I assure you….suicide IS painless
December 14, 2009
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Tags: humor, assholes, random, men, silliness, friends, women, relationships, Georgia, silly stuff, cobb county, blogging, Annie Wilson, cheating husband, pot, family, blog, suicide, alzheimers disease, Los Angeles, stroke, stoner, confused, cribbage, weekend, brain
As I sit down this morning…
…I have no clue where my fingers are about to take me. Nothing special has happened, no hideous health problems, no annoying political crap and my weekend, while enjoyable, wasn’t really noteworthy.
I did play cribbage for a while which I haven’t done in quite a while but other than that, and an intriguing lack of sex, this weekend will be remembered as the Wet Weekend in LA. The weather was more exciting than my own weekend. But, I suppose at my age I should be happy with that.
That, and of course, my new relationship. I’m afraid to talk about it, not because someone might read it but because I haven’t figured it out yet. I should…and I’ll probably do that…but not right now. I’m confused enough without adding romance to my cerebral duties du jour.
Apparently my brain is in a vulnerable condition as it is. After 3 strokes, I’m just happy that I can spell. The strokes, while not anything I’d really WANT to do again, are interesting.
When I have one, I don’t remember anything. I suddenly and without warning find myself surrounded by strangers and unaware of who I am, who they are or what in the hell is going on. I figure it must be a lot like Alzheimer’s Disease. If it is, you have no idea just how frightening it is to know nothing. There is a sense of self awareness, but nothing else at all. You can’t understand what the strangers are saying and they are absolutely NOT going to go away so eventually they become scary little creatures and sometimes I want to hit them. I haven’t yet…thank God…but I’ve come really, really close.
Hell, sneak up on me from behind in a bar and I’ll turn around swinging…and that’s when I’m sober. Get me all stroked up and I could really do some damage. Luckily, even my totally confused self starts to practice self restraint at some point. That’s a good thing but if I had to stay confused for any length of time I’m sure I’d smack a person or two…probably a couple times a month.
Every time I was confused like that, someone I knew eventually sparked something inside. Once I recognized ANYTHING, I recognized almost everything.
Anyway, I hope I never have to stay in that condition for any length of time. It would truly be hellish. I can handle forgetting the words to Happy Birthday to You…but if I couldn’t recognize my kids, I wouldn’t want to be here. And the shit of it would be, I wouldn’t have the wits to blow my own head off. I’d have to count on someone else and I don’t have any insurance so no one would really benefit from my death…but some nursing home would benefit from my pitiful existence. Maybe I should get some insurance and make Scott Peterson the beneficiary…yeah, that’d do it.
What a neat way to commit suicide! Think about it…you buy a huge policy and make some murdering SOB the beneficiary and if you get murdered properly, they get double the settlement. I know there are probably nieces or nephews out there thinking, “No need to leave it to OJ Simpson, I’ll kill you myself!” If that’s the case, just call your family member up and tell them that ONE TIME. After that there could be wiretapping involved so settle it all in the first conversation.
Of course, we do need some confused people around, they really are a laugh. I do enjoy them, mean and confused or nice and confused, they’re all fun to be around. I don’t think I’d be any fun to be around for any length of time so someone needs to shoot me…or sit me in front of a TV full of TV shows from the 50’s and 60’s, get me some music and bring me a joint to smoke and I’ll be one happy little old lady stoner.
Well, I think I’ve run the gamut so I’m gonna publish this sucker now. Have a lovely Monday and think of me the next time you sneeze.
Sex, sex, sex
December 7, 2009
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Tags: assholes, Atlanta, blog, boobs, cheating husband, divorce, entertainment, fake boobs, friends, humor, life, lindsay lohan, marriage, men, old lady sex, old man sex, old people sex, opinion, penis, personal, random, relationships, sex, silliness, silly stuff, Viagra, women
Doctors, probably men doctors, are working on a cream that can be rubbed onto the penis to achieve erection. (LOLOL, that’s a helluvan achievement, isn’t it?) At some point the drug will have to be tested and that means that a bunch of men will either rub the cream on their own wangs or some chick will do it for them.
After applying the ointment in a rapid up and down fashion, an erection will show success. I’m just not sure of what it will show success. I’m not sure and I really don’t care. I am SO sick of the importance that society places on sex and of all the new an improved ways to have sex. I could wax philosophical on you but I choose to use wax you with humor because that’s the way I roll.
Americans have been having sex earlier and earlier for as long as I can remember. When I was a teenager, most of us chose to listen to the warnings of our parents, “If you ever get pregnant, don’t come home.”
Add to early onset sex the social permission we have to hump multiple partners and we’ve had a LOT of extra sex going on around here lately. It’s really no wonder we run out of sex juice early, we’re using it all up before we’re 50. (Luckily for me, at 51 I seem to have maintained some extra sex juice. I think it’s leftover from my last marriage.)
And honestly, for all the talk about it, sex isn’t the be-all end-all in life. Personally I would rather get a pedicure. So why is everyone doing all this penis rubbing and little blue pill popping? I don’t know. They should invest their time and money in a sailboat. I’d sail away with a dude who had one of them…with or without the sex accoutrement’s.
