You know what makes a great Father's Day present??
Topless housekeeper.
See? You see what just happened here? You were focused on the word "topless". Try and focus on the word "housekeeper", like I do. That suddenly changes everything, huh?
I found a "housekeeper" on craigslist. I hired her to do light housekeeping. I was actually giddy at the thought of someone coming in and vacuuming, loading the dishwasher, and dusting. I don't care if she was half naked, or wearing a big pink bunny suit. (I think I have to pay extra for the bunny suit, BTW) Mr. Hummingbird thought it was weird.
Well, he thought it was weird until he was in front of the TV watching golf, drinking a beer, while a topless girl was vacuuming his living room. I was nice enough (and the housekeeper was nice enough) to let my brother in law sit on the couch next to him during the two hours she was at my house. BIL was not allowed to say a word, or the bouncer (she brought a bouncer) would throw him out. (I was praying that he would sneeze or something and get thrown out! And that I would have a camera ready for that.)
At that point, I think it suddenly got "awesome".
I was sitting in the back yard, on the daybed, with a margarita in one hand and a trashy novel in the other. It was the best money I've spent in a long time.
Think of me next year.
And.......you're welcome.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
April Fools #503
I LOVE April Fool's day. I enjoy a good laugh, and most of the people I know have a really good sense of humor. Usually the target of my pranks is my poor husband.
A few years ago, I happen to be at my dollar store, when I saw a ridiculous huge pair of lacy underwear. They were apparently make to fit a baby elephant. For $1, I couldn't pass them up.
The night before, I snuck out of my house right after dark. Using some ribbon, I tied the ribbon to both sides of the jumbo panties. I tied it underneath my husband's car. They hung underneath his car bumper like some hedonistic country flag. The only problem was that they were too noticeable! I was worried that he may go to the trunk of his car for something, and immediately see the panties of doom. So, I crawled underneath the car, and lightly shoved the panties under his bumper. Just enough for them not to be seen, but enough that some time on the road would pop them out like some type of sick Jack-in-the-box.
The next morning, I was giddy. I tried to compose myself as much as possible. He left in a hurry, so I knew that he would be preoccupied. The best part of all? It was his day to drive the carpool to work!
Around lunchtime, I couldn't wait any longer. I called him at work. He doesn't mention it at all, no matter how many hints I drop. Finally, I can't take it any more, and ask how his drive was this morning. That's when I heard him pause, mid sentence.
"It was you!"
I started laughing. Turns out that the guys noticed it once they pulled into their work parking lot. It had been flapping in the breeze behind his car for 26 miles! My husband immediately suspected that it was a prank by his brother! (Double points for my prank getting blamed on someone else, BTW) His brother is a single guy, so no one was willing to actually touch the panties since they didn't know exactly where they were before being tied to the car. (Ewwwww......) One of his coworkers found a long stick in the lot, and they used that to bat at the pinata panties. Finally, they manage to separate them from the car.
Later that night, when the carpool came home, all the coworkers gave me a high five. They were still razzing my DH, so I just smiled sweetly and said, "wait till you see what I did to your car." (their cars were still parked on my street.) They all got serious and walked to their cars.
Triple bonus points because they each crawled underneath their cars just to find......... nothing.
A few years ago, I happen to be at my dollar store, when I saw a ridiculous huge pair of lacy underwear. They were apparently make to fit a baby elephant. For $1, I couldn't pass them up.
The night before, I snuck out of my house right after dark. Using some ribbon, I tied the ribbon to both sides of the jumbo panties. I tied it underneath my husband's car. They hung underneath his car bumper like some hedonistic country flag. The only problem was that they were too noticeable! I was worried that he may go to the trunk of his car for something, and immediately see the panties of doom. So, I crawled underneath the car, and lightly shoved the panties under his bumper. Just enough for them not to be seen, but enough that some time on the road would pop them out like some type of sick Jack-in-the-box.
The next morning, I was giddy. I tried to compose myself as much as possible. He left in a hurry, so I knew that he would be preoccupied. The best part of all? It was his day to drive the carpool to work!
Around lunchtime, I couldn't wait any longer. I called him at work. He doesn't mention it at all, no matter how many hints I drop. Finally, I can't take it any more, and ask how his drive was this morning. That's when I heard him pause, mid sentence.
"It was you!"
I started laughing. Turns out that the guys noticed it once they pulled into their work parking lot. It had been flapping in the breeze behind his car for 26 miles! My husband immediately suspected that it was a prank by his brother! (Double points for my prank getting blamed on someone else, BTW) His brother is a single guy, so no one was willing to actually touch the panties since they didn't know exactly where they were before being tied to the car. (Ewwwww......) One of his coworkers found a long stick in the lot, and they used that to bat at the pinata panties. Finally, they manage to separate them from the car.
Later that night, when the carpool came home, all the coworkers gave me a high five. They were still razzing my DH, so I just smiled sweetly and said, "wait till you see what I did to your car." (their cars were still parked on my street.) They all got serious and walked to their cars.
Triple bonus points because they each crawled underneath their cars just to find......... nothing.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Merry Christmas! #5,345
Last November, I received a link to a photo album from my knucklehead brother in law. He sent the link to all our family. It documented every single moment of his recent house warming party.
Every. Single. Moment.
Did I mention that the album consisted of 1,000 pictures??
1,000 pictures!
(I don't even want to look at 1,000 pictures of my own kids.) I put off looking at the pictures as long as possible. Eventually, I knew that I had to glance at them enough, in case someone asked me about them. As I'm speed reading through the album, I come to a complete stop. (somewhere around #675)
I spot a picture of my brother in law. In his underwear.
(Take a moment to drink in that image.)
I look at it again. Yup, that's my brother in law. In his underwear.
How is this possible?
Why did this happen?
And most importantly, what can I do with this???
How is this possible?
Why did this happen?
And most importantly, what can I do with this???
Bwahahaha!
I decide to get in the holiday spirit, and make this picture my annual Christmas card.
Yes, I really did.
I go online, to visit my snarkiest internet friends and explain the situation. Then, I take suggestions. Each suggestion is funnier than the first. I giggle the entire time. Finally, we have a winner.
I decide against sending out the cards to everyone I know. (Yes, believe it or not, I do have a heart. It's black and charred and the size of a Chihuahua's head. Also, my husband talked me out of it. You know, he's my moral compass.) I print up one card, addressed to my brother in law. I add it to his xmas present.
Christmas day , the whole family is together. Kids are running around, uncles are drunk, aunts are cooking, grampas asleep.
The usual.
It's time for my brother in law to open his present.
He opens the card, and the color leaves his face.
Then it turns red.
THEN, HE LOOKS RIGHT AT ME!! (wth?)
I start to giggle.
He looks right at me, and flips me off.
(This makes me laugh more, for some strange reason.)
After the shock wears off, he begins to ask me questions.
The usual.
It's time for my brother in law to open his present.
He opens the card, and the color leaves his face.
Then it turns red.
THEN, HE LOOKS RIGHT AT ME!! (wth?)
I start to giggle.
He looks right at me, and flips me off.
(This makes me laugh more, for some strange reason.)
After the shock wears off, he begins to ask me questions.
"How did you get this picture?"
"When did you get on my computer?"
"When did you learn to hack??"
He was even more embarrassed once he learned that he was the one that sent out that picture in the first place. We continued to harass him the entire night. He actually thanked me later, once he realized that I could have really done some damaged with that picture. I guess I must be growing up. Maybe?
He was even more embarrassed once he learned that he was the one that sent out that picture in the first place. We continued to harass him the entire night. He actually thanked me later, once he realized that I could have really done some damaged with that picture. I guess I must be growing up. Maybe?
