Category Archives: Alcohol, It’s What’s For Dinner

“In the shadow of those looming battleships, I love our canoe…”

My weekend felt long but was super short in reality.  I really didn’t get much done except one huge task.  On the other hand, I did eat my way through about 1/4 of my weight in shellfish, and I had some lovely bread along the way.

Someday, I’ll go too far, and the shellfish allergy will overtake me.  You heard it in here that all my jewelry goes to my mom for distribution, and the rest of you bitches can fight it out for my clothes, shoes, accessories and purses!  The scarves belong in whole to Cherry.

So, yes, I spent half the day Saturday and ALL DAY Sunday washing blankets.  The dogs’ blankets.  Lazy motherfuckers just sat there and watched me do it, too.  P.S. to Rainbow:  You better stop pissing on stuff or the diapers are coming back and I AM SO SERIOUS ABOUT THAT SHIT!


Some vows are stronger than others.  To me, these are the vows of girlfriends.  Those transcend any situation in life and they live on, tying us together and never letting us forget we are one in the night, that we aren’t really ever far away from one another.  I go on quality, not quantity.  There are about four or five true good girlfriends I can really count on, and I feel better each day knowing that they are there for me, no matter what.  Perhaps you have more (good for YOU!), but I think four or five is about all I’ll ever need in my lifetime.  I hope those bitches know they can count on me, too, til the end of my days.  I love you all.


My current ridiculous obsessions:  Window shopping for sweaters and “removing” the scab in my left nostril that won’t seem to heal (probably because I keep removing the scab, duh – idiot!).  Why are these obsessions ridiculous?  (1) It gets cold here in Dallas about three days out of the year so what is up with all these sweaters? and (b) even though I don’t want to look like I have a bloody booger hanging out of my nose, if it is ever going to fully heal, I need to leave that fucker alone.


My mom and dad finally consented to take a vacation with me and the non-BF.  This makes me as happy as a clam who didn’t get picked for dodgeball by moving an inch away from the digger’s foot.  My mom seems excited.  My dad?  I keep checking for a pulse.  Oh well, I’m sure he will get more enthusiastic as the date draws nearer.


In some cultures, it is considered rude not to burp after a good meal.  I wish American culture would pick up on this shit – it’s a grand idea.  It would save me from saying “Excuse me!” about 20 times a day.  (I don’t eat 20 times a day, but I sure as hell burp about seven or eight times after each meal.)


My new website should be ready soon.  It’s already ready, if you must know the truth, just a little tweaking needs to be done.  It’s pink, by the way.  (Reader:  But of course it is!)

I’d like feedback if you would, when I finally get it to go live.


What is it with me and skinny slender no-fat-all-muscle, dark-haired singers?  Between Scott Weiland (a long-time favorite), Nick Hexum (another long-timer) and Adam Levine (just recently developed the hots for him), I guess I have a “type.”  And yes, this seems to be it.  Or this.


I ordered a sweater online and it arrived today, so I tried it on and asked the Office Mate if it was too small on me.  The look on her face told me, yeah, maybe.  So I told her, “Be honest…”  She said it bunched up on my back and I’m like, “Well, that’s better than it being stretched out like this!” and I pulled it really tight around my waist.  She just laughed.  Later she told me that she just didn’t like the pattern.  Me:  Well, hell, I don’t care what you think about the pattern – because I like it – but how the hell does it fit?  Apparently, it fits fine, so it’s not going back.

She got a kick out of “I don’t care what you think about the pattern.” (Really??  In the two years that she’s known me, when have I ever given a shit if someone liked my outfit, as long as I didn’t look FAT in it?) I told her nothing needs to match anymore, so get over the fact that my pants totally clashed with the sweater.  It’s not as though I’ll be pairing the two together anytime in the near future, anyway.  But when I do, it will look fabulous!


Wormy Kitty is evil.  I still believe that she is plotting to smother me with her paws during the night.  She likes to bite, too.  I look like I stumbled into a briar patch!

I asked the non-BF how long this biting “stage” would last.  Him:  Oh. about two years.  Me:  (rolls eyes and sighs)  Is that why you wanted me to keep the kitty?

P.S.  Wormy Kitty sure as hell eats a lot.  She shits more than any animal I’ve ever seen, next to Mr. Swirly.


Several days ago, I made cell mutation juice a gin & diet tonic with a heavy splash of cranberry juice cocktail.  I took one sip and then we had to go somewhere, and rather than waste totally decent alcohol, I scooped out the ice cubes and stuck the glass in my freezer.  Totally forgot about it until yesterday and then I open the door to a nice surprise – wheeeee! it was like an adult snowcone!!!  So tonight I’m trying a G&DT with some Fanta Grape soda.  It’s pretty white trash sounding but I’m hoping it will be yummy enough that I’ll be able to serve it at parties without ridicule.  (The Pickletinis were a huge hit, even though I was surrounded by doubters before the first sip!)  It won’t be ready until tomorrow night, though.

