Monday, May 21, 2007

The Lost Weekend

Was it just the weekend? Really, 'cause I don't recall. I felt the need to self-medicate to remove the bad Swedish aftertaste in my mouth. Must have been the Lutfisk. Oh, no wait, I'm pretty sure it was due to the skin-ripping boob tape and the drunk Norweigan. So, thank you Mr. Grey Goose for a lovely weekend.

Saw an interesting license plate (prior to conversing heavily with Mr. Grey Goose) that said "Rufh Rdr."

Took me a couple of minutes...I was thinking "roof raider" (hey, I had started chit chatting with Mr. Grey Goose so I was a little slow. I was not driving.) So when I figure out it's "rough rider," I looked at the driver as we went by, expecting a very buxom blonde.

Instead, I see a fat, bald guy driving a Nissan Altima. Wha?????

Dude, seriously? You need to rethink that plate. I'm thinking you should go more along the lines of "Tdy Bear."

P.S. The drive home from the Swedish dooda with the boss's wife was looooong. We were in the car a whole 5 minutes before she insulted the wife of another guy that works for her husband. Gah. I can't imagine what she must say behind my back. Oh, did I mention that she has no sense of humor and is a buxom blonde personal trainer?

Thursday, May 17, 2007

Sweden Part Deux: Lecherous Norweigan Dude

So, we last parted on the frizz-inducing patio overlooking the tennis court where George Bush the elder once played...

Finally it was time for dinner to be served. Well, I'm just a naive idiot in not realizing I wouldn't be seated next to my husband. But, not only was I not next to him (or even within speaking distance of any of the 4 people from his company) but I was literally at one end of the table and he was at the other. WTH people?

The hostess gave some speech about it being Swedish custom to mix up the seating so you get to meet people. Hmm, wasn't aware that was known as a Swedish thing necessarily...

So, there were 18 of us and the dining table was just wide enough that you could not converse with the people across from you. It was kind of like chocolate behind glass--you can easily see the treat but cannot get to it.

I was seated with an older gentleman from Norway on my right and air on my left. I much preferred the company of the air, and as the night dragged on, I kept trying to unobstrusively scoot my chair more to the air side.

He seemed pleasant enough in the beginning, but I shortly sussed out that he was some kind of embassy-hopping gigolo. He was quick to inform me that he has now been to dinner at 5 different embassy residences (his favorite was the residence of the British ambassor because it was the most beautiful.) He is one of the owners of a steamship company and blah blah blah. I did my job and held up my end of the conversation but I didn't retain much of what he blathered on about.

All the while becoming more and more alarmed as he had literally 4 glasses of wine before the main course was even served. But hey, since he also ate 8 pieces of bread (I am not kidding) I figured that was sopping up all the alcohol.

The appetizer was delicious: Smoked salmon with creme fraiche (fancy sour cream) with a fried potato slice garnish. Good thing I like seafood because dinner was halibut (absolutely fabulous) with one of those cute little baby carrots that still has the top on, an artichoke heart, some unidentifible yellowish long rectangular vegetable?, and cream with a little bit of mashed potatoes added and a whole lot of garlic.

Usually, I don't eat anything with garlic at these type of things so as not to offend my dinner companions. Screw it. I practically licked it off the plate in hopes of driving Mr. Norway away. As dinner progressed, so did his wine consumption: At least 2 full glasses a red wine to go with the 4 glasses of white he'd already had, plus I don't know how many cocktails beforehand.

This caused him to begin placing his hand on my arm, or uh, the vicinity of my arm as he seemed to miss quite often and brush my boob or thigh. I kept looking down at my cleavage (although not as much as he did) to ensure the sticky tape was still in place.

Then he proceeded to tell me how he was the president of some stag club (no women allowed!) that got together once a month to get drunk and tell dirty jokes. Fascinating dinner conversation, I was so impressed. The name was something like The Cod Club. Um, what do you say to that??

Thank the Lord he would also talk occasionally with his dinner companion to his right (remember, I had air on my other side which was just fine). She was a lady from Hong Kong now living in Minnesota and she, too, seemed normal at first.

Now, she said several times she was from Hong Kong, but Mr. Norway somehow missed that (or was just an idiot) and kept referring to her as Chinese. At one point, we were talking about Las Vegas (Ms. Hong Kong saying how everything including the women were fake, me commenting on how extensive the shopping options are, Mr. Norway wondering if you could just "buy," so to speak, a woman off the street), when Mr. Norway turns to my cleavage and blurts out, "You know, the Chinese are big gamblers."

