Wednesday, June 29, 2011

You Want To Do What To My Boobies?

Vote for me to be the 2011 Blogger Idol here! Pretty please? I'll let you see my boob. BTW- I am listed as Cat Rainwater on the voting page.

A few weeks ago I mentioned that my penalty for living to see forty is a mammogram. I finally went last Friday- mostly I waited because I Google searched mammogram comments and none of them were positive reviews. They were full of pain, anguish and mother fuckers. Seriously- I didn't find one comment remotely close to  "I wanna do it again- and soon!".  So I get there and check in and take stock and order of the thirty people sitting in the lobby. Great- this will take like a decade.  The loud inconsiderate bitch  young lady at the counter asks me why I am there. Oh I don't know, I saw the cold coffee and Bill Cosby reruns and had to stop in and indulge. "I'm here for a mammogram". She asks me what kind. Um, the kind where they squish by boobies into thin tan pancakes and defy God's perfect round titty plan? Is this a pop quiz? "A regular one I suppose". She proceeds to let her coworker, and everyone in the lobby, know that I didn't know what kind of mammogram I needed. So I look at the two girls and say "Sorry, i'm not a doctor. I just play one in bed". I guess we were a little loud because when I turned around to grab a seat, everyone was looking at my chest. Shit I hope no none had x-ray vision because they will see that my leopard print bra does not match my hot pink panties and if they can see, those fuckers better give me a tip. Just sayin'.

The booby crushing machine.
Invented by a man , no doubt.
The most uncomfortable part,  besides having the girls caught in a vice, was that the edges of the platform are straight and very square. This just proves a virgin kept in a bubble his entire life man made this machine. First, which one of you ladies has a rectangular torso much less boob? Anyone? No, I thought not. Seriously, why isn't that plate curved so you can step into it and flop a girl onto it without having to be party to a lady cut in half Vegas magic trick? Then- to get a picture- my boob must be compressed within an inch of it's life. After that- I will never press another flower. Like ever. Second, no way if a similar device was needed to screen for penis cancer would it involve compression of any sort. It would require a dark room, hot nurse and maybe a DVD player. You guys have no idea how sensitive lady chesticals are- think stubbing your unit -or worse. That's how a mammogram feels. Someone could of at least offered me a glass of wine. Asses. It was also uncomfortable to have some lady I have never seen before, and hope I never do again,  all up in my business handling the girls like they were juggling balls. I didn't get tips for that little encounter either.

This is my boob with a  little bit of worry inside that red star.

Grabby Lady says everything looks good to her and off I go to shower off and feel less dirty. Imagine my surprise yesterday after lunch when I get a call telling me they need another couple of pictures of Right Boob. I try to schedule next week when I will be exquisitely unemployed and on Skinny Cat Time. They say, "No. It needs to be today. At 3:20." Gulp. Immediately I deploy the ultra 911 BFF in distress beacon, known as The Bat Signal. Carrie answers first, I tell her the scoop, she tells me she will be anywhere I need her to be in 20 minutes. See- that's why she's had BFF status forever. When the chips are down- she kicks it into Honey Badger gear and prepares for battle. We discuss what it could be: a cyst, a tumor,  an alien, maybe a Macy's gift card.

So I get there and told Carrie to stay put in case this is an in and out deal. Another boob squishing date comes and goes. Then the Radiologists says she wants to see this spot on a sonogram and asks me to wait in the half naked lady lounge. There I am, in my one button cape, trying to keep the girls from sneaking out of the sides. Thank gosh there is coffee in this joint! However, there are two women between me and the coffee. One looks to be eighty and it appears she has never ever once shaved her legs. The other is a woman about my age and she is flying her freak flag. High. Her gut has escaped from the front of her cape and her left boob is laying on her arm. She knows it and does not care one little bit. Um, never mind on the coffee I will just sit here and be thirsty. I get called quickly for the sonogram and the tech spends fucking eternity pushing, looking and snapping pictures. So I snap one also. She gives me crazy eye. I give her it's my fucking titty eye back. Radiologists comes in to let me know that the area is "suspicious". Suspicious like a hooker in a pair of Manolo's? Like a man dressed in black creeping outside a window? Or suspicious like my boob needs to be lopped off? No, suspicious like I need a biopsy. Tomorrow. Geeez, now I REALLY need wine! I call Carrie- tell her the turn of events. We decide the radiologist is retarded and make plans for our Friday evening sleep over, because no matter what comes next, we go on.

Did you vote for me to be the 2011 Blogger Idol? Told you I would let you see my boob! If not- well now you've seen my boob- so go earn your pervy peep and  vote now! BTW- I am listed as Cat Rainwater on the voting page.

Go Vote- Or Else

So some of you know I made the top 12 cut on Blogger freakin' Idol! Guess what- Week One voting just opened. So be a good Honey Badger and go vote for me please. I'll show you my boob later today. No really, I will. Go ahead. Ok- pretty please.

Monday, June 27, 2011

Free Mercy! Four Days Only!

After you read here- I have some  new Shoe Porn for you  here!

It's my last week in the 8-5 rat race. After Thursday, I don't have to play SUV bumper cars on the highway trying to get to work. No more muscling my way past the slow idiots in the fast lane and playing chicken with the semis that won't let me merge to sweet freedom and my exit from the freeway. No more slow limp home as I try to motivate the poor bastards who have a nagging wife and troop of screaming monkey kids to look forward to when they get home. The ones that try hard to make  the rest  of us miserable because  they won't move the fuck out of everyone elses way. Seriously, if you have no reason waiting for you to get home- a reason you are so excited about that you're tail gating and indiscriminately flipping the bird to random drivers- because all you want to do is get there- then you need to adjust course and maybe do a little soul searching while you are on the shoulder of the freeway. Not the freaking passing lane. And not in front of me. I will go all Mad Max on your bumper.

Today I had big plans to get through the shit ton of emails in my inbox. One hundred seventy six to be exact. New I wants, I needs and pushed onto my plates just since Friday.  All right universe- a challenge I see. I start going through them busting ass to get each done and then move it to the appropriate file so whomever the poor sucker that replaces me is- will not have a shit attack trying to figure out where everything is filed. I restocked all of the office supplies and ordered back ups, programmed the giant printer that is one cell of DNA away from being a Transformer and relabeled my files so if New Person can read they can find what they need. Seriously- I wasn't even on my bloggity today. If you suffered from bitch fest withdraws- well you can just thank my employer. Imagine my surprise when some Jackhole cruises over to say, "You're not busy today are you Short Timer- you're just burning time".  What part of my hair up in a clip, a stack of empty fucking files on my desk, a label maker and reading glasses screams "not busy"? So I somewhat politely point to my desk and say, "Nope , not busy. Thought it would be fun to tear my desk apart and put it back together because I have nothing better to do". To which I hear, "You could clean out the refrigerators up stairs". Uh oh, y'all. Double fucking run for you life uh-oh. I will not kill him, I will not kill him mercy at least until Thursday afternoon.

