Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Do You Hear That?

Shh... Listen closely.  Do you hear it?  Turn down your radio, tell your husband to mute whatever sport's game he's watching and listen.

Can you hear it?  It's getting louder.

Could it be?

I think it is!

It's...

WTF! Wednesday!

I am super excited to be linking up with Funny or Snot for WTF Wednesday.  Before doing so, I dug around her page looking for the twelve page manual outlining the rules, guidelines and standard operating procedures.

Turns out?  There isn't one. Probably because it's pretty straight forward, stupid.  If something makes you say WTF then write about it and link up.

Now there are many reasons a person might say WTF:

In confusion: WTF did I just step in?

In annoyance: WTF did my idiot neighbor do now?

In hilarity: WTF is on his head?  Haha.  Too funny.

And...when you want to bitch: WTF is so hard about making a sandwich?

Guess which one I'm going with.

That's right.  Bring on bitch mode.

Ready?  Here we go.

Seriously, Fresh Market.  WTF is your problem?

First you employ someone who makes sandwich-making look harder than eradicating malaria in third world countries.  If only there was a sandwich making equivalent of the mosquito net, I might get my lunch sometime before my hair goes grey and my tits touch my toes.

Secondly.  SECONDLY.  You have the balls to ask me if I'd like to taste some wine.  On my lunch break.  Hells yeah I want to taste some wine.  I'd like to taste about 12 bottles worth.  I don't know what about this suit and this walk-like-I've-got-a-stick-up-my-butt-cuz-I'm-a-business-professional implies I have the luxury of getting wasted at twelve in the afternoon, but I can assure you, I do not.  I mean, I haven't consulted the employee handbook lately, but I'm pretty sure "getting shit-faced on your lunch break" is frowned upon.

Thirdly, where the hell are you getting these "wine sellers?"  More like ex-con drug pushers.  Are you part of some inmate rehabilitation program with the county prison?  I wasn't asked one time if I wanted wine.  I wasn't asked two times if I wanted wine.  I was asked, hold on let me count...eleventy thousand times if I wanted wine.  Just how much self-control do you think I have?  There's only so many times you can dangle a catnip-stuffed mouse in front of a feisty feline before it says, "screw work, company policy and my reputation" and claws your eyes out to get the scrumptious little rodent.

Fourthly: Really?  Really?  We're back to sandwich making?  Sandwich girl from number one must a gotten a demotion cuz I saw her sweeping up a bag of spilled WTF is all over the floor in aisle 3?; but her sandwich-making replacement?  Not. Much. Better.  I can't say for certain, but I'm pretty f*ckin certain he insulted me when making my sandwich the other day.  I said, "can you please make me a chicken salad sandwich on a Kaiser roll with a little bit of lettuce."  He pointed to a board that read SANDWICH MAKER and said, "so you want a sandwich maker?"  Um, hmm, is that similar to make me a sandwich?  I'm no genius but they sound pretty freakin similar.  Seriously, there is nothing I love more than getting into a semantics game with the guy preparing my lunch.  I'm not even going to get into the way  he made my sandwich.  Clearly the guy needs to go back to Sandwich Making Boot Camp.

Unfortunately Fresh Market makes such yummy food and bonus! -they're located just minutes from my office so I can scurry away and get my lunch and scamper back before I miss any of the action - so even with all their atrocities, I will be coming back.  But seriously...

WTF Fresh Market?!  W.  T.  F.

Now hurry on over to Funny or Snot and read the other WTF entries.  Go!  Now!  WTF are you waiting for?!

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

This One Time, I Was On An Island, And I Had To...

Warning: this post has the potential to horrify you. Do not read if easily horrified.  If you do read and end up horrified, well then, that's your own fault, isn't it?

I'm debating whether to tell you guys about my most mortifying moment(s) or the most disgusting thing I ever did.  It wasn't disgusting for me, just A-Day-In-The-Life, but it was probably pretty disgusting for those future unsuspecting campers.

Oh look, a robin.

Wow it's really red.

What brilliant feathers.  

Is that...it looks like blood.

Is it injured?

What the...

Is that a...

No, it couldn't be.  How'd it get way out here?

I'm goin' in for a closer look.

Oh!  My eyes!

Who would do that?!  Sick.  Really really sick.

In my defense, I was on an island.  Without a bathroom.  What else was I supposed to do with the tampon?  Sure bury it, is the obvious, and unimaginative, choice.  Granted, when I flung it through the air like a beautiful bird in flight, I didn't intend for it to lodge just so between the branches of the tree-I-don't-know-the-name-of-but-will-now-be-forever-known-as Tampon Tree.  Seriously, people.  I am talented, but I couldn't do that if I tried. (I have attempted to re-enact that scene no less than 100 times, and never once have I even come close to repeating it.  In related news, my neighbor is becoming very verklempt by all the tampons mysteriously appearing under the oak tree in his front yard.  "Do you know anything about this?" he asked me, because apparently I look like the girl who would know something about mysteriously appearing tampons.  "Looks like a Christmas miracle to me," I responded.  "Except, you know, it's June and instead of a Christmas tree it's and oak tree and instead of a miracle it's a bunch of tampons.  But oh!  They still have the string!  You could hang them from the tree!  Insta-ornaments and recycling all in one!"  He was not amused and surprisingly unappreciative that I just handed him the next billion-dollar idea.  Ungrateful asshat.)

What were we talking about?

Ah yes, the delightful children's tale A Tampon in the Woods.

It really was quite lovely, displayed there at eye-level - as any proper work of art should be - reminiscent of the Mona Lisa or Monet's Water Lilies.  Or perhaps it more closely resembled the works of Van Gogh in that once people saw it, they wanted to cut off their ear, and by that I mean, gouge out their eyes.

Look at me and my dramatics.  Is there anything more natural than taking your children on a hike through the woods and spotting the rare, hardly seen, but deeply sought after Tampon Bird?  Those kids will grow up to be conservationists.  Or possibly serial killers.  Either way, their parents will be proud, right?

What did I do after I lodged the tampon in the tree?

Turned to the one who has all the answers - the husband - and exclaimed with wide-eyed wonder and abandon - yes, just like those kids on Christmas morn - "what should I do?!

The husband: Meh.  Leave it.  It's not the most disgusting thing you've ever done.

Me: Whatever do you mean?!

The husband: Don't tell me you forgot about the time your uterus exploded all over the Pottery Barn bathroom.

Me (slapping hand to forehead): Oh, how could I forget!...Wait!  How do you know about that?  That doesn't happen until years later.  Oh my bloody tampon, are you from the future?!  Will I grow up to have big boobs and long shiny locks.  Will my skin remain tight, my ass upright, and be able to party all night? Ooh, am I going to be a poet? Tell me, oh wise husband from the future.

The husband: Pull your pants up and let's go.

Me: Are all husbands from the future so bossy?

The husband: A bug's about to crawl up your ass.

Me: Well good for him!  Or maybe it's a her.  How do you tell the gender of a bug?

The husband:...

Me: Fine.

And so I (rather begrudgingly) pulled up my pants, bidding my tampon a "farewell" and a "hope to see you soon," but in a "from a distance" kind of way not a "hey, come on in" kinda way.  Obviously.

Sometimes when life is particularly stressful, or depressing, or lacking in art, I like to think of my little Tampon Bird, nestled cozily in its little Tampon Tree bringing unsuspected joy to hundreds of campers, hikers, boaters, and the like.  I just can't help but smile.  My little gift to the world.  My way of spreading joy.  Bringing hope.  Giving Back.

Up until today, I have never shared this story with anyone.

Not because it's disgusting.

But because I like to do my charity work, anonymously.

*****************************************************************

This post is linked to http://freefringes.com/2011/06/28/lovelinks-12-open/   Ooh aah!

and...

Monday, June 27, 2011

Here She Is, Miss America

Speaking of Miss America, the Miss USA Pageant was on recently.  While only one was crowned Leader of Fake Boobs, Plastic Smiles and Eating Disorders, I'd like to congratulate them all for teaching our young girls what a beautiful healthy woman looks like.

Let's see Margaret. You are five feet ten inches tall and eighty pounds. In theory, that sounds skinny, but we can't yet see your rib cage poking through your chest so get thee to a bathroom and begin vomiting.  I know it's going to be challenging getting anything to come since you haven't eaten more than a raisin in the last six weeks, but see if you can hack up your left kidney.  That oughta knock off a pound or two.