Seriously, the high point of the night. Ms. Hong Kong glares at him and says huffily, "I am NOT Chinese." You go, girl.

Dessert sucked big time. Some pear-flavored "froth," a 1 inch square of dry, tasteless sponge cake, and 1 whole teaspoon of pear (again!) sorbet.

Finally dinner was over and I could escape Mr. Norway. Then it was coffee in another room where I could actually stand next to my husband.

The next morning, husband announced that if I still wanted to replace the wooden balustrades in our staircase with decorative iron ones, I could go ahead and do that. Uh huh, that's what I thought.

Sweden Part I: Boob Tape Debacle

Double-sided boob sticky tape, AWOL ambassador, and lecherous Norweigans...Oh My! (chanted to "Lions, tigers, and bears...Oh My!" in your best Dorothy from Wizard of the Oz voice)

Hmm, where to start? This might be a two-parter, people.

First off, when I purchased my cocktail dress for this shindig, I tried it on in two different sizes, let's just refer to them as "A" and "B" since numbers are so mentally damaging m'kay? Both sizes fit, but in the end, I decided the smaller size was a little too tight under the arms and the wrap style halter top had too little material in the boob area. I bought the larger size along with some industrial strength double-sided tape specifically intended to keep clothes attached to skin. (They don't tell you that your skin also comes off along with the tape at the end of the night, but we can save that for Part II.)

Well, when I went to put on the dress last night, lo and behold, I had actually purchased the smaller size, not the larger one as I intended. F&^k and many such accompanying words ensued. Husband stood nervously by, "Uh, it looks fine to me." Really? Really a&^hole because it's so NOT! How is it that men always know the exact wrong thing to say at the exact wrong moment? Really, it must be an inbred gift or something.

I had no other cocktail dresses just sitting around in my closet (imagine!) so I was stuck. I grabbed the boob tape and we got in the car. No problem, I figured, I had a good 2 1/2 hours of drive time to both swear at my husband AND strategically tape the dress to avoid serving my boobs for dinner.

Ha! This tape is not that easy to use, people! Why didn't someone tell me? Like the sales lady that sold it to me with a smile while saying, "This is our most popular brand." Really? Really b*&ch because it's so not working! At least half the roll ended up in little sticky balls all over the car before I successfully removed the "Easy to remove backing" from one piece.

Oh, another little tip. Even though it says "safe for all clothes" that actually does not include silk. The dress is now ruined, not that I could wear it again as it became tighter and tighter under my arms as the night dragged on and I wanted nothing more than to cut it up into little tiny pieces and burn them while doing tequila shooters.

So, needless to say, I needed the full 2 1/2 hours to do the tapeage. We arrive, only to be informed that his Excellency the Ambassador was called away at the last minute to a meeting in CA with Governor Schwarzenegger. Wha?

Yep. So instead our host was his second in command, the Deputy Ambassador of Sweden (not exactly sure if that's her title, I wasn't paying attention as I really needed to pee. 2 1/2 drive! Plus, had to check the tape was still holding!) And, it was a woman as Sweden is very forward in their Women's Movement she said. Cool, where's the restroom?

We were herded outside for cocktails. Great, I spent a frickin' hour blow drying and curling the mane and it had just rained so the humidity was around 90%. GAH. But hey, I did get to see the tennis court that George Bush the elder played on with the former ambassador. Truly worth ruining good hair, right?

OK, this is getting long and boring...Part deux another time which will feature the lecherous Norweigan guy who was my dinner companion. ACK

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Instant Gratification Please

So, should I be concerned that every time I ask the guy building our deck if he'd like some water or Coke he says, "No, but I'd sure love some beer." It's 10 a.m. ya'll!

Ok, I don't really say "ya'll" but I'm trying to fit in here in my adopted country of VA. Oh, you didn't know it was a whole separate country? I didn't either until I moved I moved to the South. Miss Impatient-Pants does NOT like how everything is sooooooo slooooooooow here...Give it to me now, you guys! Yep, much more of a "you guys" and "instant gratification" kind of gal.

Anyway, Mr. Coors Light building the deck has amazing bronzed muscles. The kind you get from hard, physical, sweaty labor, not pumping iron in an air conditioned gym. [drool] If I could do it without getting caught, I would so take a picture (for you all, not me, of course) 'cause we are talking F-I-N-E. But, since I am more Lucille Ball than Marilyn Monroe, I'm positive he would catch me with the camera and then what? I'd probably have to buy him a gajibillion cases of Coors Light to keep his mouth shut.