Homicide diverted by the thought of spending July 4th in the slammer and onward through the list of forty new people to on board, set up training and accounts for. Then I make the mistake of taking a quick coffee break. I decide to check my Face Book for a little social media fix- where I update it with a battle cry of sorts. Yes, I like that particular battle cry update so much that I copy/paste it over to the SC Face Book. It essentially says- look at me- only four fucking days of slave camp left! So I go about the business of getting the accounts set up. One by one- each subsequent account making me more irritable and tired. Know what will make this task easier? Copy  and paste will. After three solid hours of constant posting I am done. Now they are blissfully off to the Business Manager to approve and then maybe I can go hug my bloggity and say a few cuss words. Enter the Business Manager with a print out and a look on his face that I can't decide is a suppressed smile or gas. He must be here to give me a giant gold star for getting through that monster list so quickly! Nope. He asks me to go make a few changes before he approves my tickets and the entire world sees them- there seems to be a typo of sorts. You bet - what do I need to change you ask? Any guesses?

"Oh look - only four more days with a job- sweet f*cking freedom!"

Oh shit. Oh my mother fucking goddess. I copy/pasted my FB status onto the tickets. Good thing I already resigned. Better thing is that this particular Manager has a fantastic since of humor. Free mercy all around today. Zoinks!

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Sunday Landscape

This is the awesome art of my friend Marianne McGrath. She's an art Professor at Temple College in Temple, TX. She mentors young artists. She has this amazing ability to transform textiles into stunning landscape. Maybe that's why her art speaks to me- I have a soulful affair with landscape and plants. Most importantly, to me anyway, is that she is a true friend. To the core. I adore and love this lady. She came with The Man package- and I have told him that should he ever leave me- I get custody of Marianne and because of that- he'll never go since no one wants to lose The Marianne. Sometimes I get to see her creations in progress in the studio behind her home and I am always stunned, always amazed and always secretly jealous that I could never make sculpture spring to life like she can.



An excerpt I found from Marianne:
Human migration from city to suburb continues to change the American landscape. In my longing for the landscape I knew as a child, and witnessing what lies there today, I created this work merging three experiences-one witnessed, one remembered, one imagined-into a singular landscape. A field of roses, recalling both the name and processes of the land, rise on rods out of plywood roofs, reflecting the landscape as it is today. The roses, made of unfired clay and preserved in wax, are incredibly fragile and speak of the fleeting nature of memories and lost landscapes where these memories were formed. My ancestors came from Ireland in the 1860’s and settled on the then new plains of the American West. They carved up and divided lands, planting crops to aid the human growth that was occurring all around them. I grew up in those fields where my family made their livelihood for generations, but today where there were once rows of crops, there are suburban streets leading to tract housing, shopping malls, and freeway over passes. The idea of landscapes lost consumes my current work, and the processes, materials and forms from that landscape are reminiscent in this work. “What I See, What I Saw” is based on a ranch where I grew up and tells the story of my earliest memories of this landscape as a field of grain as far as the eye could see. When asked, my father explained it was called the Rose Ranch after the scores of rose plants my great grandmother once tended to at the spot, and in that instant I saw that sea of grain as a sea of roses. That sea of roses is now a sea of rooftops. A field of hand-formed earthenware roses rise on rods out of roofs of plywood homes. The roses, made of unfired clay and preserved in wax, are incredibly fragile and speak of the fleeting nature of memories and the lost landscape were this memory in particular was formed. The rods and plywood houses are made of industrial materials that now fill the landscape. This work speaks of the human idea and need for home, the physical migration that pushes this need, and the price the landscape pays for this migration

Marianne installing her amazing pieces.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Ask & You Shall Possibly Regret That You Did

First- check this out! Blogger Idol Top 12 announcement. I nearly pissed myself waiting...

I like getting questions from the bloggity readers. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. Most times. There are few that make me get all pissy and ready to fight- but since those pussies usually post anonymously and I can't smack them with a stiletto- there is not much I can do to them except post their questions here and hope you all bitch slap them in the comments. Fuckers. Yesterday someone posted a couple of good questions about a brat on a skateboard and which comes first- the art or the post- so I figured it's time to start answering them and others I have received. I spent a few hours today digging through comments and emails and came up with a few interesting ones to add. Ask and you shall receive and possibly regret that you did. You have been warned.

I once saw a kid at a HEB paddling himself on his belly on a skateboard through the meat department. Would like to know what your reaction would have been.
At first I said I would find his parents and put them in check. But after my pot of coffee kicked in and I had a shower- I pondered on this more and it comes down to this. It depends on my mission. You see- I love grocery shopping. I know, that's odd, but I do. I prefer to go alone so I can take as long as I want  reading labels, looking for coupons,  sampling cheese and on really good days- sampling wine. If that little shit kid was scooting about on one of these particular zen days- I would totally lose it. I would find his parents and tell them to get their wonderful child on his feet and acting right before "someone" accidentally on purpose drops a handful of mini gum balls in his path and he busts his head on the tile thereby making him scream and instantly killing my wine sample buzz which would undoubtedly result in a 911 call to remove me from the store. I seriously would. But- if I was just there on a quick in and out errand- I would give the kid the stink eye and move on. Maybe trip him. Accidentally, of course.

Do you make up the comments on the Blunt Cards or serendipitously find the appropriate ones?
Nope- I write about crap that's on my mind, things I see or topics the Honey Badger's bitch about at happy hour. Once I have my outline I turn to my good friend Google and start searching for images. Blunt Cards happen to be brilliant and their writers pretty much cover every shitty thing you can imagine. They, along with SomeEcards and Natalie Dee, are my go to's if I need a hilarious and applicable piece of art. Just as an aside- they don't pay me- I just admire their creativity. I keep a journal with me at all times to jot down stupid people tricks and annoying happenings. Sometimes funny stuff I see but mostly shit that makes me cuss.

Do you really think you are funny? I think you are rude.
Well- I'm not trying to be funny. If I was- I would be a comedian not a blogger. I'm just surly and honest and have no filter. Wait- are you that bitch from Starbuck's that chipped my toe?

