The Big Day for Dr. P.A.

Grab your black-tie pasties and your top-hat, make sure everything's been waxed, plucked and bleached, and don't be late to the church! Today is the day!

That guy on the left who thought it was a clown/Elvis theme is feeling pretty awkward, I just know it. DUH. People can be so inappropriate.

Anyhow, this is the date upon which Dr. PA and her chosen purse-holder enter into the horror of joint checking. I still don't understand how she could decline my fine offer of a life partnership of collecting stray cats while wearing disco fab naphthalene scented designer clothes, but I tried. I put myself out there despite my heartbreak. I coulda been the one.

As a consolation prize, I am participating as a reader. Not just any reader either, HEAD reader. The boss of the readers, and mind you I will be keeping that other bitch in line.

Also, just kidding with that raunchy assemblage above, Dr. PA is far to refined and sophisticated to be hosting that tattooed gaggle of harlots. She is a petite little flower, not the more-to-love type picture above. So for real:

Status Changes

For Dr. P.A., "dressing up" involves wearing clean scrubs and her formal Crocs. It is therefore a stunning event to see her in shoes that look they should be paired with tassels and a thong accommodating bills of varying denomination.

And why all this glitter and glam? bitch is getting married, of course. I guess we have to maintain some cosmic balance in the universe regarding the misery index. I get unmarried, she gets married. Meanwhile Dr. Ginger's chosen one is preparing to birth the messiah. I'm nearly certain that they will be calling her/him Edith.

All these major occurrences within our office, and still people keep coming in to whine about their ridiculous aches and pains, as if we have time! so thoughtless.

But back to the wedding. Who thinks that having me as a reader of verse is a good idea? What if I throw back too much of the blue drank and start some kind on meandering soliloquy on my own experiences with the blessed nuptials?

Should I invite my lawyer to be my date? He is currently one of my favorite people, after all.

Naw. He'd charge me for the time, plus I've already got the outfit all picked out & pressed for Felix, the only man I'll ever love again. When I have him all dressed up & I'm bored and home alone, I'll make some sophisticated cocktails with White Zinfandel from a box mixed with 7up, then waltz around with him to some John Tesh tunes. Or Michael Bolten. No grinding though, that would be in poor taste.

No more "adult services"? Why Craigslist, Why??

Cripes, and just when I've found myself in need of some adult services! You know you can't count on those pathetic whippersnapper punk-ass kids if you're looking for something done well, such as, say, fine embroidery, quality typesetting, or refurbishment of the reliable old family sawed-off shotgun. These are services that absolutely must be provided by an adult.

But really. I'm no dummy. I do know that those aren't the services that were advertised in that section of Craigslist. That section was for peddlin' the poon, and I'm still upset, because as the current provider for ma bebbies, it only makes sense to have a back-up plan in place; a momma's gotta do what a momma's gotta do, those Xboxes aren't going to be buying themselves!

Clearly my life goes on as I continue to try to beat Mr. Bunker back into that giant Summer's Eve box from whence he lurched, knuckles dragging and so on. Who knew that when you peel back each layer of Mr. Bunker craziness, there's another layer of crazier? How can this be? How many layers are there anyway?? Isn't there some kind of reality show for him??? hello TLC, I'm talking to you. Or Bravo. PBS? Animal Planet??

I'm happy to relate that I now have all the basics that would be required for comfort in a college dorm room. I finally have a bed, and even wireless internet, (thank you Jacob) and a very fancy 22" flat screen TV. Soon I will have a dresser and my underthings will no longer be stored in milk crates.
It is ever so much more comfortable than my previous elegantly appointed domicile. So for all you cynics out there, behold, a happy ending.

Vomit, Curse, Hate

Because in real life that's what you do in a divorce. The Eat Pray Love blahblahblah is a very sweet concept, but sadly mere mortals cannot take a year off to go "find themselves" by visiting exotic locations and humping a few foreign hotties. Not to say it's necessarily a bad idea, it's just not terribly practical.

So.
To sum up the past couple of months: Mr. Bunker has officially been kicked to the curb.
At long last I took the kids and left him alone in the family castle with his busted up hoarders collection of old clocks, spittoons, and giant shitloads of other junk which he can sort through and rearrange to his heart's content as he continues to milk his "disability".

