A Christmas Story

I truly have been neglectful of updating lately; this is largely because my new hobby removed me temporarily from the activities of daily life. Mr. Bunker drove me so @**%# crazy that I found solace only in watching SportsCenter. I opted to stay there with my sports-caster TV friends until I got sick of beer commercials & hearing about the kid locked in the shed. It was fun while it lasted, but now I'm all sobered up and ready to take on 2010, tumors, half wits, annoying husband, and all.

Mr. Bunker was off of work for the better part of December. This calamity allowed him time to erect the artwork below, which evokes in me the similar cringeful emotion experienced by the wife in "A Christmas Story" when her husband joyfully displayed the scandalous leg lamp above.

Archie took a month off of work because his back hurt SO MUCH that he couldn't drive around in his truck all day for his job. Of course he was unable to get his mountain of shit out of the garage due to this severe and disabling injury, however he somehow was able to muster the power to conceive of and compose (or shout at Jose and Hector while they composed) his 2x 4 opus which is the eyesore depicted below.
This is a 16 foot tall retarded looking plywood star located in my parkway. My kids make more appealing art out of Popsicle sticks and glitter even with some stay hairs thrown in. And Why?
....Because last year Archie got the church's cast-off 16 foot tree, which he put out front and trimmed in a style sparkly enough to make Carmella Soprano blush with it's glittering excess, and apparently EVERYONE who gazed upon it had some kind of epiphany (or possibly a seizure).

This year all those so profoundly touched by the great beauty of the tree were asking him what glory he would bestow upon the neighborhood this year. EVERYONE!! So you see, he felt duty-bound to present all these many souls with a suitable encore.

At some point when this project was under way, he proudly told me that he was going to create a giant star of David. I mentioned that that was kinda weird being that we're not Jewish, and he went away for a while, but apparently did not abandon the project entirely.
Would someone please come throw a match on this stupid thing??
Mr. Bunker thinks its a smashing success, because "people stop to look at it!"
So does the Bonehead not know that people also stop to look at train wrecks as well as many other types of disasters?

He did take a brief respite from his toils so he could get me my Christmas present. Or presents, depending upon whether a set of tires is considered plural or singular.

So anyway, happy New Year. This is the year that my frog will turn into a prince. I just know it!

Office Managment

Behold, Mary Mother of GOD

That's right, my little cupcake has landed the lead in the Christmas pagent. From Zombie Cheerleader to the Holy Virgin! Get her an agent! The Boy is a lowly shepard, but he wins at the end of the day as he was the Baby Jesus in his first year of life; hard to beat that one...even though he got a terrible crotch rash from the hay that somehow got into his swaddling diaper.
It's not even officially winter and suddenly it's become COLDER THAN A CORPSE'S CUNNY. Pardon the vulgarity, but there is really no polite way to describe these conditions. Zero degrees this cheerful AM, the inside of my freezer is warmer. Of course my car is frozen solid on the street because the garage is still full of busted up lawn ornaments (never mind our lack of a lawn) and a few skids of mismatched marble tiles slated for no apparent destination. This is probably just as well, because if I found it cleaned out at this point I would probably soil myself and ruin my fabulous hosiery.
The good news is that due to the vicious climate, I require new boots and fancy stockings to keep warm because of my delicate constitution. The weather is tiresome but the wardrobe change is good for the soul.
December is the month when chronic conditions suddenly become urgent because everyone who has met their deductible and has a few sick days left needs everything they can get NOW. Clock's tickin' baby, and I'm not too proud to glom on to what I can get before the new calendar year starts and everyone realizes that they're broke & they can live with those chronic conditions for a while longer.
The kids have runny noses and I've only baked one batch of Christmas cookies. I'm buried under paperwork, haven't shopped & my lips are chapped.

I am also the most inept office manager ever. EVER.

I Slept With Tiger Woods!

That there is one big honker of a tumor. It's bigger than an egg. It is attached to a patient from our free clinic. It's been bugging Dr. P.A. and me for ever; that thang has got to go. We've been poking and prodding it for months, tried needle aspiration under local which is about all we can offer at our shelter/clinic. Naturally the patient doesn't have a pot piss in, he's totally uninsured and scared to go to County because they'll likely just hack the entire limb off.