The way I look at it, this could go one of two ways:  Either I discover a new way to savor a cold drink in this hot Texas summer, or else it’s a Tanqueray and Vomit.  I’ll keep you posted.

“It’s so safe floating in the glass…”

The non-BF calls on his way home from work to talk, as we normally do each day.  Honestly, I don’t know how anyone else follows a conversation either one of us has with someone else because we are both so fucking ADD it isn’t even funny.  Except sometimes it is.

We are on our eighth topic in 15 minutes (I only switched gears twice…so yeah, PROGRESS), and he suddenly says he has some bad news.

[Mind you, this is after he is talking about getting a beer cave, so yeah, what the fuck?]

Him:  There is proof now that links alcohol consumption to various cancers.

Me: (silence)

Then he goes on to tell me all this scientific crap I cannot remember enough to even paraphrase his monologue.  Well, okay, let me try…

Basically, every time you enjoy one of your Adult Beverages, be it beer, a fruity frou-frou drink or the shit I enjoy (gin & tonic, extra lime, please!), there is a by-product that occurs from consuming said Adult Beverage that causes cells to mutate.  Now normally, the average healthy body can fight that off and do cell repair, but it’s really a crap shoot and you could end up with DNA damage.  And HEY! It’s worse when you imbibe every day.  Even if it is only a glass of wine!  I think a lot of us out there are screwed.

Wow, I really sound like I know what I’m talking about here.  I don’t.

Him:  Blah, blah, blah, scientific word, etcetera et al.

Me:  (LONG pause and then) Soooo, how many mutated cells do you think I have?

Him:  (all serious and shit, so WOW, because okay, I was kidding. I know how many I have!) I don’t know.  You are rolling the dice every time you take a drink.

Me:  What?  Sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the sound of me pouring myself some Cell Mutation Juice.

We ended the call about ten minutes later when he had to go feed an animal or shred something or some such shit.

Him:  I will call you later.

Me:  Okay, I’m off to mutate some cells!


At lunch today, the Office Mate and I decided we’d go to Target to pick up garbage bags for the office (fun!) and then go get some lunch.  She got in my car and was about to toss a wadded up note onto the floor (aka, my car’s “garbage can”) but read it first.

Her:  “Passport & muscle relaxers”???

Me:  Don’t ask.

Later, we were standing in line, waiting to place our order, and there in front of a few people in our line stood a female Dallas sherriff with pink handcuffs.  I kept trying to take a photo of her but the bitch in front of me kept getting in the way.

The Office Mate:  You keep getting Glock Blocked!

Me:  Ha! You think she has a pink gun, too?


I got blocked by a user on Twitter.  Was wondering out loud why on above mentioned phone call to the non-BF.  He told me that if I was going to write shit and put it out there for everyone to see, I’d need a thicker skin.

“I have a thick skin.  I don’t give a flying fuck why they blocked me.  Only said all that shit so you would tell me how fabulous I am.” You know what?  It worked.

Ten or so years ago, I was surprised when people liked me.  Now I’m surprised when they don’tWhat the hell must be wrong with them?

P.S.  The non-BF said it was probably because I’m a “potty mouth.”  Fuck him.


The Office Mate and I were talking about animal pranks after I admitted I didn’t know that catnip made cats crazy.

Me:  I thought that stuff made them stoned and they’d just go to sleep.

She laughed at me and told me “NO, they kinda get silly from that shit.”  I really have a LOT to learn about kitties.

So then she told me about a Pug bowling video, which sounded awful but she assured me the dog wasn’t hurt.  I told her I got into trouble with my mom many years ago for something similar.

Me:  I had some balloons from my birthday…and yeah, I was an adult, so what?…and so I tied the balloons to her dog’s collar and watched it run around the house trying to get away from them.  She ended up under a bed, barking at the balloons.

While it was funny at the time, I believe I may be going to hell for that one.


P.S. I’ve grown up a lot since then.  I only tease my animals when I know it will make my life easier.

Not really.  These fucking dogs pretty much own ME, not the other way around.  And I really don’t need fucking PETA or anyone else on my ass right now.  My dogs eat better than most homeless people do (don’t worry, I don’t give my dogs beer money, sheesh!).  Tomorrow night, they will get scrambled eggs on top of their kibble because, hey, it shouldn’t just be us humans who are happy that it’s FINALLY FUCKING FRIDAY!

P.S. Again:  Blindie just ninja-kicked me off the sofa and onto the floorNo, “this is not my beautiful house.”  Yeah, I pay the mortgage but it’s really their place.  They just let me live with them.

“We accept you, one of us!”

“Gobble! Gobble!”  Only Bunny will get this shit. No way I’ll be a peacock!


Had a really cool temp working for me this week while the Office Mate was on vacation.  By the second day, I realized we are a LOT alike.  We’ve had some good conversations in between all the work we’ve been doing.  Today, during a break, she and I were talking about shopping.  She asked what I liked to shop for.

Me:  Clothes, jewelry, shoes, scarves, accessories, makeup and skincare. Um, and books that I will never read.  Oh yeah, and I love to window shop rescue sites for tiny dogs.

