Misadventures in Maturity

The Baby Jesus Weeps for You

2009-08-11T07:39:00.003-05:00

Although I have been veering into the political realm a bit too often here, I thought I would share an experience I had with some relatives not too long ago, because it is funny as hell.

My family is aware of my liberal status. It's no secret. Let's face it, you don't end up with a PhD in Anthropology if you are a traditionalist. But, that doesn't mean that my family comprehends my life decisions, or my political leanings. They would rather just call names. You know, lefty, liberal, commie, pinko, feminist (I think they see that as the worst insult. This label was applied when I didn't change my name after I got married). I've been called it all.

So, not too long ago I was listening to my (very Catholic) cousin yap about how Obama was causing the downfall of Western Civilization or some complete bullshit like that. Apparently, they keystone in this collapse is nationalized healthcare, which would make us socialists (it would not), and that is the same as communists (also wrong).

After listening to her flap her gums for just as long as I could stand, I said to her "You know, when you oppose national healthcare, you make the Baby Jesus cry."

In return I got a "What?"

So I repeated myself. "When you oppose national healthcare, it makes the Baby Jesus cry."

She sputtered a bit and asked me what in the world that I was talking about.

I said "Well, it's in the bible."

After much back and forth, mainly centered on what an idiot I was, I got a bible. I turned to Matthew 25, verses 41-46 or so. And it said:

On the last day, Jesus will say to those on His right hand, "Come, enter the Kingdom. For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was sick and you visited me." Then Jesus will turn to those on His left hand and say, "Depart from me because I was hungry and you did not feed me, I was thirsty and you did not give me to drink, I was sick and you did not visit me." These will ask Him, "When did we see You hungry, or thirsty or sick and did not come to Your help?" And Jesus will answer them, "Whatever you neglected to do unto one of these least of these, you neglected to do unto Me!"

Then I asked, "What have you done for the "least of these" except to leave them sick and without care? The Baby Jesus weeps for you, you know."

After that our discussion about healthcare was over. Although it did initiate a discussion about whether or not I could quote the bible because "You don't even believe!!!" And whether or not that would result in my going to hell, which I pointed out could not happen because there is no hell.

It was finally announced that there was just no reasoning with me, followed by a storming out of the room.

Really, I thought I was actually pretty reasonable. At least I had a citation to support my position.

Sigh.

Adventurous Eating

2009-08-04T19:24:00.004-05:00

So I have to tell you all about my adventure today.

I found the most awesome restaurant OF ALL TIME, and had lunch there today. It's called Omar's, and you all know about my weakness for anyplace named Omar's:

Enough of my obsession with Omar's Food and Beauty Supplies, back to the story!

The other day, I was driving home and I passed a new restaurant. Well, not really a new restaurant, the building has been there for quite a while. In fact, it used to be a Taco Bell. Then it was a stereo shop, and now it is OMAR'S BRICK OVEN PIZZA AND SHWARMA.

For serious! Pizza and Shwarma.

For those of you not a part of the "Church of Shwarma," shwarma is a kind of like a near eastern version of gyro, but not made with that funny pressed meat, or whatever that craziness it is that they serve in the restaurants around here. It's actually a huge stack of chicken or lamb on a vertical spit that spins in front of a huge burner, and as the cooked meat is cut away from the edge (and made into delicious sandwiches), the meat that is revealed then continues to cook.

I used to eat it CONSTANTLY when I was in Syria and Turkey, although in Turkey they call it "doner kebab." But that is ok, it is still the same roasty deliciousness. And delicious it is. And along any major thoroughfare, you could find dozens of little shops with their spinning spits of chicken and lamb out front. Although some of my colleagues thought that I was crazy for buying meat on the street. Whatever, the car exhaust kills any germs.

The way they prepare it is they take a huge sharp knife and hold it against the edge of the meat as the spit spins, shaving off the meat into a big piece of flatbread. They add some tahini sauce, hot sauce if you want it, pickled vegetables, and roll up your meaty burrito of happiness. If you hang around long enough, you can learn the Arabic words for "Before you make mine, rub the bread in that fat in the drip pan and hold it in front of the burner to toast it." Or at least a rough equivalent.

So, imagine my excitement when I discovered Omar's Brick Oven Pizza and Shwarma. I was so happy, that I had to coerce a friend of mine into coming to lunch with me there today.

And, oh my, it was fantastic. And a little weird.

First of all, the Arabic food was delicious. They had kibbeh, they had shwarma, they had kebab, they had felafel....and it was all done right. But the menu! It was insane! Clearly, the owners were thinking of catering to a more diverse crowd, hence the pizza AND shwarma, but oh, my!

The appetizers on the menu were things like toasted ravioli....and hummus. And fried cheese sticks....and felafel. So funny!

And the pizza....of course the standard pepperoni, sausage, but one of the options? Chicken Shwarma Pizza!!! I cannot even IMAGINE what that would taste like.

Now, don't get me wrong, I am in no way not recommending Omar's. In fact, you must all go to Omar's immediately, because they must remain in business or I will just DIE. Not to mention the shwarma was delicious, and authentic, and if I had just nearly been sideswiped by a taxi on the sidewalk I would think I was back in Damascus.

I just want a copy of that crazy menu.

Why I Hate Facebook

2009-07-21T19:21:00.004-05:00

So I recently got a Facebook account. I was kind of bored with Myspaz, and all the glittery, animation-y backgrounds and other ridiculous crap that people kept putting up on their profiles would variously lock up my browser. I figured, you can't add that crap to Facebook, so that should be cool. I'll set up an account.

In the few months that I have had an account, I have developed a list of all the crap I hate about Facebook.

1. It is too easy to find me. They make you use your real name on Facebook. So anyone can find me. Even the people that I have made a POINT of avoiding for the past decade. You know who else can find you? Ex-boyfriends. All of them. Now, I know that the sheer number of them out there is kind of my fault. But why are they ALL looking for me? I think a large number of them must be on the eighth step, because they all seem to want to rehash what went wrong and apologize. Now, I won't say that sometimes that is pretty vindicating, but some of them I want to just say "Hey, remember when I told you it's not you it's me? I was being straight with you. It really WAS me. Don't let this be an obstacle in your path to sobriety."

2. You know who else finds me? Republicans and religious people. Seriously, I would rather be friended by every single hazy college hook-up than have to read one more update about how some chock-full-o-nuts from high school "Thanks God for another day on this planet." Seriously. It makes me want to gag. It's not that I'm anti-religion, it's just that....yeah, make that anti-religion. And Republicans? Go fly your freak flag someplace else. I just hide the republicans so I don't have to read their rage-inducing updates in my news feed. Oh, and I consistently do better on the little bible quizzes than they do, so go figure.

3. I also don't like that large portions of my family have discovered facebook. And went looking for me. Seriously, I could live without my 70-year-old aunt as one of my "friends" but I didn't want to deny the request and have to fight THAT particular fight come Thanksgiving. All I have to say is "Worlds colliding! Somebody save me!"

4. Mafia Wars. And Farm Town. And Yoville. And Food Fights. Seriously, I can't even be counted on to return your emails and phone calls. Do you think I'm going to throw some virtual pie at you? Hidden, all of you.