I am missing having things like, um, a bed, and a dresser and sheets and dishes and salt and pepper shakers, but it appears that I have excaped with my sanity and ma bebbies, so fuck you Mr. Bunker.

And that's MS. Bunker, thankyouverymuch.

Edith's beauty tips

Suppose you go for a semi-long run in some shitty shoes that are a little past their prime and you mangle your toenails all to hell. What are you going to do, sacrifice the whole sandal season??? I hardly think so. Since Chicago's sandal season is only like 2 weeks long, we can't trifle with limitations.

So if cosmetics are meant to enhance our natural beauty, drain the blisters, glue those bitches back on, and work with your natural palette.

Yes my toes are long and bony. I can swing through the trees and pick up the soap.

Cubs Win!!

There is really no excuse to turn down tickets to a Cubs game. Sure the team sucks, and I can't honestly say I'm a Cubs fan, but I'm a huge Wrigley Field fan. I lucked into some rooftop seats and for the crosstown classic, no less. I checked to see which hat suited me better; looked like it was going to be Sox black & white for a little while, but I went with Cubbie blue at the end because it matched my outfit better. I know. Call me names, I'll live. Below is a picture of the ONE pennant they won, and if you can't read it or don't know, it says 1906.

This is not a sports blog so I will not dwell on the details of the game. The important part is that the Cubs won, which means I made a good hat choice.

Now, for the salacious fun.

The main reason I was invited was because a civic minded congregant at my church wanted me to meet the hottie above. He's a member of our sister congregation out in the 'burbs.

He just sold his business for 2 billion, yes "B"-billion dollars. He wants to do some philanthropic type business, so our mutual friend thought it would be good for us to meet so I could find a benefactor for our little charity clinic. I think the toddler on his left could have been his date. If I hadn't had the beer I wouldn't have snickered, but well....what are you going to do? give her some graham crackers & set up a play date with my kids ?? heh heh. snort.

Stanley Cup and Other Sporting News

Apparently everyone on the entire planet gives a shit about the World Cup. My interest level thus far been wavering somewhere between miniscule and non-existent; this despite Dr. Ginger's overwrought ebullience.

The good news is that after a brief perusal of this month's Vanity Fair I'm beginning to experience a glimmer of interest. I'll have to review the article in it's entirely before I decide for sure. I guess it will depend largely on the degree of illustration.

Moving on to the other sporting news:

Thankfully our hometown Hawks spanked those friggin' annoying Flyers, the manners of their fans are abysmal. The ENTIRE CITY of big babies blamed everyone but Darth Vadar and Voldemort for their loss. The even booed our hero, No Teef Keef (six of his choppers were pulverized in an earlier game). Rude!

As pleased as I was with their victory, I would appreciate if they could conduct any future melees in the street on someone else's block.

Almost every single patient on my schedule canceled today, which is good because it was nearly impossible to get in the front door. A sweet little granny with a bad hip and a cane was one of the three patients who kept their appointments. Apparently she's been firmly beneath a rock and was unaware that the parade was scheduled to iterfere with her appointed time. She did manage to enlist the help of two young men (which means that they were less than 70) who gallantly escorted her through the crowd.

These pictures were taken from my office window, out of which I was hanging while wearing my fair-weather-fan jersey and throwing ticker tape. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

Summertime

Graduations, weddings, birfdays, gardening, summer camps, wardrobe changes, insect bites, poison ivy, school's out, fishing trips, family visits to the hillbilly kinfolk, all contingent on shaking the money maker to finance so much activity. I sat down with my calendar, stared for a while, and walked away feeling like I've been slapped on both sides of the head.
So much to cram into a few short months.

The fishing trip is the most exciting prospect, and I'm pretty sure I can piggyback it with a Seattle conference and call it business travel. Of course I'll have to round up my psychic, my brow tweezer, my shrink, my chakra fluffer and my sherpa because I don't go anywhere without them; who does, really?