"But mom, I'm so weak.  I don't think I have the energy to throw up."

"Margaret!  You are an example to young ladies everyone!  If you can't inspire them to puke up their internal organs who will?"

"Please mommy.  I'm so hungry."

"I will not have that kind of filthy talk in my house young lady!  Wash your mouth out with soap while you're in the bathroom.  But don't swallow any of the water.  You can't afford those empty calories."

Don't get me wrong.  I don't blame these women for wanting to be in these pageants.  Heck, I thank them. I am a woman and therefore enjoy judging other women as much as the next, uh, woman.  An opportunity where we are encouraged to criticize fifty Barbie dolls for the way they walk, they way the talk, the size of their ankles, the way their elbows protrude a little too far to the left, the way their foreheads are too large, their noses too small, their teeth too Vaseline-covered, is every woman's wet dream.

However, I can't help but wonder if the beauty queens' I-haven't-eaten-in-a-month-don't-I-look-smashing figure pisses of the starving people of Ethiopia just a little bit as they try to catch the flies swarming round their heads for a wee bit of nutrition.

People of Ethiopia: You mean they have food, but they choose not to eat it?

I wonder if any beauty queen ever chose "End World Hunger" as her platform.  I doubt it.  She'd probably have to lead by example and actually eat something.  How disgusting.

Um.  Where was I?

Oh yes!  It's time for another award show.

First I'd like to apologize to all those who've started twitching and hallucinating and have been overcome with night sweats.  I'm sincerely sorry I have not blogged in the last two days.  But I have been in detox myself.

Twitter detox.

Sincerely you guys, it has taken over my life.

Me: Honey, I have a problem.

The husband: What?

Me: I'm addicted to twitter.

The husband:  Noooooo.  You have to stop.

Me: I can't!  I can't stop!  I can't quit the twitter!

I thought I had it under control.  I was all "Pshhh, I can quit any time I want."  But then I started developing this rash. (true story)  And it started to spread.  And oh the itching!  When the need to scratch was insatiable, I knew.  I was infected with twitter-itis.

I knew the only cure was to stop twatting.  "Get back to blogging," I said.  "Write a story for the Red Dress Club or Romantic Friday Writers, write something heart-felt and inspiring."

But I couldn't.  It was like without twitter, my brain had stopped working.

"I will never write again!" I exclaimed to the husband and with much throwing of knives and angst.

And I didn't.  I just sat in the corner, drooled on myself, pulled my hair out and also?  Stopped eating.  By the time Sunday came I was like, "dang I look good.  those beauty queens know what they're doing." 

The new and improved, ten pounds lighter me dragged my weak, tired, drool covered, cellulite free ass (wait.  nope. the cellulite is still there.  lipo is the only cure for that my friends.  when all else fails, go under the knife!) to the computer.

"Must produce show.  People award needs on counting me."

I began to type with abandon. Any little lovely thought that popped into this psychotic head o' mine magically appeared on the screen. I typed and typed, and, well, here we are, folks.  Here.  We.  Are.

I think we can all agree this is shaping up to be the best awards show ever.

Let's officially kick things off good and proper like with our host Jerry the Juggling Shark.


The first award goes to my one of my new twitter friends.  A fellow twat, if you will.  She is all kinds of awesome and she whores out my blog in a way that makes me green with envy.  She may also be a robot.

If I had to describe @SaucyWithATwist in four words it would be Saucy.  With a twist.

My wit.  It astounds me.

Let's all put our flippers together and cheer wildly as Miz Saucy comes to the stage and accepts her award.

The next award goes to someone, who, quite literally saved my life.  Elise Seaton aka @notbagels writer of the awesome Things That Are Not Bagels tweeted me one night at two in the morning.  From my I-am-about-to-be-eaten-by-an-alligator fear induced haze I reached for the sound of the tweet, thus ending my nightmare.  Her tweet, which either had to do with bagels, or things that are not bagels, saved me from the scariest dream of my life.  You should all fall to your knees and thank her, for if not for her tweet, I would sitting in the pit of an alligator's stomach and there would be no more Sarcasm Goddess.  Oh the horror!

Please join me in applauding the heroic @notbagels for her award.


And now for the Comment of the Week.  I must say, it was a tough decision.  So many great and inspiring and, who can forget ha-larious, things left by you all - so thank you bunches.

But there can be only one Comment of the Week and this lady made me pee just a little when I read what she had to say.

Bella: Lady, thank you for the much needed laughs! I just recently got a Twitter twat thing and I don't know what the hell to do with it. I mean, does anyone care to read my "updates"? Or will I be sending these off to cyberspace only to have them make their way to a small village in Timbuctoo where my identity will be appropriated by a pygmy who will then max out my credit card? Is it worth the effort? Please advise. Oh, and for icing on the cake, the word verification is "butpit." Should I interpret this as some sort of sign? Again, please advise. :)

Bella aka @lady_bella is new to twitter so let's all give her a twatterly welcome and confuse the twat out of her.

And to answer your question Bella, people will totally care to read your updates as long as they involve bacon, uterus explosions, the alligator apocalypse, bacon, crotch corks, co-workers you suspect are poisoning you, bacon, threatening to eat someone's child, bacon, suspecting your boss is plotting to kill you, drinking toilet water, and lastly...bacon.  If any of your tweets have anything to do with any of that, then yes, people will be dying to read them.  And if "butpit" is any indication, your followers will be plentiful and loyal.  Go forth and twitter, my little twat.

I honestly have no idea if there's more to the show or not, cuz all I can think about now is bacon, and how I may appropriate some before my uterus explodes.  Hope you all have a lovely Monday.



Friday, June 24, 2011

If The Boss Evaluates My Work Performance Based on Tweets Per Hour, Then I'm Totally Getting a Raise

My yearly review at work is coming up.  Ugh.  As much as I'm not looking forward to it, I suppose it could be worse.  If I worked in p0rn, my review would include a vagina swab and an AIDS test.  Although if I worked in p0rn, a vagina swab and an AIDS test would be the least of my worries.  Topping the list would be, oh I don't know, the fact that I work in p0rn and also, trying to keep my pant legs dry as I waded through my mother's tears (why not just wear shorts?  because your vagina swallowing your inseam as you walk is not a good look for anyone).

#Iamnotapornstar  Hashtag?!  What are you doing here?  This isn't twitter!

Honestly, is there anything more full of bullshit than the employee self-evaluation?

How would you rate your work performance this year?

Hmm..let's see.  I sent an average of 127 tweets per day, read 8-10 blogs per day, which is just under my goal of 11-13, updated my facebook status four times a day, accomplished my goal of 500 tweets in one 40 hour work week (that one wasn't easy, let me tell ya.  missed the deadline for that Very Important Project and lost three important accounts in order to do it, but it's all about priorities, right?), licked raw chicken every Sunday night so I could honestly tell you I can't come in on Monday cuz my stomach is at war with my ass and woah you would not believe how far I can projectile vomit (I may be a colossal waste of company time, but I am not a liar!), perfected the art of banging on the keyboard, shuffling papers and frowning in concentration every time you walked by (you totally thought I was working, didn't you!), was mesmerized for six hours one day by an ant walking up my wall, spent a total of 19 days winding up my toy caterpillar Henry and watching him creep across my desk until he dive-bombed into my pen drawer (funny stuff! shit gets me every time), scheduled "doctor's appointments" at 3:30 every Friday (you would not believe how far I can hit my Driver now!  still missing some critical putts though.  i plan on rectifying that in the coming year by scheduling "doctor's appointments" at 3:30 on Thursdays), drew 12 pictures of monkeys, and illustrated the Lily Lemonade post in just under 10 hours (yeah, you totally paid me overtime that day.)  All in all, I'd say my work performance was excellent.

I'm not a boss, but if I were and I saw that evaluation, I'd give the employee a raise for being honest.  I mean, if you think about it, one day your boobs will touch your toes, your ass will resemble a bean bag chair, your skin will sag, your teeth will rot and your limbs will fall off (the hell?) but at least you'll have your integrity.