Cool Temp:  Oh, that sounds fun!  You sound like me.  My big thing is shoes, though.

Me: Some of the shit I bought still has their prices tags on them.  It’s shameful.

Cool Temp:  I love shoes.  There was an intervention before we moved into the house we own now.  I gave away probably 30 pairs of shoes that I never even wore.  I still had the receipts in the boxes.

Me:  Why didn’t I know you then?

Me: I’m on my third closet in my house.  Well, they are smallish but still.  Makes it difficult to pick my outfits in the morning.

Cool Temp:  I’m on my fourth.  My husband made me go through those shoes and get rid of them.

Me:  So sad for you!  Hey, do you ever just go into your closet and STARE AT STUFF?  I love looking at my purchases.  It’s pretty twisted.

I’m a suck fuck, I know.  Now that I am on Forced Financial Austerity Campaign (well, I am if I want to save money to buy my Mini next year), it’s a damned shame.  I’d totally want to go shopping with her!  Where was she a couple years ago, damn it?!


Speaking of the Forced Financial Austerity Campaign (or “I’m Fucked” for short), that really starts tomorrow.  (Mom, if you are reading this, NO, I did NOT go shopping, except for maybe an adult beverage.)  After the hectic week I’ve had (possible aerial poisoning, exposure to ringworm, nasty fucking spider bite right above my left boob where everyone can see it (the bite, not the boob), realization that I cannot keep up compulsive shopping if I want to get my new car, and being pretty much getting slammed at work), I need a drink.  Fuck the diet tonight.  Must be in the air because the non-BF said the exact same thing!


The Cool Temp also asked me what my sign was.  No, not in a creepy-old-guy-wearing-an-open-shirt-and-gold-chain-throwback-to-the-70s-hipster-doofus kind of way.  I think she was trying to peg what my multiple-personality personality was.  Good luck with that, hon.

Me:  I’m a Pisces Queen.  I have just about every quality that is Piscean.  (Fuck, is “Piscean” even a real word?)  Except for the introverted part.  I’ll talk to anyone.  Wasn’t like that when I was younger, though. [Very obvious that I didn’t do my homework!]

Cool Temp:  Makes sense.  Pisces and Aquarius get along really well.

Found out she was born on the same day as one of my best friends was (Valentines babies!) and they both have the same first name.  If the non-BF ever read this blog and stumbled across this post, he’d ask, “What, are we girlfriends now?”  [I love Kevin Spacey and Denis Leary, and that still is one of my all-time favorite movies!]


On the subject of movies, another favorite is “Home For The Holidays.” I LOVE fucked-up, dysfunctional family movies, and Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.  Plus I really like Holly Hunter and that crazy Robert Downey, Jr.  “Go back to your own goddamned holidays!” Man, that is my childhood.


I just looked up Pisces characteristics and I am nothing like them at ALL.  I still swear I was switched at birth and now I think my mom changed the date on my birth certificate.  My mom still insists, “No, you are mine,” and always with an air of resignation.


Okay, well some of it fits.  But this???

“Pisces needs a dominant partner of role model in their life or they will very easily fall into a pit of self-pity and self-undoing. When they are independent and inspired by life’s events, their creativity comes shining through but they are unable to be on their own for long before they start dreaming in their imaginary world of happy people and happy endings. They need other people to keep them grounded and on the right track.”  From HERE

WTFEver.  I’m probably one of the most independent bitches you will ever meet.  That quality in and of itself ended a LOT of relationships over the years.  And the “Pisces and Business” shit?  No way.  This, however, is spot on:

“Pisces is the sign of mysticism, mystery and the spiritual unknown. Pisces live in two worlds, the real world and the spiritual or mystical world where they interpret what they see into what they want [I live in about four or five worlds, by the way]. They do this to avoid all the realities of pain and suffering in the world. They have extremes of emotions and feel both good and bad intensively. Pisces have formidable intuitive ability.”

Except that I avoid the realities of pain and suffering by being a smartass, having cocktails and going shopping.  Oh shit“I’m Fucked.”


Until my late twenties, I was pretty shy and not at all comfortable talking to strangers or doing things on my own.  A then-friend forced me out of this shell and she unleashed a lion.  Now, I’ll pretty much talk to anybody and everybody, even if they don’t want me to.

[Try traveling about 25-40% of each month – that will get you over the old “I don’t wanna eat by myself” fucking self-pitying whining!]

So yeah, I visit one of my local favorite restaurants for lunch today.  I’m always happy when they seat me next to a large party because I’m nosy as hell and love to eavesdrop.  This restaurant buys one of those monthly song system things and they change up the CDs accordingly.  I’m trying to stop inhaling my food (since I almost ALWAYS wait too late to eat and my blood sugar forces me to eat like a starved person who is served a filet mignon), and I take a break from inhaling my salad to listen to the music on the CD that is being blasted into the restaurant like I am in a concert.