Maybe not. Here's the picture.
He doesn't really look like Burger King, but you know how the internet can get.
He doesn't really look like Burger King, but you know how the internet can get.
P.S. don't mess with me.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
#561 Creative Advertising
One hot summer day, we (mostly me, not so much on my husband.) decided that we needed to clear out the garage. Like everyone else in our generation, we've begun to accumulate more than our share of "stuff". As we weeded through our piles, it was obvious that we had to get rid of some stuff.
One particular item was my husband's old surfboards. He's up to four boards now, which of course, I think is three too many. We compromise, and he gives up the two oldest ones.
I place an ad on Craigs List. (We were hoping to get at least $75 bucks for each board.) A concise precise ad listing all the specs and info on each board.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
I put a few more ads in different local surfing newsletters.
Not one inquiry. After a few weeks, I delete all the ads.
Just as Mr. hummingbird actually starts to believe that he will be keeping his surfboards after all, I hit upon an idea.
Divorce Sale- Must sell two used surfboards. Tired of seeing them in my garage and ex husband will not pick them up. Make me an offer.
Signed,
One Angry Wife.
I had 6 emails waiting for me that evening. One guy even wrote, "You know what would make him really really mad? If you gave them away instead of selling them." He made me laugh. (I'm also filing away that suggestion for the future.) I make arrangements to meet a guy at the local grocery store parking lot. I invite a (male) friend with me. (who, also had a board he wanted to sell.) The sale went pretty quick, since each time the buyer would ask me a question, I just answered with "I have no idea" adding a shrug and making my eyes look as big and innocent as possible. The buyer would just shake his head, muttering "women...."
I got $225 for both boards.
One particular item was my husband's old surfboards. He's up to four boards now, which of course, I think is three too many. We compromise, and he gives up the two oldest ones.
I place an ad on Craigs List. (We were hoping to get at least $75 bucks for each board.) A concise precise ad listing all the specs and info on each board.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
I put a few more ads in different local surfing newsletters.
Not one inquiry. After a few weeks, I delete all the ads.
Just as Mr. hummingbird actually starts to believe that he will be keeping his surfboards after all, I hit upon an idea.
Divorce Sale- Must sell two used surfboards. Tired of seeing them in my garage and ex husband will not pick them up. Make me an offer.
Signed,
One Angry Wife.
I had 6 emails waiting for me that evening. One guy even wrote, "You know what would make him really really mad? If you gave them away instead of selling them." He made me laugh. (I'm also filing away that suggestion for the future.) I make arrangements to meet a guy at the local grocery store parking lot. I invite a (male) friend with me. (who, also had a board he wanted to sell.) The sale went pretty quick, since each time the buyer would ask me a question, I just answered with "I have no idea" adding a shrug and making my eyes look as big and innocent as possible. The buyer would just shake his head, muttering "women...."
I got $225 for both boards.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
#386 Corporate Step Ladder
In my early 20's, I decided to "take a break" from college. (besides being on academic probation, you know?) I took a full time job in an office. This was my first introduction to life in a cubicle.
It was a small company, so everyone worked handling the phone calls, but also had other assigned tasks. As everything else in life, the newbies gets the shaft. (Thank you sir, may I have another??)
One of my first assignments, dealt with shipping and receiving. Since this company sold "stuff", we also shipped and received this "stuff". (<---BTW, this is not code for drugs.) Every shipper had a different way of handling the paperwork. Every shipper had a different set of acronyms and forms numbers. When stuff came in, the warehouse guys would just rip some paperwork off the cartons, crumple it up, sweat on it, maybe drop it on the floor in the men's room and then hand it to me. It was a bloody nightmare. I would sit there for hours trying to figure out what each mysterious piece of paper represented. (Hours!) What made the job harder, was this was all basically learn as you go. The previous person(jackass) who had this job left no instructions. (as did the person before that, and before that, and so on, and so on. Just like that shampoo commercial.) So, it was me making the same mistakes they made, while trying to correct the mistakes that they left for me. Well, as you can imagine, it was hard work, but I managed to get it under control. AND because I'm smarter-than-the-average-bear, I started keeping a log of what I did, when I did it, and why. My log eventually grew into brief explanations of acronyms, shipping terms, contact names, and everything else. Pretty soon, I had an SOP book (standard operating procedure) on my hands. I carefully labeled everything, and put it in a nice (sensible) three ring binder. It became my bible. Pretty soon, this part of the job became a breeze.
Months later, this little worker bee starts to move up the corporate ladder. I get a (small) promotion and (really really small) raise. As part of this, I also get assigned new and exciting assignments. (yay!) I hand off my piles of papers to the next newbie in line. And since I no longer needed it, I gave her my binder. I will soon learn a very important lesson.
What should have been an easy job for her, (since I had everything already written down) turned out to be a lot of work for me. I guess that she found it easier to just ask me all her questions. All day long.
Over and over again.
I had my own work to do.
So my "promotion" was just me doing two jobs instead of one.
Nice.
Something interesting started to happen. Newbie suddenly had all this free time on her hands. She spent most of it, hanging around the office, flirting with everyone she could. Newbie also went around bragging about how "easy" her new duties were. Best of all, during her review, Newbie asked for a raise because she had "re-organized everything to a more streamlined system."
Uh, huh.
The last straw came when Newbie started to bad mouth my work. What started off as "oh, look at what I great job I'm doing," soon became, "Oh, I hope I can find a way to fix everyone else's incompetent mistakes and still do a bang up job." It got old quick.
Finally, I found a quick and quiet solution. One day, I found myself alone with my old friend, the binder. I knew that I couldn't walk out with it, let alone let it be seen in my hands. I quietly found a padded envelope, stuck the binder inside, and labeled the outside. Added stamps, and waved goodbye.
The binder found it's way to some random address.
In Egypt.
Newbie did have the gall to ask me if I knew where "her" binder was. I smiled, and said, "what binder?"
It was a small company, so everyone worked handling the phone calls, but also had other assigned tasks. As everything else in life, the newbies gets the shaft. (Thank you sir, may I have another??)
One of my first assignments, dealt with shipping and receiving. Since this company sold "stuff", we also shipped and received this "stuff". (<---BTW, this is not code for drugs.) Every shipper had a different way of handling the paperwork. Every shipper had a different set of acronyms and forms numbers. When stuff came in, the warehouse guys would just rip some paperwork off the cartons, crumple it up, sweat on it, maybe drop it on the floor in the men's room and then hand it to me. It was a bloody nightmare. I would sit there for hours trying to figure out what each mysterious piece of paper represented. (Hours!) What made the job harder, was this was all basically learn as you go. The previous person(jackass) who had this job left no instructions. (as did the person before that, and before that, and so on, and so on. Just like that shampoo commercial.) So, it was me making the same mistakes they made, while trying to correct the mistakes that they left for me. Well, as you can imagine, it was hard work, but I managed to get it under control. AND because I'm smarter-than-the-average-bear, I started keeping a log of what I did, when I did it, and why. My log eventually grew into brief explanations of acronyms, shipping terms, contact names, and everything else. Pretty soon, I had an SOP book (standard operating procedure) on my hands. I carefully labeled everything, and put it in a nice (sensible) three ring binder. It became my bible. Pretty soon, this part of the job became a breeze.
Months later, this little worker bee starts to move up the corporate ladder. I get a (small) promotion and (really really small) raise. As part of this, I also get assigned new and exciting assignments. (yay!) I hand off my piles of papers to the next newbie in line. And since I no longer needed it, I gave her my binder. I will soon learn a very important lesson.
What should have been an easy job for her, (since I had everything already written down) turned out to be a lot of work for me. I guess that she found it easier to just ask me all her questions. All day long.
Over and over again.
