Thursday, March 17, 2011


Went for a pedicure last night, ladies. And please learn from my mistake of going one hour before closing time, which is like licking up the sides of the empty tin that used to hold a cream pie filled with pumice and pink piggie polish time, topped with leg massaging energy. Seems these people DO have a life apart from my feet, and are ready to resume it 15 minutes before the actual closing time posted on the door.

Anyway, pulled out a brand new razor and swiped at my legs before heading over, because I learnt my lesson from last time. Realized too late that brand new razor/swipe/my calves are not on friendly terms, as I tore off toilet paper and attached it to about 30 bleeding nicks—10 of which were on ONE FOOT, people. Not even shizzing.

Now they stopped bleeding before I left home, but once my feet were immersed in steaming water, well, the life juices flooded back to the surface, to take a look around. Seems they liked what they saw, and decided to stay awhile, setting up lawn chairs and coolers, and cracking open Diet Cokes.

I tried to explain to the Vietnamese ladies that, "I hadn't wanted them to feel my prickly hairs, because that would gross them out, so I had done a quick shaving job, but it was a new razor, and I hadn't realized that without the proper soaking time, your legs just rebel and bumps raise in alarm, leading to a severing of the little bump heads, and that's why my legs are covered in cuts and why the previously blue water is now a tinge purple, because red and blue make purple, and I promise I don't have any blood born diseases like AIDS or some sort of Herpes or anything like that, no way, it's just that I didn't give them proper time to clot before heading over here, because I was afraid they'd close, and I'd have to go another day with hideous little pigs and blah, blah, blah."

But they were Vietnamese, remember? So they just stared at me like I had a booger on my lip and laughed.
And whispered.
And laughed again.

Then they pointed over at the waxing station and said—

"You Wah."

And I said, "Haha. Yes. Ha. Good idea."

Then I buried my face in an upside down magazine while they drained the purple water and began again.

Next time I'll wah.

Fer sher.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011


Standing in front of my side of the bathroom mirror, glancing over at husband's side~

"Oh my gosh. He is so...seriously...look at all that toothpaste spit. ALL over the mirror. And I just cleaned that...honestly. I think if HE were the one doing the cleaning, he'd at least take the time to wipe up the spittle splat. He's just not careful."

I cross to his side to wipe up the smear and just happen to glance over at my side—light hitting the mirror from a different angle.

Will you lookie there.
Same exact splat.
Maybe even a little more.

Because spit happens.

And that, my friends, is a lesson in perspective.

Thursday, March 3, 2011


I'm like a shark, with frickin' laser beams shooting from it's head. Sept they're boogers. From my nose. And it's only fair, because I mocked my husband when he caught those cold sores. Which, may I add, have a surprisingly long shelf life.

Anyway, now I've been brought low and I have no one to blame but myself.

Speaking of blame, I needed someone to point a finger at yesterday. I was served up a big old steamy manure pie, made out of a one week lapse between policies in Workman's Comp, a tire exploding in an employees face, the subsequent ambulance ride and ER visit, a teenage son missing 30 (not even exaggerating) assignments and a few other surprisingly expensive and aggravating ingredients. You know, to give it savor.

I could barely contain myself while I sat mouth breathing in my bedroom chair, as I tried to consume the entire dessert myself. Fortunately, Sterling came in to take his fair share, and together we licked the platter clean.

Which makes me grateful for a husband who knows the difference between chocolate and cow dung, and that only one of those is his wife's favorite. And who takes a misfired bullet now and again when the gun is in her hand and she's swinging it around in wild eyed frenzy.

But other than that, I just have this miserable cold that makes it impossible to think clearly, or be funny, or be kind, or be generous, or be creative, or be productive.

And this time, I 'bout the Unions? Yeah. Them. Stupid Unions.