Had to text Bunny…

“Imaginary Liver”? Hell YEAH, I have one of those!

Apparently, I have a priblem with the Os in my keybiard.


I totally have a mosquito bite on my ass cheek.  While I am waiting to succumb to this illness, I am TOTALLY ordering in some bon bons and watching Law & Order reruns while waiting to die.  Not really, you serious fucks.  I’m actually waiting to see if the fucking spider bite I have is lethal.


I am so glad and so VERY blessed that my mom really overlooks all that is wrong with me and loves and accepts my “weirdness.”  P.S. She actually embraces that SHIT!

“Damn….What Are You Gonna Do, Just Stay Drunk All Day?” “Try to.”

  • I love the shit out of that movie, “Thelma and Louise.”  Every time I go to a liquor store, I am tempted to buy about 40 airplane-sized bottles of Wild Turkey and drive my convertible off a cliff into the Grand Canyon.  Except I don’t have a convertible.  And it really isn’t very economical to buy booze in those airplane-sized bottles.
  • Plus, I don’t like Wild Turkey all that much.
  • I ripped one of my fingernails off yesterday.  All I can find in my house are monkey Band-Aids.  That’s gonna look SO professional at work tomorrow.  And I really can’t fucking type very well with that damned thing on my finger!
  • Why on earth did I ever buy monkey Band-Aids?
  • Every now and then I do something productive at home.  I try to balance that with a nap and eating bon-bons so I don’t feel like I’ve been an over-achiever.
  • By the way, what the FUCK is a bon-bon?
  • Thank you, Wikipedia.
  • I may have to start slipping Prozac into the non-BF’s water.  He’s gotten kinda cranky lately.  I can say that knowing he doesn’t really read this shit.  I know this because last night I asked him if he did and got the cranky answer that prompted this bullet point.
  • I still love him more than all the shoes in the world.
  • I found the 80s music channel on my U-Verse.  I alternately want to dance, sing, vomit, laugh and cry.  And the “Did U Know”s are killing me. Cher had a “Farewell Tour” in 2002?  She’s gone?  I thought I saw her the other day, buying wigs in K-Mart.
  • No, I don’t go to K-Mart.  And I didn’t see Cher.  But when I need a fix, I YouTube “Just Jack” and his Cher doll.  I so miss Will & Grace.
  • I spent the last three years of my life following around behind a blind, epileptic, diabetic, senile, incontinent, crazy-ass dog.  Some nights, I find myself looking for him and then remembering he’s gone.  Some dogs come into our lives and stomp their fucking pawprints all over our hearts.  I will never, ever be the same.
  • P.S. Yeah, there will be a LOT of Mr. Swirly references for the next six months or so.  Get over it.  Or else stop reading.  Be glad you weren’t reading the “old” non-girlfriend because I name-dropped Trouble all the fucking timeIt’s my blog and I’ll obsess if I want to.
  • The longer I listen to this 80s music channel, the more I worry about my generation.  I’m just glad I wasn’t old enough at the time to get into the Starck Club back in the day.  Look it up.
  • Wow, I just dated myself.  Ah hell, who gives a fuck?  I still get carded and I probably look younger than your teenager when I’m not wearing makeup. Nature blessed me and probably fucked up when that happened. Thank you, good genes.
  • I often repeat myself.  Please excuse if I do.  My short-term memory SUCKS.  But I can tell you what I was wearing on any random day during high school.
  • The Probably Broken Toe I have been complaining about has been throbbing.  I looked around for an Ace bandage and came up empty handed.  So I took some painter’s tape and wrapped the Probably Broken Toe and the neighbor toe together.  End of problem.  Except for the fact that the tape is purple.  Better get my ass to a drug store before I go to work tomorrow.  A monkey band-aid and painter’s tape?  Not good.
  • Purple is my 4th favorite color.  Right after red, pink and rainbow.  Rainbow IS a color, damn it!
  • There is a scary fake dog staring at me, and it’s wearing a Rangers baseball cap.  I appreciate the love that the non-BF displayed by sending me a silk flower dog that looked like one of my dogs with a cute card signed by all the furbrats but that motherfucker is creeping me out right now! Stop it!  Stop staring!
  • Jesus, Sister Christian on the 80s channel?  Go away.  No “motoring” for this bitch, thankyouverymuch.
  • I often repeat myself.  Please excuse if I do.  My short-term memory SUCKS.  But I can tell you what I was wearing on any random day during high school.  Ha HA!  You WERE paying attention!
  • I lost my appetite yesterday.  Looked all over the house and I still cannot find it.  I’m watching the Cooking Channel to try and coax it back.  Never watched “Good Eats” before but if I were ever a cooking show, I would probably be similar to Alton.  This cheese episode is fucking insane.  I love it.
  • Even when I am being all slack-ass and lying around my house all day on the weekend, if I have to go to the store, I color coordinate my boxer shorts and t-shirt.  I even wear a cap in a complementary color.  Lazy doesn’t necessarily have to be ugly.
  • Sorry,, but there are a LOT of things worse than going to the post office and waiting in line.  Stupid commercial.
  • On the third episode of Good Eats and it’s not working.
  • I decided to start approving some of the spam comments.  I can respond and fuck with them all I want and I know they won’t talk back.  Wish everyone was that way.
  • You can’t get it hot enough for me, food-wise.  I eat habanero peppers (seeds, membrane and all) and have been known to toss some ghost pepper sauce on my meals.  I eat jalapenos right out of the jar like someone would nosh on pickles.  If food doesn’t make me sweat, most of the time it isn’t worth eating.
  • I don’t ask for Tabasco in five-star restaurants, though.  That’s what the purse-sized bottle is for.
  • I once wrote a blog post that was one entire run-on sentence.  It was about 12 inches long on the screen.  Someday, I will do that again.
  • Just found a website entitled “Rage Against The Minivan.”  I’m so fucking pissed I didn’t come up with that myself.
  • My dogs are so fucking boring.  All they do is lie around and sleep all day.  Aren’t they here to entertain my ass?  No, wait, it’s the other way around.  Yep, in pissing order, I’m about as far away from being the Alpha it really isn’t even funny.
  • Case in point:  Baby Bro once caught Rainbow trying to pee on me.  He was marking his territory.
  • I get really flirtatious when I drink.  I’ll flirt with a lamp post if I’m loaded.  The non-BF has come to accept this and just shakes his head at me.  I think he kinda likes it, because every time I threaten to stop imbibing, he tells me I’m The Most Fun when I am tipsy.
  • Then he bitches at me the next day.  It’s a no-win situation.  But one we seem to love to enter into on a regular basis.
  • UPDATE:  He just told me I’m not always The Most Fun when I am tipsy.  Fucker.  Neither is he these days.  So there.
  • I just told him I was going to “really, seriously bitch about him in my post.”  Response:  “I don’t care.”  I love the hell out of our relationship!
  • My Probably Broken Toe feels so much better now.  I’m sticking with the painter’s tape.