OK, I admit that my inspiration for the last paragraph came from eavesdropping on the parents that one encounters at the local skating rink. This particular rink offers lessons to the many young, academically gifted (whether they want to be or not), all-round completely talented, beautiful and privileged young girls in preparation for their upcoming eating disorders. The mother involved in said conversation was distraught about how many nannies she could take on the European vacation; just one for the twins and the french tutor? or both twin nannies? Oh the painful dilemmas. If there is going to be casting for "The Real Housewives of Chicago" I would recommend they start their search at the skating rink or the nearby dance studio where the moms can also participate in the recital. What is up with all those giganto lips anyway? Do they have to plump up everything so that their geriatric husbands can find them?
bitchy catty me. sorry.

Chicago Architecture/Field Trip

I was the designated mommybot charged with chaperoning the third grade on their final field trip, which was a double-decker bus ride through our own fair city.

This means that I arrived drunk and passed a bottle of Jack around on the bus, and if one of the little tykes hesitated I said "shut up you baby, all the cool kids are doing it". Then I shank-eyed the teacher and told her she needed to learn how to control the little monsters, whacked her with my Gucci bag and passed out in the back seat with a lit cigarette. HAHA. Kidding. I gave up cigarettes long ago.

It is fun to be a tourist in your own town, because usually we're all too busy plotting our next crime to look up and enjoy the architecture, which in Chicago is truly magnificent. We had a perfect day to have both third grade classes trapped on one vehicle. This makes chaperoning relatively easy as they cannot escape.

If the kids were assigned to share the most memorable part of the tour it would be what is depicted in the photo below. And no, it's not the Aon building, nor is it the striking bandshell in Millennium Park. Try to guess.

Ok, I'll tell. It's the lack of the hat on the tour-guide's head.

Much to the delight of the third grade, his ball-cap blew off while he was in the middle of a Mies van der Rohe anecdote, those crazy German architects will getcha every time!

Of course the kids couldn't give a shit less about the architect story, but dude's Cubs had flew off and it was JOYFUL. Of course the fact that he demanded that the bus pull over and that he then proceeded to chase his hat in the wind through four lanes of traffic did not serve to quell the enthusiasm.

That is the part that will be remembered by the children of the third grade.

Just to share a little, here's the Hancock building, right next to Water Tower Place, aka "Where Oprah Lives".

The driver of the bus was obviously somewhat new to the job, because on the way back to the school (about 3 blocks from the Hancock) he managed to take a swing through the scenic projects. Maybe he was just trying to maintain some balance, I dunno. We did get a couple of salutes from the good folks in the Cabrini projects, fortunately firearms were not involved. Could have been bad for me, what being the chaperone I should have worn my kevlar after all, I guess

Why Chaz, Why?

I get it that she wanted to be a he; she had some gender issues and apparently always had a hankerin' for the ladies. She wanted to wear menswear with ties and big watches with altimeters and use aftershave. After she shaved. Her face.

I can live with all that; deep down she was a dude. My question, then is this: Why go through the whole reassignment thing then call yourself "Chaz"??? Chaz is the gayest gay name a gay ever had. Ever. To my knowledge, there is no straight man on planet earth named Chaz.

So is he a gay man now? That would take it to a new level of confusion for me.

The Clean Garage

t may not look clean, not exactly.

According to Mr. g.d. Bunker, standing there with his chest all puffed out, proud as an Amish kid with his first bong, it is all taken care of, cleaned up and sorted out. So rejoice &" just quit bitching"already.

Is it so horribly wrong for me to question why, if it's all cleaned out, can I still not park a car in there (four years and counting), or, for that matter, walk through it? In fact the only passage would be by using the ceiling joists like monkey bars & swinging through. Fortunately, I can do that with my toes; one of my more attractive attributes, although difficult if I'm wearing a skirt or carrying groceries. And the damn kids keep falling on their heads, those little assholes.

This is a minor detail which only the harshest of critics would notice, of course. You see, it's not that it's all completely cleaned out and finished, what do I expect a miracle?? However, it may as well be finished and clean, because he has gotten enough boxes and other types of containers that it could easily all be packed up and put neatly away. Duh! Problem solved.

The issue is, of course, that now in addition to all the shit that was in there in the first place there is also a tower of moldy moving crates, cookie tins, and hat boxes, so nothing has really changed. That is unless you're looking through eyes that are supplied by crazy brains, then you can see a beautiful transformation. I guess I've got some serious glue huffing to do.

