Because you didn’t look.  You apparently believe you are the only person on the road.  You smashed into my suv and caused damage.  Luckily my fist didn’t smash into your face.  I like how you pretended to not speak English yet you chanted FUCK many times and surprisingly, you, all of a sudden, learned English at the police station.  Cute.

Because you suck at your job.  Thanks for following up AFTER we’ve already taken care of the issue.  You know, WE did YOUR job. Thanks for telling me you were on vacation and forgot to take care of us before you left.  I feel like a special client.  My advice for you?  Go shit in your hand.

Because you stole $800 from us.  Which, yes, thank you because we’re rich and all.  We don’t have two mortgages to swallow or children to feed, so feel free to take what we’ve worked for.  Much appreciated.  Oh, I hope you drop the soap while showering in jail.

Because you tell me your life story every single time I go through your checkout lane.  And you whine about the meat leaking, which I didn’t see any leaks but thank you for telling me that it was leaking and asking if I needed a paper towel to wash the leaky meat juices from my hands, which? there was no leaky meat juices on my hand, but whatever.  And?  A dry paper towel is not going to properly sanitize my hand should there actually be leaky meat juices on it, but it’s the thought that counts, right?  Sure.  Please.  Stop.  Talking.  To.  Me.  I don’t care that you’re wearing a fellow employee’s uniform because you forgot yours.  Don’t. Care.

Because you’re clearly INSANE.  We don’t owe you money, fucktard.  But, hey, if you think we do, SUE US.  There are judges.  There are courts.  That’s how normal, reasonable people try to get money (that they delusionally think is owed) – they sue for it.  Take us to court.  Pounding on windows and doors, making threats and screaming that you “want your fucking money,” is not how sane people go about things.  Oh, gosh, let me whip out my cheque book and write you a cheque for the money THAT WE DON’T OWE YOU.  You’re an artard.  You’re a few turds short of a shit pile.  And to think that you’ve stewed over this imaginary owe you money thing for TWO YEARS, is hilarious.  How about you move on?  Get a life.  Get a job.  Get a brain.  But most of all?  FUCK THE FUCK OFF.

Because you blow chunks as a CEO.  Your professionalism is… wait, you have NONE.  You have no balls and are spineless.  You spread lies to suit your needs, which hey, if that’s how you run a company, then so be it.  I don’t see you moving up the ladder of success.  Oh, and your face looks like a can of smashed assholes.  Just sayin’.

Because your hidden “fees” are highway robbery and yet we can’t get out of the contract without paying MORE money.  It’s awesome how your customer service, uh, DOESN’T EXIST.  It’s like you’re a legitimate, legal thief who has the right to take, take, take but never give back.  Thanks.  A lot.

And that concludes my short rant.  I swear, rainbows and butterflies are now taking up most of my dining room.  Yay!

Anyway, I have decided to write my letter to Santa early, so the fat, jolly man can get a head start on making my wishes come true.  I’m a planner like that.  Plus?  I’m demanding and want everything on my list.

Here’s my letter:

Dear Santa,

I think I’ve been a good girl this year.  Sure, it’s only February, but I’m not planning any naughtiness unless you count ringing my neighbor’s doorbell and running away as she opens the door with only her ratty blue nightgown on and her hair in a crappy ponytail with mascara streaked down her face as she holds a bottle of beer in her hand.  That’s all in fun – hardly naughty.  Anyway, as it stands, I’m gonna be a damn fine little princess.  So?  I think you should fulfill my wish list.  While some things on it may seem unobtainable, I’m sure you can make it happen.  I mean hello?  YOU ARE SANTA FUCKING CLAUS.

First, I need you to make Octomom go away.  No, I’m not asking you to kill her.  That request would certainly put me on the naughty list and/or jail and besides, who would look after her 76 children?  Oh, right.  The nannies.  But still.  I’m not saying kill her, just make her go away.  If I have to see her ridiculously bad photo-shopped bikini photos one more time, I’ll punch you in your fat gut and vomit in your shiny black boots.  Yes, see?  You’ll be the one paying the price if she stays around.  She’s a lying, narcissistic fame whore who thinks the rest of us are sitting around drooling over her tummy tuck I just ate veggies and worked out at midnight while my babies were sleeping to get these abs kind of body and when I see her fish lips move, it makes me slightly insane.  Please take her back to the North Pole with you.  She can feed your reindeer.

I’d like a Hummer.  I do have a SUV but a Hummer is bigger SUV than what I currently have.  Why do I need a bigger SUV?  Duh.  To run over the bitches that try to cut me off while driving or run stop signs and then give me the finger.  The hell?  Oh no you di’int.  And while I can technically run over those crazy bitches, with a Hummer, there would be way less damage to my vehicle.  Yes.  It’s all about me.  I’m cute like that.

I’d like a new pair of sharp, shiny scissors.  You know, for shanking.  I like a clean, perfect shanking and with dull scissors, you don’t get that.  Make them pink, please.

I’d like you to eradicate all stupid people.  Start with the woman who works at the grocery store who constantly spews her stupid.  Her stupid is so stupid it wants to stab itself in the stupid face.  And honestly, doesn’t this make me very selfless?  I mean people will love me if all the stupid people are gone.  They’ll be all like, ohmygosh! you asked Santa to get rid of all the stupid people, we love you!  See?  Win-win situation for everyone.