I had my own work to do.
So my "promotion" was just me doing two jobs instead of one.
Nice.
Something interesting started to happen. Newbie suddenly had all this free time on her hands. She spent most of it, hanging around the office, flirting with everyone she could. Newbie also went around bragging about how "easy" her new duties were. Best of all, during her review, Newbie asked for a raise because she had "re-organized everything to a more streamlined system."
Uh, huh.
The last straw came when Newbie started to bad mouth my work. What started off as "oh, look at what I great job I'm doing," soon became, "Oh, I hope I can find a way to fix everyone else's incompetent mistakes and still do a bang up job." It got old quick.
Finally, I found a quick and quiet solution. One day, I found myself alone with my old friend, the binder. I knew that I couldn't walk out with it, let alone let it be seen in my hands. I quietly found a padded envelope, stuck the binder inside, and labeled the outside. Added stamps, and waved goodbye.
The binder found it's way to some random address.
In Egypt.
Newbie did have the gall to ask me if I knew where "her" binder was. I smiled, and said, "what binder?"
Friday, January 8, 2010
Let Them Eat Cake #759
Years ago, I used to work in a bank. It was so long ago, that it was before the Internet. So, your two banking choices were to either go into a bank for your transactions or call your bank. I worked in a call center. (Before they all moved overseas.) As I've mentioned several times before, I am a bitch in real life. (I'm okay with that. :) ) So, working in the call center was utter hell for someone like me.
From 8 am to 5 pm, I was stuck in my little cubicle answering phone calls. As you can imagine, I probably needed to work on my "people skills". There were 14 women, and one lone man stuff into a too small room with a overbearing manager. You can just see the drama in this situation. (actually, this is really were I honed my skills. I guess I should probably send them a thank-you card.) It lead to many, many interesting situations, that I'm sure that I will share later.
After two years of suffering, I accidentally fell into another job.
A GREAT job.
A secure job.
Quite possibly a dream job.
And best of all, it paid at least double of what I was currently making at the time. I quickly cemented myself into my new job, and soon after gave notice at the call center. As the custom, I worked for two more weeks before I started my new job. Since I was fairly young and dumb, I probably shared my good news just a little bit too much. I answered every one's questions. I invited people to come visit me in my new office. I even told some people, that once I got settled, I would try to get them a similar job at the new place. I shared, shared, and shared.
My last day at the bank, I was practically walking on air. I don't think that I completed one task, all day long. (my last day. Why should I?) After lunch, I was told that I needed to go to the employee's lunch room, to "fill out some paperwork." (<----Does anyone actually fall for that??) So, I arrive in the room, and most of the office is there. (probably not to see me off, but more than likely for the cake.) I say goodbye to most of them, and promise to come back and tell everyone every single detail of my new, fabulous, and well paying job. Pretty soon, it's cake time. I head over for a piece. I glance at the white cake, and read the frosting:
So long.....Bitch.
REALLY!
Now, I know what you're thinking.
I should have been mad.
I should have been hurt.
I should have been embarrassed.
I was none of those.
I reached over, cut out the word "Bitch" and proceeded to stuff my face with it.
It was delicious.
I really, really wish I had a picture of it, but it was way before camera phones.
But I will settle for a fond memory instead.
From 8 am to 5 pm, I was stuck in my little cubicle answering phone calls. As you can imagine, I probably needed to work on my "people skills". There were 14 women, and one lone man stuff into a too small room with a overbearing manager. You can just see the drama in this situation. (actually, this is really were I honed my skills. I guess I should probably send them a thank-you card.) It lead to many, many interesting situations, that I'm sure that I will share later.
After two years of suffering, I accidentally fell into another job.
A GREAT job.
A secure job.
Quite possibly a dream job.
And best of all, it paid at least double of what I was currently making at the time. I quickly cemented myself into my new job, and soon after gave notice at the call center. As the custom, I worked for two more weeks before I started my new job. Since I was fairly young and dumb, I probably shared my good news just a little bit too much. I answered every one's questions. I invited people to come visit me in my new office. I even told some people, that once I got settled, I would try to get them a similar job at the new place. I shared, shared, and shared.
My last day at the bank, I was practically walking on air. I don't think that I completed one task, all day long. (my last day. Why should I?) After lunch, I was told that I needed to go to the employee's lunch room, to "fill out some paperwork." (<----Does anyone actually fall for that??) So, I arrive in the room, and most of the office is there. (probably not to see me off, but more than likely for the cake.) I say goodbye to most of them, and promise to come back and tell everyone every single detail of my new, fabulous, and well paying job. Pretty soon, it's cake time. I head over for a piece. I glance at the white cake, and read the frosting:
So long.....Bitch.
REALLY!
Now, I know what you're thinking.
I should have been mad.
I should have been hurt.
I should have been embarrassed.
I was none of those.
I reached over, cut out the word "Bitch" and proceeded to stuff my face with it.
It was delicious.
I really, really wish I had a picture of it, but it was way before camera phones.
But I will settle for a fond memory instead.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
#347 Disorderly Conduct
Remember Y2K? Remember how planes were supposed to fall out of the sky?
ATMs were going to vomit money? Credit cards were suppose to cancel and clear all debt? Well, my friends and I figured that we would go out in style.
Vegas Style.
The plan was successful, that is, until I landed myself in the Clark County jail.
I was busted for crossing some barricades. (Phony thrumped up charges, if you ask me.) We were on the famous strip. The street had been closed down, to handle the plethora of drunk people. My friends were on one side of the street, and I was on the other. The PoPo had just closed down the street, and were herding people back into the hotels. I figured that with my cat-like-reflexes, I could climb the barricades, cross the street, and join my friends before any of the PoPo would see me.
Genius, pure genius.
Did I mention that I was drunker than drunk?
Did I mention that I was wearing a blue wig??
So, I scramble up the barricade, wearing a mini skirt, fall over the other side in a heap of blue wig. I get to my feet, and swagger across the street. I'm almost there, and my friends start to hoot and holla', calling attention to my lawbreakin'. I'm almost there, when I get clotheslined by a female cop. I'm thinking that I can still get away, (natch) so I start to wrestle her to the ground. (Not a good idea, BTW) We roll around a bit, then some more officers head over to help. I lost count after four of Nevada's finest joined us.
I get arrested for public intoxication, resisting arrest, and destroying public property. (all the charges except the public intoxication get dropped) They should have added public indecency because by this time my skirt was around my neck. I paid a fine about $200 and that's about it. But, yeah, I would pay anything to see that mugshot. I'm guessing it looks something like this:
Just smear the lipstick, make the mascara run, and askew the wig some. Maybe add some dried snot on my face.
Happy New Years!
ATMs were going to vomit money? Credit cards were suppose to cancel and clear all debt? Well, my friends and I figured that we would go out in style.
Vegas Style.
The plan was successful, that is, until I landed myself in the Clark County jail.
I was busted for crossing some barricades. (Phony thrumped up charges, if you ask me.) We were on the famous strip. The street had been closed down, to handle the plethora of drunk people. My friends were on one side of the street, and I was on the other. The PoPo had just closed down the street, and were herding people back into the hotels. I figured that with my cat-like-reflexes, I could climb the barricades, cross the street, and join my friends before any of the PoPo would see me.
Genius, pure genius.
Did I mention that I was drunker than drunk?
Did I mention that I was wearing a blue wig??
So, I scramble up the barricade, wearing a mini skirt, fall over the other side in a heap of blue wig. I get to my feet, and swagger across the street. I'm almost there, and my friends start to hoot and holla', calling attention to my lawbreakin'. I'm almost there, when I get clotheslined by a female cop. I'm thinking that I can still get away, (natch) so I start to wrestle her to the ground. (Not a good idea, BTW) We roll around a bit, then some more officers head over to help. I lost count after four of Nevada's finest joined us.
