Happy spring

My poor hyacinths. They just got their little buds up above ground and tomorrow they will look like these poor daffodils as they get busted back down into the dirt. That mother nature can be a real bitch sometimes. Miss H. has suffered a crushing blow, as in her mind the first day of spring represented the coming of, well, SPRING. Instead we get another dang snow fall.

The men that matter

Perhaps my disdain for my husband has subtly shown itself between the lines. Possibly I spend a lot of time overtly trashing him. I will bypass the Archie Bunker issue du jour (briefly) in order to recognize that I am not a total she-woman-man-hater. There are men that I like, first and foremost those to whom I am related. This, despite my brother telling me not to breathe the gas becuse it's poisonous at the dentist when I was 8 and having a tooth pulled.

Besides family there are the secret little infatuations I have here and there. SECRET.

However, the men in my every day life that REALLY MATTER,

1. My Accountant
2. My Biller

Having worthy individuals in these critical areas makes all else bearable. I mean it. Fuck spiritual harmony, finding someone that can maintain harmony with medicare and the IRS frees up my nights to obsess over so many other details, none quite as daunting though, as and audit from either of the above mentioned agencies.

My accountant is so talented that he can tell from the mere heft of an envelope whether or not I included all my shit for the month or maybe forgot to include a payroll. He can then sum up my month in 30 seconds, tell me I'm an idiot for the dead beat at home, then reassure me that I'm not headed for a cardboard box (this month anyway), then make me feel privileged and happy to write him a check, all while he maintains an average velocity of 120 mph. MY HERO. always.

Conversation with my biller while he painstaking and politely inquires if I have adequate documentation to support a -25 modifier makes my damaged eyes glaze over faster that a lecture on the life cycle of the whisk fern. But that's how I LIKE IT. If anyone has a balance greater than one dollar, he's going right after that dead beat, dammit.

So look at me now! so happy.

Balance Restored! Eat, Pray, Love!

"EAT PRAY LOVE" Thank you lawd, ohh thank you lawdy for this magical book. Through the power of one woman's quest for spiritual and sensual balance, I'm healed! And Oprah says it's good, that's right, OPRAH. She's going to start passing out copies to homeless people soon so that they can get their sorry shit together.
See my transformation for yourself. Before, I was confused and my undergarments were chaffing and I couldn't figure out how to iron anything with pleats. Just loook at me now!! my underwires are fitted and my nuts quit itching!! All because of the magical powers of one little novel. Which, by the way, I haven't actually finished yet; the mere anticipation has been transformative.
I took a few minutes in an effort to find somebody who had something bad to say about it, but I guess nobody dares to cross The Oprah. I've had 3 patients in the last week who were reading the stupid book and proceeded to gush about it. Loosers, all of them, obviously. I'm sure they all just need proper SSRI dosing.
But really. I'm getting ready for vacation and I need some reading material, so please suggest. Thank you Dr. RL for the happy "Sarah's Key", because now I can just keep hatin' on those froggys. Please no books involving sick children, dying children, children getting rounded up by Nazi's, etc. Just something to keep me distracted from Archie Bunker, and pray pray pray that my ipod stays charged.

"The Throwup"

What have I wrought? Miss H. had a homework assignment to make a comic book. All the other kids had things like "The Puppy" or "The Best Friends Have A Play Date" and other topics which are frankly as exciting as room temperature tap water. But since we're still cooling off after the whole haggis thing, something regular would have been kind of nice....instead we have an interesting little booklet that involves vomiting which sets off a chain reaction of more vomiting.

The barf- fest culminates with a classmate of whom Miss H. is not fond traveling to the White House to vomit upon our Commander-in-Chief during a televised event. This seems like some kind of warped combination of Monte Python and Rush Limbaugh, neither of which, to my knowledge, is well known to my daughter. This masterpiece did earn her an A+, and so far no social workers.
How could this be? My little angel is warped.

