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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.

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.

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!

Jun 14

It’s bullshit, that’s what it is.

Posted on Sunday, June 14, 2009 in Legitimate concerns

Why is it that men can stare, ogle, and cat call women ALL DAY LONG, yet no one ever thinks any less of them–it’s chalked up to “that’s just men”…but women who do that are considered unclassy and gross?? I haven’t noticed that many women, especially women who are happily involved with someone, do this anyways. I don’t even consider men like that–really ever. But, why do men have this universal pass? Why do women put up with it? Men and women are equally responsible and equally capable of being aware of their actions. My fiance, who has been caught doing this on SEVERAL occasions, insists that he doesn’t recall doing it. and it’s not a conscious thing, and he derives “absolutely NO pleasure” from watching that girl with the bouncing tits walk by (puh-lease, don’t insult me). Sometimes I almost believe him that he can’t remember doing it–but he definitely does it, pretty much every day. Being an insecure woman doesn’t help this situation. So obviously, the reason I’m blogging about this is that yesterday we had an incident, where he was most obviously checking a girl out, I pointed it out to him, and he just kept doing it, in the process looking right through me to see this girls boobies jiggle around in her slutty shirt. After I heartily cussed him out for being such an obvious dirtbag, (right in front of me!) I met up with my mom, who told me “oh honey, don’t get caught up in caring about that, that’s just what men do….”……??WTF? Since when is that ok? Since when did women stop demanding respect from their life partners–the men who supposedly want to livethosearesomeboobs their lives with, have babies with, grow old with….? She might be married to, and happy to be married to, the world’s biggest sexist asshole, but I don’t want to be. I will not settle for that. Now, don’t get me wrong here–I KNOW that things happen, I KNOW that glances will be made, and when there is an obviously attractive woman, she might get my man’s attention for a second, but it should never be such a blatantly disgusting, tongue-wagging, eyes popping out of head situation. Maybe I’m asking too much, maybe men are incapable of controlling this seemingly unstoppable need to look at every woman’s tits, but I think it’s NOT asking too much, especially from my own soon-to-be-husband-in-two-weeks-for-god’s-sake! Maybe I’ll try an experiment, where I will drool over men’s muscles and six-packs so my fiance knows how it feels. I don’t think it would feel good. In fact, I propose a “give your man a reality check” WEEK-long event which includes all of the ogling and drooling over hot guys right in front of them, and maybe reduced listening skills, oh, and during this week, women will NOT have to do a lick of housework..and if you’re really into it, you can pee on the toilet seat and surrounding floor….This would be worth it for a dishless day alone! I’m not a man-hater, because I love my fiance, and love most everything about him– but I’m definitely a hater of things men do, get away with and believe they have the right to get away with. No more! I agree that my pointing his ogling out to him will cause fights and tension, but it causes ME tension and stress to watch him do it, so FUCK THAT SHIT. I am not a follower of the belief that you have to play a game and be “careful” when dealing with men–they aren’t careful with us, and I think they can handle it and it’s about time that they become the “manly men” that they all think they are and own up to their bullshit ways and deal with the ladies calling them on it!

May 12

Kelly Clarkson (oh yeah, I went there)

Posted on Tuesday, May 12, 2009 in Bitch slap of the day, Legitimate concerns

kelly-clarkson-nomakeupI’m more than comfortable to admit the following statement: I hate Kelly Clarkson. More specifically, I hate Kelly Clarkson’s shout-singing music, since I don’t personally know Kelly Clarkson. And to specifically nail what I would call the low point of her musical career we have her latest song “My Life Would Suck Without You”. What. The. Fuck? Ok, so I’m giving some of you the benefit of the doubt that you have no idea what song this is, so I’m going to include some of the lyrics. I won’t go as far as to stream the actual song, mainly because I wouldn’t inflict that on anyone. Here goes:
Guess this means you’re sorry
Your standing at my door
Guess this means you take back all you said before