And then women…what are you doing to your boobs? Have you ever SEEN an 80 year old woman with implants? I have and let me tell you…it is NOT a pretty sight. The implants may remain in place, but the real boobs go on some crazy gravity induced escaped and when you’re flat on your back, the nipples are somewhere under your arms. They don’t have a blue pill yet that will explain the social obligations of a man who encounters 4 boobs…on one woman, Lindsay Lohan is NOT involved.
I suppose you could look at the bright side, the dude can suck your nipples and rub the big round things at the same time. If you can do some of that for him, he might not need the ointment.
Do you realize that we have men wielding plumbing long since out of warranty on women hawking parts decommissioned years ago? Old people sex just CAN…NOT…BE…THAT…GOOD.
It almost sounds like heaven for the decrepit old men, doesn’t it? But there is one huge problem stemming from all of this squeaky old people sex…a local gynecologist reported that she treated “more cases of herpes and human papillomavirus at this particular retirement villages than she did when she worked in Miami.” These people made it through WWII, Korea, Viet Nam, the entire Sexual Revolution, cheating on their spouses and God knows what else. For the better part of a century, these folks avoided the clap and yet they can’t survive widowhood unscathed by any odd lesions, infections or small crawly things. Thank God their parents aren’t around to see what they’ve done.
And shame, shame on those old women! “Whatever you know about 20-year-olds, it’s the same with seniors,” said Roselyn Shelley, a resident of The Villages Retirement Community. You would think that women would have gotten over any self esteem issues before they turned 70. I don’t know why they would service a bunch of cheap old men. At the very least, I would charge the guy a few bucks to make it worth my while.
And of course, where there are women and black-market drugs available, you can expect violence. Local cops do their best to keep the neighborhood safe, but according to Lt. Davis, it’s no picnic. “You see two 70-year-olds with canes fighting over a woman and you think, ‘Oh, jeez.’”
Important Dating Tip For Women Of All Ages: Women, listen to me, if you do ABSOLUTELY nothing else, get the guy to pick something up at the store for you on their way over to your house. There’s no better time to get a man to pull his wallet out of his pocket. Trust me on that one.
Oh yeah…beware of men who come to you with a tube of anything. It’s NEVER a good sign. Either you rub it on him or he plans on being very lazy in the foreplay department. So when it comes to ointments and sex…just say no.
Where the hell did I put the weed?
December 6, 2009
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Tags: assholes, CNN, divorce, Georgia, humor, legal weed, life, los angeles california, Marietta, marietta georgia, marijuana, opinion, politics, pot, random, silliness, silly stuff, weed, women
You know…
…it’s hard enough to find your weed when you’ve hidden it in a “no legal weed” state. When you’re dealing with an illegal substance, you’ve got to keep up with matters…you need to hide that stuff and hide it well. And as any decent pot smoker will tell you, it’s hard to find stuff that you’ve hidden if you hid it AFTER smoking the wacky tobacky. Since the stuff is potential evidence for the prosecution, you really, really need to have a few good hiding places. So usually you can wander around the house and peek into the usual hiding places with some success.
But in a state with legal weed, you can just stick the stuff behind a jar of Folgers Crystals because you’re not hiding stuff from cops, you’re hiding it from cats and other creatures that might try to pilfer your stash.
The problem with that is you could stick the ganja ANYWHERE you happen to be standing when it occurs to you that smoking more weed in one night would just be a waste. So, you toss it on the high shelf, stick it behind the microwave or, as I did last night…behind the Folgers Crystals. There seems to be one rule when hiding legal weed…it has to be out of sight. That’s all. It doesn’t have to be hidden behind an electrical plate or something else that takes a bit of thought. But when you stick something out of sight while you’re high….it’s just that in the morning…out of sight. There are no usual hiding places…your entire haystack of a house can hide a little needle of weed quite well and that was my problem this morning.
Luckily I had left a bowlful of some good stuff in my bong so I had a while before panic would be setting in. Or so you would think.
There’s another problem here. As soon as I started partaking of my leftover bowl-O-weed, the absence of my fancy green prescription bottle and it’s Sour Diesel ingredients began to bug the hell out of me. I had to know where that bottle went. So I looked and I looked and I looked.
Eventually I gave up and started writing about losing the pot that I had last night. Then, I was writing a line about hiding the ganja and I looked up at the kitchen counter to get an idea of a place to hide the weed. I saw the jar of Folgers and decided to use “behind a jar of Folgers Crystals” as a literary hiding place. But, as I glanced again at the Folgers, I saw a greenish hue coming from behind.
“YES!”, I said to myself. I remembered! That WAS where I had hidden the stuff last night. So, an unexpected benefit of writing this post was that I found the weed I was writing about losing.
For a minute I thought that I should just scrap the post but remember, I had smoked the leftover weed so I was only too happy to continue to write about losing it, even after my search was over.
Now I have nothing more to say.
Life can be something…’ey?