He could be mistaken for a CEO if you spotted him from across the street, but when you get a little closer you can see that the overcoat is little tattered and he smells like bung-choda. He always waits his turn very patiently, reads books about origami, and has a list of well thought out questions regarding treatment options. We're very curious about his past, but we don't generally ask too many questions at our little clinic where all you need for treatment is a signature on a consent form, and it doesn't even have to be your signature. We've had charts for Elvis, Jesus, Osama bin Laden and the Lone Ranger.

Favors were called in, and an MRI was obtained and pathology services secured. Based on the MRI it was a solid well encapsulated mass, which means it should pop out easier than boobies from a big girl's blouse, unless there is extensive investment of tendons or nerves, in which case it could take a little work.
It's difficult to set up a procedure when your patient doesn't have a phone number or a reliable address, but yesterday after much anticipation, the big day finally came. We had to do it in the procedure room in the office because no self respecting hospital or surgery center is going to donate anything to anyone.

Block, prep, drape, exsanguinate, apply tourniquet, cut and SQUIRT right onto my new school marm specs. BLOOD FOUNTAIN. This was not supposed to happen, it was not supposed to be vascular. We checked for this, and you asshole that's sniffing and saying we should have had a venous Doppler, yes you are correct, but you do it better for free. First time I ever saw a pumper with a tourniquet on, I would have been less surprised to find and ectopic pregnancy or a creepy alien. This presented a problem in that we can't have that much bleeding in an office procedure, it's against the rules, and we were flat running out of sterile gauze. It's also bad when it's under local because that means the patient is fully alert on the other side of the drape and you can't swear or even depart from a monotone. The plume of smoke produced by the cautery, the mounting pile of bloody gauze and the calls for ties, ties and more ties might have been a hint that something was amiss, but he just reclined and reviewed his origami manual. For all the ado, we ended up with a large (securely closed, hemostats achieved) incision and a 4mm punch biopsy for path. Damn. More frustrating that trying to get Mr. Bunker to put his socks in the hamper.

And yes I'm positive I slept with Tiger Woods. It was a few years back, but I'm sure it was him. Or I guess it really could have been David Letterman, hard to tell them apart. I'll just wait to see which bunch is getting the better payout and jump on the pile right after my tearful interview with TMZ.

People of Walmart: other habitats

I'm a little blue because my dream of getting a real "People of Walmart" photo failed, so I have to turn to the family library, this never disappoints. Not that the Walmart wasn't ripe with potential (among other things), just that the picture of the fat man leaving the crapper with a big wet spot on his bum was of such poor quality it was of no use. Drat, foiled again!

I know just what you're thinking: "No no no Edith, the usual non-retail habitat will generally involve a trailer, double wide, or otherwise modular domicile." Presented here to prove you wrong is my voluptuous sister-in-law, previously known to this site as "Trashie".

Today I'm here to inform you that there are situations that can draw the creatures in question out into the daylight for a refreshing walk/forced march. There could be a body to bury (you cain't jess leave those thangs in the front porch fridge forever!), or you could still be seeking the mythical Twinkie Patch of childhood lore. Today's specific example involves getting forced to dance for one's dinner by way of required time with one's family...gotta trot the babies out if you're going to be asking for a cash donation; the need for diapers in so much more compelling that the need to keep the premium channels paid up.

In case you're trying to make it out, her shirt does say "I Love My Daughter". Your guess is as good as mine why any mother would find it necessary to broadcast this affirmation, particularity by way of tee shirt, but there you have it.

BLOG NOTE: Thanks to my family member (of whom I'm quite fond, see, it happens!) for my fabulous new banner. Although she may publicly deny visiting, the whole Plain Jane blog format thing was bugging her, talented artiste that she is.

Going Green

Dragging out the malodorous trash bags containing evidence of the Thanksgiving feast is making my arm tired and I think some old coffee grounds contaminated my lovely hunter green pegleg corduroys. These exquisite trousers are just like the ones I had in the 8th grade and they do not need to be sullied by anybody's janky leftovers. The amount of garbage generated by one family for one meal is truly exhausting, so any forthcoming changes are born more of laziness than a bleating social conscience.

In my effort to reduce waste, I hereby declare paper napkins banned. And no, I'm not switching to cloth napkins because the necessary laundering and detergents offset any environmental gain. This is the plan which is to be implemented immediately: left sleeve, foodstuff and drink dribbles, right sleeve: snot and blood (nosebleeds).