Like how much you wanted
Anyone but me
Said you’d never come back kelly-clarkson-coffee-bean
but here you are again

Cause we belong together now, yeah
Forever united here somehow, yeah
You got a piece of me,and honestly
My life would suck without you

Maybe I was stupid
For telling you goodbye
Maybe I was wrong for trying to pick a fight
I know that I got issues
But you’re pretty messed up too
Either way I found out
I’m nothing without you

Cause we belong together now, yeah
Forever united here somehow, yeah
You got a piece of me,and honestly
My life would suck without you

Being with you is so dysfunctional
I really shouldn’t miss you
But I can’t let you go, yeah

Cause we belong together now,yeah kelly-clarkson-fail
Forever united here somehow, yeah
You got a piece of me,and honestly
My life would suck without you

Cause we belong together now, yeah
Forever united here somehow, yeah
You got a piece of me,and honestly
My life would suck without you!

(I love that whoever it was who typed these lyrics ended the last chorus with an exclamation point–yes, I’m happy it’s over too! yay!)
Also, as proof that there’s always someone ready to eat any shit you play enough, here are some comments I found while doing research for this blog on a Kelly Clarkson webpage:

(7)

Apr 27, 2009 at 05:48 PM

I Luv dis song!(•_•)
It’s 1of ma fave Kelly songs! (I simply have no comment)

(4)

Apr 27, 2009 at 03:02 AM

yeah!!!this song is so pwerful and kelly ruleeezzzz….. (spell check please?)

(12)

Apr 10, 2009 at 12:33 AM

this song is one of the best songs on earth!!!!
awesome!!!! (One of the best songs on the earth? I say take every copy of this song and bury it 3 miles deep into the earth, then we’ll be ok)

(3)

Apr 08, 2009 at 03:48 AM

i love this song! i am getting a hang out of it in singing it too!  (What? What’s going on here?)

180px-kelly_clarkson_blue_angels1I don’t mean to poke fun at Kelly fans (yes, I totally do) and I’m not saying every Kelly fan is stupid (yes, I totally am  and yes they totally are), to each their own, I know. All I’m saying is that you’d have to have pretty low expectations to find anything musically worth admiring in her music or lyrics. Oooh, she’s angry, ooh, now she’s feisty, ooh now she’s sassy and lovelorn. Oh give it up. All I want to know is: When will she be retired??!

Apr 20

Super-stress me

Posted on Monday, April 20, 2009 in arbitrary nonsense

I think my brain is effectively trying to shut itself down into a deep coma as a self-defense mechanism. I know I curled my hair today, but I don’t remember doing it. I only know because when I look in the mirror, my hair is curly. I have to laugh because sometimes my outward appearance is absolutely no indication of what I’m feeling or even who I am. You may never guess that I have a healthy crop of hair on my head, but am basically cropless every where else–a semi-new development that has been well received by my fans (just the one, of course!!). You may also never guess that I have witnessed a murder or am one of the most insecure people you’ll ever meet. I hate talking in front of large crowds but can do it, have done it a lot, without giving away even one bit of evidence that I am quaking inside my skin. I curl my hair, wear make up, paint my finger & toe nails. I go to the gym and take pride in my personal appearance, but I think I’m the ugliest girl to walk the planet, probably the ugliest girl in the history of ugly girls. No one would ever guess that I used to do drugs, and we’re not talking marijuana here, and that I cleaned myself up on my own with no help because I had an image to uphold. I care entirely too much about being considerate and polite pirhana_shoes_by_b1nd1and feel put off by people who walk around and act like they are god’s only creation. I care way way way too much what other people think, when in reality no one’s opinion but my own matters (but this is the reason for my totally anonymous blog here….) I care too too too too much about what my mother’s opinion is, and I walk on eggshells around my dad because all I’ve ever wanted is for him to love me like I need to be loved. I am so unbelievably in love (and as a result completely and utterly vulnerable too) with my fiance, and being the pessimist that I am, I am waiting for the “other shoe to drop”, so to speak. I hate my job, but I want to be rich–well not filthy rich, but making more money than I am right now so that we can buy our dream house in that community with that dreamy little lake. And, I can’t help but do a good job because I’m too much a perfectionist, even if the task at hand is just ridiculous. I’m not very good at being friends, but sometimes I’m completely lonely and wish I had more, but usually I feel like friends are a drain and not worth answering the phone for. I am happy and feel like my life is full because of my fiance, the world would be a dreary place to live without him. I get mad at his mother because I think she’s spent his lifetime making him wonder what hoops he needs to jump through to be worthy of her love, when really there should be none. I have an alcoholic father, brother and aunt. And this just makes me crazy, I know it’s a disease but jesus! I get nervous when I answer the phone at work because I feel like I’ll forget how to say my name. Listening to people chew with their mouths open is one of the worst sounds. Ever. Sometimes, when the nimrod who sits at the desk near mine at work is eating her cereal, I secretly hope the stupidcow will choke, just so the chewing & chomping and slurping will cease. Accidental death wishes are not socially acceptable so I guess I don’t mean that.