I get arrested for public intoxication, resisting arrest, and destroying public property. (all the charges except the public intoxication get dropped) They should have added public indecency because by this time my skirt was around my neck. I paid a fine about $200 and that's about it. But, yeah, I would pay anything to see that mugshot. I'm guessing it looks something like this:
Just smear the lipstick, make the mascara run, and askew the wig some. Maybe add some dried snot on my face.
Happy New Years!
Friday, December 11, 2009
Ninja Shoes (#421)
I went an a all girls weekend to San Fransisco with my two crazy sisters. We drove up from Southern California (for 10 hours, in the worlds smallest car.) for three days of freedom. We were headed up mostly to attend a book signing for one of our favorite authors. (Jen Lancaster, natch) The weekend was full of fun and laughs. (I'll have to share more stories about it, I promise)
While shopping in China Town, I bought my girls some beautiful embroidered slippers, some plastic numchucks (because, really, what child does not want an ancient implement of death??) and those little hand drums windmills (like in the Karate Kid2). For my husband, I bought him some black slippers because he already has everything.
When I got home, I gave the girls their gifts. They were so excited that they ran around the house chasing each other with their weapons. (I should have taken a pic for the annual xmas card.) When it was my husband turn to open his gift, I could tell he was disappointed. Who knew that he would be my biggest child of all?
I think fast.
"Oh, you don't like the authentic ancient ninja shoes??"
Suddenly, he loves them. He wears them every chance he gets. I watch him as he checks himself out in the mirror, while wearing them, practicing with the plastic numchucks.
I guess it's just comes down to how you explain things, right?
While shopping in China Town, I bought my girls some beautiful embroidered slippers, some plastic numchucks (because, really, what child does not want an ancient implement of death??) and those little hand drums windmills (like in the Karate Kid2). For my husband, I bought him some black slippers because he already has everything.
When I got home, I gave the girls their gifts. They were so excited that they ran around the house chasing each other with their weapons. (I should have taken a pic for the annual xmas card.) When it was my husband turn to open his gift, I could tell he was disappointed. Who knew that he would be my biggest child of all?
I think fast.
"Oh, you don't like the authentic ancient ninja shoes??"
Suddenly, he loves them. He wears them every chance he gets. I watch him as he checks himself out in the mirror, while wearing them, practicing with the plastic numchucks.
I guess it's just comes down to how you explain things, right?
Monday, December 7, 2009
#525 Fun with Texting
A few days ago, I started getting these phone calls late at night. Since I normally put my phone on silence while it's charging, I don't really care about the calls. Until I start getting some total ghetto texts all day, and night. Obviously, they were not trying to send them to me. I figure that some teenager or drunk (or drunk teenager) was sending them to me. I ignored it for a few days, but it didn't stop. By the way, did I mention that this was my work phone? I continue to ignore, and yet I still get the calls and the texts. I even go as far as answering one text with a "Hey! you're texting a middle aged housewife. Please stop." This does nothing to cease the calls and texts. Anyways, somewhere in the late night hours I decide to stop the texts after I got one asking me if I "had dreams about his big dick."
This. Must. Stop.
These are the exact text. I'm not changing them or correcting them.
Him: Must be Extra X-tre-me-ly busy. Call me when you ive yourslef a break...from yourself!! That is...And dont go getting yourself flattered...We booth know, who know, who! better*
Me: (ignoring him)
Him: Where are you at ? Cross streets let me know before i change my mind you got 60 second...
Me: (still ignoring him)
Him: I'll b.s wit you beofre i go do what i told u i had 2 do?
Me: (ignoring)
Him: You dreaming about my big dick?
Me: (ignoring)
Him: I'm at your back door.
Me: (still ignoring, but now getting irritated.)
Him: Where did you go?
Me: i'm with your brother. Deal wit it.
Him: Fuck you then!
Me: U smell like piss n ass
Him: What the fucc u tali'in bout
Him: You foot know my brother
Him: Your a bitch! Lose my # your trippin
Me: Ur dicks 2 small anyways.
Him: Bye
Me: Stop crying like a bitch
Funny.....I haven't heard back from him since. (yeah, I did block that number from calling my cell phone. AND I changed my voicemail to the generic one, just in case. Plus, on his number, I added "Do not answer" as his name. )
This incident is going to earn me an "E ticket" straight to hell, huh?
This. Must. Stop.
These are the exact text. I'm not changing them or correcting them.
Him: Must be Extra X-tre-me-ly busy. Call me when you ive yourslef a break...from yourself!! That is...And dont go getting yourself flattered...We booth know, who know, who! better*
Me: (ignoring him)
Him: Where are you at ? Cross streets let me know before i change my mind you got 60 second...
Me: (still ignoring him)
Him: I'll b.s wit you beofre i go do what i told u i had 2 do?
Me: (ignoring)
Him: You dreaming about my big dick?
Me: (ignoring)
Him: I'm at your back door.
Me: (still ignoring, but now getting irritated.)
Him: Where did you go?
Me: i'm with your brother. Deal wit it.
Him: Fuck you then!
Me: U smell like piss n ass
Him: What the fucc u tali'in bout
Him: You foot know my brother
Him: Your a bitch! Lose my # your trippin
Me: Ur dicks 2 small anyways.
Him: Bye
Me: Stop crying like a bitch
Funny.....I haven't heard back from him since. (yeah, I did block that number from calling my cell phone. AND I changed my voicemail to the generic one, just in case. Plus, on his number, I added "Do not answer" as his name. )
This incident is going to earn me an "E ticket" straight to hell, huh?
Monday, October 12, 2009
A Freebie for You
Everytime someone asks you if you plan on dressing up for Halloween, answer them:
"Yes, I'm dressing up as a witch. Can I borrow something from your closet?"
*wiping tears from my eyes*
Yeah, that never gets old. I must have said this at least 14 times this week alone. As a matter of fact, when I said this to my mom yesterday, she threw an apple at my head.
It's a good thing that she throws like a girl.
"Yes, I'm dressing up as a witch. Can I borrow something from your closet?"
*wiping tears from my eyes*
Yeah, that never gets old. I must have said this at least 14 times this week alone. As a matter of fact, when I said this to my mom yesterday, she threw an apple at my head.
It's a good thing that she throws like a girl.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
What's that Ringing Sound?? #846
Dear Bitchy Ass Co-worker:
If you continue to intentionally sabotage me at the office, you will soon feel the wrath that is me. I am Miss Passive Aggressive 2009. I have skills that you have never even dreamed about. If you want to continue to play this little game of yours.......I say Bring. It.
I'm in this office as much as you are. I use the same restroom as you. I eat off the same dishes as you. I know your weaknesses.
You do not want a piece of this pie.
Lovingly,
Your Coworker
P.S. Good luck finding your cell phone in the freezer.
If you continue to intentionally sabotage me at the office, you will soon feel the wrath that is me. I am Miss Passive Aggressive 2009. I have skills that you have never even dreamed about. If you want to continue to play this little game of yours.......I say Bring. It.
I'm in this office as much as you are. I use the same restroom as you. I eat off the same dishes as you. I know your weaknesses.
You do not want a piece of this pie.
Lovingly,
Your Coworker
P.S. Good luck finding your cell phone in the freezer.
Friday, September 25, 2009
But Officer.......
During my high school years, I discovered that nerdy boys were so much better than the popular boys.
Why?
Because they would do anything that you asked. (And would even do it with a smile on their face.)