December 5, 2009
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Tags: 'ey?, adultery, Annie Wilson, assholes, Atlanta, blog, blogging, blogs, california, canada, cheating husband, cheating men, CNN, dating, divorce, faithful men, Georgia, humor, i love you, life, local news, Los Angeles, love, Marietta, marietta georgia, men, minnesota, personal, relationships, Rick Kelso, sex, silliness, silly stuff, tiger woos, women
That “‘ey” is in honor of my Minnesota boyfriend. He doesn’t say it much, but Minnesota just reminds me of that “word”. I heard it a lot when I lived in upstate New York…way upstate…like 30 miles from Canada upstate.
Anyway, I wrote about Minnesota Dude in this post:
http://diaryofmydivorce.blogspot.com/2009/12/i-was-chatting-with.html
The gist of it was that he “doesn’t say I love you because of how women change after you do say it”. Whatever…it didn’t bug me too much at first but the more I chewed on that particular piece of fat, the more it stuck in my craw.
When you stew on something like that long enough, the heavier stuff starts to stick to the bottom and then it burns just enough to ruin the whole stew. That’s a bitch for all concerned. It wasn’t as if I brought the subject up in the first place…apparently MN. Dude misunderstood something I said and the he just went off on that pleasant little topic and announced his premature edict.
Afterwards, I was climbing BACK up THAT emotional cliff all week and I had just about gotten back to the summit from which I jumped in the first place. The way I was headed, the weekend would have been spent pondering 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover.
Then, out of the blue, I get a phone call from the man who’s figured it all out and has a plan…Never I say ‘I love you!’.
Reeling from my most recent sprint back up to the precipice of loveless reality, I wasn’t ready for the phone call that I got at about 10 tonight. It was MN. Dude. I wondered if the tone of my voice gave away the thoughts that I was having…and second thoughts at that, the type that are tougher to hide…or at least it seems so.
And then as we were chatting, out of nowhere, I get the “I love you.”
I was quite taken aback, to say the least. I had no response because even though I could think of a myriad of things to say at that moment…not one of them was phone chat. Think about it, any reply at all, from a snappy comeback to a thoughtful acquiescence, would really be better given in person.
I might be able to get away with a long distance snappy comeback but it’s tough enough to know when I’m serious in person…I’d hate to take any chances over the phone.
The other day my ex Rick called to see how I was doing and he STILL maintains that he can’t tell when I’m kidding. I reminded him of how easy it was…if what I’m mad at is stupid, I’m kidding. If the issue has some gravity and it would make sense to be angry, then I’m not kidding. He STILL doesn’t get that one. Oh well, maybe someday he will.
So, a guy said he loved me tonight and I’m just jaded enough to wonder what he’s up to. I haven’t figured this one out at all, not a ‘taaaalllll! as Sheriff Taylor would say.
I can name two men who I know that I can say with almost 100% certainty have never cheated. I can say WITH 100% certainty that every single one of my husbands and a few of my boyfriends HAVE cheated on me. And then, to make matters worse, a great guy like Tiger Woods turns out not to be so great after all. It’s like some sort of omen going on here!
But I’m gonna really try hard not to make MN. Dude pay for the mistakes made by other men. And WHATEVER I feel tonight, alone here in my apartment…I’m quite sure that, good or bad, I’ll feel quite a bit different when I’m with MN. Dude…after all, I happen to LIKE back hair!
Give me Health Care…or a 38 Special
December 1, 2009
Filed under Uncategorized
Tags: assholes, blog, CNN, doctors, friends, health care, humor, men, news, non insured, obama, opinion, personal, politics, random, silliness, silly stuff, UCLA, women
I had an interesting little Q&A with a doctor the other day that left me a tad perplexed politically. I had chosen my questions very carefully before the doctor even came into my room. I was sick, I had a killer headache that went away for 20 minutes at a time every few hours. So, I was a little slow on the uptake. But while sitting in my room trying very hard to not see lights of any sort, it occurred to me that this was a huge, “What’s wrong with this picture?” moment.
Now, doctors may be doctors and kudos to them for that. But being a doctor, especially Doogie Howser, does NOT grant you certain skills that say, a 51 year old smart ass chick who was raised by an attorney and then grew up to raise her OWN attorney might have accrued in her lifetime…most likely before Doogie was toilet trained. So, I readied myself with a list-O-questions designed to evoke confirmation of my suspicions.
The back and forth went something like this, the docs’ words may not be verbatim but mine are. Remember, I practiced them. But the sentiment is the same nevertheless:
ME: So, I have an aneurysm?
DOOGIE: Yes, you do.
ME: Could something like this kill or permanently disable me?
DOOGIE: That is a possibility, yes.
ME: And the angiogram showed that the aneurysm was coil-able? (Meaning it could be fixed.)
DOOGIE: Yes.
ME: If a person with insurance had the exact same condition, would he be discharged without the surgery?
DOOGIE: Well…
ME: That’s OK, I’m just asking for the truth, I can handle it.
DOOGIE: Well, yes…a patient with insurance coverage would stay here to have the surgery, unfortunately…
ME: I’m aware of my unfortunate position, thank you for your candor. My head hurts, increase the Dilaudid please.