Here is a random mother with her two glorious children in front of Soldier Field. This was for a little Saturday morning run. The weather was perfect, the course was along the spectacular lakefront, but that didn't help me with the last couple of miles. I was really only (hardly even) ready to run 6 miles, the extra four were some kind of cruel joke.

Unfortunately Mr. Bunker showed up to cheer us on and to reassure me that it's not so much that I'm out of shape, more just that I'm getting old. asshole.

He only came because he heard that they give away a lot of free stuff at the finish line; now he's got some Cliff bars and massage coupons which may now be added to his ever increasing heap-o-shit. He also grabbed up a few t-shirts even though they were not available in fat man sizes; he's planning on loosing a few pounds (so he can find a girlfriend) & expects that they will fit him soon enough.

I finished the dumb race and my legs still feel like they're on backwards. At least my kids were impressed--enough to fight about who got to wear my medal to school today, anyway.

I

Catching up!

This is one hazmat situation which occurred when Mr. Bunker attempted to demonstrate his culinary prowess. It looks like the semi-digested stomach contents of a mother swine post slop hork-down. Or maybe something that would contain possum or perhaps even a freshly killed pigeon still containing the BBs that felled it.
I tell him to pack up and get out and he tries to win me back with this mess? If you think it looks bad from this view, just imagine cutting into it and finding big lumps of hot greasy baked avocado. If the thought doesn't make the back of your mouth taste like you just puked a tiny bit then you're a stronger person than I.

Also, lets don't overlook the recent passage of Mother's day, when as usual, I got a brand spankin' new vacuum cleaner. Naturally I've been so overwhelmed with excitement that I've been rendered mute for almost a month. So many attachments, so little time!
This sort of feels like having someone shit on your head without even buying you a drink. Not that I would know, all wild speculation of course.


So anyway, whip my marriage with your pimp cane and kick it out a high window onto the ho stroll, because this stinky old trick needs to be put out of it's misery.
Outside of that everything's GREAT!

A Little Good News About the Recession

Probably you're wondering what possible good news could exist in this entire epic financial clustertaxbooblation. Well, leave it to me friend. I can hone in on a nugget of happiness (of the schadenfreude variety) faster that a starving feral cat can disembowel a soft fluffy baby bunny.

So then, here it is, the good news:
Most of the "Real Housewives of Atlanta" are broke!
Yes, it comes as a shock. This includes the radiant natural beauty Kim Zolciak (above). I don't know which is worse, her behavior or the fact that a I know about it.

She's a wretched home wrecking bimbo who was engaged to her sugar daddy. He financed all her excesses in shopping, shit parenting, cellulite vacuuming, and wig wearing. One bit of a problem with their engagement was that her intended was already married, and when the wedding plans fell through she announced that it was OK, really because it turns out that she prefers the company of women over men after all. Particularly in that way. Fancy that!

Her utterly vain & vapid existence makes me feel deeply intellectual and introspective; I suppose that's why I like her. It did always piss me off though, that she had so much money to piss away. This even though she had to quit beauty school as she couldn't keep up with the academic portion because there was to0 much chemistry to learn (truth! season two).

Anyway, the party's over, and I guess she'll resume her walk of shame to her hostess job at TGI Friday's, and maybe even score a few day shifts at a gentleman's club. She'll surely have to start shopping at Payless Shoe Source instead of Neiman's, smoke some generic smokes, and even wear the same wig for more than one week. Perhaps she'll have to fire her nanny so that she may more directly ignore her children.

Hard times have fallen on others as well; specifically all those ridiculous punks who scored bogus marketing positions after dropping out of the Public Relations program or the Criminal Justice Associate's degree at the local community college. How was it that they were making so much money anyway?? I know that this is getting to be long and I'm fully embracing my embitterment, but how is it that there were so many 200K jobs to be had by people who's main accomplishment seemed to be mastery of a TiVo? My Garsh!

With the temporary restoration of a more proper earning order, I can look down my nose, sip daintily from my china teacup, gently pat my lips dry with a crisp linen napkin, put on airs of superiority, all while I continue to pay for unemployment benefits of indefinite duration. And haul around a certain deadbeat collecting "disability".