Why don't you discuss politics?
Don't you get enough of that on the news? No- ok here is my stance on politics:
  • I follow world news and so on and have pretty strong opinions on the current matters at hand. I spend alot of time reading in order to clarify the shit the news likes to label as news. 
  • I am a card carrying Libertarian. We have a Constitution and a Bill of Rights and if we would just follow them- we would still be the great epic country we are meant to be.
  • I hate politicians- every last one of them. 
  • I love the NRA, I am a member and I own guns.
  • I don't hate Republicans, Democrats or Liberals. I don't agree with them but at least they stand somewhere and are involved in the process and vote.
  • Anyone that doesn't vote should have to pay an idiot tax every time they complain about policy and the direction or nation is sliding.
  • Government has no business up in my lady business.
  • Your religion doesn't belong in my Government.
  • I hate to see the flag burn but also know that's a First Amendment right and it should be protected.
  •  I absolutely hate the overly PC world we live in- if people would just be more straight forward with one another- we would all treat each other better and I wouldn't have to cuss at people in Office Depot.
  • There you go- that's what I think about politics. Ugh- my buzz just killed over.
I can't believe you have friends- how do they put up with you?
Um, wow. Angry Douche Nozzle, line 1!

Are the shoes on Shoe Porn yours? Do companies give them to you?
I so wish someone would give me free shoes! Are you there Bandolino, it's me, I Need Free Shoes Cat! Yes, so far, they are all shoes I currently own. I have over 100 pair of high heels and  I don't know how many sandals, flip flops and so on. Yes, I know it appears to be a problem or  addiction to some- but the only issues I see is that I need more. I suppose there are worse things. Just ask Anthony Weiner and John Edwards. Just in case I wasn't clear- feel free to send new free shoes to me. Used shoes freak me the fuck out. Size 10, please.

No thank you. I'll have some whiskey, though.

Have you always been so great with annoying/rude/inconsiderate people?? Please, teach me?! :)
No- I used to just think things inside my head- but now I say them. All of that pent up anger made me fat, have high BP and generally pissy. In November of 2010- it nearly killed me. Literally. My BP was 199/89. I should of died- but Satan wasn't ready for my particular flavor of bat shit crazy so I just stayed in the ICU for a bit. Then I decided, fuck it, I am just going to start venting my issues immediately. Kick them out on to the street. That's one reason I started blogging- I needed a place to barf out the yuck. One of the first regrets I had when I thought I was toast, is that I didn't let the true me be seen. So here I am- being awnry and cussy and loving every word of it. It feels good. Sometimes my friends move to another table and pretend they don't know me- but that's ok- sometimes they smell.

Anymore questions?
Post them in the comments and I will answer them here today- even if you post anonymously :)
If you are going to be a rude m*ther f*cker- then post your address, too, so I can send a bouquet of hot dead fish to your sorry ass.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Weigh In Wednesday: Shit That Bugs Me

Recently I have felt outraged - I know- you're shocked. Is it just my WTF colored glasses or are people in general really just running amok? Seriously, someone stepped on my toe this morning while I was waiting for a cup of fancy coffee at Starbuck's. Bitch messed up my pedicure and scuffed my awesome kick ass hard to find grey platform peep toes. Did she say sorry? Excuse me? Let me buy your coffee? No. She looked at my foot, shrugged her shoulders and walked away. Not very far though. I felt it was my duty as a card carrying Honey Badger to set her ill mannered midget ass straight.

"Excuse me, you may not be aware of this but you just stepped on my toe."
"I brushed your toe."
"No, it was more like a River Dance on my toe and you chipped my pedicure and scuffed my shoe."
"Do you want a prize?"
Starbuck's goes silent.
I give her the you really need to run or commit suicide right now before I catch you look...
Now Kittens, it took every ounce of class and restraint not to knock the fuck out of that jackhole of an inconsiderate woman. In these particular hooker heels, I stand about 6'2"- she was in tennis shoes and maybe came eye to eye with my nipples.  "No, but I would appreciate it if you acted like some measure of a decent human being and apologize". Is that so hard? I guess so. I had to let her live since i'm trying to stay on the sunny side of Karma. I really wanted to grab her by the hair and shove her face into my foot. Instead I control myself because I have yet to sip in my coffee fueled charming personality.

What is worse than rude people is their kids. I hate screaming kids. In fact , I am so fed up with screaming uncontrolled kids that when I go to a restaurant- I will ask to be seated away from fucktards with small children. Sorry- if your cute little perfect spawn of Satan is screaming, how about you stop shoveling queso into your head and maybe take them outside and drown them in a fountain. Anything. Just stop the screaming or you can pay for my meal and the ginormous bar tab I am about to run up so I have a drinking problem to blame when the nice officer asks me why I just shanked you with my broken martini glass. More awesome is when I am shopping and I can not get away from the little darlings because they are fucking running around on fire and screaming up and down every aisle and leaving a mountain of knocked over merchandise in their wake.

I was at Office Depot last week trying to get a Day Planner so I can be all organized. Seems The Man can't get his paper calendar in sync with my gadget calendar because he can't see it so I have to return to the dark ages and start writing on paper. Anyway, as I was trying to figure out which system had the most room for my doodling and could withstand a Sharpie marker these two ass monkey guys and their four banshee children start swarming around me. So I give them the look- the please shut your children up before I throw them in the box crusher look. They continue to run around and scream. Then I ask them to please keep it down- reasonable , right? The two douche nozzles turn to each other and speak in another language. Oh dear God- now I am pissed. Fucking card carrying American pissed. So I say, with my hand in their bubbles, " Oh no no- You control your kids before I do. Stop being rude and if you have something to say to me you better say it in English". English is the language I will be kicking their asses in so it's only fair to level the playing field so the sissies can't claim lack of comprehension for the ass mowing they are about to receive. See, look at me be fair! Kids. Are. Still. Running. And screaming. Me ,"Seriously- you know what - why don't you pack them up and just have your wife watch the little fucktards like every other day." Something else in a foreign language. Before I start killing children and end up on some ovary fest channel like Lifetime chronicling my Office Depot murder spree , I cuss them out in Spanish and get the hell out of there. Spanish because they were speaking something middle eastern and I can't call them an inconsiderate dirty whore in their language. The Man already left- he probably is in the get away car with the engine running.

BTW, it's Weigh In Wednesday! Get the skinny

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Bad Fashion: A Fail Picture Post

If you ever see the fashion below on people at the mall, movies, church or wherever- please shoot them immediately and hide the bodies. We don't want them passing their genes, or jeans, on to the next generation. If you have a weak stomach or are prone to nightmares- you may want to check back tomorrow. That is all.

Fail. Everyone failed the pants code of honor here. I don't want to see your ass,
ass crack, love handles or thong. This is the fucktards of fashion wall of shame. I also
don't want to see Mom Jeans on any of you. Like ever.

Just no, ok? If you have to ask why then go shoot yourself in the head.
 See , there really is too much of a good thing. G-Ross.