5. That I feel obligated to update my stupid status. Seriously, the next time you are on my facebook and it's Thursday, and it still says "I hate Mondays" in the status, don't assume that it's because I haven't updated it for 4 days. It could be a week and 4 days.

6. Speaking of updates, do I really need an update from you every 3 hours? And for those of you that are constantly updating your facebook bitching about having to run your 5 kids all over the damn place, shut it. After the second kid, you knew what caused them. If it was going to be a problem to manage their shit, you should have stopped there. I am supposed to boo hoo for you because it's "hard" to get them all to camp? Because they all need shots for school? Because you didn't have time to get a pedicure? You made them, now take care of them. Only a maniac has more than three, anyway. I didn't have time for a mani and pedi either. Cause I have a JOB. So shut it.

The only thing I really like about Facebook? Scramble. If I could find Scramble on some other website, I'd cancel my Facebook account for good.

So, It's Been a While....

2009-07-14T20:21:00.002-05:00

Sorry I've been out of commission. Work and family has kind of taken over my existence. Between my idiot brother who couldn't parent his way out of a paper bag, and my grandmother who is starting chemotherapy, family obligations have been dragging me in a dozen different directions.

In fact, it is family that inspired this post today.

I have reluctantly come to admit that my grandmother, at 81, is slowly dropping into senility. Conversations with her are becoming an exercise in logic, and getting any information out of her is akin to questioning a perp a la Law and Order. You have to trick her into giving you the information that you want.

So, I get a call at work today. She has gotten a letter that she doesn't understand, and wants me to come over and find out what it all means.

The letter is from Bank of America, and it reads something to the effect of "Hey, the last time you were in the drive-thru, you took out one of our poles with your blue 4x4, and we would like for either you or your insurance company to pay for it."

My brother, who lives with my grandmother, drives a blue SUV and my grandmother immediately leapt to the conclusion that it MUST be him. I asked her, how could that be??? It is licensed at my parent's house, and the only way that Bank of America could have linked you and your address to it is if R is pilfering your checks or using your ATM card, and we REALLY don't want to go THERE, do we??

Fortunately they provided a contact name and I spent about half an hour talking with an extremely pleasant (for a claims agent) woman in California. I explained to her that I didn't understand this, that my grandmother doesn't drive, has no car, doesn't even have a license, and could she please give me the specificities of this accident so that I could address it.

She told me that the accident happened at 11:05 am on July 1, in the drive-thru lane of the bank that my grandmother frequents. I told her I really didn't understand what was going on, that yes, that was her bank, and yes, I see a deposit on that day, but I just don't understand how my grandmother, all 95 pounds of her, busted through your drive-thru lane in a 4x4, all Evel-Kneivel-style.

The woman said that there had been a witness, for which she had a number for, and she would be happy to call and get a more complete statement from him. She also offered to call the bank and talk with the employees who witnessed it, in hopes of getting to the bottom of it. I thanked her kindly and told her that I would do some investigation of my own.

So, I hung up and walked into the kitchen to talk to my grandmother. I told her "They said that it was a blue pick-up truck. Does Aunt M have a blue pick up truck?" She thought about it and said "No. But L (her daughter) does."

I sat quietly for a moment and then asked "On the 1st, did Aunt M take you to the bank? And was she driving L's truck?"

My grandmother thought about it and said "Yes. She sure did. Hit a pole in the drive-thru, too. Caved in the whole side of the truck. I was pretty shaken up."

At this point, all I can do is put my head down on the table.

I'll Wear My Green Fedora, Fedora....

2009-05-16T16:17:00.000-05:00

The other day I was thinking about my grandfather. He passed away three years ago and the holidays are always a time when I really miss him, and I was thinking about an errand we ran together before he died.

Grandpa loved hats. He had a million baseball caps and quite a collection of "dress hats," as well. He had a fedora like Indiana Jones that he loved, but he had worn it to death. So he wanted to go to buy a hat. Well, there aren't a lot of places around that you can get men's hats anymore, so we had to drive waaaaay downtown to Levine Hats.

I had a pretty good idea where Levine was, because according to the address, it was up the street from one of my favorite bars. Grandpa didn't need to know this, but let's face it, he probably did. So we got ready to head down to Washington Ave.

Our first disagreement was over what vehicle we would take. Grandpa wanted me to drive, but didn't want to take my car. He wanted me to drive his car. My car was a sporty Jeep Wrangler. His car was a massive, silver Lincoln Town Car with chrome and running lights. It was like driving the sofa. But, I shrugged me shoulders and climbed behind the wheel. I really hated driving the Lincoln because it was hard to tell if I was even in the lane. AND I knew that when we got to the hat shop I was going to have to parallel park, which was going to be amusing to watch to say the least.

Once we were at Levine's, we were amazed at the vast array of hats available. Not only did they have the grey fedora that Grandpa wanted, they also had it in yellow, red, and purple. They also had quite a variety of hats with truly astounding decorative touches, including feathers as long as my arm. And the ladies hats! These hats were clearly church hats! Apparently, this shop was no longer the sole domain of the jaunty old white man.

Grandpa picked out two hats, one felt and one straw and we headed out the door.

As we were heading back down the block to our silver Lincoln, parked among a huge variety of Cadillacs, Lincolns, and Crown Victorias, toting our two fancy hats, it left me something to ponder:

Why is it that clothing and vehicle preferences of 80-year-old white men is so similar to that of the urban pimp?

I mentioned this to Grandpa and fortunately he didn't offer to bitch-slap me, but did tell me to "shut up and get in the goddamned car," he was ready to go home.

A Comment on Comments....

2009-05-16T16:00:00.002-05:00

So I read a lot of blogs. And I have to say that "Anonymous" is one busy sumbitch. Now, I understand that to an extent I INVITE assholery of all kinds here...let's face it, most of what I post is only funny because I'm busy being completely offensive. The entire reason for the existence of this blog is for me to be rude. Blogging is kind of like farting in public. You just do it and see who it pisses off.

But I will say that "Anonymous" has no place here.

If you don't identify yourself in some way, your comment won't get through moderation (yes, I moderate comments, even if I don't moderate my own behavior. Find that ironic? Maybe you should write a blog about it).

That said, you can be as rude as you want. I'll let through comments that I don't agree with. But you DO have to identify yourself. That way you can't hide your crazy behind your anonymity. Use a nom de plume. I do. But, I have a posted email address. So should you.

Deeez Nuuutz...In Yo Mouf

2009-04-18T09:19:00.006-05:00

Normally I don't like to write about politics, and save my ranting and raving for completely self-centered purposes, but I just have throw out a big Yo Momma "REALLY? Really." to all these so-called "teabaggers."

First of all, are you such fools that you determined that you would variously refer your little protests as "teabagging?" Given that I have LONG suspected that the "family-values" crowd are some of the largest consumers of porn on the planet, it absolutely astounds me that you would allow your "movement" to be associated with the act of repeatedly dipping one's hairy balls in a partner's mouth. Go ahead, google it. Better yet, click "images." Or even "video."

Second, WHAT in GOD's name are you protesting?

The best that I can figure out is that you are protesting:

1. Taxes being raised to the level of 10% lower than it was under Reagan.
2. Bailouts for banks and automakers that were initiated by Bush II.
3. The incredible deficit that is the direct result of the actions of the Bush II administration.

