The Bucky Four-Eyes Cotillion

Seven-year bitch

2011-11-30T08:36:00.000-05:00

Dusty, neglected, cobwebby...and for once, I'm not talking about my vagina. Gimme time, I'll get there.

It was seven years ago that I set up shop at this address in Blogsylvania. I used to mow the lawn, water the plants, pick up the dog shit in the yard. Well, I've let the place go to hell, haven't I? Sorry about that; I doubt you'll get all of it out of your shoe tread.

I'm not going away, either. I'm content to be the eyesore in the neighborhood. Speaking of which, keep your sore eyes peeled for a new photo essay coming your way SOONER THAN YOU THINK.

Transmission ended. We now return you to your normal test pattern.

Lazy Bucky's Quickies - the better-get-a-post-up-in-June edition

2011-06-30T21:33:00.003-04:00

So...we meet again. Let me give it to you in bursts, baby.

After three years of reluctantly hustling and hawking cell phones, batteries, and whatever the hell those little metal things in the plastic bags are, I worked my final shift in Commission Sales Land this evening. I'd been pondering wearing the most bizarre hair accessories I could find for my special night, but instead decided to put on some makeup and wear clean socks; that threw everyone off balance. There are some people I will miss, co-workers, managers, and even a few customers; there are many more customers and maybe one past co-worker who will not be missed at all as I skip away from the cash register with a song in my heart and a glee club in my pants. I'll probably have much more to say about all this at some point, because you know I just can't shut the fuck up.
Consequently, it's a party up in here. Let's rock it like Mom and Dad are on vacation!
Things I may have said to the cats lately:

"Favor me with a glance."
"Thirteen - NO!"
"Dammit, how do you always find the nipples?"
"Cheeks so velvety they had to have their own song!"
"Stop biting my feet!"
"Are you mommy's little biscuit barrel?"

I can't even begin to fathom why I don't get laid.
School is whipping my withered brain back into shape with a quick-time harch. ("I love quick-time harch!" Tell me what movie that's from and I'll give you five Brain Points.) There's a lot of reading (textbooks and scripts), analysis, peer review, and writing. Lots of writing, and that's only going to increase as I draw ever closer my completed thesis project (a full-length feature screenplay, in my case). To be sure, I've already had several private meltdowns when deadline and inspiration weren't working in tandem, but sometimes I pull brilliant things out of my ass. Apparently, there's a library in my ass. Everything is cataloged in accordance with the Doody Decimal System.
Songs that should be used in commercials:
Pointer Sisters: I'm So Excited. I've long thought this should be used in an ad for Depends. I envision a chorus line of senior citizens, doing the can-can and singing I'm so excited, and I just can't hide it; I'm about to lose control, and I think I like it!
Natalie Imbruglia: Torn. This would be perfect to advertise a sexual lubricant. A woman dejectedly puts band-aids on her ass as the soundtrack plays: You're a little late; I'm already torn.

Menage a triage

2011-04-05T08:10:00.002-04:00

I have the sudden and overwhelming urge to save a life.

Probably NSFW.

Super Sexy CPR from Super Sexy CPR on Vimeo.

I'm afraid so, Grad...

2011-03-08T03:51:00.003-05:00

...grad school, that is.

For those who haven't been victim to my blathering elsewhere, I gathered up my quivering nutsack and enrolled in school. I won't lie: the thought of returning to school after 15 years and amassing a whole new level of student loans gave me a few moments of genuine and spontaneous panic in the days leading up to my first class. Chair cushions may have been ruined in those moments; let's put them by the road and say no more about it.

One class down and ass deep in the second, I've gotta give it Bucky's Fickle Finger of Fuck Yeah!

I'm working toward a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing. The main focuses of the curriculum are writing for movies, animation, and gaming. The pace is a bit insane, since online classes always move faster than their onground counterparts, and I can't remember the last time I wrote this much since I used to remember that I had a blog.

And the best part? When all this is over, I get to wear a cowl. I'm told the assless chaps/grad cowl look is all the rage in Milan. You know me - always fashion forward. Forward into a pair of oversized sweatpants, an "I fling poo" t-shirt, and salmon espadrilles.

