Oh The Douchebaggery

My infinite love and kisses.

Hopefully aforementioned love and kisses are enough to remind you of my moon crater-deep admiration for you, as I have no actual gifts to give.

MMuuahhh!

Or the walking dead leather-people, as it turns out.

Thank god.
I despise the claw-fisted pilate'er that is Madonna.

Don't get me wrong...I went through a period (as most 80's era pre-teen girls were wont to do) where all of my fashions were dictated by Ms. Blonde Reptilian. I mean ambition...who? what?

Don't get me started about my first trip to an actual Broadway show.

I arrived wearing a mesh sweater with only a lace belt, matching fingerless gloves, and an awful case of Material Girl.

There was a time.
There was a place.

It's called the eighties. Early MTV, guys!.

Point is, Madonna had her day.

Long live Madonna!

But her corpse has got to realize that it ain't gonna' happen again.

The salad days are OVER!

Oooh, I get heated up over Madge.

Now she's in legal ramblings with the government of Malawi.
Lay Ninja-style law on her ass already!

Snap!
I smell alliteration.
Sorry.

All these esses (shut it--- spell check! it's a word!), and m's?

Oh yeah. Madonna blows a mighty hard trumpet of suck-dom.

And she has been attempting to basically kidnap Malawian baby girl Mercy for over 5 months now.

I am lil' Georgie Washington!

I cannot tell a lie!

I have been praying for this adoption to fall flat...

Not because I think this child deserves to be raised by a father who clearly wants her, or because the alternative is being forced to live with Jesus Luz' next corpse bride..

But because that lil' baby stole my name!

I had it first, and, I know.....
that once the Bride of Frankenstein has her gnarly mitts on it...

Shoot!

All bets are off.

I had a harrowing day.

Now, don't get me wrong, I really do try to avoid the woe is me's...but, shit!

Give a sista' a break!

Let me start out by saying that I don't sleep all that much.

Somebody call the fire department because my synapses are aflame!

Lemme break it down to brass tacks...
I have slept a total of four hours in the past three days.

Am I tired?

Yes! God.

I could stand to take a Rumpelstiltskin sized nap right about now.

But I have too much on my mind.

So I am cranky and just disagreeable to the world.

Therefore, when I rouse myself from my zombie state in order to make it to my doctor's appointment, I am already angry as all get out.

I don't do the doctor appointment thing unless I have a valid reason.

I could get into my history with doctors and its penultimate resulting of my severe hypochondria but, truth is, the facts here are stranger than fiction.

I swear to Jehu! My schnauzer could give me a more accurate diagnosis for the collective ills I have suffered than most of the pill-peddlers I have seen.

And she's soft to the touch. Like cotton candy!

So I am already apprehensive when I walked in today.

I made the appointment a month ago after I had gotten a worrisome sunburn..the second of such in as many years.

I worry not just because of the aforementioned hypochondria, but also because I am damn white.
Irish white.
I burn and then freckle.

Other words I will never get that coveted Ms.Hawaiian Tropic sash I always longed for.

Hold me?

So I face my fears.

I make an appointment.

And because the medical system in general sucks and clearly wants to torture the irrational part of my brain that not only tells me that I have a definitive case of skin cancer, but also, possibly lupus, most likely diphtheria, perchance smallpox---

I have to wait a month to see the doctor.

So today I go in.

I am prepared for the worst.

My sorry ass...
And yes! my ass was involved!

The good doc asked permission to see my butt...I'm like okay...I'm all Coppertone babied out---I prepare for a full body check, homies.

I'm bathed and lotioned. Par for the course, yes?

But you know when I felt a hint of resignation about allowing her to access my ass?

When I realized she also asked if she could take off my shoes to examine my feet.

I said, "Sure"!
You're the doctor.
And she spread my toes.
Yessss.

That thought definitely reared it's ugly head when I realized that what she did to the piggy who went to market and the piggy who stayed home was actually happening to the left and the right cheeks of my posterior.

I didn't expect that.

Nor did I expect her to keep dropping all of her instruments on the floor followed by exclamations of, "Oh! I don't know what's wrong with me today!'

Three times I counted.