Beauty shop malpractice

I'm sure that I've squandered the equivalent of an AIG executive bonus on hair repairations. The top picture is what happened when I went to THE VERY FANCY SALON (Salon Buzz, I'm naming names) where the rich & fancy people go. This was at the behest of my rich & fancy friend who apparently thought I looked a little ragged. Anyway, I told the goth colorist (who's pierced face resembled a tackle box) to tone it down because it was getting too light.
I've seen doctors settle law suits with less damages than what was done to my hair in that visit, as if I'm not already insecure and vain, I need to look like a hollywood hooker that couldn't afford a weave??? THE HORROR.
For the above offense I was charged such a staggering amount that the tip (why?) came to more than I paid for the entire cut back in my home cow town. Then tacklebox didn't even blow dry my tortured hair, but rather directed me to the "drying station", unless, of course I wanted to shell out another $40.00 to be blown. This is where a normal person whould have started in with an automatic weapon, but I paid my bill and left quietly, because this was SALON BUZZ , and they are the BEST!!
Then I had to go back the imerious queen who ususally fixes me up, beg forgivness, repent, and pay another vast sum to get it back to something that does not look like it should be sitting atop a meth face.
Maybe I should just be like my favorite reality housewife, Kim from Atlanta, and get me a roadkill wig; it couldnt possible look any worse, and I could probably knock about one trillion dollars off the bailout package.
The final outcome (for you, Dallas housewife Kim):

Tyra Banks' Evil secret

If you look closely you can see that the pink bag on the bottom says "America's Next Top Model". This impressive rig belongs to a somewhat terrifying pruney face lady whom I was privileged to meet today on the 'L'. Shockingly, she's only 22! That's what she said anyway.
Clearly for her own evil purposes, Tyra Banks is sucking the youth and beauty right out of those nice girls that get kicked off her model try-out show. They are then turned out into the streets as sad, dessicated shadows of their former selves with major eyewatering body funk and crazy eyes. This former beauty was riding around on the train today to stay out of the rain. That Tyra is soo mean! She could at least hook her up with some of Paula Abdul's magical herbal tea, because that seems to be keeping her pretty dang happy!
I was all geared up to go to try-outs for the upcoming Top Model TV season, but now I'm reconsidering; Evil Tyra, time off of work, chillens to feed. But hell, I'd still come out on top financially just by virtue of dropping my malpractice insurance for a few months and, I'm sure the staff wouldn't mind taking a little sabbatical so I can pursue my dream of fashion modeling. I just have to make sure to stay FAR AWAY from that evil freakin' Tyra cause I'm already running pretty low on the youth and beauty.

WHA!? THE HELL ???

A couple of weeks ago I was all crippled in my back and lurching around like a sad old granny. I'm all better & doing cartwheels, but still. I was almost wearing a truss, for the love of The Almighty. Now I'm going BLIND, and no, my palms are not hairy, and that only counts for boys anyway.
After what was meant to be a nice little screening exam, this sweet little old man tells me I have Glaucoma, and no that is not sexually transmitted, and you cannot get it from deep kissing.
Naturally, I asked him when I would be getting my medical marijuana; so far no luck, just some crappy eye drops.
No more Sudafed allowed, ever. Does that mean also no meth? I mean, if that's the case how I am sposed to git on my special bikini diet? particularly if I'm hitting a bong?? See how complicated this is already? sheesh.
How am I supposed to translate all my gangsta tats to braille? So many complications.

Haggis: Chitterlings for white folks

Shirking parental duty was not what I had in mind when I suggested Miss H. use Haggis as an example of a cultural dish for her school project. Honest and truly, I didn't know that the second grade was going to have an open house with everyone bringing in said traditional cultural dish in to share. I guess sometimes you just get lucky.

I made her embrace her Scottish heritage instead of that dego mess which contributed to the other half of her genes. Thus, instead of spaghetti and gellato, her poster was Haggis with a wee tot of a nice single malt scotch. And what is haggis? It's basically a sheep's internal organs cooked in the sheep's stomach or intestine. DELICIOUS!!