Since absolutely NONE of that makes even the remotest sense to me, this is what I think that you are REALLY protesting, but are too ashamed to admit on television:

1. You are pissed off that our president is black and he's smarter than you.
2. You are equally pissed off that someone who took on a mortgage too big for their paycheck, whether with intention or without, MIGHT get a break and you still have to make your house payment every month.

Ok, as to number one (and you know it's true, I know the jokes you tell when it's just white people in the room. I'm white, too, remember?)....you can protest it all you want but you are really just pissed off that the whole country read your little viral emails about Obama being a Moslem, or not even American...some of them even believed them...and THEN THEY VOTED FOR HIM ANYWAY.

And number 2? OK, I'll admit it, I think it sucks. I was smart when I took out my mortgage. Yeah, my lender encouraged me to go for more. They offered me the variable rate mortgage and just shrugged and said "Oh, you can just refi when your rates go up." But I took the time to educate myself and knew that I needed a fixed rate, and set my cap significantly lower than my lenders did. But let's face it...even if I am of only AVERAGE intelligence, then there are millions of people out there stupider than me. And people who are going to believe it when lenders say "Oh, but if you just do this you can afford SO much more house!!"

Now, you may say "That's so dumb! Who would believe that?" Well think about it, there are people out there who believe Obama is a Muslim and not even an American. Some of them are your friends and have your email address. So certainly you cold see that it is possible that there are some people out there who believed in "magic mortgages" that allow people making $50k a year to purchase $400k houses?

And now you are just pissed off that these morons are going to get their own little bail out. Yeah, I get it. That pisses me off, too, that some dumb ass is going to profit from this. I did everything right, so where is my bail out? Isn't that what you are really pissed off about? That none of the handouts are coming your direction? Come on, you can admit it.

But what is the alternative? Large-scale homelessness? The suburbs sitting empty? Increased crime? Further depression of the construction industry? Really? Really. You think THAT would be better than the asshole down the street getting a better deal on their mortgage than you? Oh, my, that's not fair! Not fair at all! Suck it up, teabaggers. This is the way it's got to be. Unless you want to be mugged in the suburbs, or live next to an abandoned house that is now a crack house. Hey, isn't that what you moved to the suburbs to get away from??

You know what really cracks my shit up, though?

All this hype that these teabaggers have created, all the press coverage...so all morning I have been looking for numbers...how many people turned out for these tea parties?

The information that I could find sounds pretty impressive. A quarter of a million people nationwide (New York Times). Three hundred thousand (Newsweek)!! Wow, that's a lot of people! A quarter of a million, why, that is 50,000 LESS than showed up for the Obama rally in St. Louis.

In Missouri.

A state that didn't even vote for him.

Suck on that, teabaggers.

(Oh, and a comment about comments? If you spew your bile anonymously, I will not approve your comment. If you want to come over here and show your ass, at least be a man enough to reveal your name, you chicken-shit.)

Breakfast of Champions

2009-04-12T11:05:00.003-05:00

Cute and Edgy

2009-03-26T07:18:00.004-05:00

Dear belligerent clueless boy in the parking lot yesterday:

I know that you thought it funny to park your vehicle blocking in the cars of three other people, including the vehicle that I was in.

And I know that you thought that you thought that you were impressing your friends by dawdling in moving the vehicle after I threw you a "Really, Dude? REALLY."

But I want to let you in on a little secret. You might think that deliberately being an asshole is "cool" or "cute" or even "edgy," but one of these days you are going to be an asshole to someone other than the old lady who works at the university you probably attend.

Because the little secret that I want to share with you? There are crazy people everywhere. And they look JUST LIKE THE REST OF US. People all over are hanging onto the ragged edge of reality with their fingertips. And you can't really tell that the edges of their world are frayed by just looking at them. Most crazy people don't look like Charles Manson. Some of them look just like me.

Someday you are going to pull this shit with the person that you think is just a soccer mom in her mini van, but what you don't know is that she's not just a soccer mom. She's stretched thin running 3 entitled kids to all their dance lessons, and music lessons, and sports, and scouts, and three different private schools. And to make it possible she's variously been popping her kids' ADD meds and mixing it with Xanax. But she's not an addict because their prescription, right? RIGHT?!?? And she decided this morning that she has had just about enough of her husband's philandering ways and her ungrateful kids' smart mouths and as she was leaving the house she couldn't fight the urge anymore and she slipped one of the kitchen knives into her purse. And you're going to pull your cute shit with her, and she's going to pull out that knife, it's probably a Henckels, they sell nice stuff at Williams Sonoma, and she's going to saw your fucking head off.

Or maybe you'll pull your cute little shit with that person over there that looks like my dad...just a nice grandpa with gray in his beard and cap on his head. But really, he got laid off from his job of 35 years working the line at the auto plant. And he's had just about enough of smarmy college boys...because isn't it smarmy college boys who don't know shit about shit who are responsible for the mess we're in right now? And this morning when HE left the house, he decided he was going to even things up with some smarmy college boys, he was going to teach THEM something, and he slipped a gun into his pocket. And maybe, if people let him be, the reasonable part of his mind is going to keep him from going on a rampage. Except today, you are going to fuck with him, and he is going to shoot you in the face.

So really, you are pretty lucky that you just fucked with the old lady who works at the university. Because the most dangerous weapons she wields is sarcasm and a bad attitude. Which while they may hurt your ego, won't ACTUALLY cut you.

World Market: Total Fail

2009-03-23T18:54:00.004-05:00

Any trip to World Market, much like any trip to Target, usually requires an expenditure of no less than $50.00. I could be popping in for a jar of red curry, and somehow find $50.00 worth of wine, bath products, and fancy throw rugs that I simply CANNOT live without.

Sunday I took my niece and nephew there, since they had spent the weekend with me. They ogled the candy, and I found something that I couldn't live without, cookies!! And chocolate-dipped, at that!

Somehow, I managed to control myself and didn't open them until today. When I did open them, I had a bit of a "WTF???" moment. Let's see if you can experience it with me....

WTF is up with this packaging????? Is that, or is that not a WHOLE CAN OF CHOCOLATE COVERED TAMPONS?????

Total fail, World Market. Total. Effing. Fail.

Yes, I Have Always Been This Way

2009-01-21T07:32:00.000-06:00

And by "this way," I mean a complete asshole.

When I was little, my grandmother had a witch's mole at the corner of her mouth. It even had whiskers. Eeek! And every time she would go to kiss me goodbye at the bus stop in the morning, if she accidentally made the move to kiss me with "the mole side," I would screech at the top of my lungs "OtherSideOtherSideOtherSide!!"

You can even see "the mole" (which has since been removed, by the way) in the photo above. You can also seee that my grandmother clearly has a deathgrip on a squirmy four-year-old.

After the photographer was finished, I leapt off my grandmother's lap and crawled into my mother's, who was watching from across the room.

Yo Momma asked me "What is wrong with you? Why were you being such a freak? You better not have ruined those pictures!"

I crept up her shoulder and whispered in her ear "The picture guy put me on the wrong side."

Yo Momma looked at me and narrowed her eyes. She said "You are only four. You are too young to have a 'bad side.'"

I whispered back "I know. But Grandma's not."

Yo Momma looked back with a look of incredulousness and said "You are such a little asshole."

So you see?