And once she put the rubber gloves on it was like a Howie Mandell act.
The shit kept popping off her hands---and all this sideshow kept saying was, "Oops".

Peeps, If you are involved in any kind of medical examination, especially one where you are sitting prone, naked, but for a life size dinner napkin, and the person in charge of your welfare says, " Oops", run for the motherfucking hills.

I wish I did.

Instead I let her circle (in sharpie) parts of my body that she later forgot she circled, call a white spot on my chest "weird", stab a needle into a wound I got last week (and before the lab results were back, write me a script).

I despise the power that I have given doctors over my perceived sense of well being.

I took a walk with a friend tonight and was telling him about all of the horror stories I have lived on account of M.D.'s.

He was laughing, and by the end, I was too.

Because if you think about it too hard, as I often do, you give these totally fallible creatures the right to dictate what may or may not determine your demise.

I came to the conclusion that the doctor I saw today was either a psychiatric patient/actress on leave from the Rocky Horror Picture show or just plain drunk.

My guess is the latter.

P.S. If you have a skin condition you want checked out, email me and I will tell you who to avoid.

And not in a "Wow dude, that ollie was sick" kind of way.

I was watching my local news, like the upright citizen that I am, when they featured a story about some pin-headed hatemongers who decided it was their duty to rally outside a local high school.

Their message?

I won't even repeat it because it was so thoroughly reprehensible.

I tried to find a video link but was unable.

So you gotta' get the info the old fashioned way.
Read this crap.

http://newsblog.projo.com/2009/05/hundreds-protes.html

Oh and, I have been feeling hugely nostalgic for the south lately...
and go on, haterade drinkers!

Bring it!

But the one thing I have come to discover about the north is how thinly people veil their hatred.
It's gross.
Stop it now.

At least in the south people put on an air of propriety.
Even if they are just two steps away from a walk-on role in the next Jim Varney vehicle.
(pronounced vee-hickle).

So, while I have been looking on Craigslist for jobs in North Carolina and just generally being angry about my town....I am feeling completely overwhelmed with admiration for the local student stockade that took on these blowhards.


Also, they got the usually mum Catholic Diocese to come out in support of said stockade.

Go Rhode Island!

Also, Happy Birthday Michael!

Read your blog.

Happy also birthday to Jennie R., Telly, and Patrick.

Shoot!

It's an auspicious day!

I like to think I am smarter than thou.

Not gonna' brag....

Oh Yes! I will!

I had two champ years...89-91

First, I won the Junior Spelling Bee Tournament in Central Florida.
Then I got first chair in the Florida Youth Symphony.

Flute, bitches!!!

I don't have any awesome stories about band camp.
Never went.
I got turned off when we were required, as members, to wear uniforms.

We were the Vikings.
It was Florida.
It was fucking hot.

It was awful enough that to be a band member you were required to wear orange and white polyester mid-summer, and---as Vikings, we were also supposed to wear a solid white helmet with horns.

Suck much?

Let me answer my own question..
Yes, indeed it sucked.
Enough that I quit the flute forever.

I also quit the spelling game after my first total loss.

It soooo blew for me.

I didn't get into athletics until college.

All I had were half-assed attempts at mind sport.

I always wanted a trophy.
My Bro and sis had a full wall.

Point is, I am sleepless and watching the National Spelling Bee and cursing at perfectly cute little geniuses.

Thunder, you have been stolen.

Not to you, of course...

I can't quit you, silly!

Nah...
I got me a summer job at the beach.
Yes, I know.

I am bathing in sugar sprinkles and marshmallows right about now.

Life is sweet.

Never worry, friends.
I have been told that even the nether regions of R.I. are capable of fielding these newfangled communiques we call "internet postings".

I will never leave you in the lurch.
I'm like a pristine bald eagle whose utmost duty it is to feed her noble chicks...

Only instead of vomiting in your mouth I will do it via your computer screen.

Mmmm...

Taste that?

It's the truth.

I know you never read this blog because you disapprove of my French...

But in the off-chance that ya' find it...
You are rad.

RAD

And if you put up with my antics for a lil' bit longer, I promise I will pay you back in full for all the faith and support.

I promise you that you will receive no I.O.U. coupons on your next B-day.