One area in which I did not score high on in last year's evaluation was "works well with others."  I can't say for sure, but I think it may have had something to do with the fact that I threatened to stab people in the knee cap if they didn't like my ideas or disagreed with me.  I've made a concerted effort to work on it over the last year, and to prove it, I'm going to have you guys help me fill out this year's self-evaluation form.  I will share the questions and my answers.  If you disagree with anything or think I've left something out, please leave your comments in the comments (ah, redundancy!).

Question 1
Job Summary and major responsibilities

You want me to tell you what I'm responsible for?  Shouldn't you know this?  I mean, you are the one who hired me to do all this shit I haven't been doing.   Seriously?  You're really going to make me do this?  Okay, here goes.  My major responsibilities are...um...hold on, I know this!  It has something to do with paper or maybe, uh, puppies?  No!  No hints!  I've totally got this.  I am responsible for...for...for...Huh.  How bout that?  I have no f*cking clue what I'm supposed to be doing here. 

Question 2
Attach your individual work plan for the past year and indicate which goals were met.  If some goals were not met, provide an explanation for each.
Individual work plan?  Is that kinda like a plan for work, as in the work we plan on doing?  This is a joke right?  Where's the hidden camera?  No one actually plans on doing work, right?  I know I didn't, and any work that I did do this year was done on accident.

Question 3
Were there additional or special accomplishments that were not in your job description or work plan that you completed?
Yes!  I drew a monkey yelling at a giraffe for stealing his banana stash.  Record blog traffic and comments that day.  And several new followers.  That was an epic day.

Question 4
What skills, talents, or knowledge helped you contribute most to the company's success?
Well, I'm very flexible.  I'm very good at making whipped cream adhere to certain body parts.  I have mastered the inverted octopus.  What?  You're not talking about my sexual skills.  Oh.  Well then I guess the answer is none.

Question 5
What aspect of your work are you most interested in or passionate about?
Bahahahahahahahahaha!  You're funny.

Question 6
How can we improve your work environment?
1. Leave me alone
2. Don't schedule meetings during peak tweeting hours
3. Don't schedule meetings during peak blog reading hours
4. Don't schedule meetings, period.
5. Get out of my office.
6. Don't touch shit on my desk.


The next 427 questions ask me to rate my quality of work, my productivity, my communication and teamwork, my attitude, my leadership, my blah blah blah who cares, on a scale of 1 to 5, but like with most work assignments, I've grown bored and have no intention of finishing.

What's my boss going to do?  Fire me?  Bahahahaha!  He's paid me this long to not do my job, why should this be any different?  Honestly, I watched an ant crawl up a wall for six hours and am amused by wind-up caterpillars.  These aren't skills you can just replace.  

Job security, bitches.  Job.  Security.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Better Late Than Never. Except in This Case, Never is Probably Better

The things I do for you guys.  Seriously.  Although I am still exhausted, I must fulfill my duties of producing The Sarcasm Goddess Award Show.  I had all kinds of intentions of going to bed early last night so I could wake refreshed and ready for a super fab show, complete with figure skating monkeys and fireworks, but instead got involved in a very serious conversation on twitter about uterus explosions (or uteru sexplosion, depending on how you look at it.) with@MamaWantsThis @amberwest @jenrambles and @Mama_Mash. 



Uterus explosions?  The hell?

Yeah.  See what you're missing out on by not being on twitter?

I am getting way ahead of myself.  Grab your Snuggie and your box of wine and settle in for the Sunday night show. 

Sunday?  It's Wednesday, dude.

It's called time travel, dude.  And you guys call yourselves scientists.  Pshht.

Before we get to the awards, let's recap the week, shall we?

I returned from vacation and spent nearly 36 hours in meetings and had to have a serious conversation with the boss about how said meetings were cutting into my blog reading time.   These blogs aren't going to read themselves, sir.   I told him this was going to be held against him in his yearly evaluation, but turns out?  The employees don't get to evaluate the boss.

How ludicrous.

You's a ho.  I said that you's a ho.  You doin ho activities with ho tendencies.  Hos are your friends, hos are your enemies. 

No, not that Ludicris.

I waited until the boss went to the bathroom and slid an anonymous drawing of him being eaten by a lion under his door.

In related news, I am a twat.  Which is to say I now twitter.

I know.

I'm sorry.

It's not my fault.

If you have to blame someone, blame all the people not following my blog. Obviously twitter needs a new slogan cuz "Bigger Boobs and Thousands of Blog Followers"?  Big.  Fat. Lie.  So far, thanks to twitter, I have just one new blog follower  (welcome, my fellow twat) and I'm pretty sure my boobs have gotten smaller.

Luckily for twitter I am a Professional Marketer and have come up with a few slogans that I think we can all agree are much better:

Twitter: Massaging Your Narcissism One Tweet At A Time.

Twitter: Where Confusion Meets What The Hell?

Twitter: Not Even Rocket Scientists Can Figure It Out.

Twitter: Because People Care About The Color of Your Last Bowel Movement.  No Really, They Do.

Twitter: Why Converse With The People You're With When You Could Talk to Strangers Who Are Actually Probably Robots?

Twitter: Has Society Really Come to This?

(trademark pending on all slogans.  if you steal them, what do you get?  that's right!  stabbed in the face!)

Perhaps the greatest accomplishment of the week, of my life, is how I revolutionized they way millions of you view the word twat.  For those of you who said "twat" to me in my blog, on twitter or in person, congratulations.  You are now a member of the Coalition to Ban Moist and Munch from the English Language.  Our first meeting will take place at a secure undisclosed location which will be disclosed to you - cuz, duh, how else would you get there? - via email.  Make sure you bring your bee-keeper suit, a snorkel and an oxygen mask. Oh, and a picture of Hallie Berry.  That last one is very important.

Several of you non-twats have expressed interest in being all kinds of supportive and wanting me to explain twitter to you and help you set up your own account and I was all, "twitter is hard, don't worry about following me, you follow my blog and that's all good."

But then I thought long and hard (bahahahaha, it never gets old) and realized if I can twitter anyone can twitter.  But how to explain.  Hmmmm.....

More long and hard thinking.

Bahahahaha.

Honestly people, grow up.

Finally I came up with this handy dandy diagram to help all the twitter virgins understand what to do. (click to enlarge)

Got it?  Good.  See you on twitter soon.

Finally!  It is time for the award!

Our first (and only) award goes to Echo, who, as the name suggests is one super cool Guianan Cock-of-the-Rock.  (that's an actual animal people.  the saying "you can't make this shit up" has never been more true.)

In related news, rooster riots have broken out world-wide.


Wow, Echo, I have digressed.  I blame twitter.  Everyone please join me in congratulating Echo for her award:

Now it's time to introduce a new segment called "Comment of the Week" in which I highlight my favorite comment of the previous week.  This week the Comment of the Week honor goes to...

Me! (seriously, did you guys expect anyone else?)

I am a member of SheWrites, which will be celebrating its two year anniversary on June 29th.  The amazing Monica Medina sent out a mass email asking everyone how they plan on celebrating?

My response?

"I plan on celebrating in the woods with a box of wine, a jar of olives and a mischievous badger named Charles.    Sorry.  That was ridiculous.  The badger's name is Wilbur."

HAHAHAHAHAHA!  Seriously, HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I laughed for fifteen minutes straight.  And then I tried to read it to the husband, but couldn't.  Ya know, cuz of the copious amounts of laughter.

I suppose it's a little narcissistic of me to congratulate my own comment, which wasn't even on my blog, so...allow me to share part of a comment from the fabulous Miss Allie: "Speaking of drunken nights... you should definitely try some topless beerpong in a pool. With some randomass bartender that no one knows but one wants to bang lol. It was crazy! You would approve."

I would approve?  I'm not exactly sure the impression you guys have of me but clearly?  It's a good one.

Congratulations Miss Allie, on receiving the high honor of Comment of the Week.  (Oh and I'm still working on figuring out the code for your award, although I wish you would have asked for something easier, like teaching vampire squid (again, real animal) how to build rocket ships.)

We've come to the point in the show we're I'd give out Spirit Bananas...

Spirit Bananas!  OMG sounds amazing!

Oh, they are amazing.  But they're going to have to wait until next week, cuz I've been working on this post for 42 bajillion hours and I'm all out of wine.