When the teacher was putting the list together of what everyone was going to bring, somehow we ended up with paper plates instead of our cultural dish. Discrimination hurts and I'd sue somebody but what if I ended up having to actually eat some of that dish of lips and assholes to prove my passion for my cause? eww. way to risky.

Provided below is a recipe for haggis, just in case anyone wishes to give it a try.

        1 cleaned sheep or lamb's stomach bag

        2 lb. dry oatmeal

        1 lb chopped mutton suet

        1 lb lamb's or deer's liver, boiled and minced

        1 pint (2 cups) stock

        the heart and lights of the sheep, boiled and minced

        1 large chopped onion

        1/2 tsp.. each: cayenne pepper, Jamaica pepper, salt and pepper

Books of the month

Jodi Picoult likes to hurt us. I hate her books. They are all about sick babies or teenagers gone horribly astray, or cancer, or all those things combined. We get to know the family and friends and observe the ensuing wreckage upon them all. The mom is always this God Awful Martyr whose pain we feel and whose single minded devotion to her children we admire.
This author likes to rip off a scab, rub salt in the wound, then make you feed the scab to your very best friend knowing that it will kill her dead but only after you sue her and sleep with her husband, because if you don't do all that horrible stuff then your baby will perish in a slow painful way. I just don't need this shit.
I'm just waiting for Kim from Atlanta's Real Housewives to come back. Watching her screw NeNe over is some drama I can enjoy without wanting to put my head in the oven.
"KAFKA" is a little something I picked up in the comicbook store. I'm thinking I'd like to be able to use the term "Kafkaesque" much more frequently. I don't think I sound nearly pompous enough as it is, so you know, be on the lookout for that, along with some catchy Yiddish phrases. When I write my review of "Housewives" episodes I'll be spicing up my terminology. If this does not give you a reason to keep getting out of bed every day then I just don't know how to help you.
"Eat Pray Love" was given to me by a well meaning friend because I am so dang bitchy. It's about this ho who is all sad & lonely & needy & weepy until she learns Italian and gets spiritual and finds inner peace blah blah blah haven't really read much yet, but from what I understand, by the end she is skipping through sunlit fields with joyful abandon to a degree which is seldom seen outside of TV commercials for feminine hygiene products. I'll have to do some kind of follow-up on this one.
Just know that if I suddenly stop blogging that I have:
1) discovered deep inner happiness leaving me nothing to bitch about
2) lost myself in some Kafkaesque introspection
3) offed myself because of GODDAMN Jodi Pocoult and her friggin maudlin bullshit.

The recyclist

HONEST TO GOD this is what happens when Archie Bunker drives though an alley. And all this shit is VERY VERY important, do not event give one nanosecond's thought to putting that crap back in the dumpster where it belongs.
Then he brings this steaming pile of excrement home and presents to me like it's the crown jewels for the queen of the landfill universe.
He's usually about as sedentary as a hedge of shrubbery, but if I try to sneak any little busted chair part to the trash he can suddenly move faster than dirty gossip. In fact, I threw my cat in tub when I was 9 and it never moved as fast as Archie Bunker if he thinks you're messing with his garbage heap. Shee-at bee-otch.

Love Story

How did this happen? How did I come to be Mrs. Bunker? Was I drunk for an extra long time? Did the tick-tock of the biological clock drive me to madness and completely scramble my normally perspicacious judgment?
This might be a long one, so set yerself on down.

Oppisites should leave each other alone:
We are an odd pair, Archie Bunker and I. Some things just don't go together that well; for example: Jesse Helms & Snoop Dog. Channel Suits & Tractor Pulls. Lesbo porn & Mother Theresa. Rush Limbaugh and Ariana Huffington. NASCAR and Nancy Pelosi. Lafite Bordeaux and Oscar Mayer. Sandpaper and Ass. Me & Archie Bunker. So then, why? how?