Only legit, tangible, presents are on your horizon.

Fabrege eggs, Tiffany diamonds, trips to St. Bart's...

20% off coupon to Pizzeria Uno.

Just like the Trumps!

I love you, mom.

Yeah, I had to check the proper spelling on Wikipedia.

I wasn't raised in a barn, yo.

As if things weren't bad enough---
Now we have the mother flippin' swine flu.

I'm already eating bread sandwiches for breakfast lunch and dinner, have a sunburn that limits all of my outdoor activities (and mama likes the outdoors!), got called "mature" recently, and can't manage to commit to a fully funded trip to beautiful Nicaragua per my fear of flying...

Now I have another reason to stew.

Way to drive a nail into the casket, asshole pathogen carriers!

I was thinking, "I am immune. I don't eat pork".

Turns out, and I am no member of the C.D.C., that's not how you get it.

NOPE!

You get it by walking around and breathing.

Awesome!
I do that almost all the time.

Man, my timing is priceless.

The last blog I wrote was all about my recent fascination with the television show Cops.

And all the while I am sitting behind the relative safety of my laptop eating crackerjacks and applying lotion.

I am a pretty lucky girl.

I have had a few run-ins with the 5.0, and always manage to squeeze my way out of a jam.
I have an unparalleled ability to cue crocodile tears at will.

Take that, Sucka!

So yesterday was just unbelievably gorgeous up in the R.I.

Day at the beach, anyone?

My co-conspirator and I took off to S. Kingston early in the A.M..

I dunno' if it was the fact that I was pretty close to full-frontal (holla' bathing suit season--I equally love and hate you!) or that it was early enough that the sun had yet to do its thing....
but it was chilly and I required a blanket.

I threw that shit on myself and fell fast asleep.

4 hours---COUNT 'EM---four hours later I awoke.
My blanket/sun-shield had long since been discarded, unveiling what can only be described as a wicked pissah' bad sunburn.

You'd think I would learn.

Nah, not so much.

The fact that I got sincerely lobstered is not the surprise twist.

NO!

My friend and I got busted doing things that may just be construed as, ahem, illegal.

Our cop was sooo genuinely cool that he might just have ruined the reputation of R.I. cops everywhere .

So, though I may have skin that rivals that of an inside out pig...

I am not in jail.

Word!

I try not to frequent the FOX network too often....save Family guy and the Simpsons...
'cause I don't want to contribute to their fascist organization.

That said, every once in a great while, I get a hankering for Cops.

I'd describe it as that "apple nugget" feeling---KRS.1, if you are out there you know what I am talking about....

My B.F. and I used to visit Checkers fast food ,late at night---in high school.
They had a dessert called apple nuggets---deep fried slices of apple.

They were so good when you were eating them, but hours later you would feel the hurt.

So, Yeah.
I have that same relationship with the television show, Cops.

It hurts so good.

I am just laming around being completely unproductive and watching shows online when I come across an old episode of Cops.

Hallelujah!

Said episode featured my ex---you know who you are!!

I sent a link to aforementioned B.F. and she agreed, it was indeed the douchetard formerly known as my ex-boyfriend

HA!

I'm sorry for your injuries.
You shouldn't have resisted arrest.

But a wee part of me is happy to see that your life has taken a turn for the worse.

Apple Nuggets!

I would like to take this opportunity to thank the anus customer (black S.U.V.) at the Cumberland Farms on Hope Street for his obvious interest in my well-being.

Yeah, guarded insults are my specialty.

What I really want to say is, "Thank you for making me feel worthless and degraded".

Here's to you, douche-nozzle!

So, I was on my way to a potluck at around 8 p.m. (sorry, I was late, but mommy had some primping to do..i.e. I brushed my hair) when I saw my car's maintenance light come on.

I pull over to check my fluid levels, as any one who OWNS A MOTOR VEHICLE is wont to do.

I am hindered by the dark...can't find any relevant dipsticks and, so, go inside to borrow a flashlight.

Everybody there knows me.
It's where I go to score my cigarettes, mountain dew, farmfresh coffee, and other vices.

Oh, and, every once in a while, I buy some motor oil....
Purchases that keep both me and my car going.