Oh hey, remember yesterday when I was going to write the nice post and then said you weren't getting it just like my husband and then it all went down hill from there into spankings with wooden spoons and setting purses afire?

Well, you're still not getting that post. I'm practicing my withholding strategy. OK, I'm not, but I wanted to tell you that GAH, guess who we're driving back from D.C. tonight after dinner with Ambassador Pickled Herring?

Yep, the boss's wife. Can you believe that crap? I couldn't. I've already informed husband that HE can make conversation with her because I #1 Don't talk to wack jobs, and #2 Will be all conversed out after chatting up Gunnar and blondie (you know she's got to be blonde!).

Apparently her husband is staying in D.C. for a meeting the following day (don't believe it) so we get to drive Mrs. Boss back.

Tune in tomorrow as I'll be sure to let you know the highlights...

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Buzz Kill

Well, I had a lovely post all prepared for you today (in my head but still!) but you're not getting it.

My husband has heard those words a lot lately, and I'm so frickin' pissed I think I may just say them for the next, oh, 6 months, possibly 6 years, unless he makes some grand gesture (read: bright, shiny AND very expensive) worthy of some bedpost shaking.

I've never threatened to withhold sex in the past; it seems rather pointless because who does it really punish? Is it supposed to be one of those "This will hurt you more than it hurts me" deals that my Mom always yelled while beating my ass with a wooden spoon?

[Quick poll: How many others also got beaten with the wooden spoon? We should form a club, maybe The Wooden Spooners. Oh no wait, that sounds like geriatric porn or something. You come up with the club name and extra points if the spoon actually broke on your butt.]

Back to the rant, gah, I hate when I get distracted mid-rant. I really lose steam, quite a buzz kill. Kind of like back in high school, or maybe last night for you, and you're guzzling the Boone's Strawberry Hill crapola they have the nerve to label "wine" but you don't care 'cause hey, it's still alcoholic, and then you see a cop drive by which freaks you out so much you pour all your beautiful wine out the open car door as you drive 25 mph around town for an hour.

Or, when you're smoking some good stuff and all the sudden you realize there's too much smoke because your BFF "accidentally" set your new crochet purse with the cool wooden handles on fire. Damn.

Huh. Really got off track. Let's just go with it. What's your buzz kill (besides an annoying husband 'cause I've got that one covered)? Oh, and while we're at it, have you ever withheld sex to get what you wanted, and if so, how'd that work for ya?

Monday, May 14, 2007

I Don't Like Pickled Herring

So, another Corporate Wife Command Performance has reared its ugly head.

Once again, my husband has waited until the last minute to tell me because he knows how much I hate these things. It's not just that I'm shy and don't like to be thrust into a roomful of strangers, but more that I resent being told where to go, what to wear, who to talk to, etc. I don't like not having a choice, especially since I'm not on the payroll. And, if Asshat Corp. wants to tell me what to wear, I think they should foot the bill for the dress I'll never wear again. (God forbid you repeat an outfit.)

This week we will be dining with His Excellency, the Ambassador of Sweden, and his lovely wife at their residence in Washington D.C. It will be a very small gathering; just us, my husband's boss and his wife, and one other couple from my husband's company.

So, suggestions on what the hell to talk to them about? Unfortunately, I've never been to Sweden.
Um, how are those sky-high taxes working out for your citizens?
Gee, I just love ABBA! I saw Mamma Mia a couple of years ago.
While I'm not fond of herring, I do love most fish.

More unfortunate, based on past experience I know that my husband's boss's wife will be judging my "performance." I want to throw up already. I'm sure she's spend hours already researching Sweden and has an entire scrapbook completed. (You think I'm joking? I'm so not.)

Although this is certainly one of the more interesting "command performances," I still feel so awkward and uncomfortable. These events will never be effortless for me, and I will always resent Asshat Corp. for telling me what to do.

But hey, I guess it's better than "Black Tie Casino Night" that we're hosting in August. Can't wait to have the client look down my dress as I throw the dice. Gack.

Thursday, May 10, 2007

Freaky Thursday

OK, I just read that John Wilkes Booth (killed President Lincoln), James Earl Ray (killed Martin Luther King), and Mark David Chapman (killed John Lennon) were ALL born on May 10.

Coinkydink? I think not.

Seriously, is that not a mind-blower? I think I'm going to have to ask everyone I meet from now on their birthday. If it's May 10, I'm running.

What's the Controversy Here?

Have you been following all the controversy around the HPV (human papilloma virus) vaccine?