Now, what confounds me is the fact that I have never supported the FEDERAL government usurping the role of the health care business in this country. The States perhaps, if they so choose. But not the Feds.
But, as I sit here with my sunglasses on and my headache REALLY on, suddenly I just want that sucker fixed, I don’t care who pays for it.
Remember what Morgan Freeman said in Shawshank Redemption? I have another quandary here, don’t I?
To paraphrase Patrick Henry:
GIVE ME HEALTH CARE OR GIVE ME DRUGS!
Oh no…tell me you didn’t piss HER off?
November 27, 2009
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Tags: humor, assholes, random, entertainment, personal, opinion, men, Chicago, silliness, friends, life, divorce, dating, women, relationships, Marietta, silly stuff, cobb county, Annie Wilson, pot, medicinal marijuana, blog, CNN, california, Los Angeles, hollywood, health care, busby's, UCLA, Dr. Matthew Garrett, Gail Spencer RN, bad doctors, charlatons, quacks, misfit physicians, dreadful bedside manner, what a dick, eddie haskell, greg brady, Miller lite, Busby's Hollywood, pot wars, piece of shit doctor, I bet this guy is still a virgin, maybe he just needs to get laid, if ever oh ever a dick there was Dr. Garrett is one because because of the stupid things he does, brat, margarita, he just plan LOOKS like a bully, you can't argue with that
OK…
…so I’m in Los Angeles minding my own business. I went on a date with a handsome man and I had a few drinks. I had smoked a bit-O-weed before leaving the house so after a couple Margarita’s, I was happy enough to take the beaded necklace from the Miller Lite people walking around the “cabaret” we were patronizing. I didn’t mind that the beads had huge blue circles bearing the name of the product they were selling, after all, I was on my 3rd Margarita by then. Why not? The only plans I had were to go home, kiss the handsome dude and pass out on my daughter’s couch like any good mother would do.
But as Steinbeck opined in Of Mice and Men, the best laid plans can always meet an unexpected glitch and mine certainly did. Now, remember, I wasn’t hurting anyone, I wasn’t causing any trouble and my date was paying my way so I had no obligation to society whatsoever at that point.
Some of you might argue that I had the responsibility of not smoking pot but I chose the ONE state in which I can legally do that. I defy any of you to tell me I’m not sick. And if you try to tell me that ganja doesn’t make me feel better, I will laugh in your face. I won’t argue with you, pot smokers don’t argue with straight people, only other pot smokers and only while high. But…I will absolutely make you the laughing stock of me.
So, I was smoking legally obtained weed, in my own home, strictly for the purposes of feeling better…and perhaps a little bit because of how much it helps my pool game. I was drinking perfectly taxed liquor, shooting pool for fun as opposed to cash and kissing a guy who is apparently my OWN PERSONAL dude. All of the people around me were having fun, I saw them. We chatted and laughed and no one was injured in any way.
Then, I go home, stroke out and wake up to find myself being transferred to UCLA Medical Center from another hospital that didn’t seem to have the ability to deal with my injuries. Talk about your “YIKES!” moments…that one qualified.
Anyway, I present at the emergency room of one of the most prestigious hospitals in the world…wearing no pants (Don’t ask me, the first hospital lost them.), smelling like tequila and wearing blue Miller Lite beads. I was a poster-child for drug tests if ever there was one so they tested me and, like the smart people that they were, they soon knew that, in addition to drinking a bit-O-booze, I had smoked the wacky tobacky that night.
Yay.
Then they got all FBI on me and asked, “Have you done any drugs today?”
Well, I may have been a bit tipsy and I certainly could have had a bit of a weed buzz going on and perhaps I even had brain damage. But I wasn’t stupid enough to go, “Uhhh…nyuck nyuck…nope.” So, I admitted my sins and was apparently adjudicated a stoner by one particularly annoying child/physician.
That kid was a hideous mix of Greg Brady and Eddie Haskell. (See photo in following post.) Surprisingly, the Haskell genes must be dominant because this guy was the type who LOOKED like the bully down the street. (See photo in the following post.) I may have seen his older brother in Karate Kid. I wanted to poke him in the eyeballs like Moe. (See photo in the following post.) If enough people had smacked this dude when he was a youngster, he might not be the little shit he is today so…do your grandchildren a favor and smack any and all kids you pass this weekend, only when you’re sure that you can get away with it of course. Stranger’s kids are best because they don’t know who you are so they can’t really TELL on you and they make rotten witnesses for the prosecution. Worst case…you hit an innocent kid…but that’ll just build character so it’s all good.
And yes… I am going to name this brat who held my life in his hands a mere two days ago…it’s Matthew Garrett and I’m sure that’s right because he signed a bunch of papers that I have right here in front of me.
Did Dr. Garrett do anything malicious? Probably not. But he didn’t go out of his way to be professional and that’s really a good idea in health care. I’m a nurse and sometimes I don’t particularly like my patients but the worst they’ll get from me is professionalism. They would never be able to read any negativity into my affect. I could be wrong…but I’m pretty sure that’s what professionalism is all about.