Blech. What should the captions be? Go ahead, give it a shot and share your editorial in the
comments. I will be over here puking in my trash can and trying to erase this from my brain.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Stop Punching Me In The Head

I woke up this morning with a rash on my face. Again. I wish I had some sort of kinky love jelly product story to tell - but I don't. I have never had acne so I can safely say that is not the explanation for these fucking bumps of itch that are on my face and made it impossible to apply Miss. America makeup this morning. So suck it anyone that sees me- all you get is moisturizer, eyeliner and mascara today. And it burns so be grateful. Haters. I woke up late, only got one cup of coffee, bumped my thigh into the mother fucking pointy framed bed and will now have a giant mess of a bruise to match the other leg that I hit on the bed yesterday before playing real life Grand Theft Auto on the freeway and my hair didn't hold a curl this morning. I was fairly well behaved this weekend so I have no idea what I did to piss off Karma.

Oh- it's Monday you say. Fuck off. I eventually get into the office and slap on my happy- but -don't- cross -me or I will shank you- face when the phone rings. I will be happy, I will be nice, I will fart this person is looking for a package- one I don't have. They say it was delivered last week so I ask reasonable questions like their name and who delivered it.

I then hear this, "Can't you see it on caller id?" .

 Uh oh. No , no I can not. I can't see it in my Magic 8 Ball either, that's why I asked and if you don't answer me I will from this day forward refer to you as Dumbass Fucktard Who I Like To Pimp Check.  So I get their name and then ask AGAIN how it was delivered.

"Last week, overnight". 

 Inside my head I say how the fuck did it get here moron, Fed Ex, UPS, the stork maybe a cupcake shitting unicorn...out loud I say, "Which carrier?". 

"Fed Ex. Last week. Do you have it or not!? "

No- no I do not. And odds are spectacularly high that if I did I would tape it to your head and light it on fire but instead I say, "Sorry I couldn't help and have a fabulous Monday!". Holy shitsnacks- why am I always surprised when someone calls to prove they are the asshat everyone thinks they are.

I better get some coffee because it is going to be one epic fail of  a Monday and the forecast is shitstorms all day with a chance of homicide. So off to the kitchen I go to get my fill of happy and sunshine liquid caffeine. As I am pumping my great personality and go getter attitude into my mug, some dude says to me, "Did you make the coffee because it tastes skanky". Skanky...I wonder if he meant skunky? I wouldn't know because I don't make it a habit to go around licking skanks and, " No, I didn't make the coffee". He looks at me confused because surely I am mistaken because only women make coffee and he says, "Well, can you make some more for me". Oh shit- you know how this is going to end , right? RIGHT? "Nope, this isn't Starbucks and all you have to do is pick the flavor and hit the big button that says brew and if you can't do that then maybe you shouldn't risk more complicated tasks like driving a car or using a microwave".  Silence then,  "You always make me laugh, Cat!". Yeah- today Cat would like to kick you but ok you have a great Monday then. Because I am trying really fucking hard to be nice in hopes that Karma will give me back my smooth skin and unbruise my thigh and kicking you will probably make a horn grow out of my head!

Coffee in hand and feeling proud because there is not a bloody dead man in the kitchen- I skip ( ok nearly crawl) back to my desk and start getting work done and finish my manual of how to's for the new me who has yet to be named. I reach for my stapler. It is gone. Gone! I absolutely hate it when people take crap off of my desk. Behind my chair are 15 doors of office supplies. Fifteen. There is a shit ton of supplies- including 6 staplers. Lazy people always take my stuff. Last week , some retard took my pen. Now I don't use the office bought pens- I buy my own special guaranteed to write pretty pens and some assmunch took it. I walked around the office until I found the clepto that jacked it and I took it back after dressing him down and letting him  know that the  next time he steals my crap I will chain him to my desk and make him hand cut three little circles into every page of  the ten reams of copy paper that need holes punched in them and give me a pedicure. Anyway- if you see my stapler- it has a label on it like my tape (above).  Bring it back before I kill a chicken and start poking pins in a doll with your name on it.

Monday- if you will stop punching me in the  head- I won't call you a mother fucker all day long!

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Where Is Your God?

Last week my fellow Blogger and bad ass Honey Badger , Heather, hung her balls out to the world with this post Why I Don't Have A God. She inspired me to look around and confirm how I feel about faith and religion and I have to say I am in her court of thinking. I do, however, believe in Karma and the rule of attractions. What you put out to the universe is what you get back. So every Sunday, when some of us are at church, worshipping the Sun or reflecting- I will be finding my salvation in art and sparkly trinkets. I want to share what inspires me with you and give another artists a leg up. Some exposure to you so maybe you will be inspired to create your own art or buy theirs...more on the "why" here.

Artist: Misti Patnode - Green Eyed Soul Studio

Misti is a friend of mine and is 100% good people. Easy to talk to and funner to listen to. I have long been a huge fan of her jewelry. It's stunning, original and embodies the personality of whomever she made it for. Stunning custom work and I love her bright vivid colors with the metal.

About her work:
All of my fine silver pendants are handmade by me using PMC (.999 fine silver).  My finishing techniques are traditional on most, but some pieces I took a nontraditional approach to give it a style or attitude of its own. I’m always open to custom orders and I would love to design something just for you!

Look & Shop:

I love this quote from Misti...perfect!
Jewelry embodies the spirit of an individual.  A woman’s jewelry box represents the chapters in her life.

Some of her work:

Honey Badgers

It's a wonderful thing to know you have a couple of Honey Badgers at your call. Anytime. Anywhere. Carrie and Gaylene have been two of my nearest and dearest friends for 16 years. Sixteen. They saw me through a divorce, my late blooming teens in my 20's, a giant car wreck, a marriage, another divorce, raising The Girl and every bit of nice and WTF's in between. What's most amazing is that those two will answers a distress bat signal no matter what they are doing, where they are or how minor it may seem to be in their eyes. The time of day or morning doesn't matter either.

Gaylene, Carrie & Cat
When a man breaks one of our hearts, the other two HB's threaten him with bodily injury and help each other burn away the memories. We will help bury bodies if we need to. When a man makes us happy, we do the appropriate amount of stalking, spying and recon to make sure he is worthy of our friend. If a non HB girlfriend slides sideways- we're there to pick up the pieces and confess how we never liked that bitch and she always dressed tacky anyway- then on to a healthy night of tequila shots and dancing. Speaking of tacky, we're always honest with each other on matters of fashion, shoes and so on. We call bullshit on each other when it's needed. We tell each other to toughen up when it's time to buck up. We let each other vent, love and be without judgement. We also keep a treasure trove of evidence, pictures and memories on each other of shit we would never want anyone else to know. Being a Honey Badger is like being in a bad ass sparkly gang- once you're in you never get out alive. We wouldn't have it any other way.