I have always been this way.

Just ask my mother.

Horror of Horrors

2008-12-29T09:11:00.002-06:00

Well, Tim Gunn says that most women are wearing the wrong size bra. Consider me most women.

Yesterday Yo Momma, Granny and I went shopping at Nordstrom's to take advantage of some of the after-holiday sales. We all needed new "unmentionables." Mine were exceptionally unmentionable, and since I had been losing weight didn't fit at all. When I was big, I had gotten really careless about it, and just got bigger and bigger bras, never mind that I looked sloppy...I felt sloppy.

But, a few moments after wandering into the lingerie department at Nordstrom's, a woman sporting a pink tape measure walked up to me and said "Honey, you aren't wearing the right size. Nowhere near the right size." I assumed she worked there. I hope so anyway, because 10 minutes later I was in a posh dressing room with her with my top off. If she didn't work there, THAT would have been embarrassing.

She measured my rib cage and asked me "Just what size do you think you are?" From the tone of her voice, clearly, I was quite wrong. So I said "Um...well...I've lost some weight. Maybe I could try a 36D?"

She chuckled. Then she said "What size is that bra you have on?" I said "I don't know. I think it might be a 38D. Or maybe a 38C. I don't know if it's one I bought when I was fattest or when I was losing weight."

She chuckled again. Then she shared some new information: "You, Little Miss, are nowhere near a 36D or a 38C or whatever it is you have been buying. You are a 34DDD."

A 34DDD?

Oh. My. God.

I have freak-porno-boobs.

Do they even MAKE that size?

Isn't that the size that strippers ask their plastic surgeons to special-order for them?

DDD?

How is that even possible?

My internal monologue must have become external because my fitter assured me that I would NOT need to go shop at some freak-porno store, that she had plenty of 34DDD in stock and not to worry, that there were a dozen tiny little girls in the dressing room right now that would kill for what I had.

At which point Yo Momma yells from the dressing room next door "Yeah, quit your bitching. I just found out that the girl on the left is is D and the girl on the right is a C. I'm probably going to have to roll up a tube sock and stuff it in there. You might have porno-boobs, but at least both your porno-boobs are the same size."

$350.00 later, at least I have some bras that I don't fall out the bottom of when I lift my arms.

Merry....whatever

2008-12-24T08:24:00.003-06:00

I have zero holiday spirit.

I didn't put up a Christmas tree this year. There is no wreath on the door. There is a sign in our front yard that says "Santa Stop Here" that I assume Jeremy put out there. I had to go out and look what it said because I thought it might be a sign left by the trash company that said "These people can leave no more yard waste, ever" after the 32 bags of leaves we put out there two weeks ago. I could actually hear the cursing all the way in the garage when the truck pulled up. What they don't know is there are still more bags in the back yard.

I went shopping for exactly 23 minutes.

I haven't baked anything.

I am completely uninterested in celebrating.

I haven't wrapped anything (yes, I know it is Christmas Eve. I'll do it eventually).

The only thing about this holiday that is at all exciting to me is that my place of business is officially closed until January 5th.

Maybe I just don't care because the economy is so far in the shitter that I can't justify spending money on anything. I can't even muster anymore sadness when I hear about it. Day after day I sit in advising appointments with students who have been laid off. Yesterday I had an appointment with a student who took her last class in 2004. I asked her why she was coming back. She was laid off last week by Anheuser Bush. Merry Fucking Christmas, eh? Since she had good experience, I spent about half an hour talking with her about networking, informational interviews, and how to stay positive during her search. I really don't have any business doing that, but who else will? Our career services is completely overtaxed. Their staff needs to increase by about 500%.

But it's just one more example of why it's hard to stay positive. My dad's plant is on the verge of shutting down. My brother is on furlough over the holidays. I have friends who are in various stages of unemployment and underemployment. I feel like we're circling the drain, and it's almost like pretending to have Christmas spirit is just putting on a mask. Should I even have sent out the wedding invitations?

I can't freaking stand attention whores who think that because of their industry or where they live that their experience is the absolute worst and therefore worthy of the greatest level of sympathy. It is everywhere. The housing bubble burst two years ago. A lot of state budgets, and therefore state university budgets, went into the crapper immediately after 9/11. It didn't start with the banking crisis, or the auto manufacturers. They are actually relatively late in joining this little party. Just because you are finally opening your eyes and seeing what is going on around you, doesn't mean that your experience is therefore the worst.

Be back later, I have to go kick the dog.

A Little Bridezilla Rant

2008-12-15T20:54:00.003-06:00

What is it about weddings that brings out the ABSOLUTE WORST in everyone?

Last week I sent out the majority of the wedding invitations. I wanted to get them out a bit early because the wedding is on a holiday, and a lot of people are coming in from out of town. So, the standard six weeks just wasn't going to cut it.

There were about 10 invitations that didn't go out because I didn't have current addresses for a few cousins, and needed my grandmother and my aunt to get the addresses for me. Some of them I needed to find out what names people were currently using (due to their multiple divorces); some were people I hadn't spoken to in years.

Today I get a call from my grandmother asking me when I am going to send out my cousin Jan's invitation. I'm not changing any names to protect the innocent here, becuase as far as I am concerned, there are no innocents involved here, and I hope that someone tells her about this blog, and she reads it and finds out exactly what I think of her little DRAMZ.

So apparently, my cousin Jan called my grandmother and said "Well, I guess I'm not invited."

Well, by all means, you shouldn't be. But because I am a nice person, you actually ARE invited, but I don't have your address. Do you know why I don't have your address? Because in the DECADE AND A HALF that I have either had an apartment or owned my own home, you have NEVER ONCE sent anything to me. Not a Christmas card, not an invitation to your son's graduation party, not a single. goddamned. thing. that I could have gotten a return address off of. I don't even know what town you live in! And since your divorce (which you tried to borrow $1200.00 from my grandmother for on the day she came home from the hospital for after her surgery for LUNG CANCER) I don't even know what NAME you are using so I can't even look you up in the White Pages.

So yeah, I was a tad bit tardy in getting your invitation out. Not that you will actually know who it is from anyway, since you have been using the WRONG last name for me since it was changed when I was 10. That is a full 26 years that you have been calling me the wrong thing. Oh, and thanks for that check for my college graduation that I couldn't cash, since it was made out to a person that hadn't existed for eleven years.

Not to mention, why in the hell should I be obligated to invite some third cousin who doesn't even know my last name to a wedding that is costing me somewhere in the neighborhood of $20,000.00??? This isn't exactly a backyard bar-be-que. This is black-fucking-tie. Out of my pocket, Jeremy's pocket, my parent's pocket. It's not like we're charging a cover here.

Yet you feel like you have the right to call my grandmother and guilt-trip HER because you didn't get your invitation in a timely fucking fashion? Why didn't you call me? Oh, yeah, because you don't have my phone number. YOU NEVER BOTHERED TO FIND OUT WHAT IT IS. Not to mention you know I would have told you to GO FUCK YOURSELF.

I can't WAIT to see what lovely gift you bring.

xoxoxoxo,

The Bride

Why I Hate Shopping

2008-11-27T07:57:00.001-06:00

I know this all happened nearly a week ago, but last Saturday was so traumatizing I couldn't even write about it until now. Also, I am spending the day NOT shopping during "Black Friday." I personally find the rudeness of people jostling for a "good deal", combined with the blatant commercialism to be stomach-turning, but hey, that's just me. If you were one of the fools that spent your Thanksgiving evening lining up outside the Best Buy rather than enjoying time with your family, hey, more power to you. Ya freak.