In other "I'm so fucking sick of hearing her go on about this shit!" news, I bought a Kinect and now I am obsessed, hooked, jonesing if I'm away too long: I love Dance Central. Probably not enough to marry it, but certainly enough to hump it in the back seat of my parents' Pontiac.

Make no mistake: I'm not a dancer. Even if I think I am when I'm drunk, it ain't so. But it doesn't have to be pretty for this game - your limbs and such have to be doing approximately the right thing, but not exactly, which is good; I'm too old and tubby to defy gravity like the impossibly hot young things you can pick as your dance instructor/guide. Um, not that I think any video game characters are hot, certainly not, because that would be, you know, weird. ahem

No, I'm sure I look like a manatee mime when I'm playing, but here's the prize in your Cracker Jacks: I've lost at least 15 pounds since I started playing in January. I have finally found an exercise where I never miss a workout, I never slack, because I can't wait to get in front of the TV and play the damned thing. Also: a bra is mandatory, especially if my poor sister is around to witness the flappery. I think it's a good rule of thumb that one's breasts should not provide sound effects while exercising. Later, though, after you've polished off the fifth of Jack and you're reaching for the Crisco, all bets are off.

And that's how you start off with a discussion of higher education and wind up with buttsex jokes. I have my own special map, and all roads, circuitous or direct, lead to the gutter.

Mullet over

2010-10-04T08:23:00.003-04:00

Prologue

The mullet: having your cake and eating it, too. Except the cake is really ugly, and it tastes like shit.

****************************************************

I heard him before I saw him.

Now, as we all know, I get a lot of "Sir" and "Oh, I thought you were a guy" from well-meaning but ~~retarded~~ confused customers. Just the other day, a little boy grinned up at me and gleefully, evilly declared, "You look like a girl!" Oh, snap!

But this guy had a certain eloquence, and as I negotiated the distance between a printed page and my face, which is truly a joy with the state of my eyes and the age of my glasses, his voice wafted across the counter:

"I was quite pleased by your hair when I realized it belonged to a young lady."

Well, there's a fine how-do-you-do! Amused and caught slightly off guard, I raised my already-beleaguered eyes and was faced with a sudden and overwhelming vision: The Greasy Silver Mullet.

Let us agree as a group on something that I feel should be self evident: there's really no good time for a mullet. When the bearer of the mullet is pushing sixty and has a face that looks like the moon shortly after an unprovoked attack by rabid asteroids, the clock has struck shave-that-fucker-off-o'clock. Bristly buzz cut on top, yellowed and fairly dripping shoulder-length party in the back; could you have looked away? I couldn't. God help me, I couldn't.

He said something charming about thinking I was a long-haired man, but I must confess that I was looking at his hair with far more concentration than I was affording his words. The Greasy Silver Mullet was like a train wreck, a train wreck with scissors and a long-empty bottle of shampoo.

Before I had to pretend to make actual conversation while staring at this guy's 'do, my co-worker returned from the stock room with whatever product the Mullet Man was buying. I thanked my lucky charms for the reprieve and hurried off to another part of the store to rearrange some displays.

Dammit, I should've made for the bathroom.

By the time I saw him coming at me, fried-egg eyes intent on me from behind his ten-pound glasses, it was too late; the Greasy Silver Mullet had me frozen, helpless in a tractor beam of disgusted fascination.

He was one of those customers who sees me tending to a task, and must think he's "rescuing" me from work if he comes over and yammers at me about bullshit I never wanted to hear. Here's the news, buddy, and you can still smell the ink: I'd really rather be wearing a fiberglass tampon. (Or maybe I am...but that's another post for another time.)

I don't know how long he talked at me, because all I could see was the Greasy Silver Mullet. It delivered its own soliloquy to me, one that spoke of exotic places and stout ales, of midget bowling and darts gone wrong (but, interestingly enough, not a word about fresh water); it aspired to be a lawyer, or a hockey player, but never a cobbler, just for the record. Ginger or Mary Ann? Well, Ginger, certainly.

"...and I've been sick since January."

My focus snapped back to the Man with the Mullet. The Weirdo-Magnet alarm started chiming politely and discreetly in the pit of my stomach.

He was reaching for his pocket.