Since I'd have to wash the dang clothes anyway, this is an elegant solution for an age old problem; think of the relief to overflowing landfills I'm a hero. I will now prepare myself for worldwide recognition and accolades.

Added benefit which has just occurred to me: death to the social hug! People will stay far away from one another and motivation for annoying hugs will diminish overnight. DOUBLE HERO!!

Safety Glasses

I bin BUSY!
Mostly fending off all them mens because of my super sessy new specs, all those boys be trippin' over each other to get to me. (Also reading "PUSH" as ordered by the Mighty Oprah, therefore brushing up on my ghetto verbiage).
I actually got my way hot glasses with the notion that I would use them exclusively in surgery in order to avoid wearing that dumb mask with a shield which always fogs up. I went to the eyeglass store and said that I'd like the biggest & cheapest frames that they had. The cringing proprietor in his polite gay way attempted to steer me elsewhere, but I persevered. These are perfect for surgery, and it turns out that I like being able to see things at a distance (over 6 feet away, that is). My children are horrified and have asked me to remove them when they deign to acknowledge me, but I'm pretty happy with them overall. They give me a very Lois Lane aura.

In other news, I'm slowly working my way out of the Halloween induced candy coma, and I've been recklessly squandering cash since I managed to divest myself of the nightmare suit by way of eBay for a whopping $230.00. I guess every pot has a lid. Except for Mr. Bunker, that is. In a world where every pot has a lid, he is a lonely wok. Sad. For me, that is.

The Basscrack

This unfortunate situation occurs when the ass travels on up the back, resulting in the anatomical structure known as the bass. The cleavage point is hence the basscrack.

This goes back to the First Law of Thermodynamics which deals with the conservation of energy: Energy (and therefore mater via E=mc2) may be neither created nor destroyed, no matter how much lycra is involved. You can stave off the muffin top, the biffalo (butt in front) and the FOPA (fat over pubic area) but that stuffs gunna pop out somewhere.

disclaimer: this is not patient of mine. I promise. I had complete informed consent.

Concert Review: A Fine Frenzy

OK, so let's just start with the fact that I am not a harsh critic; if there's not a purple dinosaur singing and some sticky runt's not shoving an empty juice box into my hand, then you can pretty much color me happy. So in my humble opinion, the show was masterful. Almost.

"A Fine Frenzy" (Alison Sudol) was first spotted by my musically sophisticated (aka snobbish) friend when opening for Rufus "I'm wearing Lederhosen" Wainwright. At that time she was sort of an angsty little pinhead, and I loved her immediately. Someone must have really whacked her dosing, because last night she was all happy & bouncy, more consistent with someone who dots her letter i with a heart than a crabby poet. Instead of wailing along with her piano, she was skipping around to a Blondie song. She almost fell down, and believe what you will, but I KNOW that the near-fall was because the stank stare administered by my disappointed girlfriend; a stare like that can actually singe your hair or turn you into a pillar of salt, trust this!
The real musicians in my group looked as offended as a bunch of Southern Baptist ladies getting a lap dance; however, I would go again tonight if she was playing.

Halloween Recap

Above is a small sampling of the impressive Halloween haul. Note the "fun size" Milky Way at the bottom which was included for the purpose of scale. What the big fat hell is going on here? Where the hell is the recession? I thought this would be a scaled back "one little Tootsie Roll per person" type Halloween, but I guess not based upon the portions dispensed; who knew there was such a thing as a KING sized Reese's bar?
I felt pretty chintzy passing out the regular trick-or-treat size candy. Possibly I resembled the old lady who passed out pennies to everyone when we were kids; pretty smart really because everyone just threw them right back into her pumpkin which somehow always seemed to be kicked in.

Also, why are all the moms dressed up like prostitutes? How's a real working girl supposed to get her game on with all the bustier-clad house fraus doing the ho stroll?


The kids are old enough now that they inventory and trade their goodies, which means I can't indiscriminately ravage the haul as usual. I surreptitiously pinched a medium sized Snickers out of The Boy's bag, and damned if he didn't figure it out in short order. Good thing it was just a trial run, as he's had expert tutelage in the apoplectic fit; this was skillfully averted.