This little man came into my room twice and told me that I would be discharged that day. Then, real doctors came in and never mentioned discharge so when Dr. Brat said it again, I didn’t pay any attention to him. I had the impression that he was the junior resident who had been pegged as a nimrod and assigned to fill in while the real doctors shaved and put on ties.
I didn’t like much of what he said because it all seemed to contradict what the real doctors had said. They told me that my blood pressure medicine wasn’t working so they were going to try some different meds. Then, when Dr. Toddler came in, all he did was lower the dose of the one I already had. Now it will not only NOT work, it will not work with a lower dose. I guess that means it really, REALLY won’t help me avoid future brain injuries. I hope that it’s, at the very least, cheaper than the higher dose I’ve been taking for years. Then, the little wanker told me to stop taking my anti-seizure medicine in 7 days. I’ve been taking that for a LONG time and I don’t know if I really want to be playing games with it. Call me kookie, but I’m a bit ANTI seizure myself.
Anyway, as a nurse, I know what it is to be discharged. A doctor can discharge you all day long and even if he wiggles his nose when he says it, until a nurse comes in with the paperwork, you pretty must just sit there and wait. If I’m going to wait, I’m gonna do it in the bed…not standing in the hallway or sitting on the folding couch in the room. Anyway, apparently Dr. Bitch learned that by 10 AM, I was still in the hospital. My guess is that he made the nurse feel so stupid that she hadn’t discharged me that she came in all rattled and SHE didn’t really know what was going on either. So, as I was waiting for my ride to show up, the nurse came in again and explained that there was a “discharge lounge” downstairs and offered me it’s use. I felt like a wretched outcast.
With the single exception of Gail Spencer, I found the nursing staff at UCLA to be of the highest caliber. I wouldn’t have believed that one manager could hire so many excellent nurses in one place and even the nurse who discharged me was doing a superb job until Dr. Jack Ass got to her.
That’s what made me think that Dr. Matthew Garrett was a bully of female patients and female nurses. I don’t know about the men, I can’t speak for them. But most of us know what it’s like to be in the presence of a mean and nasty person and that’s exactly what I felt around Dr. Miserable.
That’s truly a shame because I was so impressed with the nurses that I wanted to mention them. But since the last impression was the fall-out of Dr. Phibes, that was the most pressing issue this morning.
What’s the moral to this story? Easy…don’t take the beads from the Miller Lite people.
Am I a bitch? Yes. Do I care if you agree with me? Hell no. As a matter of fact, if you don’t, I’m doing it wrong.
It’s me again…Margaret
November 26, 2009
Filed under Uncategorized
Tags: humor, assholes, random, entertainment, personal, politics, opinion, Chicago, silliness, friends, dogs, life, sex, dating, women, local news, Marietta, Georgia, silly stuff, cobb county, marietta georgia, blogging, Annie Wilson, Atlanta, family, CNN, orgasm, Alzheimers, UCLA, confusion, john lennon, idiot box, once an adult twice a child, Charly, flowers for algernon, time travel, aphasia
I’m BAAA-AAACK!!!
And this time I’m typing from home. I will, more than likely, write about my experience at UCLA Medical Center one day soon but right now I’m bored with that and I would rather talk about MEEEE!!!
I’m officially a crazy old lady so my lifelong dream of becoming old enough to do silly stuff and be considered cute instead of nuts has finally come true. The nursing staff told my daughter that I was “pleasantly confused”. I guess that’s a nice way of saying “nutty as a fruit cake”. When I first came around after the stroke, I was frightened by everything because I didn’t recognize any of it.
But, after a while I realized that I was in a hospital so I sort of just assumed that the aliens were nice aliens and I decided to go along with the program. Since I’m pretty much just following the fates into a confused state that seems seems to be calling me closer and closer, I have no idea what type of blog posts people will be finding when they come here in the future. I suppose it’ll be as though I’m Charly from Flowers for Algernon and no one will know if tomorrow holds a witty Irish chick, a dithering idiot or some combination of the two.
And as batty as I may become, I will STILL make more sense than a hospital that has “Neuro-psychiatric Center” on the front door, “Stroke Unit” on the door to the wing, my NAME on the door to my room AND a promise of confidentiality. I don’t get that at all but maybe it’s me so I’ll just leave it alone until I have more to offer the entire botheration than my verbal wrath.
Confusion is feared by most people but once you adjust, it’s actually rather interesting. The smallest stuff has been fascinating me, like the thing in the bed that looks like a phone, has voices coming out of one side and lots of buttons but you can’t call anyone with it except the nurse.
Oh, and forgetting a few months of your life is exactly like time travel. If you don’t remember what happened since you went to bed on your last birthday which was several months ago, you have, for all intents and purposes, travelled into the future. It’s not something you’d welcome arbitrarily into your life…but it IS time travel nonetheless. Actually, it was space travel as well, after all, it was June and I was in Atlanta…now I’m in Los Angeles and I don’t remember how I got here although once I was told that I took a plane, I DID remember that my dog had flown with me.