Normally I would leave you with a lovely drawing or darling video, but please reference 42 bajallion hours and lack of wine above.

Thank you all for coming and have a twatastic day.

Monday, June 20, 2011

If It Itches, Go To A Doctor

So yesterday was supposed to be my award show post, but those take me, like, fourteen hours to produce and I was tired so I decided to go to bed, but then I couldn't sleep so I watched 327 episodes of Oprah Behind the Scenes, the whole time thinking I should be blogging right now and how the hell do these people have so much energy? Answer: they are robots.

When there were no more Behind the Scenes to watch, I spent the next three hours trying to build a robot version of me out of PVC pipe, electrical tape, wheels from my old rollerblades and two D batteries. All was going fine until I started being mocked by my own robot: "D batteries? Really? Aren't you more like double A? No! Triple A! Hahahaha!" I had no choice but to destroy the bitch with a hammer, which was really quite tragic because I had finally gotten her hair to part just right.

As you can imagine, I was completely exhausted by the time I was finished with all that, and had only been asleep for approximately eight point two minutes when I was awoken by the husband screaming from the garage, "what the hell is all this green goo?!"  Robot blood, duh.  Honestly, sometimes it's exhausting being the only genius in this relationship.

I had all kinds of intentions of doing the award show today, but I have an exhaustion hangover so instead I figured I'd answer some of the questions frequently asked by you guys. And by "frequently asked" I mean "no one has ever asked these questions."

Why are you so awesome?
I'm pretty sure I've answered this several times in various posts, but since you guys have the attention spans of crickets, I'll say it ONE MORE TIME. I was born this way.

Will I ever be as awesome as you?
Keep reading my blog and maybe one day I'll tell you.  It's possible I will tell you sooner if you send me money or land me a book deal.

What is wrong with you?
A team of doctors, scientists, psychologists and gardeners (gardeners - wtf?) have been working around the clock for the last twelve and a half years to determine the answer. It's possible we'll never know the answer.

This has been itching for a week and now it's turning bright red and also starting to burn. Do you think it's infected?
Uh, ew. I'm not exactly sure what gave you guys the impression I'm a doctor. Perhaps it was the time I performed brain surgery on my neighbor's iguana, but seriously people, that was just an Isolated Incident of Surgery. More of a hobby really. And also? Last time I checked, an iguana is an animal which would make me a veterinarian.

Your blog is awesome, why don't you have thousands of followers?
I have no f*cking clue, but I blame the lizards.

You aint much fun since I quit drinking.
Although probably true, that's not exactly a question. In fact, I think it's a line in a Toby Keith song.

What is up with that guy in your office who doesn't know how to properly respond to an email?
I. Don't. Know. But if he picks up the phone and calls me one more time in response to a question I asked him VIA EMAIL, I am going to ninja kick him in the face. If any of you are ninjas, please contact me right away. I will pay top dollar for ninja kicking lessons.

Have you noticed that in your avatar picture thingy, you look a little cross-eyed?
Yes, I just noticed this the other day. This realization was almost as disturbing as the one that I am an alien.

You talk about peeing your pants a lot.
I'm sorry, did you have a question or just like stating the obvious?

Have many times have you actually peed your pants?
Probably several thousand times. I wasn't born potty-trained, you know. If you guys were, congratulations. Personally, I would keep that information secret if I were you. If NASA finds out they'll be all over your ass - or whatever - trying to perform experiments on you, cuz that's just not normal.

No, I mean how many times have you peed your pants as an adult?
Depends on the age you define as being an adult? If it's 25, then zero. If it's between the ages of nine and nineteen, then the answer is between zero and eleventy thousand.

What about the years between 19 and 25?
I am forbidden by the government to publicly talk about those years.

There are a lot of typos in your posts.
Yeah, and you smell like cheese.  You don't see me complaining do you?  Probably because I love cheese.

What is your favorite animal?
You know, now that I think about it, a person smelling like cheese is kinda gross.  In fact, the thought makes me dry-heave.  I may never be able to eat cheese again.  Thanks a lot.

What is your favorite color?
Badgers.  Specifically honey badgers.  But not the one named "Frederico," if that's even his real name.  That guy's a real asshole.

Where is your favorite place to vacation?
Blue.  I think I'm behind on the questions.

The WOOT WOOT dance the husband does when you get a new follower sounds awesome.  What do you think he has planned for when you reach 100 followers?
The husband is keeping this a closely guarded secret, but based on some notes I found and peering through the crack in the door of his office while he rehearsed, I'm fairly certain it will have something to do with fire, a ferris wheel, seven to ten spider monkeys, fake snow, a light show and feathers.  Lots and lots of feathers.

Well, that's it.  I think the first Q&A session went...okay, considering that you guys asked some really weird questions.  If you have more questions, leave them in the comments and I'll answer them sometime when I'm too lazy to write a real post.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

It's Blog - A - Licious Baby!

Today is another first for me.  I'm participating in my first blog tour!

My first first?  That was yesterday.  When I joined Twitter.  And the beginning of the end was, well, begun.  If you're not following me: @SarcasmGoddess, you're missing out on a rip-roaring good time, which is to say, it's a total mess over there ya'll.  I'm talking about peeing in elevators, people pulling my pants down  and squirrels in my under-carriage.  That's what Twitter's all about, right?  Right?

On to The Tour.  Today's post is in conjunction with the Blog-A-Licious Blog Tour.

What's that?

So glad you asked.  It's a fantastic blog hop that brings together bloggers of all genres, backgrounds and locations. In today's hop, the blog featured before mine is DK Levick's Writing in the Woods.  And...the blog after mine is a fellow SheWrites gal Totsymae.  Check em out, say hello, leave a comment, become a follower.  If you don't Very Bad Things Will Happen, like the beginning of the end of the world.  Oh wait, that's already happening

As part of the Blog-A-Licious Tour we're allowed to give give-aways.  Which is super fab.  Cuz I have something to give.  If you follow my blog I will give you awesomeness.  Oooooh.  I also give awards to followers.  They're weird.  The awards, not the followers.  Well maybe the followers are weird too, but that's okay.  Cuz this is a Judgment Free Zone.  Check out the award tabby thing at the top if you think you're interested.

Before we get to the theme of this tour, I have to give a big WOOT WOOT to Amber West who introduced me to the tour.  She's also the one who explained Twitter to me.  If things continue in this fashion I'm going to have to name my first child after her.

'Kay, you guys ready?  The theme of this tour is The Book That Inspires Me the Most.  When I saw the theme, one book came instantly to mind.  But could I really write about this book?  I searched and searched my mind, but kept coming back to this one: Nineteen Minutes by Jodi Picoult.

For those of you who haven't read it, it's about how a bullied kid goes on a shooting rampage at school.

A book about a bullied kid who kills other kids is what inspires you most???

Hear me out.  It's not the story per se that inspires me, but the amazing way in which Ms. Picoult tells it.  It was the first book I'd read by her, and quite honestly, I'd never read anything like it.  Clearly being bullied is a terrible senselss tragedy.  And so is the death of innocent students and teachers.

What Ms. Picoult does so well is present a tradegy, a controversial issue, those things in life where, in the opinion of most, there is a clear right and wrong, a pure black and a pure white, from the point of view of everyone involved.  She takes you for a walk in their shoes - the victim's, the family's, the "bad person's" - makes you understand why they were compelled, driven, possessed to make the decision they did.  And in the end, although you may not agree with what they did, you better understand why. 

As an aspiring writer, I read Nineteen Minutes and was in awe.  As a reader, I was captivated by each page.  And as a person, a citizen of this world, I was a little less quick to judge, to snap to a decision, to assume those "I can't believe they did that" actions of others were entered into lightly.

Lastly, what Nineteen Minutes and all of Jodi Picoult's books do for me, is inspire me to be a better writer.  I've been writing for as long as I can remember, but since Nineteen Minutes I've been challenged to re-evaluate how I tell a story, to think about what makes a story "good," to make Every.  Word.  Count.

Friday, June 17, 2011

I've Entered The Vortex and I Can't Get Out

At approximately 9ish p.m. yesterday the earth shook, the sky turned black and a whole bunch of other really bad things happened.  Yep, I tweeted my first tweet.