This process has caused a minor speed bump in my usual post-Halloween candy hork; don't you worry though, just a few more Reese's cups (the tiny ones are actually better, chocolate:peanut butter ratio is higher) and I'll be throwing on my bunny ears to pose with my BBW posse!

Blog note: The Suit has been listed on eBay (starting price $0.99) and has already been bid up to an amazing $17.00!! Maybe I can start a retirement fund by selling off Archie's junk; heck, no overhead and vast amounts of rare treasure. Sorta like a winning lotto ticket! well...not really, it's just the eternal optimist in me coming out.

That Time of the Month

Rent time, that is.

Rent for the garage spot that I require because I am a spoiled princess who thinks that she shouldn't have to schlep the kids and groceries a half mile which is where I could possibly find a street spot. Our one remaining spot is reserved for Mr. Bunker, lest he has to WALK anywhere, possibly squandering some of that hard-won adipose tissue.

We basically have a ritual now, occurring on the last day of the month. It starts out with him telling me that today is the day! he's going to get it all cleaned out today,followed by harsh admonitions not to write the check for my rented garage spot, because we're broke. BROKE! Sometimes I remind him that we should really be extra super rich because of all the money that he saves buying clearance items. "Those are necessities!" he shouts (really? like those 12 packs of nail polish and the 3 bottles of Stetson cologne?? the 50 boxes of bandaids? the basketball hoop?).

Next, he gets his army of Mexican laborers who stand around and smoke, getting paid while Archie organizes a bucket of drywall nails that are probably valued at about $2.00 for the lot of them. Nobody's allowed to touch anything without prior inspection, which won't happen, because that crazy asshole is too busy sorting through penny drywall nails.

Usually by the third of the month I write the check to the garage, at which point Mr. Bunker becomes unhinged, bellows about how he's really close to having it cleaned out and that WHAT DO I THINK WE'RE RICH??? Then he completely abandons the project until next the very last day of the next month.

There was a temporary void where the frog lamp once lived, and I'm going to start leaving the garage door open in hopes that some of the shopping cart people that walk through the ally will lighten the load. That is, after I search through that mess, because after my office manager saw the pic of the frog lamp, she said that she would sure like a soup tureen, and odds are that there is one in there somewhere. Anything for you, Phoebe.

My Own little Schmoe!

There they are, ready to save lives putting out fires and fighting crime. One caped crusader and one vampire fireman.
What they really need to do is get their asses out there and start collecting some of the good shit. They go to sleep, I pick out the Reeses cups. It's in their best interest, really. Tooth decay, obesity risk, etc.

Zombie Cheerleader

I am bursting with pride.

The Frog has Landed & other updates

Once upon a time, there was a bitter housewife. She bitched and moaned and even made a blog mostly dedicated to trashing her husband because he's a crazyass hoarder who would pay money for dirty kotex if someone put 'em on the clearance table at CVS. This bitchy woman posted a picture of the mess in the garage, containing one frog lamp. Lo and behold, someone spotted it, and wanted it!! Through the power of the information age, one murder by frog lamp was thwarted, thanks be to you, Lord Google.

By now, enough time has elapsed that I'm pretty sure it's not a cruel hoax leading to my death by bludgeoning, and I could be wrong, but the new owner isn't making an icky face, so he might actually like it! or it could be gas, I guess.

This lovely situation was brokered by my buddy Peedee, Queen of the Dogs, from Northern Cuba, in Fort Liquerdale. She gave it to her frog collecting friend, Joshua to put in has garden, and there they will live happily ever after! So you see, some fairy tales do have happy endings.

In other news, I recently wrote about a my son's kindergarten classmates, one of whom is named Wedge. After further investigation, I have some fun facts about Wedge:

1. It is not short for anything. That's his name. WEDGE.
2. His last name starts with E. Long E, which means if you say his first and last name together, you can't help but say Wedgie.
3. His hair is cut in, of course, a wedge style.
4. I better get used to it as it seems that Wedge and The Boy and some little tramp (dossier in progress) are all now BFFs.
   

THE Pearl Neclace

Not THAT kind of pearl necklace, filthy perverts.
Archie & I attended our annual charity event when we get dressed up and go hobnob with some fancy fancies (a similar version of THE SUIT was in attendance). Asshole forgot to tell me we'd be attending until the day before, hence fanning the flames of my generally churlish demeanor.