I guess it’ll all clear up eventually…it did after the first stroke. I was right smack dab in the middle of singing The Happy Birthday Song to my niece when I suddenly forgot the words to the song. Or, I would need a cup and know what a cup looked like but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember what the heck one was called. Words would elude me and like the trips through space and time, you never see it coming. Who would foresee such a curse? No one expects to forget words that you use every single day of your life. Think about the repercussions of that…you could be in rush to order french fries, to get to an appointment or to have an orgasm and suddenly you might forget the word “faster”.
But it’s not all bad, actually there are several other positive things about confusion that are underrated my most people:
1. Lack of responsibilities like driving, babysitting and chopping vegetables.
2. Automatic approval for most government health plans.
3. Appreciation for the phrase, “Once an adult, twice a child.”
4. This is the time in life that you are allowed to fart nilly-willy and not see quite as many aghast faces.
5. If caught loitering, committing vagrancy or trespassing, you’ll avoid jail and go straight to the nearest hospital.
6. As soon as you GET to the hospital, they’ll give you the good drugs.
7. Confused people have absolutely NO interest it smoking, doing drugs or drinking. They exist in a permanent altered state of consciousness. Confusion is one helluva trip dudes!
8. After you spend some time staring at the idiot box, you realize that swings and long walks are much more fun.
9. Of course…if you walk long enough, you get a ride home from the sheriff’s department. If you’re lucky, you could even get a ride back in a helicopter!
10. You fully appreciate John Lennon while NOT under the influence of pot.
Imagine.
Well, I’m sure there are more but one of the bad things abut this entire sordid debacle is the fact that I can’t type anymore. Well, I can but it would probably be quicker to use a pen. This has taken me a LONG FRICKING TIME and I feel like assisting gravity in her efforts to keep the sofa on the floor. See ya!
Rachel Griffiths is a skinny little idiot
November 5, 2009
Filed under Uncategorized
Tags: humor, assholes, entertainment, personal, opinion, silliness, life, women, Bob Hope, celebrities, Harrison Ford, local news, silly stuff, Annie Wilson, california, Los Angeles, hollywood, stars, Halloween, Six feet under, rachel griffiths, camarillo, melrose, la brea, busby's, sally fields
I lived in California before but that time I was in Petaluma, a bit north of Frisco. I occasionally saw celebrities, on and off of movie sets. Now I actually live IN Hollywood so I seem to see quite a few…so many so that I’ve even been surprised at how many I’ve seen. I stopped mentioning them after about 4 because it was becoming rather boring and to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t have known who most of them were if someone hadn’t told me.
Saturday night I was at a place called Busby’s shooting a few games of pool and minding my own business when the bartender asked the guy who was playing pool at the other table why he looked so familiar. The guy said that he was on Madmen, a show I’ve never seen. I didn’t have a clue who the guy was and I didn’t know his name so it wasn’t really worth mentioning.
What I should have mentioned about Saturday night was that I had a beer and 3 sips of a Bacardi and Coke after taking a pain pill Saturday afternoon. I did all of that without eating so I sort of deserved what happened on the way home. Unfortunately, others who DIDN’T deserve it paid for my stupidity.
After a few sips of my drink, I started to feel a bit queasy so instead of waiting for my daughter to pick me up, I started walking home. After walking for about a mile, I decided to hop on a bus for the last mile down La Brea. I don’t know if it was all the people dressed in costume that tightly packed the bus, the movement of the stupid thing or the fact that I never did eat, but I quickly turned green and felt an impending and unstoppable need to puke.
Luckily for me, the bus was approaching my stop so I pulled the string to signal a desire to get off of the bus. I was actually relieved for a moment because, despite my best efforts, I was about to blow chunks and I hoped to be able to do so at the intersection of La Brea and Melrose and NOT on the bus. I won’t tell you how far I went to avoid heaving all over the bus, but trust me…my efforts were valiant.
They were all for naught. Before the bus came to a stop, I barfed on the arm of the guy sitting to my right. Then, without missing a beat, I got the leg of the guy on my left. That’s when the bus stopped and I bolted without apology. All I wanted to do was get off of the bus before it happened again. I’m not blaming any of that on the Madmen dude, but it was quite a coincidence that I lost my beer shortly after seeing him.
Although I felt badly about leaving the contents of my stomach in the lap of some dude dressed up as a vampire…I planned to find a way to spin my short bus ride into a humorous story and I did so for most of Sunday. But I DID feel for the 2 guys who caught the wrath of my gastro-intestinal upheaval. I even tweeted an apology on Twitter on the off chance that the barfed upon guys were cleaned up and reading my tweets but I forgot to tell you guys about it until right now.
Then, yesterday my daughter and I stopped at a gas station in Camarillo. I was sitting in the car as my kid went in the store for dog food and although I noticed the chick in front of me stick the pump into the gas tank of her Suburban, I certainly didn’t know who the anorexic wench was so I paid no attention to her.
When my kid got back in the car, she told me that the woman in the Suburban was Rachel Griffiths, an actor on a show called Six Feet Under. I’ve never seen that show so even when my daughter told me who she was, I didn’t know her. And I couldn’t see her because she was sitting in the Suburban as the gas pump was hanging out of the left side of it all by itself.
