March 30, 2007

I think I might have been in a coma and although my calendar does say Friday, I think it’s really Monday. Are you with me on this? Can someone clear this up for me?

Well, I can’t really get into details per say but I will say this: Buying a house and doing an “assumable mortgage” is HELL. There have been few situations in my life where I have felt this much stress and I’m going on auto pilot. I swear I don’t know if I’m coming or going. It’s a strange feeling and I don’t think I like it. But such is life. Hopefully I’ll be back to normal soon. Like I was ever normal. Ha.

My day started off shitty, no other way to put it. First, I woke with a migraine. Well, that’s not entirely true. I mean, I did wake with a migraine but it’s the same fucking one I’ve had for a month. I’ve eaten so many pills that my stomach feels like it’s going to fall out. Stomachs can’t just fall out right? Right? Come on, I’m looking for answers here people and expect them. I’m demanding like that.

Okay, take 2 pills, and get on with my day. I’m walking my daughter to school this morning and we have to cross the street in front of her school. There are signs up that say YIELD TO PEDESTRIANS. To me, that means FUCKING STOP WHEN YOU SEE PEOPLE WALKING IN FRONT OF YOUR CAR. Dontcha think? As we are crossing (and there’s also a STOP sign that hello, means STOP), this lady pulls up to the stop sign. She did stop. I will give her that. So my daughter and I are directly in front of her car. We have the right of way, and I look up at her except she’s not looking ahead. She’s staring out her window, looking to her left. Then she steps on the gas. Ah ya, hi, I’m WALKING IN FRONT OF YOUR CAR. As I’m yanking on my daughter’s arm to get her out of the way (and mind you this is all happening in miliseconds/seconds) the woman finally turns her head to see, Oh shoot, there are people almost touching my bumper. Oh because I’ve hit the gas and not been looking out my windshield as I should be doing if I’m going to DRIVE. I shot daggers out of my eyes at her as she slammed on her brakes and I’m pretty sure I stabbed her in the head with them. She refused to make eye contact with me then. Oh I see how it is, you get to just about run me and my daughter over and then you don’t have to make direct eye contact. Did you feel stupid? I hope so. You need to have your licence taken away or a ninya kick you in the ass. The latter would be nice.

I walked home without further incident and decided I had to get to the bank and then to the post office to mail a package. The bank was quick and painless, although I had to listen to the angry man beside me rip a strip off of the teller, which, although it may be heartless for me to think it was fun, but it was. Let’s just say because of this whole house stuff, I’m not keen on banks. Anyway, I leave the bank and head to the post office across the street. I get in there and yay, no lineup! Just one dude in front of me. The lady behind the counter comes over to assist me and as I’m standing there, I hear this weird noise behind me and hear, “oh look out!”. Now, listen, I’m not too swift these days and being in a stupour for the past month, my senses are dulled. Or maybe it’s the vodka. I don’t know. Anyway, I slowly turn around and then get sprayed on the side of the head/face with 7-UP. Yes, 7-UP. There’s a guy behind me, who had been loading cases of pop into the cooler and one of the 2 litre bottles became angry I guess and threw itself on the floor and split open and as it’s lying on the floor, spinning around, it’s shooting pop up about 5 feet in the air, thus spraying the walls, the products hanging on the racks and me. The postal lady was smart as was the dude standing beside me. They jumped out of the way. I didn’t. I just stood there like a moron, watching the pop spitting out of the crazy bottle spinning like a top on the floor. I think the postal lady told me to get out of the way. Too late. The other chick offered to wipe my jacket off with a paper towel. No, that’s okay because I’m going to go buy a giant bag of brownies and eat them until I vomit. And then I’m going to flush my head in the toilet. Then maybe I’ll pass out. Then maybe I’ll go fight crime. We’ll see. I’ll have to go dig out my super hero costume. Oh shit, it’s at the cleaners.

I hope your Friday is better than mine. Wanna come eat brownies with me?

March 22, 2007

Knock, knock, anyone home? Remember I shared my ‘hopefully will happen soon’ good news? Ya? Well, I was thinking I’d be flooded with house warming gifts, such as huge wads of cash, jewels and socks, everything a new house needs and/or a big swanky party. So far, nothin’. Nada. Zip. Zero. I see something very wrong with this picture. You all say, ‘you’re a crazy bitch’, ‘we love you’ but I’m not feelin’ it or seein’ it people. Get your shit together, mmmkay?