But back to last Saturday....I spent most of the day running errands and being mostly homicidal. I needed to do six things:

Pick up Grandma's dress at the bridal store
Stop at the fabric store 2 strip malls from the bridal store because patterns were on sale for 99 cents
Go to the post office for stamps for the wedding invitations
Go to Target or some otherwise large store for sinus medication, razor blades, and various and sudry other crap I am sure I needed at the time
Stop at the beauty supply for shampoo and hairspray
End up at Trader Joe's for the ever-important CHEESE

I started at the post office finding out how much it is going to cost to send the invitations. $1.00 apiece! Not to mention the postage for the rsvp envelope. So essentially, the postage is going to cost as much as the printing.

Then I went to the bridal shop to pick up my Grandmother's dress and explain to them AGAIN that the dress that they have for my mother is the one that they accidentally ordered a second time and that I am NOT paying for it, and they can stop leaving asshole messages on my cellphone about how long it's been there ANY DAY NOW. Which prompted the manager to come out and apologize profusely after I let her listen to the latest asswipe message on my cellphone from her staff. In return, I got a chunk o' change off the dress that I was picking up. I also got to play the message for the person who left it, which was a delightfully squirm-worthy experience. I wanted to play it over the intercom of the store, but they wouldn't let me. Even though I offered to forgo the discount if they would give me access to the intercom for just. ninety. seconds.

From there I went to the beauty supply, where they were training a new person and it took no less than 20 minutes to buy some shampoo and hairspray. "My bad" that I tried to buy some hairspay that was on sale and they had to actually type some numbers n' stuff into the computer. The manager finally came over after he saw me put my head down on the counter. In true manager style he says "Can I ask what the problem is here?"

I mumble from my position face-down on the counter "All I wanted to do was stimulate the economy. Just a little bit. I just wanted to buy some overpriced shampoo that I let you guys convince me actually makes my hair do something other than stick to my skull. Instead I am trapped here in limbo over a $3.00 discount on hairspray."

So, he felt bad that it took me 20 minutes to buy some hairspray and he gave me a coupon for $5.00 off. That was cool anyway. He probably should have felt bad that my lying my head on the counter and refusing to look up even to speak to him made his clerk cry. She probably quit later that day.

Then I made an unscheduled stop TJMaxx (hey, I had to walk past it on the way to Target. You didn't think I wasn't going in, did you?) where I had to FORCE myself to not purchase a Michael Kors bag made of the softest leather ever....it was $150.00, it was beautiful, but even marked down $300.00 from it's original price, I just couldn't justify a yellow leather purse. Instead, I backed slowly away from the purses and walked down to Target instead.

At Target I had to sign a waiver and leave a DNA sample to get my sinus medication that is technically "over the counter" but since I am such a high risk (might be cookin' up meth in the garage) I had to promise them my first born in return for a box of claritin. I also managed to spend an additional $60.00 on useless crap I don't need because it's Target, and I do that every time I enter a Target store.

Then across the street to the fabric store for a walking foot and a pattern sale, where nothing of any interest happened. Except I had been at this shit since 10:30 and it was now nearly 1:00 and I was STARVING. But I was at a fabric store. What was I to do??? Ah...candy. I'll buy some candy. They ALWAYS have bags of candy at the front counter, even though it boggles the mind as to why a fabric store would have candy at the counter. So I grabbed a bag of something that looked ok..."Starburst Gummi Bursts." How could I go wrong? Starburst...gummis...perfect!

So I got out to the car and opened the bag of candy, and popped one in my mouth. I bit into it, and...it ruptured! I squirted something into my mouth. You can imagine the look on my face since I wasn't exactly expecting that. I opened the Jeep door and spat the candy on the ground.

When I got home, I also disected one, to figure out just what it was that it spit into my mouth. It looks like an autopsy:

Lesson learned, don't buy candy at stores that by any conceivable reason should not even be selling candy. But, I'm getting ahead of my story. My last stop was at Trader Joe's where I bought a whole lotta wine to wash the memories of today away with. And I was helped by the cutest checker ever who while he was ringing me out told me about eating so much TJ's peppermint bark that he made himself sick, and when he moved last year, found a piece stuck to the back of his matress.

Then I came home and ate cheese for dinner.

Rhetorical Questions

2008-11-02T16:03:00.003-06:00

"How was your day, sweetie?"

I've noticed that when my fiance asks me this question, it is a rhetorical question. The answer that he wants to hear is "Fine" and then he wants to know what I'll be making for dinner. He doesn't want to know how my day really was. He doesn't want to know that I feel frustrated that site advisors still bounce online students to St. Louis for advising. He doesn't want to know that Thailand students try to use our office as a way to dodge the thesis requirement in their country, and think we are so stupid as to let them get by with it. He really isn't interested in knowing that my boss's health worries me. He just wants to know that my day was "Fine" and that we are having baked ziti for dinner.

Same thing with "How are you?"

No one really wants to know about your blown knee cartilage or your ongoing struggle to come to terms with your brother's problems with addiction. What they want to hear is "Fine. And you?" So that they can say "Fine" and you can move onto the business at hand.

Yesterday I discovered another rhetorical question:

"How was your meal?" when asked in certain contexts, such as fast food restaurants. Now, when dining at a restaurant with, oh, I don't know, cloth napkins....the question "How was your meal" might actually indicate an interest in some constructive feedback. However, when asked in a fast food context, it is a question really only meant to fill the dead space while the cash register calculates your change.

Yesterday, for example...

I was on my way to my mother's house when she asked me to stop at Steak 'n Shake and pick up some lunch. I decided to go inside, because going through the drive through at Steak 'n Shake is NEVER a good idea unless you want to see me become completely homicidal. Steak 'n Shake is the slowest fast food ever. It is even slower than Jack in the Box and White Castle, if you can believe it. And after being trapped between two concrete curbs waiting for food that will most likely kill me, I find myself wondering if I could just push the car in front of me out of the way and go to McDonalds instead. Or just go to the store and buy some damned fruit. So, if I do actually risk the coronary and eat the food, I go inside and order it at the counter. At least that way I can amuse myself in ways other than trying to work out the physics of whether or not a Jeep can crush a Honda or could it actually make it over it.

As I was sitting at the counter waiting for my order to come up, enjoying the freak parade paying for the meals they had eaten in the restaurant, I found myself pondering the rhetorical question as the cashier was asking each person "How was your meal?" as they paid.

Everyone was sticking to the script (as well they should) and answering "Fine" until...SHE arrived...

Embroidered sweatshirt, pink crocs...I knew she was going to be trouble the minute she bellied up to the bar...

The clerk took her bill, her money, and asked her "How was your meal?"

And she answered "Well...It wasn't very good."

What? What? Are you shitting me? You ate at Steak 'n Shake. They can't even afford the full "and" in their name, and you were expecting the food to be good? I just ordered a bucket full of burgers for under $20.00 and the last thing I am expecting is for them to be good. I expect them to be edible. I expect them to be cooked completely. Good? Now that might be a stretch.