In keeping with this glut of glad tidings, behold my new shoes!
Probably liquidated from Kim Z's collection, these are made by Jil Sanders and sparkle a little bit. They are a tiny bit uncomfortable, but we must suffer for our art.


This second picture was taken by someone (no names here) on my payroll with instructions to photograph the shoes. THE SHOES. Are there shoes in the picture? This is digital photography. Where are the shoes?? Yes my skirt is hiked up to prevent shadows on the shoes. So inapproprite, I know. Despite the glaring lack of shoes, I have opted to include it out of pure vanity because it looks like I have some mean kankles in the first picture.

Oahu Stairway to Heaven Hike & other nice things

This is Sandy Beach on Oahu, which is where you should go if you want to know what it feels like to go through a spin cycle in a Maytag. The beach is beautiful, the surfer boys who frequent the beach are also beautiful. The waves are a little too big, and even though I'm a good swimmer I was pretty sure I was going to drown a couple of times. The price of survival included having sea water drip out of my nose for the following day or so, and some sand which became so lodged upon my person that I could probably produce a grain or two right now if you give me a minute. My hosts found this tremendously amusing.

Next is Kailua beach. The warm water is some impossible shade of blue (not accurately represented by this photo) that I previously thought was restricted to interior designer's vocabularies and towels in fancy spas.
The sand is white and smooth, and it is rather awe inspiring to see it all in nature. The waves are small enough that the kids were allowed to frolic even though Mr. Bunker was certain an attack of sharks, jellyfish, killer whales or rouge waves was eminent; well almost certain enough to get off his ass instead of just shouting, but not quite (the sea breeze was noted to dampen noise in most appealing way).

We did several great hikes, but certainly the most memorable was the one known as "Stairway to Heaven".
This is closed to the public but I was permitted to participate because I'm sooo fab. Not really, but my friends who live there know the people you need to know.

"It's a great climb with amazing views, everyone wants to do this climb, you have to be in pretty good shape to do it, just grown-ups, no kids no dogs", "blah blah blah" and so on.

Most of the focus seemed to be on who had adequate cardio fitness to make it; I guess it's my own fault that I failed to mention that I'm afraid of heights which can come in to play if you are climbing ladders up the side of a fucking mountain.

The climb is almost four thousand steps up to the summit. The stairs were built by the Coast Guard for the purpose of sacrificing virgins during wartime. It starts pretty gently, and by the time I figured out that I was going to be scared, my stomach had already turned into a tight ball and fallen right out of my ass. This helped in that I did not need a snack for the duration of the climb.

When I got to the first landing I realized that I had made a terrible mistake and requested helicopter rescue. My very excellent guide, Joe, gently told me that I was acting like a giant pussy and would regret it for the rest of my life on earth if I didn't finish.
Not exactly those words you know, but that was what my ears heard. So I proceeded upward and soon found myself in a cloud which was helpful because I couldn't see how far up I was, however it made me so cold that I started to shiver and my hands got numb which made it hard to cling to the rungs. I made it to the top and scrawled my name in the book with my numb hands, so there is actual proof.

I survived and will probably be somewhat boastful, and act as if I just trotted up there instead of whimpering like a freshly Simonized American Idol contestant.

You can see everything from up there, even the "Swan" site from "Lost".

Where were you Sawyer, when I needed to be rescued?

The Episode where Edith Throws Archie out

OR does she shank him in the night and sweetly whisper,"it'll only hurt for a minute, and don't worry these aren't the good sheets?"

OR maybe she chops off his noodle, stews it with garlic and bay leaves, lovingly & deftly cuisinarts it with roasted garlic and cilantro, and passes it off as humus served on whole grain crackers?

OR they go to a romantic island, ceremoniously renew their wedding vows and begin a new chapter of their lives as soul mates? (that one made me throw up just a little)

Anyway.

I guess it's better to have all the drama at once, why drag things out? Boot the bonehead during my office start-up, then when it's done my home and office will be in strict adherence with feng shui and Zen and I'll hum a happy working song while enjoying my home which will be devoid of the mountains of clearance table shit which are the current bane of my existence. That and the being that continues to procure these goods during hours of the day that should be occupied by some (any) type of gainful employment. Please note that there is absolutely nothing appealing about a man home lounging in his boxers at noon on a weekday. NOTHING. Unless, I suppose, the man is Johnny Depp.

