood shows up. More kids, and not sweet, well-behaved kids. Hell no. Snot-nosed tween-aged boys with bad haircuts, ugly hoodies and bad attitudes. They also happened to be rooting for the team opposing ours. But that’s not the worst of it. I’d recognized the portly man who came to join his unfortunate-looking wife and kids. He is the brother of one of the biggest douche bags in this whole county, maybe even in the whole state of Colorado, who happens to also be one of the richest guys in town–thanks to his Daddy. So, there’s one more seat left at the table. I’m eying this seat, wondering who it could be–not even imagining that it could possibly be who it turned out to be.

So, a quick recap, we’re now seated next to a table of rowdy, wretched looking people, who are cheering against our team, with one seat open at their increasingly disgusting table. I see him from the doorway. Nasty red hair, beady molesting eyes, a laughable attempt at a scraggly red mustache, topped off with a leather coat and a pedophile’s swagger. My heart sinks as I make the connection. Of course, he takes his seat at the table right next to ours. Appetite is at zero by this point. My whole attitude has taken a dive, and I’m feeling something akin to rage at the entire wreck of a family. It doesn’t help that every time our team messes up, they cheer. Two margaritas in and I’m imagining rolling over more than one of their heads with my car tire.

My husband seems concerned at this point, not knowing just how much I hate this guy. Reasonably worried that I’m going to let these people (if you prefer to call them people instead of pigs) ruin our evening. I explain the reason for my sheer hatred, which includes the way he eyes me at the gym, the way he always tries to talk to me like we’re friends–but with a definite note of condescension, like it should be my honor to be speaking to him while he sweats all over the eliptical. Oh, and let’s not forget how he stops by my office, acting like god’s gift to men and women alike. He owns the building my office was in and for some reason he thinks this makes him welcome in our office and in my life. First off, the building is a slum. The ceiling leaks whenever it rains, there are big mildew spots on all of the ceiling tiles, the carpet is moldy and worn throughout. Not to mention, he seemed to specifically hire only sex offenders to maintain the building. Secondly, the building is home to maybe two successful businesses, everything else comes and goes. If he thinks that owning this property makes him anything but a slum lord, he’s made a serious mistake.

I wish all kinds of bad things on him, and feel terribly sorry for his children, who have no choice but to be raised from little shits to full-grown assholes. I feel pity for his pudgy wife because I know he spends his time eying anyone but her. And, apparently, he’s supposed to be a good example of what a Morman should be. Ha!

Finally, the brood left and I couldn’t have been more happy. My spirits instantly lifted and suddenly, even the fact that our team was losing at this point couldn’t sully that. Even our service from our waitress improved, once she wasn’t busy kissing their asses. I don’t know how many times she refilled their iced teas without even glancing at my husband’s empty glass and melting ice.

In the end, our team didn’t win. But, I did walk away from that restaurant with a bounce in my step, thankful to be reminded that we are not them, and no matter how hard we tried, could never even come close!

Sep 10

Dear Job-that-I-no-longer-have, WTF?

Posted on Thursday, September 10, 2009 in Someone please pay me to bitch.

It’s been about 3 months since I quit my job–a little over 2 since my fiance and I got married. Things have been rocky–left and right. Marriage is hard. But my biggest bitch to lay out today is my ex-boss. She’s been clinging to my metaphorical nuts for the last couple of weeks and I’m ready to strap her to an atomic bomb and send her flying and enjoy watching the bits and pieces gently fall to earth. Better yet, I’d like to punch her straight in the chin.

We built her a website, we showed her how to use it, I exited my job, all’s good right? FUCK NO! That bitch can’t follow directions to save her kids’ lives. For her “It’s so much easier for YOU to just do it”. Free work? Ok, maybe for awhile, just to be nice and help her out. But yesterday, my husband decided to send her an estimate for some stupid thing she wants to add to her website, and she has had the mega balls to write us back and say that it should be free…?? WTF? Since when does punch-to-the-faceANYONE YOU KNOW work for free for someone you feel underpaid you enough already as it is? Bottom line, it’s not going to be free for us to do the work, so why should she not open her stupid german checkbook and pay for it?

I’ve changed my phone number and am getting ready to disappear off the face of the earth–because this bitch is CRAZY!

Also, the items that have made it to the shortlist of things/people I despise:

  • My landlord
  • My ex-boss whom I wish was an ex-citizen
  • watery dog poo
  • RLS….FUCK.
  • VHS tapes
  • websites that don’t work
  • this town

To end on a positive note:

  • My husband got me and iPod Touch! (it’s the devil but I love it)
  • We’re going on vacation in less than a month
  • Goo Gone has saved my ass twice this week–big love to goo gone
  • Work has been coming in steadily
  • I returned my library book EARLY for once
  • Hulu
Jun 5

Peterisms

Posted on Friday, June 5, 2009 in Someone please pay me to bitch.