A bag of money.  Oh come on now, I’ve helped get rid of all the stupid people… I deserve a big bag of money.  Like a huge bag of money.  Huge money.  Lotsa money.  Make it happen, you jolly old soul.

Burn all the Snuggies.  Seriously, dude.  Snuggies are redonkulous.  It’s a fucking robe worn backward.  It is.  Just look at it.  And I’d like you to to ho-ho-ho punch all the people who buy their loved ones a Snuggie.  Really?  What kind of asshat are you if you purchase someone you care about, a Snuggie?  I’d rather have Vince the Slap Chop dude sprinkle his nuts on my ice cream cone.  Anything is better than a Snuggie.  And now?  There are Snuggies for dogs.  The fuck?  No.  Burn the Snuggies.  I know you can do it, Santa.  You’ve got people.  Or elves.  Whatever.  Same difference.

Drop the guy at the post office a note that lets him know when he talks to me as I’m purchasing a stamp, I’d prefer if he looked at my face.  My face is not down my shirt.  Tell him that his slyness is so not working.  He’s about as subtle as Miss Piggy and twice as annoying.

Boots.  You know what I like.

Please don’t let Paris Hilton become a mom.  Is that wrong of me?  OK, at least not until she matures.  I mean really, she’s only 28, just a mere child with a wonky eye.

Tell Kanye West he’s annoying.  Put coal in his stocking.  Explain to him that most people think he’s a big, whiny douchenozzle.  Make him understand.

Boots.  Did I mention I want boots?  A few pair.  Heels.  Thigh-highs.  Ankle.

I’d like Russell Hantz to win Survivor: Heroes vs Villains.   Not that Russell needs Santa to help him out, but still.  I want him to win.

In closing, I’d like to thank you in advance, Santa.  I know you won’t want to disappoint me because I’ve been a good girl (see opening paragraph) and a lot of my wishes will help others, not just me, so that makes me awesomesauce, right?  Right.

I promise to leave you your favorite cookies and a big glass of milk (I may get hungry while waiting for you, and in that event, you can just get your own damn cookies and milk.  You know where to find them).  I’ll just ask you to take off your snow-covered boots before tramping across my hardwood floors.

Thank you, Santa.

Love, Sassy.

Life is funny, right?  Like, how does it work that my kids get older and I get younger?  Yes, I’m cute but totally fucking delusional.

My middle son turned 22-years-old a few days ago (and I’m only 26… see?  Weird, right?) and we wanted to totally embarrass him on his special day.  How do you do that?  You take him out to Montana’s restaurant!  The employees like to sing to you and clap their hands and this? is something 22-year-olds hate.  But?  He got a free cookie.  So, worth it.

Free cookie:

Below, son is smiling but dying inside.  The middle kid is my youngest son – yes, his hair is LONG.  He’s a future rock star.  And the girl on the end, is my 9-year-old daughter, who thinks she’s 23.  Missing, is my oldest son.  He’s busy being a grown-up(ish).

It was a nice dinner… and I think the waiter wanted to hang with us.  I mean, yeah, of course, because we brings the awesome, but dude, get some friends.

Son loves having his photo taken.  Evident.

Didn’t get drunk at Montanas (although photo evidence shows otherwise).  May or may not have gotten drunk at a party the night before.  He admits to nothing.

He said he’s gonna rock 22.  I rocked 22 when I was 22… just four years ago.  *cough*

Damn straight, my kids know how to bring da cheese.  They learned it from the master:

We gifted son with iTunes card, an American Express card and a grocery store card.  All as good as cash, and that makes son happysauce.

Note: Giving your kids what they want will ensure they will not put you in a home years down the road.  I’m always thinking ahead.  Just sayin’.

So, I have this red blanket made with Chenille yarn.  It’s such a pretty red, so rich, so vibrant and the blanket is so warm.  Obviously, sometimes, a blanket needs to be washed.  And red Chenille yarn blanket is no exception.  The first three times it was washed, nothing happened.  I put it in the washer on the gentle cycle and dried it in the dryer on a low setting.  That’s what the care instructions said to do.  And I’m all about following the care instructions.  DON’T DEVIATE FROM THE CARE INSTRUCTIONS.  I followed the rules dammit.  To a ‘T’.  And yet?  Something evil happened on washing number four.

Who knew I’d be sobbing because red Chenille yarn blanket hurt me?  Destroyed me.  Seriously.  I have no forgiveness for it.  Or should I blame the washer?  The dryer?  My neighbor?

I put blanket in the washer so it would be all clean and smell nice.  I followed those care instructions like a good laundry girl and when it was done, lovingly took it from the washer and put it in the dryer.  Set it to dry on low AS PER THE CARE INSTRUCTIONS.  Uh huh.

And?

This is what came out:

My blanket is no longer a blanket.  It’s a pile of fuzzy red, uh, fuzz.  What the hell is that?  How does a blanket, which was completely intact when it was put in the washer and then the dryer, come out looking like it went through a meat grinder?  ‘Splain this to me.  I no longer have a red Chenille yarn blanket.  Well, technically I do, but I’m guessing it won’t do a very good job of keeping me warm.  At all.

I’m now covering up with an old Blue’s Clues blanket that belonged to my son when he was little.

Blanket fail.