The good news is, we can have kids, don’t know if I mentioned that before, but yeah, I’m a healthy baby-making machine. My ultrasound was apparently a snorefest. Which is great, we love snorefest ultrasound parties. We could start trying tonight. Or definitely pretend to try ;)

Nosebean, out.

Apr 6

There’s a dually and a dick in my driveway.

Posted on Monday, April 6, 2009 in Someone please pay me to bitch.

WARNING: Explicit thoughts and words will follow.

My mom recently left her husband (hoorah, do a cart-wheel if you can) because he’s the king of Douchbag Island. And regardless of the fact that I know, and she knows, and everyone knows, that she will go back to him, I’m proud of her for standing up for herself for a minute. Here is how I feel about her husband: He is a tall, 61-year old baby with a smuggness I just want to rip off of his face with my fingernails (true, I keep them short–an old piano player habit – but they could still do some damage). I cannot remember a day of my 28-year old life that his ugly face hasn’t made an appearance. (Yes, he wrecked my parent’s marriage–not single handedly, I’ll admit, but he sure didn’t help keep our family together at all) He treats my mom like a slave, and doesn’t appreciate any of the things she does to take care of him. He invested all of their retirement money in a sour real estate deal (despite the fact that I shared my gut feelings about it long ago…), has known for a year that there is no money coming in, yet still sits on his flat ass playing a scintillating computer card game, Solitaire (anyone heard of it? It received the UGY award – Underacheiver’s Game of the Year). All the while, my mom, who has a reasonable head on her shoulders, decides to get a job so they can have some money and he can have his damn health insurance. This makes her day as such: 5:30 wake up, make Dink breakfast, take a bath, walk 1 mile through deep snow to highway where vehicle is parked (upon arriving she will discover that her work slacks are wet to her knees and she might as well have skipped deodorant and the curling iron), drive 25 minutes to town, work from 8:30 until 4:30 at a depressing place that smells, quite literally, like death, at 4:30, she will then drive to the grocery store to buy food for dinner, drive 25 more minutes home, walk through the snow, up the porch stairs with said groceries, only to walk in to fnd Dink at computer, with only his balding donut-head greeting her, breakfast dishes? still dirty. Dinner? Won’t be ready until she cooks it. Not only does she have to cook it, then she has to do the dishes to clean up afterward. (Go ahead mother, chime in: *But sometimes he does help me dry!!!!) I find this situation to be unacceptable. Mainly because I know that it’s not how she wants to live her life. If she could paint a picture of her ideal life, it would not resemble this situation one bit. And that makes me sad, because I know that while she taught me growing up that I should always be independant and rely on myself to get by, she can’t practice what she preaches and only stays with him because she is scared.