Apparently, my daughter was a fan so when she made eye contact with the skinny chick, she smiled at her. By that time she was also pumping gas and not likely to run away from her own car to mob Griffiths. Also, it was the middle of the day and the gas station was full of men so I can’t imagine anyone feeling threatened, certainly not by the smile of a young woman.
Now, I know my kid. She isn’t a nut and she has seen her share of celebrities around town and as a planner of the Golden Globe awards. Star spotting has become very commonplace to her and if she wasn’t a fan of Six Feet Under, she probably would have walked away without smiling.
But as soon as she DID smile, the middle-aged quasi-celebrity jumped into her vehicle as though Jack the Raper had just shouted “You’re next!” at her. So even if I wanted to see her, I couldn’t unless I was nutty enough to wait for her to get back out of her gas guzzling truck/car and I’m not THAT nutty at all.
I’ve long ago lost count of the famous people whom I have met as well as those with whom I’ve worked. I can safely say that, with the possible exceptions of Bill Murray and Sally Fields, every single star who I’ve met has been as pleasant as a normal person would be.
It doesn’t surprise me that a nobody would hide from “prying eyes” because it seems as though the sweetest stars I’ve encountered have been the most celebrated. For example, Bob Hope, Charlton Heston and Harrison Ford were all more than gracious when I met them. I met Ford at a party but Heston and Hope could have easily avoided me. They didn’t. Instead they behaved liked regular human beings.
Those 3 men were stars that most people on this planet would know. If they were pumping gas along with 10 other people, at least 9 would have recognized them. But Rachel Griffiths would need quite a few more gas pumps full of people before anyone would pick up on her identity. She should be pleased that ANYONE knows who she is yet rather than return a smile from a fan and continue pumping her gas…she chose to go to all the trouble to jump back in her ride with the gas pump hanging out of the side of it.
I didn’t think about it until I was back on the freeway but if I see her again, I’m sticking my finger down my throat and blowing chunks all over her Suburban, her left arm or her right leg.
I know HOW to be a bitch…DUH!
The clock on this computer is finally correct. I guess it’ll screw itself up sometime next spring but for now, I’ll enjoy the convenient little time keeper in the corner and it’ll actually tell me the truth for a change. I don’t have to do any math, I don’t have to consider what time zone I’m in and by the time I get used to this method of time keeping, it’ll be wrong again.
I’m sure there’s a way to fix that sucker but when I sit at my computer, I usually have something else on my mind that takes precedence over the clock thing. Instead, I sit here for 6 months of the year chronologically challenged and wishing that there was a clock around here with the correct time on it. I sometimes think that I should offer myself as the poster child for procrastination but once again, there’s always something more pressing to take up my time.
You may ask why I don’t just stop what I’m doing and fix the stupid thing. Well, there’s a reason for that. Since I moved to the West Coast, I always worry about the people who like to read this crap in the morning. I don’t want to screw up their evening by making them wonder if I ever did get around to writing something and I certainly don’t want to mess up my own evening worrying about people I’ve never met so I’m always in a hurry when I sit down to write and with my daughter around, I notice how much time I spend writing. Sitting alone in my own place lends itself to writing more so than having a kid around seems to.
See? I’m digressing again and digressing is really just written procrastination, don’t you think?
I feel the need to do it again so here goes. My daughter keeps BBC on the television so much that she’s beginning to get a British accent. I’m not really sure how to change the channel without alerting her to my actions. She keeps that remote control so close to her that I can’t really do it discreetly, even if I wait for her to fall asleep. It’s not like I can do anything without the remote…if I tried I might end up pushing a button that can’t be un-pushed without the remote. Then I’d have to come right out and tell her, “I’ve screwed up the TV, I need the remote.”
That would start an argument over “Why didn’t you just get the remote in the first place?!”…after all, “What you did just doesn’t make sense!” I never claimed that I made sense and I never said that I wasn’t a flake. As a matter of fact, I’ve colored my hair blonde as a warning. If she assumes that I’m brighter than your average blonde, it’s on her.
You know that look that you get when you get caught doing something incredibly stupid like eating a co-worker’s lunch, locking the car keys in your trunk or asking a Pet-Mart associate where the peanut butter is? Well, I seem to be getting that look often and I don’t think it’s fair. I could take her into MY house and get annoyed every time she breaks one of MY arbitrary rules but it just wouldn’t occur to me. Even if I wanted to take the time and energy to do that, I’d just procrastinate until I forgot about it and nothing would come of it so I don’t even bother pondering over such minor transgressions.
I may notice a person who does something that annoys me, but unless they keep on doing it in front of me, I won’t go out of my way to bitch at them. It would be like trying to reason with a drunken person walking down the street…it’s not worth the time so I just keep walking to my destination. My daughter would stop and take the time to bitch at the drunk and there you have the difference between her and I.