For those of you not present for the blessed event I said...

@SarcasmGoddess:  I'm a twatter.  Now what?

Brilliant.  Just brilliant.

I followed that little gem with several tweets about twat manuals and a manual for twats and something about winning twitter.  I was all prepared, and tres excited, to send out countless tweets of inane twaterific nonsense.  It's taken me a year and a half to get 75 blog followers, so I figured it'd take me half as long to get well, half as many twitter followers.  (Math is hard!  That'swhatshesaid!  Um, no.) But then suddenly, I had followers!  And more followers!  Until I had twenty - one.  Twenty.  One.  

Ooooooh.

I could no longer say any nonsense that just popped into my head.  People were listening, or you know, reading.  I had to think long and hard (long and hard -bahahahahaha) about my tweets.  I am a writer, the written word is sacred.

What did I say?

Here's a taste (mmmm, yummy) of said sacredness:

@SarcasmGoddes: Just took my twats to the vet.  Twats = dogs.  Obviously.  Honestly, I shouldn't have to explain these things.

and...

@SarcasmGoddess: Remember the day I bought those boots & threw them away before wearing them?  Yeah, me too.  That day sucked.

I'm expecting the Pulitzer any day now.

I pride myself on being a Serious Journalist and therefore feel it is my journalistic duty to describe Twitter to those of you non-twatters.  I think it can be summed up in one, albeit long, sentence.

Twitter is an orgy of mischievous crack addict honey badgers high on speed, with the occasional spider monkey throwing poo at the Chip N Dales in cowboy hats and ass-less chaps - and by Chip N Dales, I mean the cartoon chipmunks Chip and Dale, not the exotic dancers; obviously.

Yeah...

It's that awesome.

I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing and I can't stop doing it.  I have been sucked in to the twitter vortex.  The twitortex.  And I can't get out.

If you're not following me on twitter, you're missing out.  Obviously.

If you're following me on twitter but not following my blog, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!!

Sorry, that was the mischievous crack addict honey badger talking.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

The One Where The Husaband Drunk Dials Me at Work. And Also? The World is Ending.

Today, at approximately 3:45 p.m. the husband called me at the office and we had the following conversation.

The husband:  I just finished playing with Cindy.

Me:  Excuse me?

The husband: Are you happy today?

Me:  Yeah...

The husband:  Good.  It makes me so happy to think of you so happy at work.

Me:...

The husband: Do I sound drunk right now?

Me: Are you drunk?

The husband:  No.  Ooh!  Ice pops!

What.  The f*ck?

I can only assume that the reason the husband is drunk before 4 p.m. on a work day is because the world is ending.

True story.

Batten down the hatches, stock up on water - screw the water, stock up on wine, the apocalypse is coming! - wrap your house in cellophane and pick up your dry cleaning.

Huh?

The end of the world is no excuse for dressing like a homeless hobo crack addict.  If we're all going out, we're going out in style.

So how's it gonna happen?  It won't be by meteor, or nuclear bomb or that Duggar clan that just won't stop reproducing.

It's going to be by me.

Surprised?

Me neither.

After thoughtful consideration and the advice of several of you, I'm going to start twittering.  Tweeting?  Twatting?  I'm pretty sure that last one is the correct term.

That's right, there's going to be a whole lotta twatting going on.  Speaking of twatting, you guys should prepare yourself for the excessive use of the word "twat" from this point forward.  For those of you offended by that word, I am sorry.  And also?  Really?  That offends you?  Have you ever actually said that word out loud?  Come on, all together now.  Twat.  Twat.  One more time. Twwwaaat.

Is that not the most ridiculous sounding word in the English language?

No it's not ridiculous, it's offensive?  Okay, here's what we're going to do.  We're going to cure you of being offended by the most ridiculous sounding word ever.  And then we can all move on to more important things.  Like forming a coalition to ban the words moist and munch from the English language.  You can't see me right now, but I'm dry heaving all over the place.  And if you can see me - hello stalker! - do you think these panties match this bra?  For those of you offended by the word panties - and I happen to know there are quite a few - we can add that word to the coalition too.

Back to The Twat.  Hee hee.  Twat.  Doesn't it make you laugh just a little?

Okay, here we go.  Say twat 1,000 times in a row.

....

Finished?  Good. It's already starting to sound less offensive, right?  Now start inserting the word twat into every day conversation.

Examples:

At dinner... "Honey, can you please pass the twat?"

Twat = salt.  How can you be offended by salt?

At work, coworker comes into your office and sits across from you to discuss 4th quarter financials or some other crap you could care less about...  "Hold that thought Walter, I need to go warm my coffee in the twat."

Twat = microwave.  You can't honestly tell me you're offended by the word "microwave."

At the store making an exchange..."This twat is too big for me.  I'd like to exchange it for a smaller size."

In this case twat = twat.  Hahahahaha!  Just kidding, it equals sweater.

It's possible that I, too, have gotten drunk in preparation for the end of the world.  AKA me twittering.

Why does me joining the twatosphere equal the end of the world?  You must be new around here.  Hello, and welcome.  Read this post about how I don't get technology and check out this gem about the disaster that was me getting my own facebook page.

Understand now?

Considering that I have absolutely no idea what Twitter is - I think it has something to do with a bird? - I can only imagine the disaster this is going to be.  As if I don't have enough to worry about - blog followers, facebook friends - now I have to worry about getting twitter followers.  Better double up on my anxiety meds.

What exactly does one talk about on twitter?  I sure hope you're allowed to say "twat" because I suspect my first 1400 tweets are going to go something like this:

Look at me!   Twatting while peeing!

Twatting while swinging!  Wee!

Twatting while extricating the squirrel that build its nest in my car's engine.  True story.

Twatting while squatting!  And you say I'm not a poet.

Twatting while twatting!  Because redundancy completes me.

Twatting while weaving a tangled web of lies!  Yeah I don't get it either.

And 1394 more tweets just like those.

My new friend Amber from wosushi whom I "met" on SheWrites (her blog is awesome, check it out or I will steal all your wine and then you'll have to go through the apocalypse without wine.  And going through the apocalypse without wine is like going through the apocalypse without wine.) was sweet enough to try to help me through the torrent of confusion that surrounds the twitter world.  She sent me a document of notes she took from a twitter chat.  Unfortunately she forgot to send along a twit-terpreter because the hell?

Hashtag?  Is that like a hashbrown?  I loooove hashbrowns.  But only the ones from McDonalds.  If I ever figure out twitter maybe my first twat will be about my secret fantasy of filling a bathtub with McDonalds hashbrowns and diving in for a nice greasy hash bath.  What?  Who said that?

Great.  Now the only thing I can think about are hashbrowns.

Thanks a lot Twitter.


The husband just said: You love that mango.

So follow me on twitter and watch it all go down.

If I can figure out how to set up my twatter account, that is.

*****************************************************************
Before the husband yells at me for saying he was drunk during regular work hours (he's his own boss, hope he doesn't get yelled at) let me just say that he was not drunk when he called me at work.  I don't know why he cares so much about what people think...they're all going to be dead soon anyway.  The world is ending, the husband.

UPDATED:  I am now a twat.  Follow me @SarcasmGoddess.  Do it.  It'll be like watching a train wreck.  And who doesn't love that?

UPDATED Part 2:  You guys don't actually want to follow me over there do you?  Cuz if you do, you're not going to find me.  Apparently @SarcasmGoddess only exists in my mind.  If you are a twatter, tell me your twat name in the comments and then we can be twatter friends. 

UPDATED Part 3: I have been twatting less than an hour and have received this message from Twitter no less than ten times:  Error.  We can process your request, but we choose not to.  I'm a twat and Twitter's an asshole.  Awesome.


UPDATED Part 4: Just received this message from Twitter: Twitter is over capacity.  I'm choosing to believe it's due to all the thousands of people rushing to the twatosphere trying to follow me.  Unfortunately for them, they're not going to find me cuz my twat is broken. See updated part 2.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Bring On The Crap

Have you ever been walking down the sidewalk, whistling a lovely tune, marveling at the beauty of the day, happy as a clam and suddenly hear beep...beep...beep, like the sound of large vehicle backing up? You turn and in fact there is a large vehicle - a dump truck - backing up right towards you.  Beep...beep...beep.  It keeps coming until it stops right before running you over.  And you watch as the massive receptacle thingy rises over you, higher and higher until it blocks out the sun.  It finally stops and empties its contents, which happens to be 4,000 tons of dog crap, all over you.  And then everyone within a fifty mile radius runs up to you, pointing and laughing and calling you a loser.   And rightly so.  You are covered head to toe in poo.  Winners do not walk around with giant turds clinging to their bodies, FYI.