It’s Like There’s A Fucking MAGNET On My House!

For some reason, any stray or lost dog in the neighborhood always seems to find my house.  I’m quite certain the all the dogs in the Dog Universe talk to each other, and one must have spread the word about me years ago.

“That bitch down the street?  The one with the red car?  Sucker.  Yep, go sit in front of her house and look sad.  Or cute.  No wait, both.  Both is better.  You’ll have a home in no time at all.”

I come home from picking up the bed, and as we drive up to my house, I see my neighbor looking over the fence into my backyard.

I ask my dad, “Now what?” because all the fucking animals in this town seem to like my backyard.  Including my neighbor’s chickens. [Yes, my neighbor has chickens.  And no, I don’t think it’s legal, but I love chickens so I don’t give a flying fuck.  Until they get in my backyard and Rainbow, my gay dog, kills one of them and I have to chase his ass down while he is prancing around, all proud and shit, to try and pry the dead bird out of his mouth and then skulk over to the neighbor’s house in shame because Killer over here has once again mauled one of his stupid fucking chickens that cannot seem to learn that dog + chickens is not a pleasant outcome.  Chickens are stupid.]

I digress.  Anyway, I get out and run around to ask her what is wrong (I’m thinking possum, skunk or wayward cat, but once I found a dead green parrot.  Oh yeah, and the pigeons.  My chicken-loving neighbor also has pigeons.  I’ll bet the non-BF won’t be driving the new car and parking it in front of my house.  I get a LOT of bird shit.)  According to Neighbor, two kittens ran into my backyard.

Jesus H. Christ, just what I fucking need!  After the hour of pleasantry with my mom and dad (unloading a mattress and box springs with them is no fun, but hey, I gave my dad a six pack and thanked him, even though I got yelled at more than I did my entire eighth grade year), I found the cute little bastard hiding behind a bucket of shit my dad really needs to get out of my goddamned backyard.  Neighbor helped me take him to the local shelter, where I was assured one staff member would find it a home.

While we were trying to figure out what to do with the kitty, however, Rainbow and Blindie were going bat-shit crazy trying to get at the cat.  Rainbow tried to put its head in his mouth, which worries me because next week, I get the foster.  [By the way, a friend suggested I call her Foster.  I’m leaning more towards Hey Baby Girl.]  Cute Little Bastard Kitty was clawing my arms and Rainbow was clawing my legs.  I ended up looking like a meth head who needed a fix.

Now that all of that drama is over with, I’m back at home and crazy-as-fuck Rainbow won’t stop looking for that kitten.  He ran around sniffing everything, went outside where the kitty was hiding and basically acted like a total idiot until I finally used the Momma Voice to shame him back into the house.  He is sleeping next to me right now and all is peaceful.  I really should buy that damned dog a treadmill with a fake cat on the end of it so he can wear himself out. My life would be so much easier.

Is 2:30 in the afternoon too early to start drinking?

P.S. Thanks for the Costco chicken, Mom and Dad.  And the limes.

That’s a LOT of fucking gin & tonics!