Mr. Bunker usually gets drunk and hits the silent auction to bid on a bunch of stupid shit which I usually secretly donate back to the charity. His social graces are sadly lacking, and he is typically quite offensive doing things like pushing away his dessert, looking at a chubby tablemate and saying "I don't want to end up like you!" He is also wont to giving unsolicited advice as in the case of a lactating woman with a infant at home who he reassured "not to worry that you'll probably get your figure back when you quit nursing"; why not just greet her with a good 'ol titty twister?? That would be less painful.

This time there were some nice jooories (thank you, Real Houswives of Atlanta) available for auction. Wanker was trying to get back in my good graces, at least a tiny bit because he probably feared that he would otherwise be getting disemboweled with my fork. The drunken foo proceeded the buy me this very nice set of pearls that are not the kind you find in Claire's Boutique. This largess combined with 2 glasses of plonk made me feel a bit more charitable toward him, I even allowed him to speak to me.

That is, until evening's end when he nudged me and said something along the lines of "hey hon, you got your credit card, I'm a little short". But anyway, I still got the goods and I am confident that they will look stunning on my decollete.

National Chemistry Week: Don't forget P-Chem

P-chem or "Physical Chemistry" for you pusses that steered clear, mainly educated me in humility. You can find all sorts of descriptions of what is generally covered in this class, but in summary it is a demonstration that everything that you learned in 100 level chemistry is sweet fantasy.
In P-chem you learn that an ideal gas as described by PV= nRT, is as fanciful as the ideal man in that they both exist only in theory. It's sort of like the life let-down that occurs when you find out that real-life romance is more accurately represented by "Fargo" than "Cinderella".
Instead of a tidy little formula involving solving for a few variables, plug & chug, mind the units, be all done, you have to start working with "real gasses", molecular collisions, and of course, the dreaded "entropy".

The math is trying, particularly when your class (of 8) gets combined with a graduate class of biophysics PhD students, all of whom were Chinese and proceeded to make us look like monkeys pounding on HPs in reverse Polish. In spite of their seeming superiority due to their mathematical skills, those Beijing boobs could not do experimental design to save their lives, so happily partnerships were made with a tad of mutual exchange which some may refer to as CHEATING, but hey, it's all about teamwork, right?

Fortunately, I survived but I'd rather birth a hedgehog than take that class again although I'm sure I'm a better person for it. Also apparently something about entropy caught my fancy, because I am now married to it. Damn.

Honky Lopez

Suppose you're a new resident, and your name is Joe Lopez. You show up to surgery and turn out to look like a member of the Aryan nation, so how can you be offended if someone calls you "Honky Lopez"? Really, how can you possibly be mad? How could someone not call you Honky Lopez? I think it would be prudent to just legally change your name so people know what to expect. How's anyone supposed to know you're from Northern Spain and not Guadalajara?
Sheesh, why so sensitive?
Also, a little crack about your Halloween costume being gay wasn't referring to you being gay, hell, how's anyone supposed to know?
Anyhoo, Dr. Honky Lopez, I'd twist Dr. P.A.'s arm till she said sorry, but lets face it, the honky things should be expected, and truly nobody cares that you're gay, but the blithering asshole thing about your expertise is unbearable, so no apology for you. In fact you are are my new depot for patients I don't like, so prepare yourself, because you have a few crazies headed your way, Dr. HONKY.

The Dowager Special

This is a really nice evening suit, that is, if you were born on the Pangaea land mass during the Paleozoic era.

This nightmare was a gift for me from Mr. Bunker. Maybe he got it for me to ensure that I wouldn't attract any attention outside of the shuffleboard & prune juice set. This garment is so fugly that if I die when I'm 100 and somebody buries me in it that I promise I will be so pissed that I will come back to haunt whomever made the decision.
It is the color of a vomit covered bruise, it sparkles, and it is 2 sizes too big. BUT after posting a picture of the frog lamp, that particular atrocity has moved out of my possession, sooo....any takers?
It's made by St. John, and they are known for making suits that are very comfortable, and are especially favored by rich old ladies with elaborately styled hair and wearing so much Chanel number 5 that it's flavor may be experienced.

If I could only unearth the receipt, the refund would probably cover 2 pairs of nice hooker heels.