Friday, June 17, 2011

Spirit Sticks & Voo Doo

I have officially auditioned for Blogger Idol. Trying out for anything is terrifying. If I had a penis  it would be shriveled up and hiding next to my appendix right now. Since I don’t have that particular confidence spirit stick- I will just drink lots of wine. Because of my propensity to procrastinate and a midnight  deadline pissing down a hail storm of nervous stomach and writers block – I am entering Blogger Idol right now while I feel like a word ninja. If I wait too long I won’t be able to get wine and would have to resort to shots of Nyquil to calm my nerves. Not that there’s anything wrong with Nyquil but I am almost 40 and supposed to have a dignified palate. And it makes me tired and renders me unable to type.

I Googled "penis spirit stick" and this is the image
that popped up. I just spewed my wine.
Still laughing.

I’ve  been wrapped up in turning 40 and all of the fun that comes with it. By wrapped up I mean twisted in knots with indigestion and abdominal instability. By fun I mean  Mother Nature seems to have lost her ever loving mind and forgotten how to read a calendar, I can’t sleep, my pubes are turning grey and there is not enough Xanax most days to keep my ass safely on the ledge. Just kidding about the pubes because I wax and well that's a whole different post but now you won't be able to look me in the eyes if you see me because you'll be too busy staring at my crotch. Perverts. I feel like I need to make the last 30 years of my life meaningful and uncensored. I’ve had a strong urge to finally do what I have always wanted to do –but never did-  because I was busy being a mom and too busy to be me. I gave notice at my job and forfeited a steady paycheck to fly by the seat of my panties and live balls out in order to be a writer. Which brings me to why I entered the contest.

Most of my readers are women, which is awesome, because it's us against men every minute out there and we have to stick together. Men read my blog and should continue to, because they will probably learn something about us that will save their asses from a murderous PMS fueled rage one day. They can use this bloggity as a cautionary tale of what happens when they jump stupid and morph into truly spectacular fucktards. I want to win this for the obvious reasons: exposure, great prizes and respect  from my peers. I also want to win it for validation- to prove to all of the people that say I am insane for ditching an 8-5 steady job in a soul killing cube farm in order to pursue my passion. A ginormous middle finger salute , if you will.  We all want to be able to win a prize and triumphantly rub it in the face of the ass hats that are all waiting to say “I told you so”. Mostly, I want to win for all of the women that read my blog. The ones that laugh and feel some sense of victory because I said something to some version of a fucknut that made them feel like they were almost  but never quite good enough. Feeling almost will kill your soul and render you silent- I know from experience. For me to give you a voice and share something you would never say out loud AND win would be truly fucking epic. So cross your fingers, kill a chicken, throw some salt over your shoulder and wear your sluttiest high heels while you wish me luck and send good ju ju vibes to the judges. Go ahead and get voo doo dolls ready , too. Just in case.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Weigh In Wednesday : Well Slap My Ass And Call Me Skinny (er)

Well here we are again, Kittens. Another Wednesday and I have to say it has been good. Minus another 1.5 pounds and I wore a dress today that I haven't fit all of me into in quite a while. Like ever. I bought it last year - pledging to fit into it by Summer. Last Summer. But here we are - ready to kick off this shitastically hot  Summer- and I fit rather nicely into the dress that has been heckling me every time I have opened the closet door for the last 20 months. There is no feeling worse than wanting to wear a cute dress from the skinny side of the closet but they scare you off by offering you a bottle of Vaseline. Because schlepping grease all over your ass and thighs is the only chance you have of getting those clothes on. That and using the hooked head of a hanger to pull your zipper up. Stop laughing- you know you've done it too!

Little dress, you were silent today and did not laugh at me and yell, "Godzilla!". Nor did you ask me how long whales can be out of water before they kill over. Probably because I had a pair of scissors ready to slice your smart ass to shreds- but I prefer to believe your silence is due to your shock and awe over the fact that you can now see my chin. Singular. One. Chin.

Now- if you can always see your chin- you may not understand why today was so important. I haven't seen my pointy chin in about 8 years. Eight. So imagine my surprise and nirvana when I began to review the 50 pictures I took of my self for my WIW post today. Every one of them showed my chin. Now someone, and he shall remain anonymous so Carrie doesn't feel all protective and kick his ass, said this picture looks Jay Lenoish. Well thank you very much! Because if Jay Leno came to mind- that means you can see my glorious fucking chin also! So thank you for noticing! In the next couple of weeks I hope you think I look Cherish- because that will mean my cheek bones are finally coming out of the dark! Sweet victory, bitches!

Always get the skinny on Cat first at Skinny Cat FB ! Like me on FB and I will love you back! Maybe hump your leg.

Monday, June 13, 2011

I Win!

Tonight is day one of The Girl moving out. She is gone. Adios. Happy Trails. She waited until I got home to let me watch her leave. But first a quick game of Scrabble and a few snorts and giggles as "anal" and "fart" made their way onto the board. Triple letter score thank you very much. Fist bump to The Girl. This is what I will miss the most everyday- her unharnessed sense of humor and frequent "your momma" retorts. She's the most awesome thing ever. Ever. Not seeing her everyday will likely drive me to drinking (more). I will cry.

 Ok I cried on the way home because after she called me to say she was waiting to take a hike leave so she could give me a hug-  I envisioned walking into home to find her stuff ready to go-her battered but well loved truck loaded and ready to flip me the bird and burn rubber on the way out of the drive way while she screams "suck it rules" out the window. That is not what I came home to- I walked in and she was on the couch watching t.v., texting and being a teenager. Maybe napping. Still. Let's talk about this couch. I bought it for me. That chaise part is for me to put my legs up and rest them. And so I can look fancy and dramatic when I drink my wine. The last time I got to use the chaise was when I tried it out at the furniture store eighteen months ago. It was never intended to be so comfortable and inviting that the kid would never leave it, and worse, use it as her base of operations for all things 18 year old girl. It even smells like her. So does the cat.

She said I could post this...since she's 18 and not a little
kid who needs Mom to protect her from weirdos anymore.
Guess what the first thing she will hear is when she
 calls home from jail one day...

Were all of those promises to leave just suggestions? Holy crap get off of my couch already kid. Fly be free. I walked into our bathroom with plans of grandeur, organization and all stuff me. A space for me. Well, me and the cat- his stuff is in there, but he's sorta gay so that's okay. Guess what else was in there? Girl stuff. Everywhere. On the floor, on the vanity, in the cabinets. Is it another eighteen years until I get the bathroom to myself? It looks like teen spirit threw up in there and got distracted by a shiny object before it could clean up the shit storm of girl products, hair ties and glitter makeup. Maybe she ran out of boxes. Nope, just didn't pack it and will stop by later this week if she needs anything. Oh great, now I am reduced to being the cosmetics aisle at Target! Hope I get benefits with this gig! I am sitting here looking around and I see her dirty laundry, graduation mementos and her gigantic box of candy that would make Willy Wonka jealous. She never leaves that behind- even if it were covered in zombies she would save that box. What the hell everyone, I thought I was done. Freedom for me, too! I was poised to do my freedom victory lap in my thong while clutching a new bottle of wine and having cookies for dinner. Maybe lounge on my couch and watch anything but freaking MTV. I didn't even plan on cooking tonight- much less do dishes. Freedom denied. Denied!