Before I could help myself, I felt my mouth opening...I felt words coming out...and I said:

"Really? Really. It wasn't good? What, was there a finger in it?"

Because really, the presence of a severed finger was the only thing that I could think of that would actually make it worth my time to complain at Steak 'n Shake.

Maybe some day, when they get the other two letters in the "and" and some cloth napkins, I'll start worrying about the quality of the food. Until then, as long as I don't get food poisoning, and there are no human body parts in it, it's "fine."

I'll save my skills at critique for something that cost more than $4.25, thankyouverymuch.

Please. Just Stop

2008-10-07T10:03:00.003-05:00

I had to send the following email to my grandfather today. I wonder if it will work. Or maybe he'll just disown me. Either way, I will have attained my goal:

Dear Grandpa:

Please stop forwarding me the partisan political emails. It makes me crazy.

I'm voting for Obama because I support his policies and because I think McCain is a crazy old coot who belongs in a padded cell.

I would like to take this opportunity to make a copule of other points as well. First, Obama is NOT a Moslem. I don't care where you heard it or how many times you repeat it, it doesn't make it true. He is as Christian as you and I. Well, he's as Christian as you. Also, McCain is no military genius. He spent the entirety of a war we LOST locked in a cell. How does this make him capable of guiding our military??

So, if you don't stop, I'm going to sign you up for every pinko-commie-left wing-screwball-nutjob distribution list I can find. (And I know where they are, too, because I already belong to most of them).

I will make sure you are signed up for the daily feeds for the Huffington Post, the Daily Kos, and every liberal blog I can find.

And not only you! I also sign up everybody on the distribution list that you never disguise, even though I have asked you to "BCC" about a hundred times.

If there is a Daily Show fan club, you and all your old fart buddies will be members by this time tomorrow. And you won't be able to unsubscribe, because I won't give you the password!

Gramps, just remember, I love you even if you are a nutjob right-wing Catholic who cares nothing for women's rights. Because you're family. But if I get one more political email...it's war.

Love,

Missy

WTF WG?

2008-10-02T18:26:00.002-05:00

I work in Webster Groves and at least once a day on my drive, I see a vehicle with a decal on it that I assume represents the "mascot" for the local high school.

This decal confounds me.

It consists of a W, a G, a tophat, and a cane.

What, praytell, is the Webster Groves High School mascot?

Is it..a magician?

Perhaps it is a...snappy dresser?

It may be....a member of the chorus?

Or is it...German pop sensation, Taco?

Now, don't get me wrong. I understand stupid mascots. I graduated from a high school with a stupid mascot. Our mascot was a DOG. A sled-dog, no less. The Huskies. For a high school in St. Louis. Not in Alaska. St. Louis. For the geographically challenged, that is dead in the center of the country, and no where near the tundra. Later I went to grad school where our mascot was a tiger, but our colors were yellow and black. So, a tiger....but bumblebee colors. So, see...I can live with the stupid mascots.

But this was just completely confusing to me. A tophat? A cane? Is their mascot Gary Cooper? I must find out what this is!!!!

So when I got home from work today, I spent a little time on the inernet, and you will never guess what the hell this is supposed to represent.

The Statesmen.

Let me repeat that.

The Statesmen.

A tophat and a cane.

The Statemen.

The charging statesmen.

The vicious statesmen.

Goooooo statesmen.

Man, I'm not complaining about that damn dog anymore.

A Special Kind of Crazy

2008-08-13T21:40:00.004-05:00

So my dad....he's a special kind of crazy. If he's not obsessing about his mulch, or yelling at you for using more than four sheets in the toilet (What are you? A bunch of fucking mummies? Why do you have to wrap to your elbow?), or yelling at you for "cookie-ing" his computer, or otherwise just driving Yo Momma up a wall, he is generally scrounging something from somewhere.

Big Poppa is so notorious for scrounging, that Yo Momma doesn't allow him in my basement anymore. Because he brings home too much crap. She feels that he has quite enough of his own useless crap in his own basement, and doesn't need to find additional useless crap in my basement to cart home.

Here is a sampling of some of the "interesting items" that one might find in Big Poppa's basement:

Scraps of wood left over from building the deck. 15 years ago. At the house they sold. In 2002. Because you never know.
3, sometimes 4 sets of Allen wrenches. One of the reasons that he is no longer allowed in my basement is because he keeps stealing back the set of Allen wrenches that I first stole from him in about 1996. It's not even complete! When he steals it back, that only forces me to rat through his tool bench and return the wrenches to their rightful place in MY basement. It also forces me, out of sheer spite, to rearrange four or five things on his tool bench. He will then spend weeks trying to figure out if I have hidden, moved, or taken something else. Now don't get me wrong, he's not one of those guys that draw outlines of the tools on the peg board. Come on, he's not a complete freak. Let's face it, he'd be harder to fuck with if he was.
Multiple boxes of empty boxes. Because again....you never know.
Every single computer he's ever owned. I SWEAR TO GOD there is an Apple IIE down there. If I find anything down there that says "Texas Instruments" on it, I'm going to hit him with a hammer. That is, if Yo Momma hasn't beaten me to it.
Along with the computers, random bits of electrical crap. Mainly dismantled and the wires wrapped up into neat little bundles. Because you never know when you might need half of an Atari joystick, a paperclip, and some electrical tape to fix the garage door opener (swear it's true. Yo Momma had to use that ganked up thing until they moved. You had to press the joystick button to open the garage door. I'm sure he was completely offended when the buyers of the house were less impressed and more "WTF??" when presented with that bit of technology).
He also has enough canned goods and dry goods to live through a nuclear holocaust. A few times a year, Big Poppa and Yo Momma head out to Sam's or Costco or whatever is convenient and spend thousands of dollars buying a supermarket's worth of canned vegetables, pasta sauce, cereal, soup, pretty much anything that comes in a box, jar, or can, and store it in the basement. On shelves that Big Poppa built. Probably with wood left over from the deck. From the house they sold in 2002.

I can't WAIT until he retires! If he's this nuts working 60 hours a week, he's going to be a blast when it's all Big Poppa, all the time!

The potential for mischief is endless....

Geography Lesson

2008-07-27T09:20:00.003-05:00

Did you know that is is 950 miles from St. Louis to Vail, Colorado? That takes 18 hours to drive one way. And with today's gas prices, that is probably about $150.00 in gas. One way. Just one way!

So I have to ask you, Genius, what do you think you are doing with that ski rack on your car?

You live in MISSOURI.

And if you are a serious enough skier that you actually need a ski rack rack permanently affixed to your car, don't tell me that you are skiing in Wisconsin, because that is skiing for pussies, mkay? And if you are cross-country skiing, just bite me. You live in a part of the country that has the most unpredictable snow patterns on the planet. One year we get three inches of snow all winter and one year we have blizzards all year, and the next year we get three ice storms and call it quits. A cross-country aficionado would have moved long ago, braniac.

But you're not a cross-country skier. I know this because after you return from a ski trip, you leave your ganked up lift ticket on your parka for WEEKS.

What, are you 12?

And, by the way, who wears a parka with a suit? You are a grown-up. You have a job. How about you start acting like it.