I'm really intrigued by this. This is a vaccine that can save women's lives by preventing cervical cancer. But when Texas governor Rick Perry tried to get a law passed to require 6th grade girls to get the vaccine, he was crucified.

Parents are saying that the government should not be able to tell them what to do with their children. Hello? Don't they already in so many other ways? But anyway, I'm just really curious why it bother parents so much when it could save lives.

I've heard some mothers say that 6th grade is too soon to talk to their daughters about sex (because HPV is transmitted sexually). While I definitely disagree with that, who says they have to talk about sex to have their daughters vaccinated? Did they tell them why they were getting the chicken pox vaccination or any other vaccination?

What am I missing here? Wouldn't you want to do everything possible to protect your child? The FDA has approved the vaccine and said that it does indeed protect women against four strains of the sexually transmitted HPV infection. Is there something we don't know?

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

Word of the Day #2

The Word of the Day (besides "asshat" which is always the word of the day) is "mirthful."

mirth·ful [murth-fuhl]
1.joyous; gay; jolly: a mirthful laugh.
2.providing mirth; amusing: a mirthful experience.

I am thrilled with the mirthful news that Paris Hilton will be spending 45 days in jail for driving on a suspended license. She was not able to buy her way out of this one.

I experienced much mirth over hearing her responses to the judge who asked if she had actually read the traffic violations and legal documents provided to her that clearly spelled out jail would be the consequence for not heeding her license suspension.

Her reply? “I have people who do that for me,” she told a judge. Then, she felt the need to add, “I just sign what people tell me to sign.”

Buh bye.

What is causing you mirth today?

Tuesday, May 08, 2007


I'm back from visiting my brother and his family in Florida. Didn't know I was gone did ya?

My parents were also there visiting at the same time so I was happy to see them, too. But dang, I'm truly depressed now. My brother's 9-year-old son from his first marriage also lives in FL, but his mother is moving him to Kansas despite my brother spending thousands of dollars on a lawyer to try and prevent this.

He's heartbroken, as we all are, over my nephew moving so far away. As if that wasn't enough, he just had major back surgery and is trying to recover from that ordeal.

I guess it could be worse. When I read the paper this morning I was bombarded with these ads, "Tired of using Meth?" and "Do you drink too much?"

What the hell? Apparently, if you're on meth or an alcoholic, you can get free help and more drugs. Sure, they're experimental drugs, but they're drugs! And free! Really, I'm glad someone is trying to help the poor crank users, but I am curious who is funding the research in the "state-of-the-art" treatment facility with "payment for attending."

There's an idea; give drugs users cash. I'm sure they'll use it wisely.

What about some free programs for kids who don't have parents at home after school? How about more money to care for homeless, mentally ill people? How about money to help abused animals?

Oh, whatever. Dream on.

Thursday, May 03, 2007

Gee, Why Didn't I Think of That

Well, just when you think you've seen/heard/burped it get a big 'ol slap across the kisser.

This is a letter to the editor that appeared recently in the Richmond paper:

"I have the answer to American's obesity crisis: Gas prices should be based upon the driver's weight. Before you pump you gas, you step on a scale. If you weigh 150 pounds, you pay $1.50 per gallon. That would definitely make me think twice before pulling into Krispy Kreme's drive-through."

Huh. Where to begin...

First, I was surprised that this letter was written by a woman because what woman hasn't struggled with her weight?

Second, I am shocked this moron can even write let alone lick a stamp to mail such crapola. She must not care what people think of her, because after writing such obnoxious drivel her neighbors have to be shunning her.

Third, not only is her idea prejudicial, it's just plain stupid. What's going to stop me from grabbing the 20-lb. neighbor boy to go with me when I buy gas? Heck, skinny kids would be hanging out at all the gas stations charging a $1 per gallon to get on the scale for you.

Honestly, I cannot even imagine what would possess someone to want such a lame and malicious concept published for all the world to see.

So here's MY answer to America's obesity crisis: Fine idiots like this lady thousands of dollars for being stupid. Put the millions of dollars that would accrue daily into an interest-earning account. Draw on the principal to pay companies a "fat-fighting" fee if they are willing to let their employees take 1 hour during every work day to exercise. Companies who provide an on-site gym, trainers, and only healthy snacks in vending machines get a higher FF fee.

You have something better?


Kudos to tgf of Assclownopolis who correctly guessed the state the dueling asshats were from...West Virginia.

Many of you knew it had to be somewhere in the South...I really thought I gave it away by subtly implying the duelers were related due to some serious inbreeding--a well known WV trait. Peter of Holties House seriously cracked me up by guessing NY or Boston, but hey, he lives in Australia so we'll cut him some slack.