This is the most disgusting picture I have ever drawn.  Why do you guys make me do these things?  Seriously, sometimes I wonder about you.

 And then you're all "why is this happening to me?!  what did I do to deserve this?"

And then you realize it's probably because of the whole "happy as a clam" thing, because honestly, are clams really that happy?  I mean has anyone ever really asked them?  If you think about it, a clam's existence is actually pretty craptacular.  They have these gross squishy slimy bodies which, in theory, should make them safe from all predators, but is actually the reason they die.  Because those squishy slimy bodies are actually quite delicious, especially when steamed, dunked in butter and drizzled with lemon.  Mmmm.

And before they die they spend their days trying to spit out all the sand that manages to weasel its way into its tight-lipped shell; but no matter what they do the sand gets in and is all itchy and irritating and causes a tiny little clam rash, which probably only enhances their deliciousness, and then the sand gathers together and forms a beautiful pearl which the clam doesn't even get to keep


Or is it oysters that produce pearls?  I don't know.  And you know what?  I don't care.

Because someone dumped a giant pile of dog crap on me today.

And no, it wasn't as awesome as it sounds.  In fact, it down-right sucked.  Apparently having a pile of dog crap dumped on me also gets me one free ride on the train to This is Just Beginning, You Haven't Had a Bad Day Until You've Had This Bad Day Town, because for the rest of the day the crap just continued to fall all over me.  And not only is that not as awesome as it sounds, it also gives one a complex that one, well...smells. Ya know?  Cuz you're covered in feces.

Are you guys loving this metaphor as much as I am?

No? 

You want to see more pictures of people covered in poo?

Me. Neither.

Don't worry, this is where the metaphor ends.  Because in the middle of wading through all the crap, something wonderful happened.  Something seriously amazing.  I ran into a friend during lunch who wanted to introduce me to the friend she was with.  And you know how she introduced me?  As a writer.  A WRITER.  She didn't introduce me as my "day job" profession, the one that I actually get paid for (Number 1 beeper salesman, WOOT!  Beepers?  Yeah beepers.  Like from the nineties?  Yes.  They're totally making a comeback).  She introduced me as a writer.  I don't even introduce myself as a writer.  Why?  Because I'm not paid?  Because I'm not published?

Who cares?  WHO CARES?  I write so therefore I am a writer.  Do ya hear me?   I.  AM.  A.  WRITER!  In your face!  I'm not exactly sure who I'm yelling at.  No one is contesting me on this.  Except for the voices in my head that are all, "really?  really?  you're not a writer.  you've never been paid for a single word.  you've never been published.  your blog?  ha, that doesn't count."  Well you know what voices, it does.  It totally does.  I say so and my friend said so.  SO THERE.

I am writer.  A good writer, a bad writer.  It doesn't matter. 

I AM A WRITER!!!  Who apparently?  Needs therapy.

Or at least a hose.
**************************************************************************
To my friend who called me a writer, you know who you are, you gave me one of the greatest gifts I have ever been given.  Thank you.

Well This is Unfortunate

I cannot say with absolute certainty, but I can say with a reasonable amount of certainty that I am an alien.

I know.

I, too, was disturbed by this revelation.

But is the only explanation I can come up with as to why people give me such weird looks at the grocery story.

Either that or I have teeth growing from my forehead or the side of my cheek. That can happen, you know.

I always thought I looked like a pretty regular person.  Not too sexy, not too heinous.  On the sexy-heinous scale I think I fall directly in the middle.



Pretty normal looking, right?  I thought so too.  But apparently, to everyone else, I look like this:

 Or possibly this:



That's pretty scary if you ask me.  I mean seriously, there's a f*ckin bird on my head.  I would run far far away if I saw someone who looked like that.  But it's not even that people run away, they just give me a look.  A mixture of confusion and disgust.  Like perhaps I just relieved myself in the middle of the produce section.

Granted, I have been known to pee at the most inopportune times.  Like in front of my entire senior class.

What?!

Um, yeah, that might have happened.  Or not.  You never really know with me.

It is possible that it's all in my head.  The weird looks thing.  Not the peeing at inopportune times thing.  Unfortunately, that's for real.  Or should I say, fortunately that's for real.  It's all about perspective, people.

It's entirely possible I'm just paranoid.  I have been known to dabble in the paranoia.  Add it to my list of many issues.

It can be hard to determine if someone is actually a Full Blown Paranoid, or just suffers from An Isolated Incident.  Fortunately for you, for the world, I've developed this handy dandy quiz to determine where you fall on the paranoia spectrum.

Instructions: It's pretty simple.  If you answer yes to the question, circle yes.  If you answer no, circle no.  I mean, don't literally circle yes or no cuz then you'd have circle marks all over your computer screen and that would annoying later on because duh.  (Honestly, I shouldn't have to explain these things.)  Also?  I'm pretty sure the government comes after you for shit like that.  They're always watching you, you know?  Always.  No really, AL - WAYS.

1. Do you tell your husband not to leave tile in the bed of his truck in case someone comes by in the night, steals it and uses it as a weapon to kill someone, making your husband guilty of involuntary manslaughter?

Yes   No

2.  Do you worry that the reason the person in the car in front of you is slowing down is so they can shoot you?

Yes   No

3.  Do you worry that the reason the police officer in front of you stopped and turned around did so in order to shoot you?

Yes   No

4.  Do you think that basically everyone you come in contact with throughout the day wants to shoot you?

Yes   No

5.  Are there certain things you won't talk about with your husband over the phone because you know "they" are listening?

Yes   No

6.  Do you get out of your car, walk into the store and worry that you are spontaneously naked?  Do you look down to make sure that you still have clothes on?  Do you think that maybe your eyes are deceiving you, that although you appear to be wearing clothes you are, in fact, naked?  Do you run your hand over your body to make sure you feel clothes, not just see them?

Yes, yes, yes and yes    No, no, no and no

7.  Do you worry that, as you are feeling for clothes, you will be arrested for inappropriately touching yourself in public?

Yes   No

8.  Do you think that the weird old guy at the grocery store who looks down at your pointy shoes, back up at you, down at your shoes, back up at you, etc., etc., etc. with a look of bewilderment and disgust is a serial killer whose "thing" is to kidnap and kill women with pointy shoes?

Yes   No

9.  When your husband tells you that a potential client has invited him to play golf, do you interpret "play golf with us" to mean "come to our lair where we will kill you?"

Yes   No

10.  Do you put together a very helpful quiz to help people determine if they are paranoid and worry that people are going to think you are a total psycho?

Yes   No

Results:
If you answered "yes" to one of these questions, you suffer from an isolated incident of paranoia and probably do not have teeth growing out the side of your cheek.  Congratulations.

If you answered yes to 2 - 5 questions,  you are paranoid.  And also probably an alien
I'm sorry.

If you answered yes to more than 6 questions, you are straight-up crazy. And also an alien with teeth growing out of every surface of your slimy green skin.
If you are not already doing so, you should start blogging right away.

That was helpful, yes?

You guys wanna guess how many times I answered no?  I'll give you a hint, it was less than one.

Monday, June 13, 2011

The Saga Continues

I was going to write a fabulous post about how fabulous you guys are how fabulous I am, but I am ill with Parvo.  Ya know?  The dog disease.  Or maybe the Black Death.  Either way I feel all icky and yucky so I'm going to post  "what happens next with John and Darcy" which I wrote back when I was Parvo-free.  If you need to get caught up to speed click on the John and Darcy tabby thing at the top.  I would link to it, but I have Black Death, remember?  Apparently it makes you very lazy.

CHAPTER TWO, PART TWO (of John and Darcy)

The house was quiet when I got home.  I headed for the kitchen and made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, quite an exciting way to start the weekend.  The rest of Franklin High was getting ready for the big game tonight.  We were playing Forest Hill or Twin Forest, or something, and it was going to be our toughest battle this season - or so they'd said at the Pep Rally - but still no match for the mighty Wolverines.