It’s Thursday (although I’m going to tell you in a later paragraph that I’m confused on the days, you just wait and see…you didn’t know I was psychic) and besides feeling slighted that noone cares enough to host a big schwing ding for me, I’ve got nothing to bitch about. Well, almost nothing.

Does anyone watch American Idol? I pretend to and when I’m pretending to be into a show, it really pisses me off that they allow people who can’t sing on that show. Girlie haired boy really has to go. Sure he’s young, just a baby really, has pretty hair and nice teeth, but last time I checked this was a singing competetion. And he. can’t. sing. I guess Howard Stern’s mission is working. Do I care? Not as much as I care that noone has sent me any presents.

Oh, did I mention I’ve got the perma-headache from hell? It’s a migraine that never fully goes away, lingers, making one feel nausous and wanting to punch people in the neck. Maybe that’s why noone is sending gifts or having parties for me. I’ve been on a punching rampage, thus alienating potential gift givers and party throwers. Duh.

My daughter informed her father last night that she needs $12.50 for a diary she wants to buy. She told him that he only needs to worry about the 12 bucks as she can spare the 50 cents. She needs to write her ‘private crap’ down as she put it to me this morning. Oookaaaay. She’s six. Although she looks six, I’m thinking she’s 24. Gotta be some joke on me.

I’m all mixed up this week, thinking today was really Friday but no, it’s only Thursday (see, told ya I was psychic). Survivor was on last night and I think that’s what messed me up. Doesn’t take much does it? Or maybe it’s because I’ve been drunk for 8 days packing like a mad person, even though we still don’t know for 100% sure if we have a house to move into. I suppose it’s better to be prepared. I should save a few of the cardboard boxes I have incase we need them, you know, to live in. Cardboard is the new condo.

It’s spring now incase you missed it. I like to make sure my 7 fans 957 fans are up to date on the latest news and world events. I’m informative like that. Just a big bag of knowledge I am. Or maybe it’s just a big bag. I’ll get back to you on that one. Are you as bored as I am? *Yawn*

I should perhaps get off of my duff and do more, ah, cleaning. Ya, cleaning. Or is it sleeping I’m thinking of? I get the two confused sometimes. Maybe that’s why we have no clean clothes or dishes or floors, or bathrooms. Hmmm. Okay, gotta go scratch my head and wonder what happened to my brain.

March 1, 2007

…..My life feels like it’s in the toilet and because of that, I feel fugly. Kinda like the above picture. I don’t have any idea who that is and no offense, thankfully I don’t actually look like that but I wanted to show you how I feel. I’m not going to get into any details really because honestly, my 3 500 fans want funny, not whiney/sad crap. Well it will be crap but if we’re gonna talk crap, let’s at least make it funny right? I’ve got my hand on the pulse of everything. I’m super cool like that.

We have less than 3 months to be moved out and now no house. The fugly pink house has 100% been sold and although I was really upset about it, my 10 year old son said today that we’ll just keep watching and maybe the new owners will someday want to sell it. He’s got a point.

I’m a tad worried about clumps of hair falling out when I wash it. I mean I do have lots of hair and so far no bald spots, but damn it’s creepy seeing that much hair in the tub. I always freak a bit, thinking it’s a redhaired rodent and then realize, ah no, it’s not. I’m chalking it up to stress and I’m sure a little booze bag of cookies will fix that right up. If I start looking like baldy Britney, then I’ll worry.

I think I sprained my wrist but I’m not 100% sure. I do know that it hurts like hell when I type and when I tried to punch the retarded bank teller in the ass today, I could barely get a good swing so I’m thinking I did something to it. Next time that bizatch is gonna meet the high heel of my boot. No need for wrist action for that. Goooood thinkin’.

I’m wondering when spring is going to come around? I mean I know it officially arrives on March 21st according to my calendar but that’s 3 weeks from now. I want it now. Like 2 days ago. Is that asking too much? Like what the hell does Mother Nature have to do that she’s too damn busy to get spring going. Spring into action MN (that’s what I call Mother Nature, MN. We’re tight like that. Sorta.). Get it? Like my play on words? I’m so, wordy.?. Ah ya.