"Then I coughed today and..."

His hand was coming out of his pocket. I couldn't react quickly enough; I was suspended in greasy Jell-O.

"...this came out."

He whipped out and unfolded his handkerchief in one surprisingly deft motion.

My mind screamed "AAAAAAAAAH! What the fuck?"

There it was, the lavishly bloody handkerchief of a pockmarked man with a Greasy Silver Mullet, apparently for my dining and dancing pleasure. Because I am destined to See These Things.

****************************************************

Epilogue

Does anyone know the ETA for eyesight recovery after repeatedly dipping one's own face in boiling water? I'm just askin', you know, for a friend.

Teenage mutant ninja assholes

2010-06-11T10:00:00.002-04:00

Six or seven young men, probably spanning the magical ages 17 to 20, almost walk past. Almost. Then one turns on a whim, redirects his friends, and just like that, the store is fully stocked with a species I like to call Teenagers With Time To Waste.

One of the younger guys approaches me, his face the very picture of cherubic sincerity, and asks,
"Excuse me, ma'am - do you have vibrators?"

So that's it, huh? A little game of Shock the Old White Lady? (Hint: He has picked the wrong Old White Lady.)

I play dumb. "A vibrator? For what?"

"Ummmm...." His friends are tittering behind him as he grins and drops his gaze. "I don't think I should say."

I nod understandingly. He seems slightly uncomfortable now that the Old White Lady has become his vibrator confidante. "We do have a massager," I tell him, leading him to the product and putting it in his hand. His friends are loving this.

He turns the package over and around in his hands, his face a battlefield of curiosity and mild disgust, and blurts out, "This too big!"

Everyone laughs, and I figure that'll be the end of it. But now they're all loosened up and rowdy, and pretty soon the store is filled with the sound of teenagers being as loud as we all know teenagers can be.

Another one of the guys finds a megaphone, and wants me to unbox it so he can check it out.

My personal thoughts on the matter: Giving an obnoxious teenager a megaphone while in a store with other customers present is almost as intelligent a notion as giving the window seat to a sumo wrestler with explosive diarrhea.

I refuse to unbox the megaphone. Megaphone Dude and I go 'round a little bit; these guys were amusing at first, but now they're collectively getting on my nerves. One of his friends leans around me to read my nametag.

"Hey..." reads tag again "...Katty?" Well, yes, I can be catty, but it's not how my name is pronounced. Nice try. I acknowledge him anyway.

"Are you married, Katty?"

It's an odd question, so I give an odd answer. "Yes." I have no idea where this conversation is going, and I'm not sure I want to know how he'd respond if I said "No."

He looks surprised. As he probably should. He demands, "To who?"

I turn, lock eyes with him, and answer clearly: "My wife."

There is a split second when the whole group screeches to a completely silent halt; all that's missing is the sound of a needle ripping across vinyl. Then a collective "Whoooooooooooooo!" erupts from all the friends. Without another word to me, they turn and head for the exit in tandem and with all due haste. It's kind of amazing, like a school of fish who change course on a dime at the scent of danger or muff divery. The last thing I hear from them as they hustle out the door is "There's some freaky shit goin' down in here!"

Freaky shit, indeed. Score one for the Old White Lady.

Mystery meat revealed!

2010-05-13T22:36:00.003-04:00

It's time to whip out the meat. Well, the source of the meat. And it's not even really meat. Nor is it labia (this time).

Meaty drum roll...

It's all about the pretzels. But then again, isn't it always about the pretzels?

Everyone gets five brain points for playing. And a pretzel. See me around the back of the building at closing time.

Mystery meat challenge

2010-04-29T08:14:00.004-04:00

The game is afoot!

This was an innocent enough picture before I took it to Photoshop to produce a fucked-up platter of mystery meat. My challenge to You, Internet as a Whole (all ten of you), is to guess what the subject of the photograph was in its pre-meat life.

The first correct answer will earn its author 10,000 - that's right, ten motherfucking thousand - Brain Points.* Oh, yeah, I know better than to offer Rice-a-Roni (the San Francisco Treat) as a prize; I learned my lesson the hard way.

So, tell me - what the fuck was this before I turned it into mutant meat?