It was October 1988, I was 17 yrs old, and my boyfriend was around 19 years old. We'd been dating a few months now (FOR.EVER. in teenage years). We had just gone shopping for our Halloween costumes. I had decided that we were going as caveman and cave woman. (because, as all bad girls know, Halloween is just the perfect night to dress up slutty, and not be called a slut.) My boyfriend was going to wear baggy fur underwear, while I was going to be wearing a fur bikini. Since my fur bikini was absolutely so adorable, I was trying it on again, (for like, the tenth time.) in order to show my younger sister. We were joking around, being young and stupid, when we noticed the gardeners truck outside.
The truck was a basic pick up truck but it was upgraded with what can only be described as a metal cage on the back. The metal iron was fused directly to the bed of the truck. The equipment was locked in the cage in between jobs. The hand tools were hung in metal tubing along side the cage. All of these modification made it looked prehistoric and kindof creepy.
PERFECT.
While the workers started working on the back yard, we ran outside to the truck. I convinced my younger, unlicensed sister to get behind the wheel. Me and Thor climbed in the cage. He started pounding his chest, while I beat against the cage with a big plastic Fred Flintstone size club. We slowly drove up the street, my sister honking the horn the entire time.
Damn, it was fun.
Until we heard the chirp of the siren.
Oh, uh.
Apparently, one of the neighbors thought that there was a wild band of dirty hippies (<---her words....not mine) that were invading our neighborhood. Really.
The officer made us sit on the curb. (he had no regard for my cute fur bikini possibly getting ruined.) My poor boyfriend turned a unnatural and creepy shade of white. My sister, well, she just thought it was the funniest thing ever. The officer was all business, and didn't want to hear any of our excuses. He called our home, and just as he was relaying the message, a band of gardeners started running up the street towards us. (actually, this is probably the funniest part of the whole day.) They came over and the boss didn't want to press charges. (I think my mother promised him homemade tamales weekly, for the rest of his life.) The officer let us go, once my mom arrived (in her house dress and hair in curlers).
As we started the walk back home, the officer took us aside, and said, "okay, who's bright idea was it??" then he started laughing so hard, he turned red.
"I don't want to see any of you again," he added as he got in his paddywagon.
Unfortunately, he'll say this to me at least 6 more times in my lifetime.
Why?
Because they would do anything that you asked. (And would even do it with a smile on their face.)
It was October 1988, I was 17 yrs old, and my boyfriend was around 19 years old. We'd been dating a few months now (FOR.EVER. in teenage years). We had just gone shopping for our Halloween costumes. I had decided that we were going as caveman and cave woman. (because, as all bad girls know, Halloween is just the perfect night to dress up slutty, and not be called a slut.) My boyfriend was going to wear baggy fur underwear, while I was going to be wearing a fur bikini. Since my fur bikini was absolutely so adorable, I was trying it on again, (for like, the tenth time.) in order to show my younger sister. We were joking around, being young and stupid, when we noticed the gardeners truck outside.
The truck was a basic pick up truck but it was upgraded with what can only be described as a metal cage on the back. The metal iron was fused directly to the bed of the truck. The equipment was locked in the cage in between jobs. The hand tools were hung in metal tubing along side the cage. All of these modification made it looked prehistoric and kindof creepy.
PERFECT.
While the workers started working on the back yard, we ran outside to the truck. I convinced my younger, unlicensed sister to get behind the wheel. Me and Thor climbed in the cage. He started pounding his chest, while I beat against the cage with a big plastic Fred Flintstone size club. We slowly drove up the street, my sister honking the horn the entire time.
Damn, it was fun.
Until we heard the chirp of the siren.
Oh, uh.
Apparently, one of the neighbors thought that there was a wild band of dirty hippies (<---her words....not mine) that were invading our neighborhood. Really.
The officer made us sit on the curb. (he had no regard for my cute fur bikini possibly getting ruined.) My poor boyfriend turned a unnatural and creepy shade of white. My sister, well, she just thought it was the funniest thing ever. The officer was all business, and didn't want to hear any of our excuses. He called our home, and just as he was relaying the message, a band of gardeners started running up the street towards us. (actually, this is probably the funniest part of the whole day.) They came over and the boss didn't want to press charges. (I think my mother promised him homemade tamales weekly, for the rest of his life.) The officer let us go, once my mom arrived (in her house dress and hair in curlers).
As we started the walk back home, the officer took us aside, and said, "okay, who's bright idea was it??" then he started laughing so hard, he turned red.
"I don't want to see any of you again," he added as he got in his paddywagon.
Unfortunately, he'll say this to me at least 6 more times in my lifetime.
Monday, August 24, 2009
The Year of the Frog #378
Growing up, we had a beautiful fountain in our backyard. My father built it as a romantic gesture one summer when my mother mentioned how much she missed the public village fountains in her home town. The fountain soon became a barometer of my parents' relationship. When the relationship was good, the fountain was clean, the landscaping impeccable and the sound soothing. When it wasn't so rosy, the water was stagnant, the flowers were brown, and the mosquitoes were hungry.
When the fountain would stop running, it stayed like that for weeks, maybe even months. Until one parent or the other would go out there, and slowly start tending to the fountain. Eventually, the remaining partner would make it outside and help, and soon the fountain was good as new. Well, until the next rough patch.
One summer, I was about 13 years old. The fountain was completely grown over. The water was a mucky green, and very slimy. The fountain had not been in working order for many, many months. All of us kids usually stayed out of the way when it came to the fountain, except for that year. Somehow, we had tadpoles in the fountain. We would watch the tadpoles for hours, trying to catch them and force them into tadpole races. It was all fun and games.
Until, they became frogs.
Croaking frogs.
Loud croaking frogs.
LOUD croaking frogs.
The kind of loud croaking frogs that would keep me up at night.
All night.
I would stuff a pillow over my head to drown out the croaking of 900 baby frogs. In the morning, we would complain to our parents about the noise, but since they both grew up on farms at some point, our complaints fell on deaf ears.
Then our neighbors started to complain. My parents just easily ignored them, but being a teen, I was mortified.
MORTIFIED.
So was my sister. We were at the age were we could not be different!
We knew that we had to do something about it.
We snuck into my mother's laundry room, and "borrowed" a gallon of bleach.
The frogs stopped croaking that day.
In fact, they also stopped swimming. Well, they mostly just floated on their backs, but let's not be gruesome here. We did feel bad about it, mostly because we had done it without actually thinking the whole thing through. It was a shock to find 900 frog carcasses floating in my parents' fountain of love.
Everything was quiet for a while. Until weeks later, we heard the sound of 900 baby frogs in the fountain again. Again, we knew that we had to do something about it. One day, we got a 5 gallon bucket out of my dad's garage. (which wasn't easy, BTW. He locked his garage everyday to keep us kids out of his stuff.) We also "borrowed" some kid's wagon. Using a spaghetti stainer, (BTW, don't eat spaghetti at my mom's house. Ever.) we manage to get most of the baby frogs into the bucket. We then walked three miles to the nearest park that had a creek. Saying a quick prayer for the survivors of The Great Frog Massacre of '84, we released them into the wild. We walked three miles back home before our parents could discover what we had done.
I honestly forgot about the frogs, until the local paper started delivering some interesting news.
"Neighbors Complain about Frogs Croaking"
"Frogs Take Over Neighborhood Park"
"Biologist from the University to Study Increase of Local Frog Population"
"Local Wildlife Population Decreases as Frog Population Increases"
"Local Biologist Puzzled by Frog Explosion"
"National Wildlife Organization to Increase Predator Population in Hopes of Balancing Local Park"
Yeah.
Really.
For weeks, we would watch the local news for updates on the local frog problem. The dogcatcher is actually relieved of his dog catching duties and commanded to catch frogs instead!
Really.