I planned to spend my night watching a marathon of The Office on TBS.

"Hey sweetheart," my dad said, coming into the kitchen.  "How was school?"

"Oh, peachy."

"Get the Anatomy test back yet?"

"Yep."

"And?"

I hesitated for a second.  "One hundred."

"That's my girl."  He kissed the top of my head.

"Plans with the girls tonight?"

"They're in D.C. for a -"

"Where is it?" my mother screamed, flying into the kitchen.  "What did you do with it?"

"What?" my father asked.

She flew at him.  "It's mine."  She pounded her fists on his chest.  "You can't take it!  It's mine!  You have no right!"

My father grabbed her by the shoulders.  "What?  What is yours?" 

How could he not know?

"My vodka.  It's not here.  I've had nothing.  NOTHING!  All day!"

I looked at the clock.  It was four in the afternoon and my mother hadn't had a drink?  This was not good.

"Tell me, you bastard.  Where is it?"

"Marilyn, I - "

She started slapping his chest.  Each slap harder than the next. "Tell me!"  Slap.  Slap.  SLAP.

"I took it," I said.

Both of my parents looked at me.

"I poured it down the drain," I said, looking at my father.

SMACK!  I heard the slap before I felt the sting.  I raised my hand to my cheek.  It wasn't the first time my mother had hit me, but it was the first time she'd done it sober.

"Marilyn!" my father roared.

"Don't you ever do that again," my mother shouted at me.  "Do you hear me, you ungrateful brat?"  Her spit showered my face as she screamed.

My father grabbed her by the waist and pulled her away from me.  "Marilyn, don't you ever do that again."  His face possessed a controlled rage.  "If you ever hit Darcy again, I'll..."

"You'll what, Frank?  Hit me?  You wanna hit me?  Go ahead.  GO AHEAD!"

My father said nothing.

"Come on, Frank, hit me."  She shoved him.  "You aint got the balls."  She shoved him again.  "Hit me.  Come on.  Do it."  Another shove.

My father's chest absorbed her blows without flinching. 

"Hit me, Frank.  HIT ME!"  Tears started falling down her face, pouring from her sunken eyes, down her hollowed cheeks.  "Hit me."  Her voice grew desperate.

"Please, hit me."  Pitiful.

She fell to the ground and started to sob.

"Please, Frank.  Hit me."  Pathetic.

I couldn't take any more.  I pushed my stool back and grabbed by backpack.

My father, already on the floor beside my mother, looked at me, an apology in his tired eyes.

"I'm going to the library."

He nodded.  "Be safe."  He pulled my mother into his lap and rocked her while she sobbed.

I ran upstairs to my room and reached into the bottom of my underwear drawer pulling out the bottle of Popov and pack of cigarettes.  I shoved them in my bag, grabbed my sweatshirt and flew down the stairs.  Before I walked out the door, I heard my father say, "Shh Mary.  It'll be okay."

But it wouldn't.  Nothing had been okay since Benny died.

***

By the time I got to the dock the sun was setting.  I sat down and let out a shaky breath.  It took me three tries to light the cigarette.  I took a long draw and held it in for several seconds before exhaling. 

The last time I'd seen my mother like that I was fourteen and she'd decided to quit drinking.  She was seeing some shrink, some quack, who'd told her she didn't need AA - no program, no sponsor - to give up drinking.  All she needed was her mind.  Three days without a drink and she'd lost it.

I finished the cigarette, opened the bottle of water leftover from lunch and dropped the cigarette inside.  I slipped on my sweatshirt, lit another one and exhaled into the dark fall sky, following the trail of smoke until it dissipated into the night.

Eleven years.  That's how long it's been since my brother died.  My mother had taken us to the movies - Pokemon 3, my brother's choice - and we were on our way to Chan's Chinese Takeout before heading home.  My mother was on the phone with my father trying to talk over the sounds of me whining that Benny was touching me.  After one particularly eye-pinching shriek she told him she had to go, and that yes, she'd make sure there were extra egg rolls in our order.

She said goodbye and dropped her phone.  It missed her open purse and it fell to the floorboard.  She reached down, rooted around, took her eyes off the road.  The car swerved.

"Mom!"  My scream was the last thing I remember.

I spent three weeks in the hospital, my mother eight.  My brother had died instantly.

Naturally, my mother blamed herself.  The drinking began after the physical therapy ended, right about the time I ceased to exist to her.

At first my father begged her to stop, tried to make her see a psychiatrist.  But my mother didn't want to heal and move on.  She wanted to wallow in the bottle; Bloody Marys at breakfast, a six pack for lunch and Tom Collins for dinner became our new normal.  Eventually vodka became the numbing agent of choice.

Accepting there was no saving my mother, my father turned his attention to me. Began his project of making me the perfect daughter, the model citizen.

At first, his devotion was exactly what I needed, made up for my mother's Superman-like ability to see through me.  Except for the times she got so plastered she thought I was Benny.  During those times she would hold me and rock me and sing to me.  She'd pet my hair and tell me she loved me and I'd close my eyes and hold on tight, wishing it would never end.

I'm not sure when I started hating being the shining star in my father's dim reality.  In some ways I had become just as invisible to him as I was to my mother.  Somewhere along his Project to Perfection, I had stopped being his daughter and had become his trophy.

My eyes stung with the unwelcome prick of tears.  I tipped the bottle back. The vodka flowed like a river down my throat, collecting the Straight-A Student, the Darling Daughter, the Model Citizen resting on the rocky shore of my life and carrying them downstream along with the tears I wouldn't allow to fall.

I raised the bottle to my lips again and the thought hit me like an unexpected punch to the gut.  My mother drank to numb her pain; I drank to dull my reality.

I lowered the bottle, suddenly hot in my hands.  When had it happened?  When had I become her?

I searched my mind, trying to remember the first time I'd rummaged through my mother's drawer for the bottle I knew I'd find.  Was it sophomore year when I was named Volunteer of the Year?  Was it after Aunt Caroline's third wedding where my father paraded me in front of the family like a peacock whose tail made up the brilliant feathers in his father-of-the-year cap?

I looked at the lake for answers, but it remained still in its response.  I wanted to shout.  Scream a string of profanity.  Every bad word, every awful thing I'd ever heard until there were no more words.  Until my voice grew hoarse.  Until I collapsed from exhaustion. 

Instead, I picked up the bottle and, with all the strength I possessed, chucked it at the lake.  I heard the splash just as the first tear I'd shed in years rolled off my cheek and hit my sweatshirt without a sound. 

It's a Booby Easter! aka Award Show Time!

"Come on now and take a chance.  Come on please and do that booby dance."

That will make more sense later.  Maybe.  Probably not.

To be on the safe side, let's all just accept that today's post will make even less sense than usual.

Why?

Honestly, what is it with you guys and the questions!

Sorry, bout that.  I'm a little grumpy, having just returned from the state of awesome relaxation vacation-ness to the state of damn it, it's Sunday, vacation is officially over tomorrow is Monday in which I have 3 meetings aka 6 hours of potentially being chastised for breathing wrong.  Life is awesome.

Now that I got being a whiney wiener out of my system it's time for...triangle chime please (I was trying to think of something less cliched than drum roll...just go with it.)...the Sarcasm Goddess Award Show.

WOOT!

To get the show started, let's bring out our host Larry, the world's worst stand-up comedian.


First, allow me to say THANK YOU and WELCOME to all my new followers since the last award show.  You guys make me pee all over myself, which apparently?  I love to do.

If you're new here and are all, "what's this award business?" go to the top of the page and click on the little award tabby thing.  You'll probably regret you did, but it should make things a little clearer.  Or stranger.

The first award goes to the Father-in-Law.  F-I-L finally got around to following me after I threatened him by wildly waving a gun in the air.  Or maybe he was the one waving the gun.  Either way, he is now a follower and that's what's important.  As soon as he became a follower, he was all, "what kind of award are you going to give me?  it's pretty obvious to me which one I should get: F-I-L of the Year."  Yeah, no.  Clearly he is not fully aware of the shenanigans that go on here.  He's like an iguana who just woke up in the middle of a flock of blue footed boobies.  Speaking of blue footed boobies, here's your award F-I-L.  Congratulations.  You earned it.