*Note* If you came here just because you thought I was naked in a hat and mittens, shame on you.  But it worked, right (and technically, that IS all I’m wearing except you can’t see the rest)?  And now that you’re here, gosh, you might as read what I wrote?  Yah?  S’good, thank you.  *Bats long eyelashes*  On to the crap good stuff:

I’m a morning person.  I’m a night person.  I’m a people person.  One thing I’m not?  A winter person.  I. HATE. IT.  There is nothing good about winter.  Wait, that’s not fair… there must be something good about winter.  Let me think… and nope, can’t think of anything.  Nada.  Drawing a big blank.  And to add to that negative train of thought, let me give you ten reasons winter blows.

1. SNOW.  Snow is horrible.  It’s cold.  Wet (ish).  Hard.  Soft.  Fluffy.  Annoying.  And did I mention COLD?  I love when people say to me, but it’s so pretty.  Especially the first snow fall.  Um, no, it isn’t.  It’s disgusting.  I will never think otherwise.  I hate snow.  Don’t tell me snowmen are cute.  They’re only cute if they’re made of fabric and don’t melt.  A snowman made of snow?  I stab it.  In the face.

2. ICE.  See # 1.  Similiar to snow except it’s harder and frozener.  And colder.  Ice on the roads?  Yeah, makes for great driving especially for the dickwads who think they can drive the same way they do on bare roads.  Like a dickwad.  You can’t.  It’s ICY and shit.  Ice means slippery.  So, ICE=shit drivers.  Bad combo.  Aaaand, it’s fucking cold.  Right, I mentioned that.

3. COLD.  Winter brings cold temperatures and means I must wear extra layers of clothing.  I don’t like that.  I don’t want to wear more than I have to and bundling up is annoying.  How can I bring teh sexah in a parka?  Nearly impossible.  Cold is for penguins.  Do I look like a penguin to you?  And cold temps bring SNOW and ICE.  See # 1 and 2.

4. CHRISTMAS MUSIC.  Yes, winter brings Christmas music because Christmas happens to arrive in winter.  I do not like Christmas music.  I like to shank it IN THE NECK.  And I love going shopping now so I can hear Christmas music blaring through the speakers in the department store.  Puts me in the mood.  To stab the cashier.  She did give me the correct change and I appreciate that.  She did it with a smile, too.  That’s nice.

5. SHOVELS.  Winter means I may have to pick up a shovel and shovel SNOW and/or chip ICE.  See # 1 and 2.  If I’m picking up a shovel, I’d like it to be because I’m going to beat my mailman for failing to bring me fun goodies in the mail.  Not for shoveling snow.  That seems wrong to me.

6. BOOTS.  Now, don’t get me wrong.  I luff boots.  I’m a boot whore.  But my boots are made for walking on bare sidewalks.  In the mall.  Dancing at a club.  Other things.  Not for wading in snow, or trying not to slip on ice.  See # 1 and 2.  Boots are meant to be pretty.  Sexy.  Not for getting wet and slushy because of that ugly shit called SNOW.

7. DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME.  True, it begins before winter officially starts but it happens when it’s starting to get cold – see # 3 – and it makes winter that much more depressing.  It’s dark at around 5 p.m. now and so we get to be cold and sit in darkness.  Yes, my house has electricity, so I do have lights and don’t actually sit in the dark, but when I look out the window at 5:47 p.m. and see blackness, I want to choke it.  It being anyone within 3 feet of me.  What are we saving the daylight for?  Let’s use it.  So who can I talk to about this daylight savings shit?

8. SNOT.  You know what I’m talking about.  It’s cold.  People are out.  Their noses run.  Snot may drip from their nose.  It grosses me the fuck out.  I DON’T DO SNOT.  It’s the one thing I can. not. handle. ever.  Come near me with a snotty nose and I’ll cut your face off.  Fair warning.

9. UGGS.  If you own Uggs, I’m sorry but you need to burn them.  When I mentioned boots in # 6, I was talking about sexy boots.  Boots with heels.  High boots.  Pretty ankle boots with a chunky heel.  Not slipper boots.  Uggs should be shot.  And stabbed.  And shanked.  Don’t wear them.  Stop humiliating yourself.  Have some pride.  THEY ARE FUCKING SLIPPERS WITH TREADS.  Stop the insanity.

10. LONGEST SEASON OF THE YEAR.  I don’t give a rat’s ass what scientist may or may not say about seasons.  Here, where I live, winter is the longest season of the year.  Why can’t the other three seasons be the longest?  Huh?  Why the hell not?  Why does winter-like weather have to start in October and end in fucking June?  Me not likey.  I may whine about the heat, too, but for serious, if I had to pick, I’m picking HEAT.  I think I’ll move.  California, here I come.  So, they might get earthquakes, floods and fires… at least they have the warm.

In closing arguments, winter blows.  Sucks.  Has nothing to offer.  Oh, you ski?  Yeah, whatever.

I’m going to give a movie review.  Because?  I feel like it.  No, I do not do this professionally (yet) and no one is asking me to do this, I’m just a giver.  What can I say?  I’m going to talk about The Box.  If you have not seen it, and plan to, you should stop reading now as I am going to spoil it for you.  Like, in a big way.  Fair warning.

***Spoilers*** (But really?  I’M saving YOU money).

The movie takes place in 1976  and honestly, it drives me nuts when movies take place in the 70s unless there are disco balls involved and/or white pimp suits.  There were none of those.

Let us (by us, I mean, me and my split personalities) begin:

Okay, the opening scene involves some sort of memo being typed across the giant movie screen, something about a dude named Arlington Steward being burned and he is delivering shit to people.  Not actual shit, but I’m using that as a general term, as I often do.  There’s mention of the Mars project.  Yeah.  I should have known right then and there, that I would be wanting to HANG MYSELF by minute 26 into the movie.