Here's how my conversation with the worst cable TV provider (Comcast) went yesterday after my cable went out at 10:45 a.m. Note that some conversations might be ever so slightly exaggerated or embellished to give you the full flavor of what I had to deal with.

Comcast Idiot: Hi, this is Darlene your Comcast representative and I hate you already.

Me: Uh, what? Look Dimwit, my cable has been out for about 2 hours now.

Comcast Idiot: Yeah? Guess you're screwed.

Me: Well, can someone come and fix it?

Comcast Idiot: Nope. Ya wanna buy our service plan? For $2000 a month it covers any problems with your internal wiring.

Me: No! There is not a problem with the wiring IN the house. I think the guys building the house next door accidentally cut the line. But, even if there was a problem with the wiring in my house, why would I have to pay to have it fixed? I think you're the one whose "internal wiring" is on the fritz.

Comcast Idiot: We got a special going on right now where you get two free digital boxes, OK?

Me: What's the catch?

Comcast Idiot: Well, they are only free for 12 months and then you have to start paying for them.

Me: Right, no thanks. When can someone fix my cable?

Comcast Idiot: Hoo boy, you're not gonna be able to watch who gets voted off that 'merican Idol show tonight. Hey, we offer phone and internet service, too. You want either of those?

Me: NO! What I want is my cable fixed. I had your %$# internet service for 2 months before I switched companies because it never worked.

Comcast Idiot: Yeah, we hear that a lot. 'K, someone will be there between 8:00 a.m. and midnight tomorrow. Ya gotta be home or they'll go away and never come back.

Me: Are you kidding me? You mother^%$#ing ass%$#s! Get out here now and fix my &*^% cable!

Comcast Idiot: Bye, ya'll have a nice day now.

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

Dueling Asshats

So, if I were to tell you a man was just shot in a real-life duel, what state comes to mind?

You probably don't need any clues, but let me add that an argument involving ATVs (all terrain vehicles) led to the duel. What's your guess now?

OK, last clue...the two dueling men were related because Dueler A's mom married Dueler B's brother who was her cousin because his Dad married his first cousin three times removed after she was first married to Dueler A's uncle Jim Bob.

Yeah, OK, that last clue may not be true. I mean, that relationshipp wasn't actually spelled out in the newspaper article, but I was able to make an educated guess based on the state the duelers were from. Yes, I know I'm being nasty but this is new information to you why?

Tune in tomorrow for the revealing of the state! I'm sure you already guessed it, but I'm practicing for my own reality show, "Stupid is As Stupid Does" and it seems to be a requirement that the show must drag on for 2 days each week and include lots of fluff-type filler.

I have sent away for both my required host whore costume, complete with sparkles, spangles, AND beads, as well as my in-home Magik Spray Tan Gunk which is guaranteed to make my skin eleventy-five shades darker. My appointment with a cosmetic dentist for veneers, porcelain overlays, bleaching, and straightening is Thursday. Too much?

Tuesday, May 01, 2007

To Tell or To Not To Tell?

Dum dah dum dah...dilemma time. I need advice, people.

I'm still rolling around with the dogs here.

The friends with the yappy Chihuahua I watched last Saturday are visiting in 3 weeks. They will bring the demon dog.

The dilemma is, do I tell my friend that the last two times her dog has visited I have found pee on my carpet afterward? Now, I can't guarantee it was her dog, but I know if wasn't mine (because he was with me.) But, I can't say for sure it wasn't one of my two cats, but they have never ever not used their litter box. Which leads me to conclude the obvious. It was this uber bratty dog marking his territory.

I think that because it was a small amount, not like he really had to go and couldn't hold it. And, the first time it was in MY bedroom which is clearly my dog's domain. The second time it was on the third floor which is clearly the cats' domain (litter box and their food).

See, if I tell her about the peeing, I know somehow it will backfire and she just won't visit. I don't mean she won't bring the dog with her, oh no, she just won't come in some sort of bizarre passive-aggressive thing that will somehow turn out to be my fault.

Being a dog lover myself, I can understand not wanting to leave your dog in a kennel. I have never done that with my own dog because he came from a rescue organization and was in a small, concrete kennel for a year. But, I have hired pet sitters to come in 3 times a day to take care of him.

My friend has taken her dog to kennels before, but now doesn't want to anymore because she feels bad leaving her dog there. How can I argue with that? And, she insists she cannot find a pet sitter in her area. She has called several and they either don't call her back or something or other. She actually had one she used twice and then that person moved.

Gah! So, what to do??