I got a new pair of pants a couple of weeks ago. Isn’t that exciting? Aren’t you thrilled for me? You’re probably slapping your leg right now, saying, ‘damn that girl is a rebel, buying new pants’. I know it and you know it.

Tonight is my favourite tv night. I watch ER and Survivor. Any ER and/or Survivor fans out there? Wanna talk about it? Don’t you just love Luca? And by love, I mean, don’t you want to rip off his clothes (probably not so much you Ozy, unless there’s something you want to tell me?) and smear chocolate on him and then……………………….oops, sorry, I fell off my chair. On that note, I should go help my kids with their homework because goodness knows the maid/chef/tutor didn’t bother showing up today. Damn lazy bitch. Peace out.

February 24, 2007

I really, really should be doing laundry right now. You know what though? My laundry isn’t going anywhere, so I say, to hell with it. Except, that I do need my laundry because it’s basically my clothes and I’m not going out in public naked. At least not today.

Did I tell you that my neighbours still have their Christmas tree up? Yup, they do. I don’t think it’s so much the old man that is in charge of the tree, I believe it’s the old battleaxe wife that is so weird that she can’t tell if it’s December or if I’ve punched her in her ugly someone’s shat on my face kinda face or that it’s actually February. I think they still have their Halloween lights up too. Freaks.

I’m going to another hockey game tonight. Isn’t that just the shiznat? Amazing really because this is only my second time. Remember I was a hockey virgin just last month? Well I’m reminding you. Geez, you have a short memory. Have you been drinking? You should lean towards the example I set, and that is being sloshed 24/7 a model person who never does anything that would make anyone’s eyebrows go up in shock. I’m all innocent like that. Near perfect really. It’s kind of embarrassing. Oh well. Such is life.

Oh ya, I forgot to tell you about my wrong number. They follow me like flies to shit. Ah. Hmm. Anyway, goes like this:

Hello?

Hi, is Mrs. Begoenogowiulknlngsslijtoy there? (People never get my last name right. And it really sounds like it looks) (Ah that’s not my real last name. It aint’ that fucking weird.)

Ah ya, sure, close enough.

I’m wondering if you would prefer a new phone, 2 extras for 2 months for free or 5% off of your bill for 5 months?

What? Who is this?

Oh I’m calling from *insert stupid phone company name here*.

Well I’m quite happy with the company we’re with now. Thanks anyway.

I’m thinking, that my last sentence pretty much signals the end of our stimulating conversation but alas it does not.

If you could just tell me which ‘free’ option you’d like, then I can get you started.

Get me started on what? Unless you’re offering me a free trip to Africa, $10,000 in cash, a new car and a hot massage, I’m not biting.

Excuse me? Ah, well, I, ah, well we can give you a free phone. *Insert asinine fucking retarded fake laugh here*

I have 2 phones that I’m happy with, we get along very well.

Well you could get the 2 extras such as call waiting and call forwarding, and they’d be free for 2 months! Two months!

Wow! Fantastic. But I get SIX free features with my current phone service provider. All. The. Time.

You could save 5% off of your total bill for 5 months!!!!!!!!

Wow!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! No.

Can I just…….

Listen, I know it’s your job to call me and mispronounce my name even though it’s quite simple to pronounce (my daughter could spell it for shits sake at age 2) and I know you’re all excited when you tell me about your ‘free stuff’ but I’m telling you, I’m not switching. Never. Ever.

But you can even keep your same phone number!

Super. I’m still not switching. You have yourself a nice day now. See ya. And by see ya, I mean I’m going to get out my voodoo doll and stick needles in it, pretending it’s you. What’s your name again?

Are you sure……….

I hung up. Geez. Like I have things to do mister annoying telephony man. I have M&M’s to look after. I have hair to flat iron. I have booze that requires my attention church functions to attend. Sigh. It’s hard being me.

Okay, time to get in the shower. It’s like 1pm-ish and here I’ve sat for most of the day. I did clean earlier and feed my kids so it’s not like I did nothing. Close to it but not quite. Ya’ll (don’t I sound cute when I say that? No? Well then.) have a super friggin’ Saturday.