So, there’s this couple, Norma and Arthur Lewis, and early one morning, their doorbell rings and wakes them.  Norma is the one to get up – I’m guessing because Arthur is a big pussy who obviously doesn’t care if his wife gets stabbed in the face by the home invaders, except it’s 1976 and I’m fairly certain there were no stabby home invaders back then.  Plus, this is not that kind of movie, so there was no stabbing (unfortunately).  I personally would have loved TO STAB THE WHOLE MOVIE in it’s STUPID FACE.  Sorry, I digress… Truth be told, home invaders don’t usually ring the doorbell.  Just sayin’.

Norma, the less lame of the two, opens the front door to find a box wrapped in brown paper, sitting on their step.  She sees a black car drive away (don’t ask me what kind of car, I don’t know cars and neither does Norma.  IT WAS BLACK.  That is the extent of my, and Norma’s, car knowledge), and picks up the box and brings it in the house.

By this time, Arthur, the lamesauce husband, has come down the stairs and they stare at the box.  Their son, Walter,  (smartest character in the whole movie) is at the top of the stairs, asking if Santa has come early.  No, Santa is fat and lazy (and only pretends to be jolly), he does not come early, little boy.

The semi-good looking family (boy is super cute) sit at the table (and OMG y’all, the wallpaper is fucking fug.  Right, it’s 1976, sorry, forgot) and stare at the box.  They open it to find a wooden box with a glass dome on the top that houses a button.  Like a big button.  One that you sooo want to press.  But it’s locked.  However, there is a key and a note.  What does the note say?  It says, “THIS MOVIE SUCKS CAMEL DONG AND YOU SHOULD GET YOUR MONEY BACK.”  Er, I mean it says something about a Mr. Steward will come to their home at 5 p.m.  They are all, like, who is Mr. Steward?

Arthur works at NASA as something kinda important (ish) - something to do with optics – and he thinks he’s all a big shot because he helped design the Viking Mars probe camera thingie <— tech term.  Arthur hopes to be like one of those dudes that go into space – right, an astronaut – but he failed his test.  LAME-O.  He didn’t seem like an artard (well, sometimes he did) but it was his psych exam that he was a douche on, so that means NASA thinks he’s NUTS.  Too nuts for space, my friend.  And really, any guy who lets his wife go answer the door at 5 a.m. ish, deserves to fail LIFE.

Norma, who limps (you’ll find out why, I won’t spoil that for you – ’cause I’m all sweet and stuff), heads to her job as a teacher at a shee-shee-foo-foo private school.  Their son Walter attends the school, but sadly the school is doing away with employee discount shit and Norma and Arthur won’t be able to afford the tuition for their boy.  What does that have to do with anything?  NOT A FUCKING THING THAT I CAN TELL.  But Norma shoulda SHANKED A BITCH when the dean told her they were cutting the discounts out.  SHANK HIM.  With your shank.  Can I get a holla to Miss M?  <— private joke, sorry ’bout that – But she be my right-hand shankin’ sister.

The work day is over and Norma gets home, probably to start supper, because we know Arthur is lamesauce material and I’m sure, doesn’t cook.  At 5 p.m. Arlington Steward is at their door, just as the note read, and Norma answers the door, to see that Mr. Steward is all disfigured because he was in a fire (ish) situation (pay attention, I mentioned that up above).  Don’t play with matches, kids.  That was the message I took from it.  Or watch movies titled THE BOX.

Norma, invites the stranger into her home, probably ’cause it’s 1976, and like I said, there were no stabby home invader types back then (and they didn’t ring doorbells and be all pleasant).  The dude wants to know if Norma and/or her whackjob-I-failed-NASA’s-psych-test husband pushed the button?  No, they hadn’t.  And they now have a decision to make – they can press the button and get one million dollars BUT someone, somewhere in the big bad world will die.  Norma gets a look of shock on her face.  Truthfully, I wanted to punch her in the neck, but I had to chant, IT’S JUST A MOVIE, IT’S JUST A MOVIE, IT’S JUST A MOVIE… to calm myself.  Mr. Steward informs Norma that she and Arthur have 24 hours to make a decision.  He hands her a hundred dollar bill just for a lap dance allowing him in their home and she can keep it whether they press the button or not.  Wow, a whole hundred bucks.  Right, though, it’s 1976.  That’s a lot of clams for then.

Arthur arrives home and Norma tells him all about Mr. Steward and the decision they must make.  But they get all curious and shit, and check out the box and Norma gets slap happy and hits the button.  Was it on purpose?  WHO FUCKING CARES.  IT’S SO DUMB.  I mean, yeah, this movie is so worth the $12.50 I PULLED OUT OF MY ASS.  Zombieland was way better.  Much more action happening.  Things being pumped and shit, like guns and stuff.  Again, I digress…

Creepy dude – and not because his face is burned, but just because HE’S CREEPY – comes back and hands them the briefcase with the million dollars and sort of eludes to the fact that the person to die?  Will be one of them.  OMG, I CAN BARELY STAND THE INTENSE DRAMA.  I should have taken medication before watching this.   A LOT OF MEDICATION.  Arthur, still trying to NOT be lamedouchey, tries to give back the dough, but Arlington ignores him and drives off in the car that I have no earthly idea what kind it is and leaves Norma and Arthur sort of shitting their pants.  Oops, we made a mistake.  TOO BAD, FUCKERS.