Do you know what this means everyone? I won. She can't leave me because she still needs a mom. Her mom. Me. And all of these trinkets of hers that I trip on, find stuffed in the couch and laying on my stuff- they are just little umbilical cords still pulsing with a little bit of I need my mommy but mostly filled with her freedom. I suspect she is slowly and quietly trying to detach in the most unpainful way. I think she even sprayed the cat with her perfume. I am lucky because she can't go all of the way and I still get to have my nest warm and feathered with her sweet little hugs, smart ass remarks and her glorious dirty laundry that I secretly love to wash and fold for her. Her half assed move out certainly can't be because she knows thinks I will come completely unglued and lose my mind while spending my days and nights convincing myself that something awful has happened to her because it's been 30 seconds since she last texted me and now I will have to find the perfect picture of her for one of those missing person ads on a milk carton. She can't be that smart, can she?

Turbo Bitch

I had another topic to bitch about today - something pretty hilarious I think- but then I saw a Face Book post by a friend and OMFG my head popped off. Instantly. Seriously. You know being on Team Lady Bits is mostly fun- but it is shitastic in regards to the amount of bullshit we have to filter out on how we are supposed to look. I am absolutely on board with treating myself to extra special salon time to make sure my hair, skin, nails and toes are pretty and perfect. I have even thought about a boob job. Yes, a boob job. Not giant, over the top, where can I possibly find a shirt to cover these boobs- boob job. Just to restore mine to their before I was 25, I can wear any cute shirt, go braless, suck it gravity fabulousness.

No, hooker.

Double no.

Yes. Yes, please!
I am also almost 40 and would like to think I have the mental and psychological capacity to make such a decision and not really fuck myself up (more) in the head and heart.  I like to look at a hot woman as much as the next guy. Seriously, we're pretty to look at but boys, not so much. Straight up and down. And hairy like a chimp. Ladies are curvy, soft and pretty. We usually smell better, too. I don't stare at Victoria's Secrets models and wonder how I can starve myself enough to look like them. I live out here in reality where nothing and nobody is perfect and we all don't have a dude with Photo Shop and an air brush following us around to correct anything that looks like a flaw to all of the judgemental asswipes out there. I don't aspire to be Barbie either- because if she were life sized she would topple over and noone likes the klutz girl who trips and plants face every step. We would all giggle at her but probably wouldn't invite her to happy hour. She also wouldn't be able to walk because her legs would be impossibly skinny. Think flamingo except with a blonde weave and ginormous boobs. I would definitely NEVER promote this look to my daughter or make it something she should aspire to. Ready for your instant WTF moment ?

Click here and prepare to turn into Turbo Bitch

Are you off of the floor yet? Seriously? Who gives that to their 7 year old daughter? Because living with that freak job of a crazy woman as your mother isn't enough- now she wants to make you a frankenbarbie, too? How about a puppy. Let's start with that. Maybe some books and - I don't know- some girly shoes, a journal and a pack of glitter pens to write about her little girl dreams and memories. Something pretty to show her therapist when she is 15 so they can figure out why she is promiscuous, has no self confidence and is generally suicidal and broken. No gold stars for you , I still can't believe this story is true.


I can totally speak to this. It took me years and about two new Cadillacs worth of cash in therapy sessions to get here. To this place on my map where I am ok with me. My success in unfuckingupmyhead is proven everyday when I go home and flit around in a tank top and underwear with all of my imperfectness for The Man to see. And anyone else who might see through a window. Growing up , there always seemed to be some T&A movie on the television- Porky's and that sort of "entertainment". I spent about 30 years thinking I was supposed to be perfectly shaped, have impossibly unnatural breasts, act dumb and be a sex toy.  When I was in middle school, I had some extremely bad memories bubble up to the top of my reality and struggled everday until decided I would be better off gone. I got a box of  Clairol to ease my pain and pursuade me to reconsider. Clairol. When I became a teenager and thought I would find some sort of family and salvation on the high school dance team- I got an eating disorder instead- because I was still not perfect enough and there were 20 other not perfect girls to remind me of that every day at lunch. And it goes on and on and on...

I don't tell you all of this so you will feel bad for me. I want you to feel motivated to kick the ass of any "mom" you might stumble across like this woman who gave her beautiful, perfect, everything magical baby girl a fucking boob job certificate for her birthday. I seriously got queezy when I read this article. Why is this ok in that woman's view? If you have a little girl, be gentle and kind to her. Tell her everyday how smart and funny she is. And also let her know she is perfect and beautiful and 100% one of a kind. If you should see any measure of that kind of crazy- some dumb ass broad telling her daughter to be aspire to look like a fucking porn star- say something. It's tough enough growing up- but growing up imperfect is the toughest judgement to survive.

Friday, June 10, 2011

Captain Obvious

I feel like crap today. No, I feel like some crap that survived a graduation party- house hunting in a car for two days -that got ran over by a retarded Dr. in a Pathfinder- and then had to work for a few days -and would love to just pass out right now because this rainbow of pills in my stomach is making me want to puke- epic shit storm - please shoot me now-week. That kind of crap. I was just informed I look like that , too. Thanks, Captain Obvious.

Sick. Drunk. Same thing.

What tipped you off I wonder. The fact that my hair isn't done or that there is not one speck of sparkle on my face? Maybe it was because you keep seeing me passed out under my desk in the fetal position using something that might have once been the Staples catalogue but is now a slime ball of tears and drool as a  pillow? I bet that was it. Or when you told me I looked awful today and I didn't jump out of my chair, vertical leap over the desk and round house kick your dumb ass in your giant walnut shaped head? I'm not even sure if I worked up a believable fuck off face. I feel like Death. Except I know it's not Death because even he is afraid to be near me today. And don't think that little quip about me being a short timer and looking for an excuse to go home early escaped me. It did not. Nothing like telling me I look crappy and then letting me know you think I have questionable ethics and then trying to tell me how you want some work done for you today as you skip out of the door with your little boy douche bag back pack strapped to your hunched gorilla back . Guess what, Sweet Tits?

And you are not funny. At all. I would have liked to have projectile vomited on you but I have no energy to launch my lunch further than my trash can. Maybe my lap. Stop back by Monday so I can be rude to you and enjoy it. Ass munch.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Fucktards & Ass Monkeys

I have alot of colorful and insulting names to pin on people. It delights me to no end when some jack   hole jumps up and down waving his idiot flag in front of me and begging me to administer a verbal beat down to his head. It's extraordinarily fulfilling to accidentally on purpose let one of these slip out and watch some ass wipes passionate debate screech to a silent halt as they try to figure out A: Did I just really say that out loud a B: WTF does that mean?