February 23, 2007

It’s Friday incase you didn’t know. I had to go to the bank this morning and it was really quite uneventful. *Crickets* Soooo, how ’bout that weather?

I was reading some stuff today (that’s why I decided to call this post ‘just stuff’, because it’s going to be a big jumble of shit all over the place ramblings) and there was a story about a woman who swallowed her lovers false teeth. Apparently they were trying out a ’special type of passionate kiss’. Like kissing is kissing for the most part unless you’re into sucking the gums/teeth (literally) out of your partner’s mouth and then swallowing them and then shitting them out. Yes, she shit them out later on. You know, I’m just going to stick with the boring ole’ French kissing stuff, you know touching tongues etc etc. Call me old fashioned.

Oh, guess what? A beaver was spotted in the Bronx River recently. Apparently they haven’t seen a beaver in those parts for like 200 years. Huh. I’ll show you a beaver. *Wink*

Some postal dude in Mexico was caught with 10 tonnes of mail in his house. Ah. Okay. Gosh I love people.

I’m listening to the song ‘Nasty Girls’ from back in the day. Nice lyrics. ‘I guess I’m just use to sailors, I think they got water on the brain, I think they got more water upstairs than they got sugar on their candycane’. Damn that’s deep.

Hey I flat ironed my hair today AND I did it in less than an hour. That’s a miracle. If you saw and/or felt how much hair I have and how thick it is, you’d be cheering for me right now and possibly awarding me with a medal or trophy of some sort (or sending cash. I’ll post my address later). I’m quite pleased with myself. Now I just need some place to go to show it off. Like who’s going to see my fine lookin’ hair if I sit here on my ass all day? Maybe I’ll go to the grocery store and hopefully some old coot will hit on me again today. That’d be fun. I love being visually assaulted by someone with cataracts and 8 inch coke bottle lenses. That’s just how freaky I am. That’s hot. Hot like a nasty ass rash

My daughter has a half day at school today so that means I have to entertain her all afternoon. She’s a hard one to entertain sometimes. There will be no quiet for the rest of the day. That child talks like there’s no tomorrow or the next day or the next day. I wonder what kind of drama she’ll tell me about today? I’ll let you know when I know.

Oh gosh, did you hear about the loser that called 911 because he couldn’t get into some club? Like, what the fuck? Here’s what happened. Well, now my version might be slightly different than the actual voice footage released by the 911 operator. But what the hell, here’s my take on it.

911: What’s your emergency?

Douchebag: They will not let me in! Help!

911: Who won’t let you in where sir?

Douchebag: They won’t. I can’t get in. I wanna get in you know?

911: Sir, tell me what the emergency is. Are you hurt?

Douchebag: Damn straight I’m hurt sista! I want in and they won’t let me in. I got all gussied up and am lookin’ mighty hot if I do say so myself. So I want you to order them to let me in!

911: Who sir?

Douchebag: The club owners. The bouncers. Or doormen, whatever you call them.

911: The club owners sir?

Douchebag: Yes! I wanted to go dancing tonight, I have my little ‘bojangles’ type shoes on, all set to get my freak on and boogy down and these asswipes said I can’t get in. I want to get my freakin’ freak on, get it freak?

911: Sir, this is not an emergency. Any establishment has the right to refuse you sir. I’m sorry but this is not a legitimate call.

Douchebag: That’s what you think! I got out my purple shiney shirt with the ruffles and my black pleather pants and my pointy shoes and dammit, I want in. I looook gooood. Soooo good.

911: Sir, I’ll have officers there right away. They’ll take care of it. (and by take care of it, she means, they’re going to kick him in the face and make him eat the ruffles on his shiney shirt)

Douchebag: Thank you. I knew I would have the law on my side.

I guess he was arrested for drug possession (ya think?) and unlawfully calling 911. There truly are some wonderful human beings out there.

Okay, peace out. Time to pick up Miss Chatterbox and then maybe we’ll go to Subway so the ’sandwich artists’ can oogle over my drunkeness hair.

February 22, 2007

*Warning* This post may contain whining, bitching, moaning, a big pity party atmosphere and general complaining.