You find out who dies – well, maybe it’s related and maybe it’s just random shit, because if you like movies with random shit happening, THIS IS THE MOVIE FOR YOU.

This is the part of the movie where I STABBED MYSELF FOR BEING AN ARTARD FOR PAYING TO SEE THIS MOVIE.  There is a wedding rehearsal dinner, presents, a box that looks similar to the one left for Norma and Arthur, police get involved, Norma’s family get involved, a waiter whose nose starts bleeding (yeah, ’cause WE CARE AND THAT’S IMPORTANT IN THE WHOLE SCHEME OF THE FILM), snow, a babysitter named Dana, whose nose also bleeds, whose real name is Sara, who goes into a motel room and sees photos of Norma, Arthur and Walter… need I go on?  You see where this is going, right?  No?  Let me explain… IT TURNS INTO A BIG FUCKING, CONFUSING, SHITTY MESS.  It’s so confusing, you will need a map to find your brain because it STABBED ITSELF IN ALL OF THE CONFUSION.

Arthur falls through the ceiling – along with eleventy-million gallons of water – of their bedroom and that is the point, exactly the point, WHERE I SHOT MYSELF IN THE FACE.  HARD.

There are “gateways,” and other MORE RANDOM SHIT THAT WILL ANNOY THE EVER LIVING FUCK OUT OF YOU and then you will betch slap the FUCKING DUMB out of the person sitting next to you – whether you know them or not, because you need to unleash your anguish at paying money for this donkey shit.

I won’t tell you who kicks the bucket, or who goes temporarily (or not) blind and deaf, because I know you are DYING to see this flick.  Oh, I’m sure there’s a “deep” message somewhere in the movie, something like DON’T MARRY A MAN WHO WOULD MAKE YOU GET UP AT 5 A.M. TO ANSWER THE DOOR BECAUSE HE FAILED HIS NASA PSYCH TEST, or don’t push buttons.  Yes, as deep as that.  Deep like, major deep.  Deep like cow shit.

In closing, if you like your insides turning to ANGRY, and you love spending your money on confusing garbage, then The Box is for you.  Bring a knife (or shanking scissors) and baggies.  You WILL be cutting the people around you.  Just because.

A friend of mine recently became a divorced, single mom.  She’s back in the dating game and is really having a hard time finding, well, a guy who isn’t a total pig.  Sure, she expects some piggish behavior.  I mean, hello?  But come on, have some manners… (no offense to men, I like men, a lot, and no this is not about any men I know either IRL or Online, so don’t panic you’re all cool and nice and polite).  But honestly, when you have absolutely zero redeeming qualities, as some of the whackjobs my friend has dated lately?  God.  Might as well punch yourself in the nutsack and call it a day.  Just sayin’.  And some of the men my friend has described to me?  Oh, dear Lord.

I decided I’d help my friend by making a list of things she can show her prospective dates.  So maybe they can get a clue and have a second date with her or any other person they might be interested in.  Perhaps, even get laid at some point.  Or at the very least not get slapped or punched in the neck.  I told her to print this off and send it to them before their date.  Sure, that might be slightly difficult to do, but hey, its worth a try.

Some basic rules to possibly snag a second date and/or even get laid:

1. Try not to be a douche.  Simple, it really is.  Don’t talk about your ex (or if you’re still married, um, fuck off and why are you on a date?).  Don’t tell your date that you think the waitress is “bangable,” and then proceed to wink (last guy she went on a date with, totally did this).  If you’d like to screw the waitress, do it on your own time, not on our date.  See?  Simple.  But know, if you bang the bangable waitress, there will be no second date with me.  Take note.

2. Pay for some of the shit.  Please.  If you make me take out my wallet every single time, yeah, there will be no second date and sure as hell no sex.  No, and not even a handjob.  Get lost.

3. Picking.  Don’t do it.  If you must retrieve something out of somewhere, leave the room, table, dance floor, what the hell ever, just don’t show me.  Don’t tell me about it either.  Don’t care.

4. If you excuse yourself from our date to use the bathroom, don’t come back and tell me about it.  Yeah, don’t want to hear about it.  At. all.  Don’t care what you did, how big it was, how long it took, if it resembled an old classmate, Don’t care.  See # 3.  DON’T CARE.  And you’d better wash your fucking hands.

5. Avoid scratching your balls.  Sure, all guys apparently do that, but on our first date OR EVER, resist the urge.  A slight discreet adjustment, fine, but all out finger-digging scratching?  Um, yeah, not attractive.  And if you then think that I’ll be laying a finger/hand/face on those balls you’ve been rubbing through your pants all night?  Not frigging likely.  Take care of the major rash/itch on your own time.  Is that asking too much?  Or if you’re scratching/digging because your balls are sweaty?  Yeah, read on to # 6.

6. Come groomed.  Honestly, do you own a mirror?  If you have nose hair longer than your pit hair, trim it.  It’s easy.  There’s even nose hair trimmer thingies!  For realz.  Get one. 

Brush your fangs.  If you’ve been eating garlic and pizza and drinking beer for the past week, yeah, you need to sterilize your cakehole (love the word cakehole by the way).  If I can name what you’ve eaten in the last 48 hours by the smell of your breath, I’ll vomit in your shoes.  That’s a promise.  Not even kidding.

Do not smell like BO.  It’s 2009.  No one should smell like sweat and/or shit.  Seriously.  No excuse for it.

