Vacation

Please look for new blogs coming November 5th!!

Itty Bitty Teetie Committee

Note: I will not be posting anything again until Nov. 5th as I'm vacationing in California!

You know what I hate? Today's youth. Not for the reasons you'd think, though. Not for the fact that they have no respect for adults or the fact that they spray paint gang insignia on the back of my block wall. Not for the fact that smoke cigarettes in my alley and leave their used condoms on the playground of the park. I guess I expect all that. I hate today's youth because they're way better lookin' than I was as an adolescent.

There's this phenomenon amongst teenage girls these days. I'm not sure if you've noticed it. In addition to being uncommonly good looking, they're....well...amplified. They're waaaaaaaaaay more endowed than me and all my friends were when we were entering puberty circa 1982. If you still aren't sure what I'm talking about, let me state it in layperson's terminology used by my always-eloquent 80-year-old grandpa, "them big-tittied blondes." (Oh yes he did say that.)
What the hell? Where are were my boobs? I got gypped! I belonged to Flatties R Us club and was treasurer of the Itty Bitty Tittie Committee (IBTC).

My husband comments frequently on his feeling cheated as well. He went to high school with a bunch of deflatees. Cause that's what most of us were back then. He often pontificates about whether high school boys appreciate the gift bestowed upon them by the breast Gods.

A lot of articles suggest it's the boobie growth hormone (rBGH) found in non-organic milk these days. Greedy farmers inject their heffers with it so they're teets get really gargantuous. Interesting theory, but I drink a lot of milk and....

...I'm still planning events for the IBTC.

Anyone got any better theories???

Stand and Work

You know what I hate? Cheap businesses. First they start laying Americans off and sending work to India, then they jack up the prices their employees pay for health insurance, and now...this?

What? Is it too much to ask that employees have a chair to sit on? Apparently it is, because while searching the Microsoft Clipart site for photos of computers, I found not just these, but many other pictures of people subjected to the inhumane torture of standing while working on the computer.

Look at the contorted grimace on the face of the grandma lady in the picture. She's like, "only 2 effin' years until retirement you cheap bastards!" Or maybe she just has gas. Or engorged varicose veins. Or a torqued syatic nerve. Whatever. The point is that she's hurting. Badly. All due to her company's greed.

Thank goodness my company doesn't make us stand up while we work! However, we do have an employee "good ideas" box in the lunchroom. Maybe I could suggest it? Imagine the money saved if we cut cut the cost of chairs. I mean, those things ain't cheap! Especially the ones made for our big-boned population, because they not only require extra padding but also extra springs and shock absorbers. Hmmm...do I see a bonus in my future? Perhaps.

Now, this lady doesn't seem too terribly upset about having to stand-and-work. I'm guessing she just porked the CFO in the janitor's closet and will be cashing in on her own little bonus. Nothing else would quite explain that smile .

And then this. THIS if freakin' genius in the world of cost-cutting. I mean, not only did this company auction their chairs off to the St. Vincent De Paul, but they're also making these two share a computer AND phone. So out of the box!

Damn that capitalism -- always thinking of the great ideas before I do.

Crappy Husbands

You know what I hate? Marathon Movements. No, I'm not talking about sprints and fartleks and speed intervals during a 26.2-mile race! Not those kind of movements. I'm talking about the 3-hour crap-fests that my husband celebrates at least once per day. You know the phrase "shit or get off the pot?" This was invented by my husband's mother. Really.

So, you're probably going, "ahhh, come on. Cut the guy some slack. I mean, a man's gotta poop, right?" But you've obviously never lived with someone as fecally-endowed as my husband. Two hours or more per day on the pot? Come on. That's not right. Or normal. Ever hear of a spastic colon? Yeah, my husband hasn't either. But he's probably heard of its counterpart, the Relaxed Colon. Or, the Spastic Colon On Ritalin. Yes, I'm certain he's heard of those.