* Brain Points can be redeemed for bragging rights at any participating Home Depot, Showbiz Pizza, or Victoria's Secret location.

Something not about buttsex

2010-04-24T19:57:00.008-04:00

Look! There's a blog here! Who'd have thought to look for a blog here?

It's been hectic here since last we met. I finally made full time at work, I'm teaching - those are good things, both of them! The not-so-peachy helping of the pie was the bronchitis that came to stay...and stay...and stay.

There a real post - with actual words and shit - brewing in my head about a badly coiffed customer, but it's not squirting out of me like Wow chips the way my posts used to, so in the meantime, here's a little of what I loosely call "art" (made with cellphone photos in Photoshop).

Pale Rider

It's in the trees - it's coming!

Beaks Ain't Cheeks

Cracked Nipple Surprise

Flashback 2: Punch and mushrooms

2010-01-15T20:36:00.003-05:00

This one's from 1972, when I could still walk into a church without bursting into flames (I'm not saying the occasional spark didn't cause a little discomfort here and there, but the whole "Your hair and body are engulfed in fire!" thing hadn't yet started to happen).

My First Communion; this was obviously before the painful, expensive, labor-intensive removal of that unsightly mushroom.

Flashback (now with red ribbons)!

2010-01-09T01:34:00.002-05:00

I'll tell you what: we really knew how to dress in 1975.

Left to right: Bride's sister, looking like I just farted in her face; groom's sister (me), looking like I might perhaps have just farted in her face; best man, looking like he just wants his damned drink so he can get back to all the babes in the forest-green hooded bridemaids' dresses.

It's too bad this picture doesn't adequately capture the level of frill that is on my dress. Wearing it in a public place was slightly mortifying for me, and when the night was over, I couldn't wait to wriggle into a pair of bluejeans and pee standing up.

Poor horsey just wanted a drink from the Red River Valley

2010-01-05T23:44:00.002-05:00

As seen in Meijer late one evening. I won't tell you which one I was shopping for, horses or feminine hygiene products.

If I hear those fucking dogs barking "Jingle Bells" one more time...

2009-12-24T09:44:00.003-05:00

Christmas, for me, is like an ice-water enema: you dread it, you do it, you get it over with, and then you shiver in the corner for a week afterward.

Really, if you can work in retail this time of year and still enjoy Christmas, then you're made of stronger and more tolerant stuff than I am. Go forth in your reindeer sweater and Star of Bethlehem scrunchie and enjoy yourself.

For the rest of you, I ask that you be kind to those of us who must slap on the nametag today and deal with your last-minute shopping panic.

Please don't try to haggle; buy it or don't buy it, but understand that I cannot do a damned thing about the marked price.
Don't bring your fifteen children into the store and just turn them loose to destroy everything in sight; also, consider birth control.
Don't make me accompany you to the parts drawers, then basically ask me "How do I build [whatever complicated electronic device you are considering]?" Seriously, if I could build that shit, don't you think I'd be doing that for a living? I can show you where the parts are stocked, but if you have no idea what part performs which function, or how to tie them together, then you probably need to stay the fuck away from the parts drawers. (Okay, this bothers me any time of the year, but at Christmas, I really really don't have time for that shit.)
Do not wander into the store two minutes before the posted closing time, and then say "I'm just looking" when I try to wait on you; the time for "just looking" was over an hour ago. We are not a fucking library, and we'd like to go home now, not watch you mouth breathe all over the store with no sense of time or purpose.
Don't be a douche. I know that's a tall order, but if you want me to care about the quality of service I give you, then it's a good idea not to needlessly antagonize me right off the bat. I'll bet waitresses piss in your soup, too.

There. Now you've had the full benefit of my Christmas cheer. In closing, I'd like to leave you with a little musical number that I hope touches your heart the way it touched mine:

The only thing missing is the hairless pussy

2009-11-26T13:58:00.002-05:00

It just dawned on me that my fifth blogiversary was a couple of weeks ago. It's too late to celebrate that milestone in human culture (but if you do feel like paying tribute, go out for a pap smear and have the doc yell "Hello...hello...hello...hello..." next to your monkey).