A Very Nice Day

Today was the Chicago Marathon and sadly I did not participate. Conditions turned out to be nearly perfect with cool temps and no wind. Instead of running with the pack of 45,000 sweaty fools, I took a leisurely run along the nearly deserted lakefront path with a good friend and her camera.

First stop (above), I went and gave Mr. Bunker a good kick in the kidneys and told him to get his ass out of that sleeping bag and to go take out the trash, and that if he cleans out the G.D. garage that maybe I'll let him sleep in there. If you look hard you can see that that is a very nice down filled sleeping bag which I think reflects my general kind heartedness; I can't help it, I'm just that way!
Next, I admired the lovely fall foliage while flipping off the cab drivers and yelling "get off that cell phone and go back to Abu Dhabi you terrorist!" They love that, and I'm sure they know it's all in good fun.
My face, my face!! where did it go??? This is what can happen with too much botox, no expression at all!
And then I said "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU SMILING ABOUT?" Fools. I tried to explain to them that marriage was not that great of an idea, but apparently they'd already paid for everything, so what can you do?

And the very best part of the day: packing up abomadable frog lamp to go to sunny Florida. Life is good.

Claim your Frog Lamp

Good news for someone, your elegant frog lamp has been found!
Now come get it the hell out of my garage before it's used as a murder weapon. Someone surely is suffering great remorse for letting go of this object de'Art, the value of which was immediately appreciated by Mr. Bunker on his evening dumpster dive.

Anyway, rightful frog lamp owner, your fingerprints are probably ALL OVER THIS BITCH, so come get it or face up to the CSI, they will find you. That or you will be smote down by The Lord. This is in my prayers.

Autum Shopping

The costume shop has opened! I just need to force a sharp right upon entry and confine our visit to one small corner of the shop. This corner being the one where they keep the scary masks and all of the 3 children's costumes; the vast majority of the "adult" costumes involve themes that I don't really want to discuss: "mommy why's she got those cones and that whip? " Awkward.
That's my handsome boy above, looking just like his old man on a Saturday morning, all fresh & perky.
Don't be fooled by the pink wig and that innocent smile, if you trifle with her she will shank your ass on the playground.
Mr. Bunker bought her a cheerleader outfit from the clearance table at the CVS (where else?), as if!
"Cheerleader??" groans Miss H., completely appalled. After being Hermione Granger last year, she has no use for the usual vapid cheerleader (her words). She has decided to make some minor alterations in order to be a Zombie Cheerleader, which I guess is better than a regular cheerleader; my girl is slightly odd.

But never mind the scary costumes, the real horror was these ass-eater jeans, I mean this makes any of the previous camel toe tarts look like pikers, someone needs to call the authorities.

Richard M. Daley is Pissed!!

Time to TAKE COVER here in the Second City because Mayor Richie is sure to be as pissed-off as a priest with priapism. Ticked-off as an untucked trannie in a tutu.
OK sorry. Enough of the annoying amateur alliteration.
SORRY!
Well then, he's going to be as enraged as Kanye West, well, on a perfect Summer's Eve.

Anyone who works at City Hall should probably just call in sick on Monday, it's sure to be ugly. Mayor Daley is probably ready to lob a nuke at the South Side because if those little assholes weren't so busy having drug wars, then he'd probably have been more successful in Denmark. Oh wait... Rio has more drugs and crime than we do, anyway you slice it.
Maybe it's the "culture of corruption" we're all moaning about...but wait! Beijing makes Chicago look like a Brownie troop in terms of corruption.

So why? even with Poperah Winfrey and the Obamas?? How can this be?

This is one Chicagoan who does not care about this monumental slight. I'm just pleased that I don't have to pitch in for King Richie's hubris. Next we get to discover who will ultimately be blamed (credited) for this failure (achievement). This hot-potato toss should be every bit as riveting as any event traditionally included in the Olympic games.

KITTENS Open the Door, Save them!

I'd say that this could be a nice way to deal with some of the excess lawyers, but hell, they wouldn't have an urge to save a kitten, so what am I even thinking?