You may remember that I’ve secretly, all spy like, kinda mentioned a “fugly pink house” that we were hoping to buy. Well I found out yesterday that the house has been sold. And not to us. So thus the reason I feel like whining. Who would have thunk it? That I would want a really super ugly pink house. I do love pink just not for the outside of my house. Oh wait, it’s not my house. Anyhooo, moving on.

I have a migraine from hell because it’s not only making my head feel like it’s about to blow up but it’s making my teeth ache like someone punched me in the face. Hard. This is day two of said hellish migraine.

I went to the grocery store this morning and almost stepped in someone’s big gob of spit in the parking lot. How freakin’ gross is that? I can tell you, along with the disgusting spit, people would have been stepping in VOMIT had I indeed stepped in it. I cannot handle anything resembling snot or snot itself.

As I’m shopping this morning, I’m pretty sure I was hit on by two old men. One guy followed me through at least 4 isles, oogling me up and down. I know I’m hot but please, noone over 100 50. And the other old guy was standing behind me in the checkout line and I think he touched my ass with his hand. Or maybe it was his trouser snake. Or maybe it was his shopping basket that accidently hit my arse. I dunno.

Then. Then. Then. The cashier screamed that I ate her baby and punched me in the neck. Or maybe she said, ‘here’s your change, have a nice day’. One can see how I could mix that up. They’re so similar.

I decided while I was out getting groceries, that I would purchase vodka, rum, beer and chocolate celery sticks to comfort myself. Nothing like getting smashed and fat a long, green crunchy vegetable to cheer a person up.

Oh. Oh. Oh. I have to do more packing this weekend because well, we have to move out soon. And ya, we don’t have a house now. Oh I mentioned that up there. I’m mentioning it again, because I can. Why does a male dog lick his balls? Because he can my friend, because he can. I rest my case. I warned you that this would be whiney and mopey. So bring it.

I’m going to go now and flush my head in the toilet because that’s the trend now for complaining bitches. And everyone knows I’m nothing if not trendy.

February 2, 2007

Do I look shifty to you? Would you think I’m someone who smuggles soup in my purse? Should I be wearing an orange jumpsuit? Well apparently some people think all of the above.


I was at the bank the other day and after I came out, I decided to drive over to the gas station to grab a bottle of water and some peanut M&M’s healthy snacks. I didn’t even actually park in the gas station parking lot, I parked across the street and walked over.


I go up to the counter with my purchases and the cashier/owner asked me if I put gas in my car.


No, I just have the water and M&M’s.


She looks out the big window at the gas pumps and then looks at me with a very suspicous look on her face.


Are you sure you didn’t get gas?


Yes I’m very sure.


Again, she looks out the window and then back at me.


So you didn’t get gas?


No I didn’t. Geez what is this woman’s problem?


You’re sure?


OMG, I didn’t even park here. My van is parked across the street. Holy accusatory.


If I didn’t have a major hard on for M&M’s thirst for water, then I would have told her to shove it.


Next day, I’m at the grocery store and picked up my son’s Pediasure at the pharmacy. We have it paid through Family Services for Children with Disabilities so the pharmacy just issues a manual receipt to show that we’re not stealing it so I can get out the door without any hassle, HA. I go pick up a few groceries and get to the checkout and pay for my groceries. As I’m bagging them, the cashier sees I have 5 boxes of Pediasure in the cart and the receipt is laying right on the top box.


What’s that? Pointing to the boxes.


It’s Pediasure.


Give it to me.


Pardon?


Give me a box so I can ring it in! You didn’t even pay for that! Why didn’t you tell me you had it?


Ummm it’s paid for. Hence the receipt that I got from the pharmacy that’s laying on the top of the boxes.


It’s paid for?


Yes, that’s why I didn’t mention it when going through the checkout. Not like I tried to hide 5 giant boxes right on the top part of the cart. *Smile* *Fakely* (Is that a word?)


She glares at me and goes back to her other customer. Geez. I’m walking towards the door and there’s a lady (sometimes a man) (I don’t mean that the lady is sometimes a man, I mean that sometimes instead of the lady, they put a man there, but I digress), that stands at the door to offer customers change for the carts, provide fliers, and also harrass people apparently. My favorite part.