I Want My Happy Ending, Damn It!!

Totally Random Shit I Said, Did, Questioned, Thought About and/or Experienced Today:

  • “One day, you might feel very generous and decide to buy me a Mini Cooper.” (said me to the non-BF, as he talked finances with me – all way over my head! – and I realized I’ll never, ever be one of those Ladies Who Lunch. Thank God.)
  • He really still could buy me a Mini.  I’m totally independent, y’all, but I want a new car and I am not above whoring myself out for one.
  • The non-BF responded with “No more jewelry for you!”  Fuck that shit, I better back-track, and FAST.
  • Decided 2:00 p.m. for a “lunch date” at Target (with myself) was a good idea.  Until the Devil Child From Hell in the store started screaming and what is left of my reproductive system tried to make a break for it via my vagina.
  • Is it wrong that I call Snarky (my dog who cannot see) “Blindie?”  It really is sort of a cute name.
  • When I was in college studying English, I had a professor who said people who used commas too often were like “loose girls.” Not only was I highly offended by that comment (what about the guys who were promiscuous? I bet you think exclamation points are okay, misogynistic old dude!), but since then, I am so very careful about commas.  Not about semi-colons, though. No, not meI throw that shit around like a motherfucker!
  • Re: the service provider I was talking to about my home repairs totally needs to go to Non-Girlfriend’s School of Customer Service:  “He’s servicing me, not the other way around.  I want my Happy Ending!”  Bitch, please.  Just pick up the phone and call my fucking assWho is paying whom here??
  • Mom, please don’t Google that phrase.  You really do NOT want to know.
  • This whole shopping “disorder” I have (i.e., not enough money to buy all the shit I need want) is driving me crazy crazier.  And the family!  Well hell, my mom gives me flyers from stores every weekend, telling me “Look at this, it’s on SALE!”  It’s like driving a drunk to the Buck & Ruck and telling them “Here’s fifty dollars – go on, knock yourself out!

P.S. For those of you who might think I’m a materialistic bitch, I am.  I love shiny things!  But I also give homeless people beer money, I regularly donate to local no-kill shelters, and have successfully fostered over 30 animals in my day.  Plus I have and still would risk my life to save an animal.  Or person.

Put that in your judgmental pipe and smoke it!

Sweat, Baby Goats, Sweaty Baby Goats and Drunk Texting

I am in the Tenth Circle of HELL, also known as Dallas in the Summer.  Hot fun in the summertime?  Not much.


At 3:45, really???  Bitches, it’s HOT here!

I swear, I could stand outside for about 45 minutes and the Booze Belly probably wouldn’t be a problem anymore.  If I sweated fat, which I don’t.  But it is a lovely daydream.


Today, I ran across an article about a jumping goat.  Given my obsession love for baby goats and goats in general, I had to read it.  Naturally, there was a video.


That’s one bouncy-ass goat!  I have watched this video maybe 30 times already (isn’t she taking a piss at one point?).  Then I learned that bouncy-ass Buttermilk has her own Facebook page.  Of course she does. Now I will be checking on her probably every day.  Because damn it, I want a fucking baby goat!

That video is almost as good as this:

Baby Monkey

But instead of buying a baby goat, I will be “fostering” a kitten [is there Goat Rescue? Adopt, don’t shop! is what I say about dogs and cats, but now I’m curious if people rescue goats, too].  And by “fostering,” I mean I will end up with the kitten because that is exactly how I ended up with Rainbow, Mr. Tail and Mr. Swirly (RIP).  My younger brother feeds this stray cat and the little slut got knocked up [I also believe in spay/neuter and went all ballistic on his ass about it, but I’ll bitch about that in another post].  She has six kittens and he has only one taker so far.  Being the softie that I am, I decided I would take one and try to find it a good home.  Asked for help naming her on Facebook, but then it hit me – Bubbles!  What a fucking awesome name for a kitten!

Being the worrier that I am, immediately I began wondering how my choice in kitten names would affect her when she grows up.  Went to The Tribunal for some advice:

It’s a legitimate question, y’all

So what do y’all think?  I could just name her Clara, but she might grow up to knit, collect knick-knacks and “Tsk, tsk!” me every time I drop a F-bomb.  I could just name her Beverly.  Except I guess that only applies to DOGS.

Note:  I have absolutely NOTHING against the names Clara and Beverly.  Those are my first and middle names.  Not really.  Oh, and I don’t have anything against knitting.  Knitting needles make excellent weapons.


With no one around to chaperone my crazy fun ass last night, and because the non-BF isn’t starting his Austerity Campaign until tomorrow [bastard was all “I’m at the Flying Saucer!” knowing full well I am not drinking to try and lose weight!], I ran to the store and grabbed some Pinot Grigio.  Unfortunately, I started drinking it before the photography webinar began.  Hell, I probably needed it, since the chick moderator was driving me crazy on the first night.

Now, I give you Evidence why I should have a breathalyzer on my cell phone:

Will there be a pop quiz at the end?