The difference between a drunk and myself would be that I remember all the stupid stuff my kid tells me. Unfortunately, I never seem to remember to avoid irritating her. On Halloween she got mad at me for eating a candy bar. If eating a candy bar on Halloween can get you in trouble, who’s gonna worry about which kitchen sponge is for the pet’s dishes and which one is for people dishes?
And one more thing…I’m not nice because I don’t know HOW to be a bitch…I can do that quite well. I simply CHOOSE not to.
Oh, so it ISN’T my TOES that are freakish…
October 30, 2009
Filed under Uncategorized
Tags: ass, assholes, camel toe, cameltoe, cobb county, cruel.com, cruelies, dogs, entertainment, family, friends, humor, life, local news, long second toe, Los Angeles, marietta georgia, men, personal, picture of cameltoe, pussy, pussy pictures, random, relationships, sex, silliness, silly stuff, Socal, weekends, what is a cameltoe, women, x-rated
I have a hard time keeping up with all of the new words that seem to pop up in daily use nowadays. Ordinarily I can figure out the meaning of new words by the way in which they’re used. I heard a new word recently and I thought that I knew what it meant. It was used in reference to me by someone who obviously doesn’t appreciate my humor so I just figured it was something bad. And since it was used by someone who only knows me online, I knew it had to be because of something that I said or did on this blog.
A while back I wrote a post about my odd feet. I didn’t know that they were odd until people started pointing that fact out to me. I have very long fingers, legs and toes and my second toe is so long it’s actually longer than my great toe. I posted this picture of my malformed foot to go along with the post regarding people who suffer the same ailment:
My freak toe doesn’t bother me, and as far as I know, I’ve never suffered any discrimination because of it. But, I know how people frozen with 8th grade emotions think and most of them would seize the opportunity to make fun of me and my toe. That’s OK, I’m not stuck in 8th grade so I couldn’t care less what some nit wit says about me or my abhorrently long second toes.
Having met more than my share of feeble bullies, I can sort of see the effete attacks before they come. So, after publishing that picture of my malformed toe, I wasn’t surprised to hear that there was a name for that deformity and some childish man-wannabes were using the derogatory term in reference to me. When I became aware of the sad little attempts to annoy me with the toe jokes, I brushed them off and never really thought about it again.
Then, this morning my daughter said that one of her toes was hurting her. That made me think of my toes and the freaks who made fun of them. My daughter seems to be rather hip about things so I decided to get her opinion and see if my toes qualified for the nasty little moniker given to them by some computer troll.
As my daughter walked into the kitchen where I was sitting at the table, I took the sock off of my right foot, stuck my foot up in the air so that it was pointing at my kid and asked her, “Do I have a camel-toe?”
Well, she knew what it meant. First she looked at my face and then she asked, “Are you kidding?” Of course, I was NOT kidding and she could see that. It caused her to laugh for a very long time. She laughed so hard that she couldn’t tell me why it was funny. Eventually she did calm down enough to say, “Look it up on the computer…search images so you can see one.”
I did. Apparently camel-toes have absolutely nothing to do with feet, or toes for that matter. Even after she stopped laughing, my daughter couldn’t quite explain what an actual camel-toe was, but she was able to say that I did have one in this picture of my backside:
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, it seems as though the camel reference has something to do with two humps.
You know, if I had met someone with a really long second toe, I very well might have called them “Camel-toe”. Knowing me, I would have said it right to their face and with my luck, they would have known exactly what a camel-toe was.
I’m glad that the issue came up with my grown daughter, I could have asked ANYONE had the thought had popped into my head at a different time. Even so, it was slightly embarrassing. I’ve asked a few stupid questions in my life…here are some of the more asinine queries that I’ve made:
1. I took a letter to the Bensenville post office so I could send it to my cousin who lived about 10 miles away. I asked the man if they could send it air mail. He responded, “You could if there were any planes flying from Bensenville to Roselle.”
2. After a night of making love I asked the father of my kids what the fishy smell was. He laughed so hard he had an anxiety attack.
3. I asked my father the name of the song that goes, “Bingo, bango, bongo” over and over again. He didn’t even laugh, he just shook his head and walked away.
4. I walked into Auto Zone and asked for the “small funnel”. I needed one that would help me get the oil in the little hole. Instead, the guy showed me the BIG hole that said OIL.
5. I walked around the Dollar Store looking for someone to tell me how much the sponge in my hand was. Luckily I realized where I was before I actually asked for the price check.
6. My ex had a woman calling our house, I found someone else’s make-up in our car, he stopped calling me from work and he treated me like shit. Then I asked, “Is there somebody else?” That may be the single dumbest question that I, or any other woman, has ever asked a man.
I tried to come up with 10 stupid things that I’ve asked people but I only came up with 6. Do NOT let that lead you to believe that those are the ONLY dumb questions I’ve ever asked. They’re the only 6 that I can come up with right now. I may remember more and if I do, I’ll be back to let you know about them.
For now, I have to take my dog for a walk. He LOVES Los Angeles but they do have a law that ALL dogs (except breeding dogs) have to be de-sexed. That poor dog is a virgin and now he has to lose his testicles without ever having a chance to use them. How sad.