Instead of being super excited by this award the F-I-L is probably all, "huh?  I don't get it.  my daughter-in-law is weird."  Instead of basking in the glow of this supreme honor he's probably asking my M-I-L what the return policy is on D-I-Ls.  I'll save my dear M-I-L the trouble and tell you that you're way past the return date, sir.  I'm here for good.  Lucky!

The next award goes to Micaela who has indeed worked hard for her award.  Way to work it, girl.  Way.  To.  Work it.



The next fabulous award goes to Stacie from Riley's Smile.  Let's all give Stacie a big hand for her award.  I honestly cannot think of anyone more deserving.


Get ready for the next award folks.  It's probably one of the greatest awards in the history of awards.  And it goes to none other than...Jacky aka Quennijax.  You go girl!


 The final award of the evening goes to Leanne.  The talents she possesses are many, it is hard to award her for just one.  But I think of all the fabulous things she is, this is the one for which she should be most proud:




Well my friends, that brings us to the end of the show.  I leave you with a video that will make you smile, even if it us Sunday and vacation is over and tomorrow is Monday and you have no idea what to wear to work and it's midnight and oh crap you hope you did laundry before you left for vacation but probably not because you were all "woo hoo, vacation! I'll never have to go to work again!"




**************************************************************
Larry the comedian, booing monkey and super fat tiger drawn by me.
trophy pic from wpclipart.com.
booby pic from mondoadventuretravel.com

Saturday, June 11, 2011

The Deal

Another story for Romantic Friday Writers.  This week's prompt was FORGOTTEN.  As usual, I'm over the word limit, but only by 44 this time, which is much better than the original draft which was 116 over.   Be sure to check out the other stories!

The Deal
by Kelley Williams 

She went to Mrs. B’s Bar even though she knew he’d forgotten.  Ordering a beer, she sat with her back to the door to prevent her heart from accelerating every time it opened.  Her fingers worked the label on the Bud Light as she listened to the band cover the greatest hits of the last four decades and was transported back in time.

They’d come to Mrs. B’s after her best friend’s wedding.  Nursing a beer, she’d lamented that she’d be single forever.

“You’re ridiculous.  And any guy would be lucky to be with you.”

She’d snorted.  “You’re just saying that because you’re my friend.”

“That’s not true.”

He’d reached for her hand and time had stopped.  The music had faded into the background, the tables of rowdy college students, the cheering sports fans at the bar, the busty waitresses all disappeared.

His eyes had held hers and she’d searched for any sign he returned her feelings of all-consuming love.  His thumb had stroked the back of her hand and for a second, she’d thought she’d caught a glimpse he felt it too.

He’d leaned forward, resting his forehead on hers.  She’d moistened her lips in anticipation of the kiss she’d been sure was coming.

“I mean it, Angie.  Any guy would be lucky.”  As soon as the last word had escaped his perfect lips, he’d leaned back in his chair and motioned to the waitress with his empty bottle.

Disappointment settling heavy on her shoulders, she’d tipped her own bottle back and chugged until it was empty.

“Tell you what,” he’d said, after the waitress set two fresh beers on the table.  “If we’re not married by the time we’re thirty-five, you and me,” he’d motioned with the bottle, “we’ll get married.  We’ll meet right here at Mrs. B’s twelve years from today.  Deal?”

She’d looked into those sea-green eyes, and knowing she was committing herself to twelve years of false hope, she’d clinked her bottle to his and said, “Deal.”

The band launched into a rendition of Jessie’s Girl and Angie checked her watch.  One more hour til midnight and this day would be over.  She could finally move on.

“You look beautiful,” a voice whispered in her ear.

She turned her head, ready to tell the creep to get lost, but the words caught in her thought. 

Jake sat down next to her, one hand stilling her trembling fingers, the other wiping away the tear sliding down her cheek.

“I’d thought you’d forgotten.”

“I’ve been waiting twelve years for this day.”  He leaned forward.  She ran her tongue over her lips.  Her heart pounded.  She waited.  And this time, he kissed her.



Friday, June 10, 2011

How to Respond to An Email

Remember when I said I was going post every day during the month of June?  Well it may appear that I have skipped Thursday, the 9th.  However, the husband and I are vacationing in magical land in a completely different time zone.  So I still have 20 minutes to spare.  Despite what blogger says.  Ha! 

Honestly, I’m embarrassed I even have to write this. Email’s been around for what? Fifty years? It’s practically gone the way of the fax machine, virtually obsolete.

Perhaps people are just so used to texting and “facebook me” and “twat me” (sorry, I don’t understand Twitter speak) and “hey just tell it to me telepathically, would ya? I don't 'do' the whole written word thing,” that they have completely forgotten the correct way to behave when someone sends as an email.

Most of you are probably thinking that's ridiculous.  Everyone knows how to respond to email.  This is stupid.

And you know what, you're right. It is stupid.  But there is still at least one person out there who has absolutely no clue what to do when they receive an email.  Instead of walking into his/her office and dumping hot coffee on his/her lap, I blog about it.  I'm pretty sure it's the only thing that has kept me out of jail lately. 

For example, let’s I send the email:

Hey Joe,

Attached, please find version 20 of That 400 Page Report We’ve Been Working on for the Last Six Months.

Thanks,
Sarcasm Goddess

There are two ways Joe could respond.

1.) Send me the changes in the email.

2.) Or call me on the effing phone.

Joe: Hey Sarcasm Goddess. How’s it hangin? Hope it’s not hangin at all for you…if you know what I mean. Ya know, cuz you’re girl. You don’t have anything that hangs. At least I hope not. Don’t tell me if you do; I can’t handle that. Hey, did you have that piece of candy that the boss man put on each of our desks? It is in my mouth right now, and man is it hard. Ha ha, that’s what she said! Don’t sue me for sexual harassment, okay? Anyway, about that report. I have some changes.

On page 24, we should change “people will love these new fuzzy kitten slippers” to “people will totally love these new fuzzy kitten slippers.” Make sure you italicize 'totally' so people will totally understand how totally fuzzy these slippers are.  Did you find where it is? It’s right after we talk how there is no way a monkey could take down a grizzly, but right before we launch into the debate about which is cuddlier, a mountain lion or a bunny rabbit.  Do you think we should add "rawwwr" after "mountain lion?"  I'm torn, it's a really tough call.  What do you think?  How bout you send me one version with the word "rawwwr" and one version without.  If we're still undecided about it, we can call a department meeting and talk about it for four hours.*

On page 129, delete paragraph two and replace it with this really long story I’m going to tell you about the time my mother tried to buy beef jerky from that crazy guy who lives up in the mountains. You know him, Wild Whiskey Willie? Man, what a crazy goat that guy is. Anyway my mom trudged all the way up the mountain and…(667 words later) did you catch all that?  I think this is a much better paragraph than what we originally had. No one gives a rat's turd about the importance of having a carbon monoxide detector in your home, am I right?

On page 269, hee hee sixty-nine, we should…you know what, can we go back to page 129? I think we should delete the paragraph about my mom and put the carbon monoxide stuff back in. I mean, we are a company that sells carbon monoxide detectors. You saved that paragraph somewhere, right? Hell, I hope so. It took me 14 weeks to find those statistics on the number of people who die from carbon monoxide poisoning each year, and I totally didn’t save the data. You deleted the paragraph and it’s gone forever?! Ah, f*ck it. We’ll make the numbers up. If I remember correctly, the number was two billion. Two billion people die from carbon monoxide poisoning each year. Or maybe it was 12. Either way, the numbers are scary enough to make you take a dump in your pants, am I right?

On page 324, change…You know what? I gotta go, Trevor just stopped by my office to show me pictures of the girl he took home from the bar last night. Wo-ah, those are some huge knockers! I hope you hit that Trevor. Anyway, Sarcasm Goddess, email me the changes I gave you, and I’ll holla back atcha with 397 more changes at a date TBD. Later, bitch!

Which way do you guys think is the appropriate way to respond?  I'll give you a hint.  It's not the second one.

* If you cannot relate to four hour meetings to discuss completely inane things then your life is awesome totally depressing.  I don't even know how you get out of bed every day.