[I grew up with SO much positive support!] 

You know I’m gonna have some more tomorrow.  High school would have been so much more fun had they allowed me to drink during class!


And now for my DYAC of the week…

Subtlety is so not my forte

Notice he didn’t even bite?  I must be losing my sec sex appeal.  Or else he is so used to seeing “sex” in my texts to him, it doesn’t even phase him anymore.


OMG y’all!!!!!!

“Order me a piece of cake. I’m gonna go throw up.”

For some reason*, I have not been able to keep anything down since Sunday morning.  Vomiting made me think of my teenage years.

Those very few friends who read this blog (step it up, bitches!) might not know I fought an eating disorder for years starting when I was a teenager.  It wasn’t Karen Carpenter Bad, but I’ve always been obsessed with how much I eat.

(Note:  I did starve myself when I was 14.  Hid food.  Threw up what I ate (which wasn’t more than 100-200 calories a day). Wore baggy clothes.  Ate laxatives like they were candy. Then my mom rubbed my back one day and felt my McRibs through the sweatshirt I was wearing to hide how much weight I’d lost – in the summer, in Texas, for fuck’s sake!  She threatened to put me in a hospital where they would “hook an IV up to your arm and you’d have to gain weight,” so I started mainlining tubs of Pillsbury chocolate frosting.  And boxes of Ding Dongs.  I finally went from 85 pounds to 105.  And got five cavities.)

I never really did get over it completely but I generally manage to talk myself down from the ledge these days.  And while I am pretty small, I am not in any way skinny (but feel free to tell me, “Oh, but you ARE” because I love compliments and am not one of those idiots who won’t accept them. Okay, “skinny” might not be a compliment to some, but it is to me.  Hence the eating disorder. Well, that and the control freak part of my personality.)  People have asked me, “Aren’t you embarrassed to tell people you have/had (whispered – St. Elmo’s Fire reference, wonder who will get it) an eating disorder?”  I feel like everyone who knows me already pretty much already knows I’m a nut job anyway (or realizes it five minutes after meeting me), so what difference does one more thing make to that reputation?  Does a heroin addict tell others, “Oh, I’m sorry, I have to shoot up now?”  NO.  So why should I hide my crazy light under a bushel?  Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine!

Even though I’m not on that crazy train anymore (it’s more like a crazy cross-town commuter bus these days, or a quick crazy taxi cab ride), I still study labels like a motherfucker.  I wrote in an earlier post that I had to Google “how many calories in a bottle of wine” – that was part of the 80% made up shit.  I’ve known for YEARS how many calories are in a bottle of wine.  I also know that it’s a huge mistake to drink sweet alcoholic beverages (more sugar, dumbass! plus a really nasty hangover) and that a really good bar will carry diet tonic water.  I tell people I typically don’t eat my carbs, I drink them.  (P.S. Someone told me about a carb-free vodka.  I may be doomed to buy a liver off the black market.)

I mentioned going on my Austerity Campaign re: food and drink – that was supposed to happen after vacation.  Of course (very predictable!), it did not.  That reunion was coming up and I knew I’d cheat (not on food but yeah, booze).  So tomorrow I am attempting to go on the straight and narrow. Again.  Lofty goal:  three months (the non-BF can stop laughing now).  More realistic goal:  one month.  No bread, no booze and I have to start eating salads again (I love veggies – should not be a problem).  I will miss those fucking Pillsbury Grands biscuits in the mornings, though.

It’s not like I’m one of “those people” who keep a bottle in their car (not like you could in Texas anyway) or in their desk drawer.  Hell, I don’t even have a liquor cabinet.  Or a liquor shelf.  (The non-BF says it’s because I would drink it as soon as it got there, but he’s just exaggerating.  A little. Hon, those two bottles of white wine you left here on Saturday?  Well, they are gone.  I swear, the dogs must be drinking again!)  And I won’t drink something just because it is there (proof – five bottles of red wine sitting next to my Vita Mix for over a month now because I really cannot stand that shit.  The red wine, not the Vita Mix. I like my Vita Mix.)  I just love dry white wine.  It’s like grown-up Kool-Aid to me.  I’ll drink vodka but I am not as crazy about it as I am about gin (see Evidence below).  In fact, I may name my next pet Juniper Berries just because it would make me smile to yell out its name for shitting on my floor.

So tonight, wine is having its Farewell Tour at my house.  After this past high school reunion weekend, my Check Liver light came on and I really need to lose some weight before vacation later this year.

I like my wine like I like my women – cheap

Oh hell, my cousin reads this shit.  Now he will think I’m a lesbian as well.  Not that there is anything wrong with that.

Since this is in no way a diet blog, going forward, my detoxing/weight loss program will be the elephant in the room.  We will all be aware of it but no one is to speak of it.  The bitchy mood I’ll be in could cause me to go off on y’all.  But since I’m from the south, I’ll be all polite and shit about it.