Whoa. Get back here.


Pardon?


What’s that?


It’s Pediasure.


What’s that? Is that for kids? What is it? Hmmmm?


It’s a nutrition supplement for children. That’s why there’s a fucking teddy bear on the box.


Did you pay for it?


I have a receipt right here. I don’t pay cash for it, but I have a manual billing receipt issued by the pharmacist.


Who’s it for?


Nunya. Nunya fucking business you old bat. My son.


Well I learn something new everyday.


That’s great, haha. Did that sound fake? I hope so.


Did you get porked?


Did I get porked? First I’m made to feel like a criminal and then I’m practically assaulted sexually with the pork talk by an 80 year old woman.


Did you get your pork? If you spend more than $150, you get free ribs. Here’s a coupon.


Oh. Oh. Great. I was really craving pork. *snort*


I gotta go, get on my black and white stripped sweater and get out the old ball and chain, get my left boob tattooed and make a shank so I can escape later and maybe get a strawberries n’ cream from Starbucks.

January 26, 2007

Yes, I realize Christmas has passed and the next one is pretty far away but I wanted a “crappy” picture to show my “crappy” mood, so I searched for a “crappy picture” and this is what came up. So I’m goin’ with it.



My nerves are so frazzled with all this house business, both with having to keep my house (that we rent) spotless 24/7, so the realtors can show it (it’s for sale), leaving the house and trying to come up with things to do while I’m out, like get drunk shopping, worrying about whether we can swing buying the fugly pink (we’ll eventually renovate) house we want and now my van. It’s basically a piece of shit metal on wheels. I might as be driving around on an actual piece of poo with attached wheels. I think I’ve said crap, shit and poo like a million times already, so I wonder what kind of CRAP searches I’ll get today? Hmmmm. Should be interesting.


I decided to drive my daughter to school this morning since it was cold, I’m fighting a lingering migraine and honestly, I just felt like it. Well I dropped her off, waited until the bell rang and then went back to my van to leave and it wouldn’t start. There’s a loose wire thingy attached to the battery thingy that you apparently have to beat or wiggle or some such bullSHIT. As you can tell, I know nothing about vehicles other than THEY’RE. SUPPOSED. TO. START. WHEN. YOU. TURN. THE. KEY.



I called my husband to see if by some miracle he was still in our neighbourhood but no, no he wasn’t. He told me to lift the hood and hit the cable going to the battery.


The battery?


Yes, the battery.


I don’t know what it looks like? Like a Duracell?


No. You’ll see it when you open the hood, it’s on the passenger side.


Ah huh. Right. Does it say ‘battery’ on it?



No.


Well I can freakin’ guarantee I will not know what or where it is.


I get the hood open and just as I suspected I had no clue which dirty, blackish, dusty, metal thing it was. He explained and I eventually spotted it. He told me to move the cable a bit or hit it with something. Works like a charm for him everytime.


You want me to hit? With what?


I don’t know, there must be something in the van.


No. There’s yesterday’s mail. Should I beat it with our power bill?


Sure. No, there must be something, a wrench, something.


No, I’m looking and I see nothing.


Did you open the back door of the van? There should be something there.


Fine, I’ll check.


I find a trowel thingy for spreading crack fill. Oh this should TOTALLY WORK.


So there I am, beating my battery with a trowel. It’s NOT WORKING. My husband is assuring me that eventually it will. No, it won’t. I’m trying, my hands are now black/brown/dusty/crappy and I must look like some kind of circus sideshow pounding on the inside of my van’s hoody thingy. My husband tells me to just walk home and he’ll be over later. Sure. So I grab my book and lock the door and start walking home, cursing the world, my van, my frost bitten hands, Oprah, The Pillsbury Doughboy and anyone/thing I can think of. So there I am, walking down the sidewalk, bawling like a 2 year old, the stresses of the last few weeks finally coming to a head. Great time to have a breakdown. My makeup’s sliding off my face, tears pooling on my jacket, snot most likely starting to drip from my nose and then I begin to hyperventalate and have an asthma attack. Gee, did I happen to bring my inhaler, you know that thing I need incase I STOP BREATHING? No, no I did not. So I’m walking as fast as I can, which doesn’t help when you’re fighting for air, wiping my face off with my jacket sleeve, which is not a great idea because my jacket is brown and my makeup is white seeing as I’m a pasty person, mix that with some snot and tears and you have a jacket that really needs to be WASHED. Oh and I’m trying NOT TO DIE from lack of oxygen in my lungs.