First Impressions:
I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar, that much is true.
Archie's good friend Paulie (six times divorced Paulie, shit ya naught) frequented said establishment. Paulie decided that I would be the woman for Archie Bunker. Paulie thought I would be better for his buddy than the beauty school drop-out, leopard-pattern-wearing, maybe a model but possibly a high-end escort, ex-girlfriend(s) who kept stealing all his money. I was fresh off the turnip truck, lost in the big city and yes, I did have tape holding my shoes together. I was not starving, tuna fish and ramen noodles are really quite filling. He did not rescue me from poverty as he likes to boast, I was a student. I did see potential for a free meal, though more importantly, he had a car and could take me on the long anticipated trip to Target so I could get a new filing cabinet. That's what was on my mind.

First date:
So we went on a date. It was a disaster. I thought that since I'd suffered through that, that I should at least get my trip to Target. Somehow we ended up dating, I'm just not good at telling people to shove off. I only saw him about once a week during my library breaks and he didn't seem that bad; no bodies in his trunk anyway. Then I found out that he was planning to propose, and I broke up with him because I didn't want to marry someone who couldn't conjugate verbs in his native language. It was over.

Loser's Parade:
Dating after that was not promising. First was Mark, the lawyer. He seemed respectable at first. He had his own practice and was opening a business which he told me was a restaurant/nightclub. Turns out, he was a sleazy ambulance chaser that hung out in emergency rooms and his "business venture" was a bare nekid ladies dancing on poles sort of thing. Really. He was honestly interviewing strippers while we were dating.
Next was John, the stockbroker who was really a very nice guy, right up 'til I found out about his leetle cocaine habit; his dirty whore of a nose kinda threw that one into the shitter.
Then I had a couple of dates with some guy from my running group which were so dull that I truly cannot recall his name. I do remember his marathon time (3:21), which was almost four minutes faster than mine causing me to be subjected to much well intentioned but really boring advice.

Reunited:
So then I called him back. I did it. I picked up the phone, called Archie Bunker and initiated the reunion. Then I married him. Now I don't like him, not really even a little. But I'm pretty sure that I am not unique; I believe that I am statistically normal. This is what it takes to get the prize (Miss H. and The Boy). That's the story. So Danielle Steele, FUCK YOU.

A visit home

This is what a short visit to my hillbilly hometown can do to me. I went there bitchy and depraved, and came back bitchy and disabled. Seriously. The photo above is what I have in my future, except I will be smoking camels and wearing hot shoes. Why not mow the lawn in stilettos if you don't actually have to walk?
Today is the first day I can function without sounding like I have Turret's syndrome, as the F-bomb has been flying outta my yap every time I move my head or twist my back. I've been walking around like I have a stick up my ass because it hurts to move even a little; it's amazing what a 'lil muscle spasm can do to your posture and disposition. GRIM.

I think this condition developed secondary to prolonged exposure to my kin, my sister-in-law in particular. She does not feel like she is fully dressed unless she is sporting a durable medical device of some sort. She rotates though the wrist brace, the neck brace, the knee thingy and the short leg walker. I'm pretty sure that my lumbar spasms started when she started rubbing her bunions during dinner. This likely initiated a reflexive flinch which was opposed by good manners, resulting in a neurological snafu rendering me visibly motionless despite an internal conflict of vast proportions; anyway I was wrecked.
Well, I'm all better now and I'm seriously ready to beat someone's ass. I have pent up aggressions and a great shitload of laundry. GD-effing housewife with a bad attitude, that's what I am today. Yesterday I was a scary GD-effing Dr. who couldn't move her head without yelling FUCK. I'm sure all those patients will be back to schedule their surgeries with me real soon.

AND as if I'm not bitchy enough, Archie Bunker was home sick today, laying around moaning like he's going to die or somefin. He's pretty sure he's got ammonia. If I have to listen to him hawk up another luggie I promise I will rip his lungs out. It's the same cold that everyone in the family has had, but of course he got the serious version, the male version is much worse. Mine was just a little sniffle, his may require emergency hospitalization, this according to the man himself. I guess he will have to go to the hospital if he ends up with his lungs ripped out. Asshole.