But, I suppose, because I am dressed for a night out, I am a target.
Who knows?

I am looking under my hood with the help of said flashlight when some troglodyte driving an environment killer shouts across the packed parking lot, "You need help, Honey"?

I say no.

Shouldn't that have been enough?

He shouts again.

"I just don't think a pretty lady should be messing around under the hood".

Let's get two things straight..

1) I have been operating a motor vehicle for over half of my life. It would be completely irresponsible if I didn't know how to conduct basic maintenance on my car.

Please!

I have driven all over this map.

2) Is that some kind of sick euphemism...and if it is...what kind of women are you attracted to?
Those who can't do for themselves?

I will admit that I managed to burn my first car into oblivion.
But I was sixteen.
Shit tends to happen.

I was merely changing my oil when this fuck decided to ruin my night.

Every three seconds he kept cat-calling me with an "offer of help".

And yeah,I swear, I am not bitter.

But every time I am checking under my hood I get some offer of "assistance".

It's never from a lady.
No.

It's always from some dude who thinks that I have some physiological retardation when it comes to my car's upkeep.

So, ass-hat...

I managed to get my car back in working order, short skirt and all.

Oh, wait....(3). Thanks for calling me pretty.

Summer wedding?

Holy effin' , I don't even know.

My hometown is on fire.
In fact, my brother's house burned down last night.

Cars were melting and, according to my pops, an entire county is demolished.

Best news I heard all day was that my brother was thousands of miles away in Nicaragua.

That's the good news.

I suppose the bad news is that a fairly substantial portion of Horry County people lost their homes.

But so far, (knock wood), nobody has lost a life.

My love and prayers, people.

And, I know I often talk shiz about the area in which I was reared (and let's be honest...Myrtle Beach is indeed the Redneck Riviera) I am obliged to thank god for it's ultimate safety.

I say a little prayer tonight for you, bro.
And I sincerely hope that your neighbors can see through the smoke and fog and realize that, the good news is, they are still here.

And, Mikey, if you are reading this..call me...

I love you.

I wrote a few new blogs which g-mail has been unable to locate.

I will try my damnedest in the a.m.

For now, I'll leave you with my thoughts for the day...
And, oh...my recent musings are colored by the truth that I have been looking for a job for far too long.


Customer service sucks if you are over the age of 22...

Stripping is almost never an option (no hate!)

Degrees are useful only when you run out of three-ply...

I am currently applying to jobs that I am way over and under qualified for.

You can trust that I will report back.

Shit, I thought it was scientifically impossible...
But I do actually have steam erupting from my ears.

ME MAD!!!
ME NEED JOB.

The posts have been sparse lately.

My bad.

The easy explanation is that I have been doing nothing of note lately.

I have been wrangling with my bills, going to the Y, talking on the phone and---
watching far too much T.V.

I don't have an actual functioning television so I have been watching HULU online.
Those who have never heard of HULU, forget I ever mentioned it.
That shit is crack.

And because television in general sucks, I have been forced to watch such gems as The Bachelor, Momma's Boys, and Hell's Kitchen.
"Reality T.V."

I'm positively catatonic.

Promise to return to vitriol spewing when I can manage to unhook the i.v.

In the meantime, it's my birthday on Sunday and the beautiful and talented Jess is hosting a party this Saturday.
If you'd like to come and haven't already heard from me, gimme' your email address and I'll send details.

I have it on good authority that there will be bean dip.

I find I attract lunatics into my nexus quite frequently.

It might have something to do with the fact that my blood is thick with the crazy juice.

But holy nut job!

I finally acquiesced and went to the doctor yesterday to get myself right after having suffered with smarmy bitch Influenza far too long.
And because mama lacks insurance at the moment, I had to go to the ghetto clinic.

It's rarely very busy, but because it's cold and flu season, the joint was packed to the rafters with ailing freaks.

Words won't do justice here, and I didn't have a pen handy, so I will have to rely on my memory.

First there was a woman whose butt you could have stacked 5 or 6 martinis on. No hate...'cept' that her actual butt, sans underwear, was in all it's glory.
She was talking on her cell phone the entire time about some chick who, "'Gonna get her face slapped if she don't stop talkin' to my man".