Whale Tale

Hell yes, that is a mantard showin' off his junk.
I wonder, did he lose a bet? Is he a bitch-boy to some dominatrix that makes him wear womens undergarments to keep him in line? Maybe he was getting dressed in the dark and accidentally grabbed undies out of the wrong drawer, I mean this can happen... Sometimes I'm at work and discover that I'm wearing Mr. Bunker's nasty skidmark skivvies under my nice Talbot's skirt. KIDDING! ha ha ha...ridiculous! Talbots!! puleeze!

Anyway, this is probably how the men dress in Copenhagen, which is where all the important O-people are currently convened; you know, Oprah & The Obamas, for Olympics. Also representative of the shape Richie Daley's mouth is stuck in from, well, maybe saying all those "O" words. Just wait, if the Chicago bid is successful Richie will flip out and either flash his own girly thong or start humping the first lady's leg. Can't wait!

A Star is Born/ Hoarding update

Suddenly Hollywood loves a hoarder. If you doubt this, please consult your TV listings and tune in to "Hoarders" and "Intervention". Between Mr. Bunker and his sibs, we have enough craziness for an entire mini-series; I think I ought to be looking for an agent.
We could probably even get some endorsements, like maybe The Container Store, eBay, Zoloft, Streets & Sanitation; probably even the Taliban; they're always on the lookout for the perfect hideout, no?

Pictured above is our garage, into which a car has not fit for the past 4 years. I am aware that many sort-of-normal people fill their garages up with junk, hence displacing the vehicle to the driveway or street, but this strategy does not work for me. Being an urbanite I don't really have a driveway, and street parking is not a viable option. Renting a nearby garage spot runs about $250.00 per month.

Of course if you're batshit crazy, it makes perfect sense to pay that kind of money so that you may house moldy throw pillows and busted baskets from a clearance table, because these are potentially of GREAT VALUE. Alternatively, some of this treasure could be donated to a needy person who might smell worse than the pillow, and that same needy person would also probably be very thankful for a busted-up basket to help organize the shopping cart in which most of their personal belongings are kept.

Maybe he's not a giant CRAZY ASSHOLE after all, it could be that he's a humanitarian, just trying to help his fellow children of the LORD (help me). He also provides the neighborhood wags with some nice gossip material. The busy-bodies may disparage my garage when they tire of yammering about how so-and-so was spotted feeding her vulnerable offspring processed food instead of organic barley water. See, my thoughtful husband is providing this nice diversion to help the beleaguered working moms in the 'hood, he's a SAINT!

AND if the shit that you're tripping over is a valuable antique, then it's not really hoarding, it's just great wisdom and a good eye for value.

For an example, if you see that bandaids are on the clearance table for a good price, why buy just one box when you could buy fifty boxes? WTF am I going to do with FIFTY BOXES of band aids?? Maybe I can create a beautiful sculpture, in which the bandaids will support and seamlessly connect the 35 fucking containers of stale cotton candy which were also on the clearance table.

Should I drink, cry or shoot?? I just don't know.


Cotton Candy:
On the brighter side, my little fall garden is looking very cute. I need to do a little bit more planting because if Archie sees those bare spots, he'll probably try to stack some asbestos tile or store a rebuilt lawnmower engine out there.

Vlad the Impaler

SORRY! Next picture will be of my fall mums & ornamental cabbage. They are very pretty and tasteful.

Once a week I'm a teacher's helper. Being at the school makes me privy to all kinds of useful information. One such valuable nugget involves the the new kid in my son's class. His name is Vlad, and Vlad truly picks his nose ALL DAY LONG. Every other sentence by the teacher is "fingers out Vlad".
There is also a kid who's name is "Wedge". This translates in grammar school language to "please kick my ass on the playground". I wonder if his granny calls him "Little Wedgie".

My accountant (against my wishes) calculated what it costs me to quit doctoring to perform my valuable school services. It made me feel bad for a quick minute, but what could make me feel richer than being able to relate important information such as is supplied above?

Homesick

My new favorite blog, which I can visit whenever I'm feeling homesick: Peopleofwalmart.com.

I expect that next time I'm home and shopping in my pajamas & slippers while enjoying some delicious KFC, that maybe I'll see if I can make the cut.

I haven't spotted any of my actual kin posted there yet, but give it some time, it's sure to happen. That handsome devil up there with the attractive mullet is making me weak kneed, look out Archie Bunker, there may be an new man in my life!