Next year, when you start wearing that damn lift ticket every where you go? I'm going to grab my big-girl scissors out of my desk. You know, the big metal ones, with the black handles? And I'm going to take care of that lift ticket. I'm also going to take care of that dammed Emo hair while I'm at it. You are 28-fucking-years-old. Why don't you clean yourself up? Try shaving more than once a week? Maybe lose the earring.

Oh, and that ski rack?

Me and your Audi are going to have a "date" some night, 'bout 2am.

I Hate Tweakers

2008-06-21T10:02:00.002-05:00

Fucking tweakers.

I used to be able to buy antihistamines straight off the drugstore shelf. But thanks to these losers cooking meth in their mobile homes, now you have to get them from the pharmacist, show your drivers license, which gets scanned so Big Brother knows just how many sinus infections you get annually, sign for it, and only then can you get you single box of limited dosage antihistamines.

Thanks fuckers. Not only have you ruined your lives and your dental health, you have significantly inconvenienced me.

Today, in fact. I nearly had to throw down with a pharmacist at Walgreens.

All I needed was the super-sized box of Mucinex, to enable me to breathe and prevent me from becoming homicidal and potentially killing either J or one of my co-irkers.

I grabbed a couple of other items that I needed and headed for the pharmacy counter. The pharmacist filled my request, and asked for my ID. He scanned my drivers license and credit card and the computer immediately started beeping at him.

He looks at it and says "Hmmmm...."

I said "Does this mean that I have purchased too many antihistamines?"

He replies: "Yes, clearly you are cooking vast quantitites of meth in your backyard shed."

I ask: "Are you now obligated to vault the counter and make a citizen's arrest?"

He replies, with a horrified look on his face, "Oh, hells no! I hear you tweakers have super-human strength. I don't get paid enough for that shit."

At this point, the lady pharmacist, clearly the supervisor, joins us at the counter....

"I don't think she's a tweaker, Frank. Normally tweakers are buying things like giant sodas and huge bags of skittles, not, um...(rats around in my bag, which is still behind the counter) tampons and cat treats.

"Hey. I might not have super-human tweaker strength, but I think I could be pretty scrappy in a fight. Especially considering how I feel when I am really congested"

"She's right Frank, the power of a bad attitude should never be underestimated. Oh, and Frank, that beep was just telling you the printer is out of receipt tape. You won't be needing to take her down."

Seriously, I could not keep a straight face with these two. I will be going to this Walgreenspharmacy for all my meth-making needs from NOW ON. Oh, and for my allergy medicine needs, too. And my pedegg refills.

I Live in a Cat Piss World

2008-06-04T11:18:00.009-05:00

My cat Ollie, who looks a bit like Hitler, has taken to pissing all over the house. He will piss in the basement, piss in the dining room, piss in the other cat's bed, basically anywhere as long as it is not a litter box.

Why? Who knows. My friend Kim says that perhaps he is angry because he feels that victory in Europe is still within his grasp and I am holding him back. Where Ollie is concerned, that is as good an explanation as any.

I would say that my house smells like shit, but it doesn't. It smells like cat piss. It makes my eyes water to walk in the front door. It makes me want to hit Ollie repeatedly with a stick with a nail poking out of the end of it. It makes me want to put him in a canvas sack and invite some friends to a party down by the creek.

But instead we took him to the vet. Guess what? He's fine. The vet has no idea why he's doing it. But told us how we MIGHT be able to get him to stop. How do you like that? We might. Which means we might get to live in a cat piss world UNTIL WE FUCKING DIE. How you like them apples?

Fucking cats. I hate them.

So this is what we got to do:

We now have litter boxes in every room of the house. On every floor. Including the basement.
I had to steam clean every carpet that Ollie has pissed on. Which means EVERY. CARPET. IN. THE HOUSE. And then treat it with enzymes.
We now have a very expensive pheremone excreter in the dining room, the scene of his greatest crimes.
We have covered every surface that he has pissed on with foil, to keep him away from it, per the vet's instructions.
Ollie is now on antidepressants, since his failure in Europe may have been too much for him to bear.

On the downside, my house is a disaster, it still smells like piss, just now a piss-smelling disaster covered in foil.

On the plus side, the aliens can't read my thoughts anymore.

Yeah, I'm Chubby. So What?

2008-05-24T11:56:00.003-05:00

I realized when I started writing this, that this will be my second blog in a row that is basically about the fact that I am chubby.

Now, I feel that I should point out that I am not huge. I'm just a little fluffy. I still shop in "regular" stores. There is no "2" at the beginning of my weight. I don't have to wash myself with a rag on a stick (yet). I have other chubby friends who get mad at me for referring to myself as a chubby girl. I also have skinny friends who yell at me for the same. So, I trust that it's not that bad. Otherwise there is a conspiracy afoot to convince me that I am not as fat as I a really am, and although I love a good conspiracy, I just don't think that I play that important a role in other people's lives.

But, let's face it. Regardless of what any of them say, I'm chubby. I sweat when I eat. I get rashes in odd places in the summer time. I start planning lunch while I'm finishing breakfast. Sometimes I grunt when I pick up my nephew (it makes him giggle). Bacon plays a very important role in my diet, a much more important role than vegetables. I have dreams about cheese. I own control garments that have structural components similar to those of suspension bridges. All that makes me a chubby girl, no matter what anyone says.

So, I really shouldn't be offended when my doctor calls me fat, right?

I had to go to a new doc because my gynecologist actually has limits to what she will prescribe for me, and has decided that I need to see a "real" (her word not mine) doctor if I need help with my migranes.

So she referred me to a colleague of hers.

This is part of my conversation with my doctor the other day:

"So I understand you need help with migranes?"

"Yes. They are making me crazy. And mean"

"Mean? I haven't seen any evidence of that yet..."

"Give me a day."

So we continue to talk abou the migranes and he decides on a course of medication for me, including him being brutally honest with me that while he thinks the migrane impact my insominia, that I will probably never be able to achieve 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep in a
night, but he will be happy if I can get 5 without the use of Ambien or other drugs.

While that wasn't the answer I WANTED, I appreciated his honesty.

What really made me laugh though was the end of our conversation.

He looked at me and said "As your doctor, I would be remiss if I didn't ask you what are our plans to remedy this..."

And then he POKED ME IN THE STOMACH.

My eyes got really big and I said "Did you just poke me in my fat? You're kind of a dick."

He smiled and said "Yeah, but you're mean."

As I was leaving, I told him "You know, poking a chubby girl in the fat is a big risk. I could have totall punched you in the head. And that chubby nurse who took my blood pressure probably would have backed me up."

He laugheed and said "Oh, I'm pretty sure she's wanted to punch me in the head for a long time now. But I talked with Dr. C (my gyno) about you before your appointment. She told me you can take it. And that you have a bit of an "off" sense of humor."

It really impressed me that he did actual *research* before I showed up. On the other hand, it is distressing to me that Dr. C thinks my sense of humor is "off." This is the doctor that gleefully sings "Here comes the bad touch!" before putting in the speculum. How "off" can you get???

Humiliation 101

2008-05-22T19:38:00.003-05:00

Today I went to try on wedding dresses. Cause, you know, I'm getting married and stuff.

I called the frou-frou wedding dress shop and made an appointment, in fact it was right across the street from the setting of my previous blog. I told them what I was looking for and showed up at my appointed time feeling a bit excited about the possibility of finding something unique.