You go,sista.

But then it got kind of scary.

She went into detail. I swear I was looking for the candid camera.

She proceeded to describe the ways in which she would cut/shoot/set on fire, said offender.

Oh my.

I was wondering if my cough was really bad enough to wait around and see what would happen next.

Fortunately she was the first one called in.

Whew.

I was waiting far past my scheduled appointment and had the urge to pee, so decided to get up and use the facilities.
But just before I stood up, I heard the loudest, wettest, most blatant fart I had ever heard in my life.
I looked over to see a man walking, ever so slowly, in the direction of the restroom.
And he made one continual fart the entire way there.
Did I mention he was walking very, very, slowly?

Needless to say, I held my sauce in until after I left the clinic.

There was one dude just standing in the corner grimacing at me.
And he looked like a dead ringer for Ernest Borgnine, complete with three-piece suit.

But, ladies and gents, I save the best for last.

I always manage to choose the wrong seat.

The woman sitting next to me was sporting a do that had clearly not been combed in years.

Pigpen called. He wants the critters swarming around his head back!

And she was wearing an entire tube of blood red lipstick on both her lips, and her teeth.

When I first came in she was listening to a head set.
There was no need for the head seat.
It was like Studio 54 up in there...shit was so loud.
And it was bad, bad slow jams.

I turned and looked at her shyly, so as not to arouse her crazy to come out.
Surprisingly she turned the volume down.

Aaah, silence.

Not!

In the wake of her sweet jams' absence, she began to talk...to no one in particular.

It started out innocently enough.

"Did you see that" (keep in mind, there is nothing to see).
"I said, I know!"

But then it turned to...
"What the fuck!?!"
"I will not take that, you fool"
"You better get the fuck away from me"

Uhhhh.

And as much as I joke about my ability to fit in with the mentally deranged, I know I am not, in fact, certifiable.

When I am around the kind of people I described above, I politely pretend that I have no idea that they are acting a fool.

Nope, just another day in the neighborhood here.

But what is so funny about crazy people is that they have no qualms staring at each other. It's like they have some special pact.
For instance, fartman was looking at butt-lady like she was crazy, and headphone lady was looking at fartman like he was crazy, etal.

Maybe none of them were looking at me because my silence and total lack of interesting quirks and/or outbursts seemed nutso to them.

Who knows?

All I know is I need to get me some of that fine, fine insurance.

That title serves two purposes.

First of all, I have the flu.
That's wack.

And my birthday's coming up.
That, in and of itself, doesn't piss me off.

I have never been one who is afraid of aging.

Hell, I was telling bouncers all over the clubs of Tampa that I was 21 when I was a mere sixteen.

And I started rounding up to thirty when I was 28.

The point is, and I have mentioned this before, that I tend to get sick around the holidays.

And last year on my birthday, there was no exception to the rule.
Happy Birthday to me!

I suppose it could be stress, or, ahem, pre-gaming, that lowers our immune system's ability to defend itself.

There have been multiple times I claimed to be sick just to get out of a party.
My dance card is chock full, folks! You can't all have a piece of this!

Point is, my excuses inevitably turn out to be self-fulfilling prophesies.

I am reminded of way back when....
I must have been seven or eight and I was staying at my dad and step-mom's house for the weekend.

I would never want to go home to my mom's on Monday because the pops had cable, CABLE!

This was big.
This was when MTV still played music...and it was good.

So in order to bow out of going back home to my mom's and back to my hellish elementary school existence, I feigned illness.

I was rolling around, claiming I was dying, the whole spiel.
And, folks...Even when I am ordering a coffee, I am dramatic.

This shit was Liza Minelli over the top.

And what happened next?

I came down with a hardcore case of the chicken pox within hours.

Turns out you shouldn't fuck with deceit.

All this talk about my youth brings me to the second reason for said title.

I just watched The Wackness.

Totally dope!
I doped it right there cause it is set in the mid-nineties and has an awesome soundtrack, relevant props (hello! prototype Nintendo) and straight-up,nostalgia-inducing references.

Seriously one of the best movies I have seen in a while.

Word.

That title has nothing to do with this blog, but I had an awful day and had to come home to smiley holly home-maker on my fucking t.v.