“Uh, that’s just not going to hold. I wouldn’t recommend that. It’s just got to get done. Uhhh, it shouldn’t take long. Not much longer now. You might as well put the t.v. there, that’s where it’s always been, that’s where it always will be. Um, yeah, that sounds great.” Just a sneak peek into the inner-workings of Peter’s mind.

We’ve been cursed un-beer-ievablewith a chatty DIY landlord who lives 3 doors down. Our house is his pet project, his escape from his girlfriend and her visiting family. If it’s not one thing, it’s definitely another. We’ve not had a Peter-free day since we moved in. We’re quickly approaching a karate chop to Peter’s face kind of situation. My fiance doesn’t seem to mind it, which of course makes me even more insane! He’ll stand out in the driveway, holding a bag of potatoes, talking about lord only knows what, while I’m inside (waiting for previously mentioned bag of potatoes to start dinner with) pacing back and forth, planning voodoo curses on Peter and Peter’s children, and Peter’s children’s children. I guard my privacy with a fierceness, and I won’t apologize for it.

Today, Peter said he wouldn’t come by tomorrow if we were home–we’ll see if he can resist. I see him creep by, driving 2 mph, speed up, then break, trying to fight the urge to pull into our driveway. Peter might go missing deep in the moutain woods if I don’t get one day sans Peter! Hiiiii – yah!

May 2

Share the road?

Posted on Saturday, May 2, 2009 in Someone please pay me to bitch.

So, it’s that time of year again. That time when many lives are endangered by mass hordes of unattractively skinny, narrow-assed men pedaling two wheels and some metal down many of the area’s major county roads and highways. Share the road my ass! There have been many articles and “letters to the editor” about sharing the roads around here, who’s got more rights, who’s more responsible, so here are my two cents:

A. I do believe that both bicyclists and drivers should follow all traffic laws. (I cannot count on my fingers, toes and everyone else’s fingers and toes in this town, how many times I have seen some snooty bicyclist whip through a stop sign, red light or even riding in the wrong lane against traffic–but hey, they’re training, we drivers should be understanding and inconvenienced of course.)

B. Bicyclists many times feel that they must travel in packs, sometimes 4-6 deep. As you can imagine, this would take up a fair amount of road, leaving drivers no choice but to either cross the yellow line or take out a few self-centered assholes (and go to jail feeling like they just did the world some good) who are under the impression that it is not only easy for drivers to manoever their, but also enjoyable to miss on-coming traffic by a hair’s length.

C. Bicyclists also seem to flock to roads, highways, etc, that meet their strict requirements which are as follows:

  1. MUST be a winding road with many treacherous twists, turns and blindspots.
  2. MUST have a very narrow shoulders, on both sides, preferably less than 6 inches across.
  3. MUST be a heavily traveled area with many commuters in vehicles big enough to slaughter bike, helmet and body without leaving a trace.

D. I live, along with all of these bicyclists, in a town that was voted 2007’s most Bike Friendly town. So, last time I checked, we have a beautiful trail that allows you to travel from one end of town to the other, along a beautiful river, no less. If you’re not riding your bike to commute, why must you ride in traffic, on dangerous highways, endangering motorists and yourselves?

E. The idea that motorists have more responsibility in this issue is completely ludacris. If you’re moronic enough to challange my 1.5 ton SUV with your alluminum can on wheels, then best of luck to you. If I don’t encounter you on a narrow winding road with only a mere memory of a shoulder, riding in the middle of my lane, and you follow the traffic regulations, I got no beef (literally, because even if I were to hit a waifish bicyclist, it would be the equivilant of riding through a sudden downpour of dry leaves in late November–no blood, guts or beef on my grill!). But if I come up on you, huffing and puffing up the middle of the East bound lane on Floor Ida, game onclown_bike1.

F. Bicyclists tend to have a poor attitude towards everyone else who isn’t like them. Like, because we get our exercise at the gym or hiking on one of the nice trails available to us, or even if we don’t exercise at all and sit at home and drink beer and scratch our asses, we are lesser beings because we don’t humiliate our ball-sack (or in my case, female parts…) everyday by highlighting it with bright green spandex advertising Spam. Whatever happened to riding your bike for fun? And since when does it make you less awesome because you aren’t a grown man dressed head to toe in spandex to go out for a nice bike ride? Last time I checked, it doesn’t. That brings me to the final leg of my two cents: Attire

F. The “appropriate” attire is sickeningly hypnotic, like a car wreck you can’t turn away from. Spandex stretched from here to there, with nothing worth looking at in between. The “costumes” are just about the only redeeming quality of this “sport” because one can’t help but laugh when it pedals by.