The girl would was assigned to work with me was super sweet and asked a lot of great questions so that she could pick out a selection of gowns for me to try on.

She took me up to a dressing room and the first one that she pulled out I thought "Wow, she really listened, this is really perfect." Then we tried to put it on. She put it over my head. The lining got caught on top of "the girls." She said "Grab that and give it a yank." I did as I was told and the lining moved about another 6 inches before it was irrevocably bound around my hips and ass. Clearly, I am gigantic.

At this point the assistant turns me toward the mirror and says "What do you think?"

"I can't think. It's too hard to think when I can't breathe."

"Oh, that's the way it always is! These are sample sizes"

"I think your sample size is about 6 sizes too small."

She laughs it off and says "Oh, sample dresses are always a size 10."

I told her I wore a size 12 and if the sample dress was a size 10, you would think that I could actually get it over my ass. It might be tight, but I could at least get into a dress unzipped to the back of the knees.

In the happiest voice possible she says, "Oh, wedding dress sizes always run small. A 10 is really a 6. We'll probably have to order an 18 for you."

Then I decide to share a little secret with her: "I'll tell you what, sweetheart, I'm not ordering ANYTHING in ANY size until I can actually see what it is going to actually look like, not what I look like packed into it like a damned sausage."

Her response? "Let's try this one, it has a back zipper."

I sigh and allow her squish me into another dress.

Hanging onto the back for dear life so my sizable (size 12) bulk doesn't burst from the dress and splatter all over the walls, she turns me to the mirror and in an overly bright voice says "What do you think of this one?!?"

I throw out a Yo Momma "Really? Really. You really want to know what I think? I'll tell you what I think. I think this is BULLSHIT. I wouldn't spend $100.00 on a dress that I couldn't see what it was going to look like. I guaran-damn-tee that I'm not spending (I fumble for the price tag) $3450.00 for one. And I'll tell you something else, for three grand I had better be able to tell if the goddamned thing is going to be uncomfortable!"

She looks a bit nervous now. But maybe she's just nervous that if I get worked up, or if I perhaps move my arms, that the seams are going to bust out of this dress. She very carefully asks "Did you want to try on any more?"

I answer "No. I think I'm all done with my humiliation for today. Why don't we call it a night?"

She peels the dress off of me and leaves me to get back into my clothes.

As I come downstairs, the owner of the shop is waiting for me. She says to me "I hear we had some problems? You didn't want to try on any more dresses?"

I tried to be nice, but after being poked, prodded, stuffed and yanked into two dresses that were short about 14 yards of fabric, I was really all done with nice and I said "No, we don't have any problems. You are the one with problems. We will be taking Ourselves to a shop that has dresses that We can actually try on rather than imagine what We would look like in this ridiculously small dress."

She actually takes a step back and says "Well, we can't possibly be expected to stock every size in every dress! We have to buy samples!"

I said "I understand. You have to keep only one of each dress in stock, otherwise it is too expensive. But given that the average American is more like a 16 than a 6, don't you think it would be more effective to order your samples in a 14 or a 16? Then you can serve the chubby girls as well as the skinny girls. But when you order your samples in a size 10, that is really a size 6, that means that more than half of the potential brides out there are too fucking fat to even consider fitting into your tiny sample sizes and only a damned retard would buy a dress that they can't SEE what it would look like. And I'll tell you what, I may be chubby, but I'm not retarded."

(now I was on a roll....)

"I'll tell you something else...I'm a professional with a graduate degree in my mid-thirties. I live in a household with sizable disposable income. My bridal party has eight bridesmaids that I WON'T be sending here to be subjected to the same ridiculous humiliation that I just went through. So there is a pretty big sale you missed out on right there."

"But something else I want you to think about. Us chubby girls? We talk. Usually over lunch. And I'll tell you right now that I will tell every. single. person. I. know. NEVER to come here to be humiliated. So in the end, what is more expensive? Stocking a second sample dress in a size 16? Or the money you are going to lose when I find a way to get on TV to tell people not to come here?"

At this point a crowd had gathered. Who knew that many people would be in a bridal shop on a Thursday night?

As I was stomping out the door, a girl a little chubbier than me was coming in. It gave me a sick sense of pleasure to lean over and tell her "Don't even bother, Sista. They hate fat girls here."

She looked at me and sighed and said "I know. My skinny bitch of a sister is making my buy my maid of honor dress here. I hate these evil twats."

I almost had to kill a man today...

2008-05-09T20:31:00.003-05:00

So today I was on my way to work...

Before embarking on this tale, I have to preface this by saying that I am a good driver. And not a good driver in the "Rainman" kind of way, but a good driver in that I can drive pretty much anything 2, 4, or even more wheels and have never had a moving violation worse than a speeding ticket.

So, this morning I was on my way to work, and went to change lanes and realized that someone was riding in my blind spot, so quick change, back into my own lane. Now, I am normally very careful about driving IN someone's blindspot, and if by chance I am there, I don't get pissed if they start to come over. I'll get out of the way.

Well,clearly "I was in her blind spot" did not register with the person behind me, and he felt the need to pull up next to me and gesticulate wildly and yell. It kind of struck me as funny because it was a tiny little man, who was at least four hundred years old.

I waved him off, and he sped off, only to stop in the middle of his lane so he would be even with me when I got to the next stoplight. He was still screaming and tossing himself around in his Mercedes at which point I had had enough and I flipped him off.

This drove him to even greater levels of hysteria, and I really began to worry about the stress he was putting on his decrepit old heart when he rolled his window down and yelled at me that I was a bitch.

Gasp! A bitch! Wounded, cut right to the heart!

So I smiled at him and nodded in agreement. We all know that I am a bitch, this is an established fact. There is no reason to pretend otherwise.

Then, get this...the little old troll takes his seat belt off and reaches for his door handle!! Like he's going to get out of the car and come after me! WTF? Is this little mummy out of his mind?

At this point I felt I HAD to act, so I put my window down and yelled "What are you doing over there, grandpa? You gonna come over here and hit me? You gonna hit me for being an uppity young un'? Is that what you're going to do? Are you gonna smack me around like your second wife?"

He is still screaming at me, although the best he can come up with is to call me a bitch again. At this point, not only am I laughing hysterically but so is everyone else sitting at the light, since it was a nice morning and people had their windows down.

He tells me he's going to "Get me" to which I respond "Bring it Pops. But be careful, you wouldn't want to break a hip." I think at this point I may have also thrown in some rap hands for good measure (Now of course, you must imagine that I am in full power suit for work, heels, and oversized sunglasses, with rhinestone trim. I would totally have to take my shoes off if I was going to throw down in the street with a geriatric).

Clearly, the fact that I am bat-shit insane registers with him and he finally decides better of getting out of the car. He yells "Bitch" at me again and puts his seatbelt back on.

Never content to let someone else have the last word, I yell back "Hey! I thought you were coming over here to kick my ass! Cause I'll tell ya, I could USE a good ass kicking! Ask anyone!"

Then he rolled up his window and tried to ignore me, but I stayed right by him the rest of the way down Brentwood and kept looking at him and smiling and giving him flirty faces and eyebrow wiggles until I had to turn to get to work.

I still think I could have taken him.

I might even have left on my shoes.