Nether my sister or I say anything to anyone for the next 25 years. In fact, in my hometown, 1984 is still talked about as "The Year of the Frog Invasion."
FROG INVASION.
25 years later, they are still talking about it in the local barber shops.
When the fountain would stop running, it stayed like that for weeks, maybe even months. Until one parent or the other would go out there, and slowly start tending to the fountain. Eventually, the remaining partner would make it outside and help, and soon the fountain was good as new. Well, until the next rough patch.
One summer, I was about 13 years old. The fountain was completely grown over. The water was a mucky green, and very slimy. The fountain had not been in working order for many, many months. All of us kids usually stayed out of the way when it came to the fountain, except for that year. Somehow, we had tadpoles in the fountain. We would watch the tadpoles for hours, trying to catch them and force them into tadpole races. It was all fun and games.
Until, they became frogs.
Croaking frogs.
Loud croaking frogs.
LOUD croaking frogs.
The kind of loud croaking frogs that would keep me up at night.
All night.
I would stuff a pillow over my head to drown out the croaking of 900 baby frogs. In the morning, we would complain to our parents about the noise, but since they both grew up on farms at some point, our complaints fell on deaf ears.
Then our neighbors started to complain. My parents just easily ignored them, but being a teen, I was mortified.
MORTIFIED.
So was my sister. We were at the age were we could not be different!
We knew that we had to do something about it.
We snuck into my mother's laundry room, and "borrowed" a gallon of bleach.
The frogs stopped croaking that day.
In fact, they also stopped swimming. Well, they mostly just floated on their backs, but let's not be gruesome here. We did feel bad about it, mostly because we had done it without actually thinking the whole thing through. It was a shock to find 900 frog carcasses floating in my parents' fountain of love.
Everything was quiet for a while. Until weeks later, we heard the sound of 900 baby frogs in the fountain again. Again, we knew that we had to do something about it. One day, we got a 5 gallon bucket out of my dad's garage. (which wasn't easy, BTW. He locked his garage everyday to keep us kids out of his stuff.) We also "borrowed" some kid's wagon. Using a spaghetti stainer, (BTW, don't eat spaghetti at my mom's house. Ever.) we manage to get most of the baby frogs into the bucket. We then walked three miles to the nearest park that had a creek. Saying a quick prayer for the survivors of The Great Frog Massacre of '84, we released them into the wild. We walked three miles back home before our parents could discover what we had done.
I honestly forgot about the frogs, until the local paper started delivering some interesting news.
"Neighbors Complain about Frogs Croaking"
"Frogs Take Over Neighborhood Park"
"Biologist from the University to Study Increase of Local Frog Population"
"Local Wildlife Population Decreases as Frog Population Increases"
"Local Biologist Puzzled by Frog Explosion"
"National Wildlife Organization to Increase Predator Population in Hopes of Balancing Local Park"
Yeah.
Really.
For weeks, we would watch the local news for updates on the local frog problem. The dogcatcher is actually relieved of his dog catching duties and commanded to catch frogs instead!
Really.
Nether my sister or I say anything to anyone for the next 25 years. In fact, in my hometown, 1984 is still talked about as "The Year of the Frog Invasion."
FROG INVASION.
25 years later, they are still talking about it in the local barber shops.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Reason #765 SuperBowl, SnuperBowl
It was 2000, and Mr. Hummingbird and I were newlyweds. We had this great place to live, that we absolutely loved. It was an old bank that was converted into loft apartments. It offered very little privacy, but we had an insane amount of space. And because of this space, I thought it was high time to throw our first real grown up party. We invited everyone over to watch the Super Bowl game. (ahem......Rams vs. Titans) At last count, we had 20 couples attending.
I worked like a dog getting ready for that day.
A DOG.
The place was decorated beautifully, and spotless. I was up all night, cooking up a storm. I had a heartburn buffet in the making. By the start of the game, I was exhausted.
As people came in, the vibe quickly changed. Since most of the people who showed up were male and mostly Mr. Hummingbird's friends. (most of his college friends) I ended up only having two females to talk to, (both of them being my sisters) so I was a little bummed. But, I still felt like I had to be a good hostess, so I was going around filling drinks, fetching plates, and just basically being everyone's lacquey. I was not happy.
When I finally had a chance to sit down, all I heard were grumblings.
"Your TV is kindof small"
"You ran out of burgers already?"
"Don't you have any good tasting beers?"
"These chairs are uncomfortable"
I was getting irritated. Whiny ungrateful bitches. I expected Mr. Hummingbird to say something. I expected Mr. Hummingbird to help me in some way, instead of just sitting on the couch with his buddies. I looked to him.
"Yeah, these beers suck, huh?"
I looked at him. I couldn't believe him. After all the work I put into doing this? For his ungrateful friends?? I had no words.
(Luckily, my sister did.)
@#%&*&^##
Then, they followed me up to the loft bedroom. We all sat on the bed, bitching about how inconsiderate men become when they are around their own pack. We had flipped on the TV upstairs, and were following along with the game. At one point, one sister said, "Hey, why the hell are we watching this? What else is on?" and she flipped the channel. Just as she does this, from below, we hear "awwww......!"
She flipped it back.
We look at each other.
She flipped it again.
"DAMN!"
She flipped it back.
"YAY!"
We look at each other. I start to go down the stairs, and she starts to flip the channel again. I catch all the action on the downstairs TV. Just in a critical part of the play, the TV gets snowy.
"AWWWW"
Then it clears up again.
"YAY!"
I smile.
I go back upstairs, and tell them what I saw. We figured that somehow, when the two TVs are on the same channel, the picture is clear. Once something changes, it gets snowy. (This is back in the day when the only choice we had was cable. Not lucky enough for satellite TV)
We watched the entire rest of the game this way. Giggling each time we heard everyone get pissed off. And of course, we picked the most crucial times to switch the channel. I really thought some of the guys were going to have an aneurysm.
But somehow, this made me feel even better.
I worked like a dog getting ready for that day.
A DOG.
The place was decorated beautifully, and spotless. I was up all night, cooking up a storm. I had a heartburn buffet in the making. By the start of the game, I was exhausted.
As people came in, the vibe quickly changed. Since most of the people who showed up were male and mostly Mr. Hummingbird's friends. (most of his college friends) I ended up only having two females to talk to, (both of them being my sisters) so I was a little bummed. But, I still felt like I had to be a good hostess, so I was going around filling drinks, fetching plates, and just basically being everyone's lacquey. I was not happy.
When I finally had a chance to sit down, all I heard were grumblings.
"Your TV is kindof small"
"You ran out of burgers already?"
"Don't you have any good tasting beers?"
"These chairs are uncomfortable"
I was getting irritated. Whiny ungrateful bitches. I expected Mr. Hummingbird to say something. I expected Mr. Hummingbird to help me in some way, instead of just sitting on the couch with his buddies. I looked to him.
"Yeah, these beers suck, huh?"
I looked at him. I couldn't believe him. After all the work I put into doing this? For his ungrateful friends?? I had no words.
(Luckily, my sister did.)
@#%&*&^##
Then, they followed me up to the loft bedroom. We all sat on the bed, bitching about how inconsiderate men become when they are around their own pack. We had flipped on the TV upstairs, and were following along with the game. At one point, one sister said, "Hey, why the hell are we watching this? What else is on?" and she flipped the channel. Just as she does this, from below, we hear "awwww......!"
She flipped it back.
We look at each other.
She flipped it again.
"DAMN!"
She flipped it back.
"YAY!"
We look at each other. I start to go down the stairs, and she starts to flip the channel again. I catch all the action on the downstairs TV. Just in a critical part of the play, the TV gets snowy.
"AWWWW"
Then it clears up again.