Vacation

Sorry, no provocative pics of Dr. Ginger. Not yet anyway. I think he's waiting for the big moving day to bare his chest while lifting those heavy boxes as Dr. PA and I get our manicures. I will be ready with the camera, and I'm not sure about his shoe size.

For a brief and shining moment it looked as if Mr. Bunker could be staying in chilly Chicago while me & the chirruns would kick back in the sun and surf. This nearly came to pass because his reverse business acumen, specifically, his failure to notice that one of his tenants (one of the two commercial tenants, the ones with the big rents) had not paid rent for an entire year.

How do you not notice that? More importantly, how do you not notice that and then proceed to endlessly and loudly impart your advice upon your spouse about how she should run HER business? bugger off already.

For one glorious night I went to sleep with some kind of weird tic that was later diagnosed as a tiny smile.My face didn't really have time to get used to it and I think I was scaring my kids. The scowl has now returned; at least people recognize me now. Mr. Bunker has dealt with his pressing business issues and is busy packing his mankini. yuck.

We are going to be visiting friends who happen to be vegetarians, which means that Mr. Bunker will probably be packing 23 pounds of beef jerky and salami, lest he go into some sort of beef and garlic withdrawal. I wonder if this will be noticed by the drug sniffing dogs at the airport.

The airport should be interesting because there will probably be some TSA agents jamming ice-picks into theirs eyes so they have an excuse to get away from that full body scanner when mah boo comes through.

Nothing like looking sexy on the beach!

The sad Troof about the menfolk

The hot dude who looks like he's bathed this month and recently groomed himself, and not let himself go entirely while his wife pays the bills, is most assuredly a great big homosexual.

Alternatively, the gent below is the one who will hone in on me every time. Guaranteed. He'll follow me around like a stray pup and send me flowers.

I'll spend time & money to go shopping with beefcake gay hottie that so that I look nice with the end result of appealing to someone I'd rather cross the continent to avoid. Why do I bother trying to look good again?

New World Order

Before
and
After



Now that Dr. P.A. is scheduled for marriage, she's at long last figured out how use hosiery for good instead of evil. Not that the white cotton gym socks weren't sexy in their own way, like, in some alternate frat-boy dirty-laundry parallel universe type of way, but look now-- You so so fancy!

Since her days of being the token fashion eyesore are apparently on the dwindle, AND we have the high-end luxe Dr. Ginger on the payroll, we're moving our show to a dazzling new office.
We've outgrown our current space and besides, Ginger's all, like, "well where's my desk" and "I need a window with a view of the park" blah blah blah.
(Maybe save some of those old gym socks P.A., just in case we ever need to muffle the Ginger)

After a few grueling months of looking at office space & listening to whining realtors, we've found our happy place. This is extremely exciting; we are now poised to take over the world.

The ink's almost dry, the deal is finally proceeding since we sort of ditched the devil's spawn realtors who were killing us slowly while they quibbled over the commission. Yes, I know times are tough, and I appreciate you learning my kid's names, Mr. Gucci shoes, but time to quit being such a giant frenulum (not the one on the tongue) already.

On the first of May we move to our new office where Dr. PA won't have to sit on my lap and Dr. Ginger will be allowed to have a chair of his very own (sorry to have to represent you with a picture of a femme, Ginger, but it's in keeping with the theme).

First Chicago, then the world!

So I'll take my current viable practice, borrow myself out for equipment, sign a long lease, mire myself in debt, then have Obamacare descend on me like a ton of bricks. YAY!

Trollops! Everywhere!

All these awful tramps after my sweet baby boy. What's a mother to do? How can a six year-old be expected to hold up against their trashy womanly wiles?? The current offender is nearly 3 full months older than he! I'm sure there are laws prohibiting this sort of outrage.