If I have said it once (and, yes, I know I have said it more than once), I need to get the heck
out of Rhode Island.

The day started out well enough.
I went to the Y, got my groove on via the elliptical machine...
went home, made a few phone calls.

My sister and my wonderful baby-angel nieces came over.

I got hungry and decided to hot-foot it over to my favorite sandwich place, Meeting St. Cafe.

I ran a few errands on the way while my cuisine was prepared.

I squeeze into the lot...and, Jesus H., guys, you know parking is do or die on Thayer...I avoid it at all costs.

But I needed me a Meeting St. Veggie, so I was prepared for hell.

Well, come hither, high water!

Some douchebag rammed my car while I was inside.
He totally T-boned it and took out my left side window.

Fucking-A!
My vehicle is my sole remaining source of commodity given the times.

I mean, when times get rough (and it has been mother-effin' rough lately) I can always look at my car and say, "Your blue book value is decent enough...Let's sell!"

Never no more, my friends.

My car has been haranguing me with it's absolute need for upkeep.
It seems all my major bills are somehow tied to Ms. Honda.

Fortunately (and I must give shout outs where shout outs are due) the owner of (my still fave sandwich shop) the Meeting St. Cafe offered to pay the damages.

Aaaah....the veggies taste that much sweeter.

So I am busy doing my best impression of traction up in my bedroom.

My back kills.
I am bored.
And I get two lousy stations (three on a clear day) on my artifact of a television.

So I turn the tube to "Superstars of Dance".

And the first group up is representing Ireland.
Oh Danny Boy! Am I excited!?!

I am Irish.
I don't have an accent or anything...no, I'm third generation.
But, close enough.

I love when I meet a fellow person of Irish descent...
It's like kismet.
We are all about our Irish-ness.

Then I watch the "Superstars of Dance" and realize that the Irish manage to turn everything so, well, gay.

It's airing live now, so I can't provide a clip.

But in it's absence, let me offer you this proof...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HW3fhWegNuw&feature=related

*UPDATE* Ireland won.
My bid was on the monks of the Shaolin Temple...cue the Wu Tang...those guys were on fire!

The results are evidence that lame has gone global.

Go raibh maith agaibh!

So I promised I'd kick this blog off on the good foot at the dawn of 09'.

My bad.
My foot seems okay, my back not so much, and my computer....

AAAARGH!

I had to give my thinkin' machine up to the Mac gods to resurrect,once again, for, who knows, what particular ailment. NOT ME!

I am of decent intelligence and yet every time I bring the thing into Apple and get told the diagnostics, all my ears hear is Charlie Brown's teacher talking.

"Whah, Whah, Whah, Whah", What the fuck?

And I feel stupid because I am a slave to this machine.
But I was born well before the advent of the internet.

So all these "geniuses" half my age know what they are talking about without regard to the fact that I was introduced much later in life to computin'.

Give me a break!

I hate it when I have to preface every question with, "Okay, this might sound dumb, but..."

Bratty know-it-alls'

I could school you in Trivial Pursuit so hard your whole being would ache.

But I got the thing back.

So we are on, bitches!

It's another year...aaaahhhh.

New Years blew pretty hard but it always does.
I mean I went out (and mad props, Sandrine and Al, for taking me along for the ride---you were stellar company) but all the events that seemed mildly intriguing were cancelled per the fact that we inhabit a windy, Nordic, frosty, snow globe.

That, and I got no kisses.
Or at least, I don't think I did???

It just seems that we always get our hopes up that our particular New Year's revelry and/or, it's total suckage, will be the acid test for the rest of the year.

And though I was lucky enough to have been accompanied by lovely peeps, we ended up being the only people who showed up to the party unaware that we were not,in fact, auditioning for the Mambo version of So You Think You Can Dance.

From now on, I think we should all celebrate New Year's on a more auspicious, less pressure-inducing, date.

I propose February First.

It's the first day of the month of love.
The shortest (yet only changeable month of the year).
It's the underdog to January First's all high and mighty, "we are number one" attitude.

February First is number one in the number two business...(and, yes, I know how that sounds)...

After all, It is the birthday of a very radical person I happen to know very well!