"YAY!"
I smile.
I go back upstairs, and tell them what I saw. We figured that somehow, when the two TVs are on the same channel, the picture is clear. Once something changes, it gets snowy. (This is back in the day when the only choice we had was cable. Not lucky enough for satellite TV)
We watched the entire rest of the game this way. Giggling each time we heard everyone get pissed off. And of course, we picked the most crucial times to switch the channel. I really thought some of the guys were going to have an aneurysm.
But somehow, this made me feel even better.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Reason #2,341: Insert Foot and Lose an Eye
I have this good friend, her name is Amber. She's actually the wife of my husband's old college friend. I've known her about 12 years now. We get together whenever we can, but as life gets more complicated, we see less of each other. The one thing that we do annually though, is take a vacation together.
One year, we decide to rent a house out in Palm Springs Ca. The plan is golf, sun, and booze. (Obviously, this was before anyone of us had kids.) One night, the house is full with just a bunch of random people. We are all out in the backyard, enjoying the spa. I'm playing host that night, so I'm running back and forth making sure that everyone has everything that they need.
It wasn't all work though. I was enjoying a cocktail here and there. (BTW, if anyone ever offers you some Goldschlager....you run. Run far and run fast. Don't let the pretty flakes hypnotise you. I've renamed this liquor "The Devil's Piss".) So, I'm having a good time.
In the kitchen, Amber asks me if I need any help. I ask her to refill the chip bowls. She fumbles around on the counter, lifting up empty bags and bowls.
"I can't find the chips."
Me, being the smartass that I am say, "the bag is on the counter"
"No.....I can't find it."
"It's right there." pointing to the bag.
"Oh, I didn't see that bag."
"Well, next time, use your good eye."
Silence.
Awkward silence.
Wait for it.
Yes, my friend Amber has a glass eye.
Seriously.
I squeak out an apology, only after she mumbles something to me about being "mean".
P.S. In my defense, I'd like to say that in all the years that we have been friends, I really never think about her glass eye. In fact, I hardly even notice it unless someone points it out. I focus more on her as a friend, than a friend with a glass eye.
One year, we decide to rent a house out in Palm Springs Ca. The plan is golf, sun, and booze. (Obviously, this was before anyone of us had kids.) One night, the house is full with just a bunch of random people. We are all out in the backyard, enjoying the spa. I'm playing host that night, so I'm running back and forth making sure that everyone has everything that they need.
It wasn't all work though. I was enjoying a cocktail here and there. (BTW, if anyone ever offers you some Goldschlager....you run. Run far and run fast. Don't let the pretty flakes hypnotise you. I've renamed this liquor "The Devil's Piss".) So, I'm having a good time.
In the kitchen, Amber asks me if I need any help. I ask her to refill the chip bowls. She fumbles around on the counter, lifting up empty bags and bowls.
"I can't find the chips."
Me, being the smartass that I am say, "the bag is on the counter"
"No.....I can't find it."
"It's right there." pointing to the bag.
"Oh, I didn't see that bag."
"Well, next time, use your good eye."
Silence.
Awkward silence.
Wait for it.
Yes, my friend Amber has a glass eye.
Seriously.
I squeak out an apology, only after she mumbles something to me about being "mean".
P.S. In my defense, I'd like to say that in all the years that we have been friends, I really never think about her glass eye. In fact, I hardly even notice it unless someone points it out. I focus more on her as a friend, than a friend with a glass eye.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Reason #478: GTA
When I was around 16, I had this boyfriend. Actually, now that I think about it, he was my "first". He went to my school, but he was older than me. He was in a band, drove a van, and even wore eyeliner. (So believe me, that was THE big deal in the early '80s) My parents absolutely hated him, and his parents absolutely hated me. We were Sid and Nancy. (look it up, lazy bitches)
It was true love.
Being young and in love, we spent every possible moment together. Anyone who tried to keep us apart, was The Enemy. The relationship was very very toxic.
One summer, my boyfriend's parents were taking an adult vacation. This was the first time that they were leaving town without their kids. It was going to be hella' fun.
Of course, they made some "rules" that we all had to follow. I was not allowed to come over the entire time they were gone. My boyfriend "Sid" was also not allowed to drive the family car. (AKA van....AKA bedroom on wheels.....AKA The Virgin Taker) He promised that we would follow these rules.
That lasted approximately 16 hours.
We were some turning on the mix tapes (Yes, tapes. I'm serious.) and humping like bunnies all over the house. (thinking back now......ewwww!) After an afternoon of marathon sex, I tell him that I want to go out for ice cream. (Seriously dude, at this point I deserved it. *wink* *wink*) He hesitates, and tells me that he cannot drive anywhere.
Whatever. Get the keys, you sissy.
He proceeds to tell me that his dad wrote down the mileage of the van on the family calendar. I check out the calendar, and there it was.
115, 132
I smile, and say, "Is that a one or a seven?"
He looks again, and smiles. We go out to the van.
He starts to open the driver's door, and I stop him.
"Are you crazy or just stupid?"
He just stares at me.
"Your dad wrote down the mileage. He probably marked the position of the tires. Don't be an idiot."
He stares some more. (Just a little warning here, he was HOT, but pretty stupid.)
"You can't just move the car without marking the specific spot of where he parked it. You're dad isn't an idiot."
I go into the house, and return with chalk. I chalk the tires with a line, also marking the ground. When the two lines match, the car will be in the exact position where dad left it.
He stands back, still staring. He starts to open the door again.
"WAIT! He probably put markers in the car too."
"Markers??"
I get down on my knees and crawl into the van from the back. He follows. We grab a flashlight and start looking for the booby traps. (Thank you Nancy Drew books!!)
"What are we looking for?"
"Hairs. He can tape a hair across the wheel or something, to prove that you messed with it. If it's gone or broken, he will know."
We scour every inch of the interior with a flashlight. We find nothing.
"Okay, I think we are ready!"
We head out for ice cream. Later that night, we go to the drive in. (Pee Wee's Big Adventure) We didn't see any of the movie.
We get crazy all week long.
It was hella' fun.
A few days before his parents were due home, I ask him about the car. He tells me that it's in the garage, and it took him 45 mins to park it EXACTLY where his dad left it. (Thank you chalk marks!)
"So, how many miles did you put on it?"
"about 120 miles"
*Stunned silence*
*Still more stunned silence*
Finally, I find my voice.
"So.....um, how are you going to explain that." (Okay, I'm totally thinking that he totally going to pull off a Ferris Bueller and want to run the car in reverse.)
"I was just going to leave it like that. I figured that I could convince my dad that he wrote the numbers down wrong."
*More stunned silence*
"Are you kidding me? Why would he think that he made a mistake and wrote down 115,132 instead of 115, 252?? That makes no sense at all!!"
"Ummmm....I guess you're right. I'm so screwed." (Again, not the sharpest crayon in the box)
I think.
And think.
And think.
"you have to convince him that his 1 is actually a 7"
"What?"
"See how he wrote his 1? Sloppy. It could pass for a 7"
"ahhhhh.....I see. So how do I fix it?"
"DUDE! You have to add a total of 600 miles. You already added 120 miles, so you have to add EXACTLY 480 miles more by the time he gets home."
Silence.
Silence.
"How much gas money do you have?" he asks me.
The next day, is the day his parents are due. He skips the entire day of school, in order to add 300 more miles on the van. I go to school, but will get an update from him at break and lunchtime. His plan mainly consist of driving on the freeway for so many miles, then turn around and go towards home. He does this for 6 hours. He has to be EXACT so the last few miles, he does by driving around his neighborhood. Finally, a few hours before his parents are due, he tries to park the van in the exact same spot that his dad left it. It takes him an hour and a half. He finally get the miles to the perfect spot (adding EXACTLY 600 miles) and the chalk lines match. He dusts off the exterior, and hoses off the chalk marks. Then he heads to bed. His parents arrive later that night.