I finally make it home, stumble with the key in the lock because of the lockbox on the door handle and the fact that my once pasty white hands are now red/purple from being so cold. I get in and go on a search for my inhaler, find it, take a few puffs to get some much needed air in my chest, and then fall on the couch to continue my breakdown. I sat up a few minutes later and went to take a look in the mirror, which cracked from the horror show displayed on my face. Let’s just say I WILL be redoing my makeup.


Anyway, now that my little cry fest is over for now, I think I’ll go bitchslap my neighbour’s dog that won’t shut it’s yap. Might as well get this funky mood out and what better way than to beat a small yappy dog? I can’t think of a thing! Happy Friday.

November 12, 2005

I love the community we live in. It’s for the most part, quiet, everything is close to us, tons of stuff within walking distance, everything at your fingertips. Our street is a cul de sac and although fairly big, it’s quiet and noone really ever bothers you. Well almost never.


We live next door to an older couple, I’m guessing in their late 60’s if not early 70’s. The old guy is pretty nice, always says hello, waves etc. Never really had a problem with them until this past summer. They have 2 small dogs and that was never an issue until they built their fence. Well after the completion of their spanking new white fence, they would happily go to work and their small gray shit mutt would make his way through the tiny “doggy door” they had cut out of their back door. That wouldn’t necessarily be a problem had their little shit hound kept his yappy, annoying, high pitched barking trap shut. And this dog (and I’m sorry but it weighs like maybe 4 lbs…it’s a hairy cat I’m sure) barked for HOURS. Not just a yap here and there but a continuous, torturous, sound barrier splitting, blood coming out of your ears, rather poke rusty nails in your eye sockets than listen to that dog bark just one more time kind of bark. My living room wall faces their backyard, so when I would be trying to happily enjoy my computer time, I’d hear it. Go on and on and on and on and on…………OH MY GAWD. Shoot me. No, wait, shoot the dog. Remove it’s vocal cords, send electric shocks through it’s ass, something, anything. Send electric shocks through my ass if it will stop the insanity of having to listen to that dog. Make it stop.


This went on for days, weeks, it never stopped until they got home at suppertime each day. I had every intention of calling Animal Control and reporting them. But I got lazy and never got around to it. Hubby said he was going to talk to them before we would report them if we decided to report them. Well one evening while hubby and I were out, and the older kids were home, the doorbell rang. It was yappy dog’s granny canvassing the neighborhood, wanting to know who reported her for her asshole dog’s continuous barking. Matt answered the door and told her, that the dog was quite annoying (yay Matt!) but that as far as he knew his parents didn’t call Animal Control. She proceeded to tell Matt that she was going to go door to door and find out who did this. They were fined $500 bucks (awwww, that bites doesn’t it?) and she was determined to find the culprit. I’d like to know too and give them a fucking medal, a trophy and a big wet kiss. Thank the Lord for whoever called! I’d kiss their freakin’ feet.


Anyway, after that, we didn’t hear yappy asshole out much and the barking pretty much stopped. I think they kept it inside after that. Well fast forward to this past Thursday evening. I had just got the kids to bed and was enjoying the quiet when the doorbell rang. I open my front door to granny go lucky and she starts off the conversation, with “Have you heard the dog barking?” (and she says it in a snarky, old bitty, want to slap your face kind of voice). I tell her no that I’ve not heard it all lately. I put on a fake smile and wish she’d leave immediately. She’s really a weird old bird. Then she says, (in the same bitchy voice), “Well we went out and bought one of them there collars and it cost me $100 bucks.” Wow, like I fucking care. As long as that thing isn’t barking and making my ears bleed, I could give a rats ass what you do with your money or your shit mutt. However, I didn’t really say that, I sure thought it though. I just continued to fake smile at her and replied, “Lovely.” She stormed away without another word. Wow, love thy neighbor. Uh hunh.