Last year it was that promiscuous little JAP Syndey; not in an exotic Asian "Jap" way, but rather the "I wanna got to Miami" and Bat Mitzva type JAP (that would be "Jewish American Princess" for anyone who is reading in Indiana and truly stumped). In order to correct this awkward situation I explained all about how, if he married Sydney, he would be forced to go to medical school AND he'd never have Christmas, AND the joys of bacon sandwiches would be a sweet gustatory memory of the past. In addition, we went and observed behavior and services rendered at some of the high-end salons up on the north shore until he fully understood that he would never, ever, be able to afford her.

The year before it was the Spanish diplomat's strumpet, Maria. A few carefully thought-out calls to the embassy about the obvious FACT that the trick was some kind of Jr. Al Qaeda operative-in-training...why else the olive skin and the long jet black hair? And come to think of it, her chair was always facing east. Coincidence?? I think not. Well anyway, that particular little running sore finally retreated back to her own land.

This year the offender has surfaced. LANIQUE. Draw your own conclusions. She's tall and exotic and easily the smartest girl in the class. I told The Boy that it's just fine so long as all he wants to do is copy off her paper, but now I'm seeing these little googoo eyes, and I'm just sick over it! SICK! She's been perfectly agreeable until about yesterday, now this warped seduction. Pretty soon she'll be wanting to come over so they can ride bikes together. I'm sure the moment that they're out of my sight she'll be showing him her knickers. Appalling.

Don't worry honey, momma will check out all your girlfriends for you, momma won't let anyone dirty get through (please review Pink Floyd Lyrics, "Mother")

Lanique's dad is some kind of pro-athlete type, and although I'm sure I could whip his ass, I'm not positive about my boy. I don't know if being a teacher's helper once a week is enough. It could be that I need to be there more. This motherhood thing is difficult, new challenges all the time.

Today's Clearance Offerings

Yup, I've allowed Mr. Bunker out of the house with cash money again. Damn.

Eight boxes of Bayer assburns, to which Mr. Bunker is severely allergic. In the absence of such an allergy, this stuff just serves to upset everyone else's stomach (hence it's placement on the clearance table).

Two Glade air-fresheners, "Holiday Cookie" scent; vile (see parenthetic statement above).

Three bottles of shampoo that smells like congealed vomit with tones of spoiled salmon and Limburger cheese.

One wad of napkins from the coffee shop.

The astute observer is surely now puzzled and having doubts that the Advair and Ventolin (prescription only) were found on the clearance table. Well, bully for you astute observer, they were indeed not on the clearance table, but rather on top of the newspaper box outside the store in a radio shack bag; who wouldn't want to get their meds off the sidewalk??? Free! Fancy That! Now we just need someone with COPD who can use it. With the savings achieved by stealing the napkins, we'll probably be able to make the mortgage. Hawk the Advair, and we'll be sittin' purdy.

Inflicted with the SADS

No, its not SADS like "Seasonal Affective Disorder Syndrome", that's for pussies. And no, it's not "Sudden Arrhythmia Death Syndrome", that's for stiffs. It's just SADS because that's what happens when you get through January and February and your fuckin' whiskey's still all frozed up. It's hard to drown your sorrows when you can't get the good stuff outa the bottle. On the bright side, it makes for a good weapon just in case someone might want to give one's deadbeat spouse an affectionate tap on his skull. Probably just as effective as that prison trick I learned involving a sock and some pennies, never discount intelligence gleaned from those prison bitches!

Anyway, I have determined that part of living in the great north is leaving for a week or so around this time of year. It is important to see the sun, otherwise you will start eating the paint off the walls while watching some crap like "Judge Judy" while clad in garments made of way too much elastic and velor.
So it's time to beg steal or borrow my way to someplace where the sun shines for more than 16 minutes a week.

Now one of the problems is that since my sandals and little halter dresses have been packed away for like, one million years, my pedicure is a little ragged. It's going to take a little grooming on a few counts for me to be "beach ready", know what I'm sayin?

Dear Dr. Divine Empress FK, are you finding the green more pleasing?

Hope springs eternal

It puts the patients in the rooms. It sets up office procedures and it schedules surgeries. It stocks the rooms and orders supplies. It is punctual, polite, neat and tidy. It does not steal my prescription pad or get caught humping anyone in the lab after hours.

I will learn it's name and begin making eye contact with it after it has perfect attendance for three to four days.