The next day at school, I ask him about his night. He tells me that his dad woke up early that day. He went straight to the family calendar, and wrote down the number he had written 10 days prior. He heads to the garage, and checks the odometer. He checks his paper again. He checks the odometer again. He goes back to the calendar. He shakes his head. He asks Sid, "Did you drive the car this week?"
"No, sir." says Sid.
His dad continues to look at the numbers. I think he is trying to convince himself that:
a: he wrote the numbers down wrong.
b. it's a 7, and not a 1.
c: there is no way his son just put 600 miles on his car.
His dad never says anything.
Ever.
Sid on the other hand, starts calling me the Evil Genius. I simply tell him that "If I used my powers for good, how boring will my life be?"
It was true love.
Being young and in love, we spent every possible moment together. Anyone who tried to keep us apart, was The Enemy. The relationship was very very toxic.
One summer, my boyfriend's parents were taking an adult vacation. This was the first time that they were leaving town without their kids. It was going to be hella' fun.
Of course, they made some "rules" that we all had to follow. I was not allowed to come over the entire time they were gone. My boyfriend "Sid" was also not allowed to drive the family car. (AKA van....AKA bedroom on wheels.....AKA The Virgin Taker) He promised that we would follow these rules.
That lasted approximately 16 hours.
We were some turning on the mix tapes (Yes, tapes. I'm serious.) and humping like bunnies all over the house. (thinking back now......ewwww!) After an afternoon of marathon sex, I tell him that I want to go out for ice cream. (Seriously dude, at this point I deserved it. *wink* *wink*) He hesitates, and tells me that he cannot drive anywhere.
Whatever. Get the keys, you sissy.
He proceeds to tell me that his dad wrote down the mileage of the van on the family calendar. I check out the calendar, and there it was.
115, 132
I smile, and say, "Is that a one or a seven?"
He looks again, and smiles. We go out to the van.
He starts to open the driver's door, and I stop him.
"Are you crazy or just stupid?"
He just stares at me.
"Your dad wrote down the mileage. He probably marked the position of the tires. Don't be an idiot."
He stares some more. (Just a little warning here, he was HOT, but pretty stupid.)
"You can't just move the car without marking the specific spot of where he parked it. You're dad isn't an idiot."
I go into the house, and return with chalk. I chalk the tires with a line, also marking the ground. When the two lines match, the car will be in the exact position where dad left it.
He stands back, still staring. He starts to open the door again.
"WAIT! He probably put markers in the car too."
"Markers??"
I get down on my knees and crawl into the van from the back. He follows. We grab a flashlight and start looking for the booby traps. (Thank you Nancy Drew books!!)
"What are we looking for?"
"Hairs. He can tape a hair across the wheel or something, to prove that you messed with it. If it's gone or broken, he will know."
We scour every inch of the interior with a flashlight. We find nothing.
"Okay, I think we are ready!"
We head out for ice cream. Later that night, we go to the drive in. (Pee Wee's Big Adventure) We didn't see any of the movie.
We get crazy all week long.
It was hella' fun.
A few days before his parents were due home, I ask him about the car. He tells me that it's in the garage, and it took him 45 mins to park it EXACTLY where his dad left it. (Thank you chalk marks!)
"So, how many miles did you put on it?"
"about 120 miles"
*Stunned silence*
*Still more stunned silence*
Finally, I find my voice.
"So.....um, how are you going to explain that." (Okay, I'm totally thinking that he totally going to pull off a Ferris Bueller and want to run the car in reverse.)
"I was just going to leave it like that. I figured that I could convince my dad that he wrote the numbers down wrong."
*More stunned silence*
"Are you kidding me? Why would he think that he made a mistake and wrote down 115,132 instead of 115, 252?? That makes no sense at all!!"
"Ummmm....I guess you're right. I'm so screwed." (Again, not the sharpest crayon in the box)
I think.
And think.
And think.
"you have to convince him that his 1 is actually a 7"
"What?"
"See how he wrote his 1? Sloppy. It could pass for a 7"
"ahhhhh.....I see. So how do I fix it?"
"DUDE! You have to add a total of 600 miles. You already added 120 miles, so you have to add EXACTLY 480 miles more by the time he gets home."
Silence.
Silence.
"How much gas money do you have?" he asks me.
The next day, is the day his parents are due. He skips the entire day of school, in order to add 300 more miles on the van. I go to school, but will get an update from him at break and lunchtime. His plan mainly consist of driving on the freeway for so many miles, then turn around and go towards home. He does this for 6 hours. He has to be EXACT so the last few miles, he does by driving around his neighborhood. Finally, a few hours before his parents are due, he tries to park the van in the exact same spot that his dad left it. It takes him an hour and a half. He finally get the miles to the perfect spot (adding EXACTLY 600 miles) and the chalk lines match. He dusts off the exterior, and hoses off the chalk marks. Then he heads to bed. His parents arrive later that night.
The next day at school, I ask him about his night. He tells me that his dad woke up early that day. He went straight to the family calendar, and wrote down the number he had written 10 days prior. He heads to the garage, and checks the odometer. He checks his paper again. He checks the odometer again. He goes back to the calendar. He shakes his head. He asks Sid, "Did you drive the car this week?"
"No, sir." says Sid.
His dad continues to look at the numbers. I think he is trying to convince himself that:
a: he wrote the numbers down wrong.
b. it's a 7, and not a 1.
c: there is no way his son just put 600 miles on his car.
His dad never says anything.
Ever.
Sid on the other hand, starts calling me the Evil Genius. I simply tell him that "If I used my powers for good, how boring will my life be?"
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Our New Cat
Once, when we were about 9 years old, my sister brought home a stray cat. It was all black, with one white spot on it's forehead. (And one crazy eye that would wander.) We immediately fell in love with the mangy thing. My mother, on the other hand, was not too happy. She tried to convince us that it was a skunk and would spray us all, at the first sign of trouble. (I actually caught her trying to draw a chalk line down the cat's back. To further enforce the notion that we actually did caught a skunk and not a cat. We did not fall for this.) Eventually, she gave up, and we had a new cat. The only rule that she imposed was that we were to feed, care, bath the cat ourselves. We agreed.
That lasted about a week.
She soon became the sole caretaker of the cat. She acted like she despised the cat, but as time went on, she became attached.
The best part of all?
We named the cat Mo-Fo. And, because my mother spoke mostly Spanish, she just thought it was a cute name made up by her adorable children.
I have vivid memories of my mother, in her tattered house dress, opening the back door every evening. She would slam the creaky screen door a few times, hoping the cat would recognize the sound as the dinner bell. After a few minutes she would start calling out for our cat.
Screaming "MO-FO!"
"MOO-FOOOOOO!"
"MOOOOO-FOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Until the damn cat would come home for it's dinner. It still makes me giggle.
Yeah. We were bad kids.
That lasted about a week.
She soon became the sole caretaker of the cat. She acted like she despised the cat, but as time went on, she became attached.
The best part of all?
We named the cat Mo-Fo. And, because my mother spoke mostly Spanish, she just thought it was a cute name made up by her adorable children.
I have vivid memories of my mother, in her tattered house dress, opening the back door every evening. She would slam the creaky screen door a few times, hoping the cat would recognize the sound as the dinner bell. After a few minutes she would start calling out for our cat.
Screaming "MO-FO!"
"MOO-FOOOOOO!"
"MOOOOO-FOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Until the damn cat would come home for it's dinner. It still makes me giggle.
Yeah. We were bad kids.
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