Jack Hole: A conceited bumbling idiot and the least threatening of all dumb asses. They are a sad excuse for a hybrid. Part jack ass , part ass hole yet 100% useless and fun to punch in the head.

Ass Monkey: This person can't stand to be wrong, ever have to say "I don't know" or feel less successful  than someone else. Rather than concede that they don't know the answer, they will make shit up so they can sound smart, or better yet, smarter than you. Also fun to punch in the head.

Douche Bag: Once near extinction, this species is on the rise thanks to Jersey Shore and The Bachelor. Oh yes, their over inflated egos think they are celebrities because we are all watching them. When we are really just waiting to see the  next epic bitch slap battle they are massacred in so we can point and laugh. They are not intelligent or fast- so you can easily catch them and use them as a pinata. A fake baked, hair jelled , sissy crying pinata. A few short moronic comments and a total epic beat down from being a mother fucker.
Get it? Ass  in a hat!
What are the odds of finding a picture of an ass in a sombrero AFTER I typed the definition?

Ass Hat: This specimen has their head so far up their ass that their butt cheeks now serve as their hat. Or a sombrero if they happen to be in a Mexican food restaurant. Ole'!

Fucktard: Not retarded or genuinely intellectually challenged. They know they are about to say or do something truly stupid- yet proceed anyway. They have no sense of self preservation and somehow think they are cute like a bunny while they fuck shit up. Think Anthony Weiner and his epic more entertaining every minute fucktardery. Extra points for the weenie picture.

The only picture of a  cheating MF'er
AND a battle cry all in one.
Mother Fucker: This can be a  modifier or used alone. Either way it will strike fear, shock and awe in the room with a healthy dose of "WTF is she going to do now" facial expressions. As a modifier- it makes any of the above worse by ten times. Because being a mother fucking ass hat is way worse than being just an ass hat. It's like the cuss word equivalent of a triple word square on a Scrabble board. Use wisely and sparingly...unless you are using it as a battle cry. Then you can say it alot, because it's funny and makes people uneasy and judgemental.

Now let us use them in a narrative...

Word is out that I am exiting the working world and striking out on my own to try to scratch out a living. While I am totally and spastically excited about the adventures I have set up for Team Me, some are not. This jack hole stopped by to ask me why I was leaving and if I thought it was a good idea. Now I would like to just point out that I would not quit my job AND give up health insurance AND a never ending supply of pink Post Its if I didn't think I could support myself and my office supply addiction. Now this guy is a card carrying douche bag: slick hair, pressed frat boy clothes and genuinely thinks the ladies wet their panties when he cruises by. In reality, we all throw up a little and pretend to not speak English when he stops in to tell us how fabulous he is. No comprende, ass hat! He asks me what I am going to do and I tell him I am going to chillax for a month with The Man, go kick some real estate ass and follow my writing dreams. And you know what that fucktard said? He asks me if I can handle all of that on my own since I am just an Office Manager. Uh oh. So the ass monkey nods, smiles and then proceeds to try to trump me by letting me know he is leaving shortly also. To go live in his $700,000 lake house in a city somewhere in Michigan he can't recall right now and publish his paper in some made up scientific journal that is printed on space cadet island. Really mother fucker? Did you just say I am "just" an anything and then move on to tell me how much smarter and better you are than me? That is so awesome. I bet your Manager will agree that you are super smart also when he reads the email I just sent to him letting him know that you intend to resign.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Empty Space

While working on a chapter outline of the Four-Fuckity-Zero book, I had an epiphany. A break through of sorts and a sudden change from WTF to winning! That birthday is two months away...a mere 58 days and counting. Every. Single. Day. I had previously wanted to run away from it and hide. But since I don't run, like ever, unless there is a weapon pointed at me- I desperately needed to figure out a way to fight the 40. To not be sucked into the holy shit- my youth is passed-my boobies have lost their sense of direction-will my stomach ever be flat again-oh yippee a mammogram-wonky period- hysteria that hits chicks about 6 months into their 39th year. Like we didn't see it coming. The grim reaper driving a speeding truck poised to swerve out of it's lanes on midnight of the last day of year thirty nine and demolish all things left of us before then. Forget planning for Armageddon, I would simply like to survive this birthday thank you very much. The pending end of the world is a pedicure compared to what I am feeling. Was feeling. Ok sort of still feel but it's fading. I still have the nagging general depression and panic that my life is about to take a dreaded turn but I also figured out I get to have something soon that I have never had before. Ever. My own room.

My vision for my room.
Pink, girly and absolutely perfect.
(Pic from

It's my blank slate. My do over button. How is an empty room such an epic- and I sincerely mean epic- big deal to me? I get my own space to be me in. To write in. To read in. A safe, soft and feminine place to chat with girl friends and share secrets with The Girl when she comes to visit. That is exactly how I thought of 40 last night. I am claiming it as my empty room to fill with what I want: all things pink, black and shiny. And a chandelier. I am so accustomed to sharing my space with other people and their stuff. Their books, clothes, fears, baggage, thoughts, judgements and so on- that I forget about all of my stuff. I literally forget to take care of me and to love up my own dreams. I have been focused on what other people think about me, say to me and want for me- further cluttering up my space and not leaving even a corner for my box of fragile this and thats.

I am going to fill my book shelves with a healthy disregard for what other people think of me and make sure I leave a note on my desk to remind myself to always boldly define myself on my terms. The only judgements that will be stuffed into my files are mine and you can assure they will be kind most days and sharply honest when they need to be. My dreams, goals and wants will fill my tack boards to greet me every morning and remind me to dream big every night. My mistakes, regrets and errors I never want to visit again will be neatly folded and put in the bottom of a drawer; always there for reference material but visible only when I want them to be. And that chandelier I want so badly? It's to glorify my new place in life and reflect all of the sparkle and shine I feel. To represent every thing I am grateful and lucky to have in my life now and in the past. To shine beautiful light on my new freedom to submerse myself in the luxury of my writing dreams. I finally see me with crystal clarity.

Weigh In Wednesday. I hate you so.

Weigh In Wednesday 6.8.11: The Ugly Truth

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Cake Wrecks, The Village People & Ax Murderers

The last four days have been insane. I'm not certain what day it is or how it is I am sitting at my desk. I vaguely remember sobbing over the cakes that were supposed to be perfect but were not. Somewhere in the blur is a graduation party, a bottle of Patron, our new home and a cop that looked like he just wrapped up a Village People video. And I woke up to a ten pound Crabbit on my head. Top that off with no free office coffee and a sore ass neck and oh my god we have a butt hurt tsunami. Strap on your ass hats and your rain rubbers because it's about to start raining expletives.