[I’m proactive for the most part, so anyone who wants to send me hate mail for making light of a serious subject like aneroxia nervosa or heroin addiction, feel free to do so.  If you can’t laugh about something bad you went through, you’ll really go crazy.  Besides, sharing my story might help someone else and I’m all about that.  Feel free to email me about this if you want to talk about it.  The eating disorder, that is, not the heroin addiction. And if you are addicted to heroin, talking to me won’t help at all. I’m not licensed and I don’t really want to deal with all of that, sorry!  P.S. You haters better use correct grammar, punctuation and spelling, or I’m going to have a field day with your ass!]

Oh, and on a totally different subject…for the record, proof that I am and always will be The Original Non-Girlfriend.  Look at those little fuckers!  Aren’t they cute?!  And yes, the swirly dog is the dead one.  RIP Buzzy.  Sadie is still hanging in there but she is blind as a bat and about five pounds thinner.  She is still the most beautiful dog I’ve ever seen.  Bitch.

It so fucking SUCKS dogs don’t live as long as we do.


3 of those were mine. And doubles.  I had to make up for the $75 drinking ticket, didn’t I?

“If I Can’t Sleep, You Won’t Either”

I spent all afternoon/evening sleeping off the reunion and woke up just one minute before the non-BF called from the City of Brotherly Love, where he flew to just to see a concert.  I know, he sucks.  I wish I could be him sometimes.  Well, minus the penis, because those things really must be awkward at times.  I certainly wouldn’t want to walk around with that shit hanging off of me.  But I digress.

After being chastised for “not talking enough” (motherfuckingHELL, that is a first! and dude, I just woke up!), he talked long enough to really get me awake just to let me off the phone to go and eat a pizza.  This is when I decided to Nair off his eyebrows the next time he falls asleep at my house.

I personally HATE Sunday nights because it is the end of The Fun Weekend and the beginning of Having To Go Back To Fucking Work, so of course I am bitter and we all know what that means.  A list.

Bitches, it’s what I do best.  Besides shopping.  And naked drunk blogging.  And Excel spreadsheets. And embarrassing the non-BF.  Deal with it.

Overheard This Weekend:

  • I’m the most fun when I’m horizontal!
  • (about getting a tattoo)  Do it!  You won’t regret it.  Especially because you are never going to be fat, so bonus, it will never stretch out and look like something else.
  • I’m sorry I put my tongue in your ear.  Here’s your earring back.
  • Mr. Swirly shit in the bed.  No, I think it was an accident.  Sometimes those things just squeeze themselves out.
  • (on how much I had to drink at the reunion) I only had 4 gin & tonics.  Well, five.  Okay, so maybe I lost count.  Fuck you.
  • She was more nervous than a whore in church on Sunday (No, wait, I overheard that back many years ago.  From a male boss.  Fucker actually had the nerve to get upset when I took offense with his misogyny.)
  • Where’s the fucking syrup?
  • How about some eggs and hash browns with your Tabasco sauce?
  • Oh, he’s calling me again.  DENIED.
  • You know, you could be really pretty if you tried.
  • Hello, baby girl.
  • Where is Whore Island and when can I move there?
  • I’m quite sure no one will remember that you called her sister a slut.
  • At least you fell down wearing fabulous shoes.

Apparently, High School Reunions Are SEXY

I totally crashed my younger brother’s high school reunion last night with my best friend from high school.  Since I cannot be allowed out in public to drink by myself, she was my babysitter.

High school reunions are pretty much a kitchen pass for amateur drinkers.  You know the ones – their wives have no interest in being bored hearing stories about the good ol’ days and they “let” their husbands out for a night.  Or girls who get drunk and decide to feel you up.  No thank you, I’ve already done my breast self exam this month.  How nice of you to offer, though.

Then you get that bitch who has a hard time walking in heels when she is sober, let alone falling down drunk.  Literally.  The one who stumbles and takes a few friends out with her on the way down.

One woman was trashing her husband right in front of him.  Another guy claimed to be “very afraid” of his wife (my bestie had to pry him off of me).  It was pretty loud in the place, so I found myself nodding my head and grinning like an idiot while people were talking to me.  For all I know, they could have been saying, “I’ve been a serial killer for the last seven years” and I would have responded, “Really?  That’s great!”

We were responsible and spent the night at the bestie’s apartment.  I am dangerous to sleep with because I’ve been known to punch the non-BF in the face and arms in my sleep.  I also speak gibberish and laugh a lot, which makes total sense since I do that on a daily basis while I am awake.  I didn’t hit my best friend, though, just started doing some kind of Jane Fonda workout with my left leg and then draped it over her for a while.  I’m tons of fun at slumber parties, let me tell ya.  And her idea about a Waffle House breakfast was fabulous except that I forgot that eating bacon usually makes me throw up so, yeah, my morning ended up sucking there for a while.

It was a fun party, though, and I’d do it all again.  Just not anytime in the near future.  I have confirmation that I didn’t do anything too stupid, and I was able to keep up my reputation of being The Most Fun.  I’m just glad I didn’t think to show people how I can put both of my legs behind my head at the same.