7. Don’t brag about your money (’cause dude, if you’ve made me pay for everything thus far, I’ll know you’re a) a lying sack of shit or b) a douche or 3) a lying sack of douchebaggery-asswipe-ish-ness.  Yeah, don’t care what you make – at least not on our first date.  Total turn off.  Also money related?  Telling me you forgot your wallet… lame.  See # 2.  Yeah, my friend’s recent date pulled this stunt.  And then never paid her back or called her again.  Classy.

8. I don’t want to know how many chicks you’ve bagged or how many names you have in your little black book.  Take that book out and I’ll cut you.  I’ll just assume you’ve been laid before and know that I have and we’re good.  Do not need to compare notes.  Don’t care what you did with Sally, Darla, or Brenda or how Kathy could “take it all.” <–Yeah, that might impress your guy friends, but your current date?  Not so fucking much.  However, on the note of sex, if we’re going to have it, I’d like to know if you anything that I may not want.  Actually, I don’t fucking want it, so fess up.  That shit you need to disclose.  Not on the first date, of course, but also don’t wait until we’re in the “moment” to drop a bombshell.  See # 1.

9. Yeah, burping the alphabet, while does require effort, is not sexy.  If we were 10, maybe it would be fun and/or funny.  However, if we’re over 12, then it’s not.  And I’m pretty sure we are over 12.  And saying things like, “You’d better stand 10 feet from me, wheeeeewwwww weeeeeeeee, those nachos are doing a number on me,” is not going to make me want to jump your bones later.  Keep that shit (uh, no pun) to yourself.  Which brings me to # 1o.

10. I don’t care about your bodily functions.  At all.  Not even a little bit.  I don’t care to know what you do in the bathroom… yes, I have an idea, but I prefer to keep that stuff “fuzzily” in my brain.  Please never discuss any of it with me.  Not on our first date, second or 10 years into the marriage.  I will never care about what you do once you close the bathroom door.  See # 3, 4, and 9. 

My friend’s date with “Tom” sort of went to the bathroom talk, as in, “Tom” telling her about his explosive diarrhea that he experienced the day before and how his “bottom” (Yes, because saying “bottom” instead of “ass” makes it less disgusting) was still “raw.”  Needless to say she didn’t sleep with him and she was going to up until that point because she thought he was hot and she hadn’t had it in a while.  So, to “Tom,” dude, you could have gotten laid had you not disclosed the information about your shitty, raw ass.  *sad face*

Honestly, it’s easy to get a girl to go out with you a second time.  Know what the secret is?  Bring out your feminine side… act like a guy but with some sensitivity (I know, what fantasy world am I living in?).  Or, hell, just don’t burp, fart, tell me about the dump you took, or pick your nose, and we’ll be good to go.

Hope this helps, “T” honey.  I love ya, but I’m glad it’s not me in the dating pool.

And other lies I might tell you.  (The whole I got a boob job got you here, didn’t it?… Might as well pull up a chair and read the rest… providing you’re bored to tears and don’t have a life on Saturday night).  And, now, technically, it’s Sunday.  Oh.My.God.  I might finish this post by Monday.  Maybe.

I didn’t really get a boob job, but I’m not ruling it out.  Just so you know.  I have a very strong desire to tell you random crap that I’m thinking and/or feeling and since I believe in following strong desires, I’m just gonna do it.  If I bore you, you’re obviously reading this wrong and really, that’s not my problem.  Get help.  That’s all I’m sayin’.

So, random stuff:

I bought this new necklace last night and it’s gorgeous.  I wore it today yesterday two days ago and it’s all shiny and sparkly and all kinds of awesomeness, except, now that it’s almost midnight, I’d like to remove it from around my neck.  Only one problem: I can’t get the sucker off.  The clasp is nailed shut apparently.  Not opening.  I guess I’ll just have to look fabulous in bed. (Yeah, PS. It’s not almost midnight, because um, I’m lame-o and started this on Thursday night and it’s now Saturday evening .  It’s now Sunday.  And me?  I suck).

TGIF.  It’s now 12:01 as I type this and could be 2:05 p.m. before I finish it.  Just depends on what the hell my brain will allow. (And um, PS again… it’s not Friday, it’s Saturday as I’ve already mentioned.  And?  I suck, again). <—Nope, not Saturday now either, it’s Sunday, at nearly 3 a.m. Scratch that.  It’s now Sunday at 5 pm.  Holy fuck.  Monday is looking good right about now.

Pictured: My daughter and her best friend (not the birthday girl), who is the daughter of one of my best friends.

Went to a roller rink today for my girlfriend’s daughter’s party and the kids all looked so cute skating around, disco lights flashing and music booming.  Did I skate?  Um no.  That would have been horrifying.  Not for me, but for the people watching.  I could not do that to another human being.  People were laughing, having fun, being joyous  and seeing me on roller skates?  Would have definitely ruined the happy atmosphere.  I was not going to be responsible for that pain.  OK, sure, I may have looked cute, but as far as performance?  That shit would have been awful.

If I had a brownie right now, I’d lick it and then eat it.  Some dude on Twitter (won’t mention any names) was – I won’t say torturing me (but he totally was) – teasing me STRONGLY with his, Oh I have brownies with fudge and they’re so good, blah blah blah.  Is that not cruel?  Sure, I could make brownies (even though I suck in the kitchen… correction: suck at cooking in the kitchen) and hell, I could even buy them but that’s not the point.  What is my point?  Oh, yeah, I want someone to MAKE them for me.  Or buy them for me.  Whatever works.  Sad fact is, I have no brownies.  And I want one.  Or eight.