And why the exquisite creature below is wallowing in obscurity instead of gracing the cover of fashion magazines is surely one of the great mysteries of our time, never mind that a strong breeze may initiate a Hazmat situation, she must suffer for her art!

Things are tough all over

First the cigarettes, and now the whiskey. How the hell ahm spozed to git myseff ready to deal with Mr. Bunker? Or prepare for surgery? Shit. Blood & guts without boozin' up a little first? no way, I'm sure I'll faint.
At least the paint and glue's not locked up yet, and of course there's always NyQuil.

KIDDING! Just joshin' of course, in an attempt to ward off the generalized despair now that my baby's off in kindygarten and my husband's purchsing industiral sized shredders. That, along with the general wretched state of the world has gotten me into a funk and now I'm thinking that maybe I ought to sell off my material possessions and move to a mud hut in the Andes..or it could be that I just need a haircut with a bit of a shoulder massage by a flitty queen.

I suppose I'll try the haircut first, it would be heartbreaking to part with my splendid shoes without exhausting all other conservative options.

Haircut such as:
And, shoes! How could I part with them?

The New Etiquette

Admirable creativity, and very considerate to help deter an awkward moment that could occur if the wrong name is spoken. Not that I would know.

Don't Look a This!! Really!

I'm sorry, I tried warning you! This is in such bad taste that I must share it so that we may be offended together.
Why is it that after someone has a little bodily enhancement done, they loose all inhibitions about sharing the enhanced area ?
I've suffered through flashing of augmented chesticles more often than I really like to think about, usually in answer to an inquiry about surgical history.
Sheesh.... "No ma'm, I can trust you that they feel natural, honestly I don't need to touch them."

I've also been mooned once to show off reshaping via lipo, and I guess that is even less appealing than the boobie thing.
That is one very creepy mom up there. She's not even a cheetah, she's some kind of child warper. If she were male she's have scary sideburns and bad teeth, the sure signs of a pedophile.

Still Bitter!

2 weeks? has it been that long? A review of current events:

1. Mr. Bunker is an asshole. His latest OCD/hoarding acquisition is pictured above. They are a total of 6 giant paper shredders which were acquired at the Goodwill store because "they were such bargain", and can be resold by YOU TROY for vast coinage. Dayumm. They are the size of a washing machine and very very old, like made for that computer paper that was one continuous sheet. Guess I won't be getting my car in the garage anytime soon.

2. First day of school! Took the kids into the projects, dropped em off. Miss H. couldn't wait. The Boy however, was stuck to me like hair on bar soap. We all survived, thank you waterproof mascara. That first day of kindergarten is traumatic.

3. Archie Bunker is a CRAZY asshole.

4. My sister-in-law, Trashie, added a new word to her vocabulary, and that word is irregardless. That is some sort of non-standard non-word which is a double negative, and when I hear it I suffer brain convulsions and swoon (on the inside).
She needed another four syllable word because she's used up "evidently", another word that makes my ass hurt, perhaps from the repeated overuse of it by Trashie. I know we're not supposed to tell others how to push our buttons, but here's how to make me want to roll up in a corner:

• use the word irregardless
• misspell separate (I always have to check, it's some kind of tic)

• jack up possessives. I guess I'm getting over this, as there is much poetic license, Frank Drackman, in the blogesphere.
  

So now you know. Please do not use this against me.

5. Da Bears. So sad.

6. Still waiting to become a stoner, or at least get long eyelashes from my glaucoma drops, which thankfully, I can still see.

So...Anybody need a shredder?

Urban Kayaking

Who says you can't do outdoorsy activies downtown? We had a lovely Sunday afternoon Kayaking down the pristine waters of the Chicago river. We played "spot the 3 eyed frog" and managed to avoid getting plowed over by the distinguished gentlemen at the helm of the fancy fast boat named "Panty Puller", you classy bastards you!
Archie Bunker put the buoyancy of his craft to the test and complained most of the time (he was hoongary, needed a burger), but it was good fun. We didn't make it quite to the "Willis" tower; you can only push a group of 8 year-olds so far; hard to get a cab back if they get tired.

Yes, that is one giant condom floating in the water. The kids were playing a game trying to sink it by throwing rocks at it. I didn't feel like hosting a sex-ed chat so I told them it was a banana wrapper. Of course today in the grocery store they were intent on finding some banans that had that special wrapper. Shit.