Then she'll gain my trust, steal the money, sell the drugs and run off with Dr. Ginger. Or maybe Dr. P.A; that'd at least save me having to get her a wedding gift.

Stupid Valentine's Day

Or Valentimes, as Mr. Bunker calls it; even the kids find this annoying. This year he managed to barf up another dress for me by my favorite granny knitwear designer. He got the size right this time, now I just have to wait about 50 years while my dowager hump fills out.

Now for the bad news. My long-term life plan has been cruelly kicked in the nether regions by the ridiculous Dr. P.A. , all as part of some stupid Valentines stunt. ENGAGED!! She's become engaged. fool.

She might have been drunk I guess, but still! I guess she envies my connubial bliss, but who wouldn't, really?

I was counting on her to be my crazy cat lady life partner after Mr. Bunker gets the boot. I figured we would grow old together in our outdated designer clothing and ratty fur coats. We'd drink whiskey & smoke camels all day long. But nooo, she's running off with some tool she's only known for 7 years! Sure he seems like a decent enough guy and he did come up with an acceptable Christmas present, but why rush in to something like this? Who even knows what he could be hiding? He may have a whole secret storage unit full of dead bodies or worse, broken lamps, random items from the clearance table and a giant collection of pez dispensers. This is madness! Marry in haste, repent in leisure, that's what I always say (as I leisurely repent).

She's even already been married once, and I'm of the mind that if one wishes for some new china and towels, one ought just to boost some money from of the kid's college fund, no need for all the pageantry.

The first marriage was quite brief, and the wedding was probably fairly inexpensive, it usually is if nobody is of drinking age. If you're thinking "shotgun" well you're just all wrong because they are not shotgun people at all. I'm guessing that they're more likely large caliber handgun or rifle type folks. So even though that coupling wasn't without its flaws, isn't once enough? She got a superb child out of the deal and.....wait a minute. Maybe it's happened again! One in the oven?? Never considered that angle.

Anyway Dr. P.A., since you liked the understated elegance of this gown when I posted a picture of it some time ago, I guess you can wear it. I was thinking I was going to wear it to the auto show, but it's all yours. See, even when I'm crushed I'm thinking about the happiness of others. I can't help it, that's just the way I am.

Back to the GD inbox

That's a picture of my lovely child looking angelic during her turn as Mary in the Christmas pagent. I had to put her picture up first because the rest of this post is going to be a bit of a tirade. So take a moment, gaze upon the unsullied beauty of this sweet countenance and know that she is a normal, well adjusted child (even if her short story was entitled "The Throw-up"), and know that she likes me. For now, anyway.
Moving onward to the things that are irking me today:
That gentleman is NOT sitting on the commode in my office. Granted my office is not perfect, but it's not a complete dump; we do have indoor heat and plumbing, a splendid location, and we are somewhat flexible with the staff (they do whatever they want) who all manage to work well together. So, WHY THE FUCK CAN'T I FIND A MEDICAL ASSISTANT?? The pay is competitive, the facility is too small but decent nonetheless, and I'm losing track of the "seemingly perfect" MA's that don't manage to actually show up for work. This is annoying, and Dr. Ginger is going to be licensed pretty soon which means he won't want to tolerate being called "Mr. Bitch" or "cupcake" by me & Dr. P.A. forever.

Our last offer proffered proceeded to the point of acceptance by the candidate. A start date was agreed upon, then before that date arrived she called the office to let us know exactly which of the duties outlined during the interview she would not be able to perform. Do I need a new hire coming in telling me what she won't do? Oh, nay hussy. Seems that she answers to a higher calling which would prevent her from doing anything but direct patient care, aka, no paperwork; she is after all working on her nursing degree and we all know they don't have to do any paperwork, right?

I din't have the time or inclination to explain to her that there really is no ladder to climb to success, but rather a mountain of paperwork to scale. So she's busted back to her crappy $11.00/hour job where she can focus on patient care.

This exhausts our pool our pool of applicants about whom we have solid references, now it's time to turn to the nearly 300 resumes kicked into my in-box from our online ad. This means basically that my inbox is stuffed with resumes from more psychology and criminal justice majors than you could shake a stick at. Dang.

blog note: I fixed the comment thing so you can get back to your catty comments, P.A./anon