Alright, so maybe I'm being a little bit dramatic. But honestly, I do think my husband's love affair with the porcelain bowl is a passive-aggressive ASSault on our marriage.

Let's just be honest. Marathon-movementing husbands: I'm gonna share something with you. We wives know what's going on. I mean, we're not dumbasses. We know that you're looking for a quiet repreive away from us. We know you prefer the "crapper" over our non-stop "yapper." We know that it's not coincidence that your bowels start to percolate at the exact same time that we decide we want to share an interesting story about getting our period a day early or buying makeup that was one shade too dark. We know you're in there, hiding away from us, mock-flipping through the pages of your Newsweek, and thinking you have pulled a fast one on us. You haven't. We're on to you.

So there. Excessive pooping is a form of neglect. And I don't like being neglected. Am I a needy wife? No. Do I sometimes wish the house would spontaneously combust while my husband is half-way into one of his 3-hour fecal fests? You bet.

I don't like sharing my husband's attention with 'the john' but I've come up with a few tactics for getting him out quickly. Neglected spouse everywhere, these are for you:

1) Wrap lightly on the door, and in your nicest voice say, "honey? what are you doing?" He is forced say, "pooping" which makes him feel feeble and vulnerable and generally a flush is within 3 minutes from this annoying interuption.
2) Drop something and say, "OH MY GOD!" really loudly. He'll think the TV fell on you or something and generally come to your aid within 5-10 minutes.
3) Stand at the door and continue the conversation you were having when he started gathering up his magazine and unbuckling his belt. Somehow, it's just not the same and he'll flush that pot within seconds.
4) Say: "Oh sweetie, you should put that down. I don't think Daddy would like that you're playing with his (insert favorite man-toy here)." This one yields a very fast result; perhaps too fast. If you do the laundry in your household, you might need a clorox pen for his undies.
5) In the other bathroom, plug in your hairdryer, flattening iron, cd player and fan then turn it all on at once. The power WILL go off. And he'll be left in a dark tooter room. Oh well; I mean, it's not like we control the power grid. Cheesh!
6) Wait until one of the kids is in the second bathroom then start jumping around the front of the bathroom door yelling, "hurry. I'm gonna go right here if I can't get in there really, really fast."
7) Put "UFC Unleashed" on the TV -- loud enough so he'll hear it, of course.
8) Tell him you're naked.
9) Call his cell phone. He'll hear it ringing and think it's one of his friends.
10) Just go in, start the shower up, and pretend he's not there.

You're welcome.

Tip for Success: Skip the First Grade!

You know what I hate? Rich retards. Poor retards, or even middle-class retards, are generally acceptable. But rich retards are just too much of a contradiction. Like, they boggle my brain.

Do you all remember the first grade? Playing dollies with your friends. Chasing boys. Learning how to make a simple sentence. Good times.

But wait? How is it that rich retards seem to have missed the first grade altogether -- particularly that lesson on sentence construction? And how is it that they now make double what I make? And last, how is it that they are finding me contract jobs as a, gasp...writer?

Here is a sample of a sentence written by the rich retards at the consulting firm that is prostituting me out to other companies for a profit. This comes from their "official" HR manual:

"Clients tell us this...97.5% Client Satisfaction index, over 92% of our Associates welcome back...are just some of the ways that say so."

I did NOTHING to this sentence. I swear! I didn't add the ellipses, didn't make it sound worse than it already was, didn't make it up.

Sad. So terribly sad.

The lesson: screw the first freakin' grade! Who needs it?

Elevator-riding Smokers

You know what I hate? Elevator-riding smokers. These are the people who holler "hold the door" just when you think you're well on your way to floor #4; the people who cram their bloated up smoker's arm in between the metal doors; the people who, once their summer-sausagesque hand interrupts your ride, climb aboard and fill the (recirculating) air with a puke-a-fied Pall-Mall stench; the people who, in an unprecedented act of selfishness and disrespect, have the GALL to push the #2 button on the elevator, not only doubling your ride time but also making it extremely putridsome to stand next to you.