So, as I mentioned, she’s living with me and my fiance now (who, by the way, has been really wonderful about it all) but Dink is not out of the picture, oh no. She is dating him now–meets him for dinner here and there, goes up to take care of him, I’m surprised he doesn’t call her to wipe his ass every time he craps, honestly. This weekend, he had the nerve to pull his big dumpy truck into MY driveway and stand in MY front yard and act like a cocky fuck while my mom handed him the section of the newspaper where one might look to find a job – good luck you talantless shitstain. I want to tell her, so badly, that he’s not welcome within 1 mile of my home thanks much, but I know that it would hurt her, so I don’t. I guess I can’t be her backbone. But one thing I did learn from this: Blissfully, I can set boundaries in my OWN life that will not permit assholes like that to be in it, period. And that is sure a relief. I think I’ll start my list of people who won’t be invited for Christmas with:

Dink

Coincidentally, the list ends there. (for now)

For more information on how to get on this list, checkout: www.rnc.org, if you like what you see, you’re well on your way to a spot on my list. Congrats.

Apr 2

Ye-AAH, kanka.

Posted on Thursday, April 2, 2009 in Someone please pay me to bitch.

Let us just skip the introduction here. New blog, blah blah blah. <Insert statement about how my life is boring and you don’t have to read this if you don’t want to…> bah!

I am a young female living in a pretentious area in Colorado, somewhere in the lower left-hand corner of the state and that’s just about all you need to know about me for the time being.

Today, I came to the conclusion (as I have on many other days), that people are rotten. Example: My boss, typically works 1-2 weeks out of the month (the other two are spent on various vacations or skiing/snowboarding–yay for her, right?). This is fine because she employs me. She pays me a measly salary which makes her feel like leaving me to handle everything alone is A-ok. I am the sort of person who convincingly “enjoys” eating shit all day, so this arrangement “works” for the time being. I am also a competent person who finds worth in doing things competently, correctly and relatively quickly (aka, no job too big or fucking-off-the-moon ridiculous for me!!) so she feels confident in her absence extending well beyond a month at a time (did I mention I work in a commission-based career…you may guess where this is headed). All of this would be A-ok with me if it weren’t for two small details (damn us type-a personalities and our details): 1. I do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT get paid proportionately for the amount of work (and ass-covering) that I do in a day, hell in an hour. 2. It never fails that when she IS in the office, she whines (in her whiniest voice) that she hates having to come home from vacation and go right back to work. In my opinion (coming from a person who hasn’t had a week vacation since last April, and then it was just a week), she should shut the fuck up and be happy that she gets to go on vacation every other week. You didn’t make the silly assumption, did you, that these are somehow “working” vacations? I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt that you did not. So, you’re probably asking yourself how she stays in business, right? I have also asked this question, and the only answer I can manage to find is: me. Not knowing all of the circumstances, this might sound conceited, and maybe it is. But I know that I do a damn good job, I keep shit in line and make sure her ass and everyone else’s ass who works in our office doesn’t wind up in court. I can’t really describe what it is that I do, because knowing my luck, some shitstick from my office will find this blog and well then it’s all over, isn’t it? Anonymity is key my dear friends!

So, the even that leads me to truly believe that people are rotten is as follows: My boss just came back from a weekend camping with her worthless husband (literally, and this is being kind I think) and too-smart-for-her kids….last weekend, which included the Friday before. In the meantime, between Monday and now, my immune system has taken a dump all over my life, I have canker sores, a cold, I haven’t been thinking clearly on and off, am having some sort of reproductive problems apparently (we’ll know more tomorrow), and I sneezed on Tuesday and threw my back out. I have been appearing every day for work, to sit at my desk with a fucking heating pad cemented to my ass. Do you think that any of these events would stop her from taking the other nimrod in my office and going on a 5-day, no cell-phone signal rafting trip? (I should also mention that the “nimrod” I am referring to also just returned from a skiing weekend in Utah, two weekends ago, BOO!) Hell no! Don’t get me wrong, I received plenty of sympathy looks and useless remarks of the “I’m sorry” nature, but come twelve o’clock, those broads are long gone.

This is the result of letting the world use you as a stepping stone to get somewhere else.