Friday & Saturday...
I drove all over Old City. All over. Trying to get the rest of the fun we needed for The Girl's and My Clone Niece's graduation party. Outside of grocery shopping, my big party to do was to secure the cakes. Make sure they are perfect. My vision? A three tiered cake, all different flavors with custom tattoos on them. Similar to this one I made for The Man's 50th birthday party.

The Man's & ACL Mike's Bday Cake
Clone Niece had sketched out the cake tattoos and they were off to the be printed on icing sheets. Easy. Somewhere in the day I am informed by Lucky I Am Leaving Your Dumb Ass Nameless Bakery that they cannot make my Clone Niece's favorite flavor, which is confetti cake. Really? You can't make confetti cake? You're a fucking bakery with a sign that says, "We can make anything you want". Confetti cake is vanilla cake with freaking colored sprinkles in it that melt when baked and leave rainbow dots in the cake. I see the sprinkles on your shelf. I see vanilla as a flavor- maybe you could accidently drop the sprinkles in the batter you bunch of ass hats! Just as an aside- the day before the party is sort of kind of too fucking late to tell me your head is too far up your ass to make what was ordered. So I bust a nut trying to get a different cake ordered. The Girl is with me. So we pick out three other cakes with specific orders: no whipped cream because it will melt, strawberries in the center of one and please freeze them so I can stack them on pillars, attach the tattoos and they will stay put until cake time at the party. Easy right? RIGHT? Nooooo.....

Looks like whipped cream to me.
Tastes and melts like it, too.


Strawberries? I don't see no stinking strawberries!
I only waited eighteen long, tedious, sleepless stressful years and killed my own epic dreams so The Girl can have a perfect graduation party. I said perfect cakes, mother fuckers. Not shit that will earn us a Grand Fucking Champion Trophy from that Cake Wrecks site. Jerk Asses.

Friday night I go to my Clone Niece's graduation. She graduated with honors and lots of scholarships. Because she is as awesome as awesome gets. She will also shank you if you cross her. Cute, huh! As I am walking alone from the event center to find my truck in the sea of fucktards that are stumbling about- I find myself behind a group of women in head scarves. Photo bomb anyone? Muhahahhaaa! I then quickly proceed to the parking garage before jihad can be declared on my ass.

Saturday we party. And eat. Don't go looking for those menu items on Weigh In Wednesday because I conveniently forgot what I ate that I wasn't supposed to eat. After the party we go to Sister Bugs house. Somehow I become party to drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade and feeling my Aunt's third boob which is really a tennis ball in her shirt but still funny. Then some Gentleman Jack. I am informed later (as in today) by my Big Brother that I also am guilty of helping him drink making him drink a bottle of Patron. Strangely, I have no memory of that.  He does though, and his head still hurts and he may still be puking. Know what Big Brother, that's what you get for feeding me bugs and dirt when I was four. I can bravely say that now since he is five hours away and can't drive himself because he just had shoulder surgery.

Up at the ass crack of dawn, we hit the road to New City to find a home. We know what we want already. A cute little 1920's pier and beam retro cottage in a trendy neighborhood. We arrive in New City at 1p.m. and immediately start looking at houses. Six houses. The first two houses are surprises and not pleasant ones. I ask where the houses in the  pictures are because the first two we were standing in look nothing like the pictures. I suggest to the listing agents that perhaps they should consider a career in graphic design since they have such awesome photo shop skills.

Another house claims to have a bonus room, second bathroom and a garage- all of which are rare in New City. Awesome! We are super excited to see this house. We get in and it's looking good. Except I can't figure out how to get up to the bonus room. No stairs? Am I supposed to spider walk my ass up the walls to get into the room? Realtor pulls down the attic ladder. REALLY? That's how I am supposed to get into the bonus room? Oh , and there is no A/C up there. It was 102 the days we were there. 109 the weekend before. No A/C will be so worth the climb up the stairs and the ambulance ride to the ER after I fucking pass out from heat stroke and fall out of the carpeted attic only to crack my big monkey skull on the hard woods that have splinters in them. The Realtor seems to think it's cute and funny. Hope she likes her black eye and my flip flop print on her head. We go back to look at the two houses that look promising. I don't remember the rest of the night. There may have been a couple of glasses of wine involved. And someone farted.

We wake up and have biscuits, coffee and bacon waiting for us. I eat the bacon because it's not like I am going to sleep anyway today because I am so stressed out and tired that bacon nightmares don't even register as a threat. We go to look at another house. This one has unlevel floors. Like hold onto the walls- Jell-o legs- on my god- the house is going to do cart wheels any minute -fun house floors. I nearly puked in it. That would of fixed the bacon nightmares for sure. No way and next. The great news is, we find a home. It's adorable and I want to hug it. I love it. Wood floors, glass front cabinets, cool 1920's architecture, tons of built in storage. Bungalow love.

This is what is looks like when you walk up to it. Cute, huh!

This is what it looks like when I watch you walk up to it.
Dress cute, m'kay? And stay off the lawn . 
Then some assholio crunches the back end of The Man's Infiniti. Let me just tell you a little bit about this car. He loves it. He looked far and wide for this car and it has every creature comfort you can imagine. We spent many a conversation discussing if he should spend the cash for it. I was always pro-Infiniti since he busts his ass and is uber financially responsible and should get an I'm A Superstar present every now and again. Plus it's sparkly and shiny and I look cute in it. It is his real estate prize and his reward to himself for being an awesome Realtor. So when Dr. I'm A Clueless Fucktard ran his Pathfinder into the ass end of it and gave us fucking whip lash- well you can imagine I was certain a crime scene was imminent. Points to The Man for reaching over to put his arm between me and the dash board. Gold star, Baby!

Enter the motorcycle cop/ Village People member. Seriously. Cheesy 70's mustache, too tight uniform and i'm a douchebag demeanor. It took everything I had to not ask him if the indian and construction dude would be joining us. Or break out in the Y.M.C.A. But I did not, mostly because my neck and back hurt. And it's one hundred and fucking two degrees outside. I have no memory of driving us home.

Sometime this morning I awoke to The Girl's crabbitt on my head. I woke up because he was busy licking my eyeballs and biting my nose. Which I guess he thought was ok since I sorta rudely let him know that biting my toes while I was sleeping was not ok. Or my fingers. So I spring out of bed to get ready and can't find the keys. Where are the keys! I need fucking keys to drive to work.

By the t.v.?
       In the office?
             Nope. Nope.
                                           Uh uh.
                                                  Pocket maybe?
                                                           Not a winner.

In the front door? On the fucking outside where an ax murder or hungry zombie could use them to get in, kill us, eat the Crabbit, shit on the carpet then steal the Infiniti and drive it all Grand Theft Auto style through some innocent children playing in the neighborhood????

Mother fucker, YES!!!