YOU SUCK, Elevator-riding smokers. Get some dignity. Some self-respect. Some non-blackened lungs that can haul your sausagey self up one flight of stairs! I'm going to let you in on a little secret: nobody in the elevator likes you. In fact, we all want to kill you. Or key your car. Which is probably parked in handicapped. But then again, you do have a little black lung.

For you, elevator smokers, here are the socially acceptable rules of elevator riding which I'm going to assume you've never read:

1) In a 4-story building, it is acceptable to ride to both the 3rd or 4th floor. It is more acceptable to ride to the 4th floor, because research shows that perspiration occurs when climbing three+ stories. However, some theorists argue that 3rd floor riding is also socially accepted and I tend to agree, even though I take the stairs for anything under the 4th floor.
2) It is acceptable to ride to the 2nd floor if you are crippled.
3) It is acceptable to ride to the 2nd floor if you are gigantically fat, though we co-riders would prefer that you didn't haul your greasy hashbrowns up with you.
4) For all other circumstances, it is NOT acceptable to ride the elevator to the second floor. This includes the circumstances of laziness and nicotine-induced weeziness.

So there, you little lazy-ass stinkoids.

Goin' Granny

You know what I hate? Getting all old. Shit's breakin' down and fallin' off . I'm not talking about the shallow insecurities that other women of my age stress out over: wrinkles, saggy boobs, fat gut. I expected all that crap. It's some of the more unexpected treats of aging that are pissing me off.

Statements such as, "have you seen my (enter body part here) lately honey?" and "what the hell? that wasn't there yesterday" and "honey, can you push this (enter body part here) back into place?" are some common phrases in my household now that I'm past the age of 35.

So, yeah, getting old sucks. I don't recommend it. And here are the top 10 reasons why:

1) Pubes aren't just isolated to the private parts anymore! That's right -- it's sproutin' up all over the damned place. If you're wrinkling up your nose and saying, "gross" and acting all superior right now, just stop! Because that would make you a hypocrite. Because I know and you know that you have hair growing out of nooks and crannies that haven't seen the light of day since your wild college partying days. Be honest. Have you ever heard of a breast beard? Nah, me neither.

2) Somewhere around age 32, I stopped being able to laugh, cough or do step aerobics without pissing myself. I'm the one in your aerobics class doing the dumb, half-assed one leg out to the side while the rest of you whipper snappers with tight cagles are doing jumping jacks.

3) I never saw, owned or needed a callous remover prior to age 30. But now that my heels look like this...

... I'm always having to saw it off with special sandblasters and shit. Sometimes pebbles and crumbs and woodchips get stuck in the crevices then I saw the crust down until the pebble or crumb or woodchip is liberated. The good news is I haven't needed to buy 300 grit sandpaper in years. I refinished an entire armoire with these things.

4) Why does every meal have to now be topped off with some sweets? That's such a grandma thing. "Them was some good vittles. Now, where'd I put that mince-meat pie?"

5) I used to have a lot of freckles. They were cute. I looked so youthful and fresh and huggable. Kristy McNicholish. Tatum O'Nealish. Freckles, however, with very little coaxing, will jeckyl and hyde themselves into age spots and moles. And we all know what grows out of moles.... (cross reference to issue #1).

6) Libido Schmido. I've renamed it to Nobido.

7) Should I feel my ovaries shriveling? Cause I do.

8) Two things I never had to do as a kid: sit on the pot or run quickly to the pot. So what the hell? I just want my ass to make up its mind: regular or highly irregular. Which is it, ass?

9) Yelling at neighborhood kids. One minute you're one of them, and the next minute you're standing out front waving your arms like a banshee yelling, "get your mini-bikes out of my alley you little hoodlums."

10) My ability to use the phrase "bless her little heart" in a sentence at least 10 times a day.

So, for all you youngsters out there reading this, heed my warning. Getting old is the pits.