I might watch a movie tonight.  Not sure what movie, yet, but I’m in the mood to watch something scary and be, um, scared.  I like being scared – to a point.  You throw spiders at me, and I’ll be so scared, I’ll drop dead.  I don’t mean that much scariness, just some.  Like sitting on the edge of your seat kind of scary.  Nail-biting scary (I don’t bite my nails though).  That’s the kind of scary I want.  I also want to fall asleep listening to Pink.  I’m so bloody tired, and I love Pink’s voice, and can’t think of a better way to drift off.  Well, sure, there are probably a few better ways to fall asleep, but right now?  That one sounds like heaven.  Since this is also an update post because I sucked at getting this finished in a timely manner (because yeah, it’s riveting), I didn’t watch a movie BUT I did fall asleep last night listening to Pink.  Had some good dreams.

It’s windy here.  And that’s all I have to say about that.  And since it’s now Sunday at suppertime, it’s not windy.  Why didn’t I just scrap this post all together?  Because that would mean starting over.  And?  I’m much too lazy and tired for that shit.

I gambled for the first time last weekend.  Went to Yuk Yuks comedy club (the three comedians were so flippin’ funny, which is a plus seeing as they’re comedians and people paid good money to see them, be funny), which is upstairs from the casino and we had an hour to kill before the show, decided to play the slot machines.  We each took a $20 bill which gives you 80 credits.  Well, after 25 minutes or so of pushing a button (MY GOD, SERIOUSLY, HOW CAN PEOPLE SIT THERE FOR HOURS AND PLAY THOSE THINGS?) and winning 10 credits here and there, I was getting down to my last 30, so went big and bet 3 credits at a time.  Well, things were getting down to the wire, and with the next push of that button, I won two hundred credits which was equal to $55.25.  Not quite the jackpot but hey, it was more than I had come with.  I’m a winner!  Winner!

I went shopping today and made a few purchases.  Bought some shirts, which I might model for you later, depending on my mood and if I’m still wanting to wear clothes.  I might be walking around nudish.  Sure, my kids hate that shit, but so what.  It’s my house and I”ll do what I want.  Gah. I’m such a rebel.  Hey, if Lady Gaga – or as I like to call her Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta (’cause we be tight) - can walk around pantless, I can walk around topless.

OK, listen, I’ve bored you long enough.  If you stayed to read this far, you are either really desperate for something to read, just released from a mental institution and don’t know any better, high and/or drunk or love me enough to put up with this shit.  Whatever the case, thank you:

I’m not sure, but I think today is the day the world blows up.  I mean it is September 9, 2009 – 09/09/09.  That is some scary shit.  Or maybe it’s the medication I took?  I’m not entirely sure.  Oh, and? this shit will be rambling.

I’ve been sick for the past few days, I guess it’s the flu? combined with I’ve BEEN HIT BY A TRUCK feeling.  It’s all kinds of awesomesauce <— to quote a friend.  I’ll be better tomorrow, I swear.  If I have to beat the fucker silly, this flu is leaving tomorrow.  Again, I’m all tough and shit probably because of the medication.  I’m likely not able to fight my way out of a brown paper bag if truth be told.  Also?  I just realized I have written “shit” way too many times and I’m not done rambling.  This is da shit.  Sorry, could.not. help myself.

Yesterday, my grown (boys in men’s bodies, let us remember that) sons were both here (one has moved back in, I swear I will think only good thoughts) and within a five minute conversation, they called me cool and retarded.  I think that was mostly good.  They do annoy the ever-living shit out of me crack me up when they’re together, here, talking, especially when I’m trying to work.  Good times.

So far, this 09/09/09 day is not that exciting (take for instance, this post…you’ve fallen asleep).  It’s just before 7 a.m. and nothing has blown up yet.  Don’t believe all the hype, people.  Just do not.  Or maybe 09/09/09 means unicorns will fly out of my butt?  Now there’s something…

I have to go to the bank today, you know, before the world blows up.  I hope I get the teller that likes to look at my cleavage.  He’s fantastic, the way he thinks my eyes are on my tits.  Silly man.  Sure, I usually wear my bikini top, but that is no excuse.

I might be productive today, or I may not.  I mean it’s practically a vacation day, what with the I’M FAIRLY CERTAIN I’M DYING feeling and it being 09/09/09.  Permissions granted, etc.

I had a dream about Adam Lambert last night.  It was good.  He was here, helping me set up the 60 inch flat screen TV he purchased for me and then he sang for me.  In my living room.  It was a nice dream and I hated to wake up considering I had only been asleep for 2 hours at that point.  Oh well, such is my sleeping pattern.  I’m the two-to-four hours kinda girl.

Did I tell you that my daughter is a teenager?  And an annoying one to boot? Sure, she’s just 9, but she acts like she’s 15.  She wanted to use my credit card yesterday to sign up for some site that you can buy clothes and thought *I* was being unreasonable for not allowing her to go into my purse, take out my wallet, slip my credit card out of it’s little slot and enter all of my information into said website and just purchase a few items.  Right.  Let me get on that, like now, princess.  Has hell frozen over?  No?  OK, good, because I was all worried and shit.

Wow, it’s still 09/09/09 and yet the only thing exciting to happen so far is my youngest son said I need to learn to understand English because clearly I don’t since I didn’t wash the shirt he had asked me to wash yesterday.  Apparently, he could be right.

To my MM vacation girls – I SWEAR I WILL FINISH MY POST ABOUT OUR VACATION BEFORE 2009 IS OVER.  Holy hell, it’s long and youtube (THANK YOU) has been taking 2+ hours to upload EACH video and when I was uploading six videos the other night, yeah, my browser crashed and only one uploaded.  UGH.  Gee, the vacation only ended about 3 1/2 weeks ago.  Yes Sassy, you suck.  I know.  I do.  I will get it done.  Hopefully, it doesn’t bore the (I was going to say shit, but I will use self control) crap (<—that is technically not “shit”) out of you.  I will apologize in advance.  Although, one thing is for certain… Kev on the stripper pole?  Hot.  I mean, he’s so gross.

OK, must cut this, uh, stuff (self control accomplished!) short because no doubt you’re drooling on your keyboard since you’ve died in your sleep because this has been beyond boring.  Hey, it’s 09/09/09, so later, the world is exploding and you will get that excitement you thought you were going to get here but didn’t.  See?  All works out in the end.

I aim high.

If you have a problem with a chick on the other side of forty, er, I mean twenty-five, with her hair in ponytails, then you may as well march your ass on out of here.

I was cleaning and wanted to pin my hair up, but a hair clip is so 2006. I figured I would try a new style, which not sure ponytails are exactly considered a style, let alone a new style, but regardless of what you call them, I turned on my inner rebel and went with it.

While I’m here, I might as well tell you all about my dilemma with obtaining my passport. I am going away in less than a month (shut it… yes, I know, I put it off, totally my fault), and went to get my passport on Tuesday – well, apply for it. I had double checked my paperwork, had everything in order as far as I could tell, and had all of my identification. There was only one little thing that was concerning me, and that was my birth cerfificate. It is legit, but it’s, uh, old (ish). Anyway, because it was issued back in… the, *ahem*, 1900s, there was no actual registration number on it. So, as I suspected, the passport office would not accept it. The guy gave me a form to fill out from Vital Statistics from the province I was born, and told me it could take up to two weeks to obtain a new birth certificate.

Panic begins to set in and the passport dude could see I was about to have a nervous breakdown at his counter, so he assured me, that if worse came to worse, I could pay a little extra and they could issue my passport in three days. I sighed ever so slightly.

It was too late to call VS (Vital Statistics) when I got home since they are a few hours ahead of me, so Wednesday would be the earliest I could call. I woke early Wednesday and filled out the required paperwork and then called the VS office to inquire about faxing my information and having a rush put on it.

Good afternoon, Vital Statistics.

Hi, I need a birth certificate, like 20 years ago (laughter on my part)… dead silence on VS lady’s part. Um, no, seriously, I need a birth certificate as soon as possible as I’m going away and need to get my passport. I do have a birth certificate but it was issued many years ago and does not have a registration number, so it was not acceptable to obtain my passport. I’m wondering how long I would have to wait to get a birth certificate?

It normally takes four to six weeks.

Uh, I’m leaving in four weeks. Can I fax my information to have it processed faster? Is that possible?

Yes, it is but you have to prove it. You have to send proof.

Proof? Proof of what? My current birth certificate? I’m not following you.

No, proof that you need it in a hurry.

Proof? I’m telling you I need it in a hurry. Why would I make that up? If I didn’t need it in a hurry, I’d just wait the four to six weeks, and it wouldn’t be an issue.

Well, we require proof.

Um, OK. How do I prove it to you?

You can write a letter with your form and ID, saying you need it in a hurry.

So, me telling you, right now, that I need it in a hurry, is not proof enough?

Right.

Uh, alrighty then. What about my travel information? I have a print out of my flight dates/times, would that be considered proof?

Possibly. It would help.

OK, well, I will do that. Once you get it, how long will I have to wait?

Approximately seven days. If you don’t have it by then, call us.

OK.

Panic starts to set in once again… what if they don’t put a rush on it because my “proof” isn’t good enough for them? I mean seriously, if a person is stressing the importance of obtaining their birth certificate, shouldn’t that be enough? No, it is not. Apparently, people call up all the time PRETENDING to need a birth certificate in a hurry, but it’s all a big joke, so when they do get it rushed to them, they then call the VS office, and yell “SUCKERS! Ha, I didn’t REALLY need it quickly. Joke’s on YOU!” Yes, totally plausible.

So, that was Wednesday. I figured I would call Monday and light a fire under their ass if they hadn’t started the process of getting me what I needed. This morning, as I’m talking on the phone to my friend, the doorbell rings. It’s a delivery dude, with an envelope. Being in a some sort of mental fog, I’m not even dreaming it could be my birth certificate. I mean I just had a stimulating conversation less than 48 hours prior with a lady, telling me I had to PROVE I needed my birth certificate in a rush, so there was no way they had processed it and sent it across the country in that short of a time span.

But… they had! Holy shit balls, my letter must have stressed how neurotic I am important this was to me, and someone actually cared. Sweet niblets (my kids make me watch way too much Hannah Montana), I have my birth certificate! That means, Monday morning, I will be at the passport office and they assured me I could have my passport in plenty of time for my trip. Woot!

It’s a good Friday indeed. Plus, I had fun dreams last night, so woke up in a great mood. Life is super right now. What could make it better? Hmm, a trip to Starbucks, maybe.