Instead, let me celebrate this warm and fuzzy holiday by presenting to you:

Real Thanksgiving of New Jersey (click on the image to view larger):

A short bus story

2009-10-04T21:47:00.007-04:00

When Friday does this, I feel like a midget at a puppet show.

It's hard to follow the migration pattern of the free-range idiot. Sometimes the idiots show up singly, sometimes they come in pairs, and quite often an idiot is accompanied by a semi-willing/semi-mortified/just-used-to-it-and-ignoring-it companion. One thing that can be predicted about the species, however, is that each and every idiot within a 50-mile radius of here will, eventually, will find me where I work and will annoy the living shit out of me.

**************

I've already introduced you to Motormouth Gramps. This would be as good a time as any, I reckon, to have you meet The TV Bitch.

She and her husband arrived via bus, and as I always do when customers are dropped off by the bus, I said a little prayer to the retail gods that these people would not be assholes. In Grand Haven, you see, the bus does not run on a set schedule - it's a dial-a-ride service, so when someone has to call the bus to come fetch him or her, there's no guarantee that it will be there in anything resembling a timely fashion. Since there were no other businesses within walk-in distance, it wasn't like they could really wait for the bus anywhere other than in my store.

So, the couple disembarked, entered the store, and made straight for me. I either have a sympathetic face, or I look like a complete and utter sucker, because the weirdos will inevitably zero in on me. These two didn't seem outright weird; but you know how some people look...not quite right? Yeah. That.

They were nice as could be, though, and I chastised myself for pre-judging them based on their bus ridership and not-quite-rightness. Quick and pleasant transaction made, bus called, my customers wandered the store awaiting the chariot of mass transit.

While they waited, I walked over to talk to my boss toward the front of the store. She and I were deep in conversation, probably about something completely inappropriate, when the lady of the bus couple appeared next to us fairly abruptly.

"Hi, did you have a question?" I asked her, hoping it wasn't the "Do you have a bathroom?" question.

"I don't like those TVs." She said it emphatically, firmly, with great conviction in her voice and a fervor in her eyes that burned like jalapeño ass lube.

My boss and I were caught totally off guard. Confused, we asked her which TVs, and why the hate, hon?

She gestured at the three TVs we had on display. "All of those. I don't like those TVs." Still totally serious and not to be fucked with.

We finally figured out, after many interjections of "I don't like those TVs." that she was not a fan of the flat-screen TV.

"What if they fall over? Who's gonna put that on my wall? Why don't you have the regular TVs in here?"

She just kept at it and kept at it, always coming back to her questioning of why we didn't have any of the old, square, hella-heavy TVs in stock. Well, ma'am, it's because most sane people prefer a TV with a better picture, and one that can be moved without a fucking crane.

Finally, I tired of the question and said, "Neither of us has any say in what is or isn't stocked in the stores. You'd have to ask someone a lot higher up on the corporate food chain about the decisions made." That's the standard joke I make each time I encounter an idiot customer who's under the impression that I have any control of any part of the company for which I work. See the name tag, pal? People who make the decisions don't usually have to sport a "Welcome to...My Name is..." lapel-side.

TV Bitch looked a little confused by my statement, and my boss translated for me. "You'd have to talk to our CEO."

TV Bitch rolled her eyes. "Oh, yeah, that'll take a hundred years..."

Boss and I briefly exchanged raised-eyebrow looks.

TV Bitch rolled on, "...and then the ghosts will come in and knock over this building."

We had a moment of silence in memory of any true direction this conversation was taking. Boss and I had no idea what to say at this point, and TV Bitch/Ghost-Demolition lady looked like she was winding herself up to continue down the path of whatthefuck-ness. I glanced over at her husband and the expression on his face said many things, but mostly it said Oh, crap, she's doin' it again, and I have to be married to her, you guys, and please just entertain her so I can shop in peace for a few minutes, 'kay?

I have never in my life been so overjoyed to see the bus pull up in front of the store.

September: rhymes with dismember

2009-09-01T21:01:00.003-04:00

Well, shove another statue in my ass, how the hell did it get to be September already? I thought I was bein' all productive, putting up a post early in August, thinking I'd follow it with at least one or two more...and then BAM. Now it's cold and my ass is all jiggly with the shivers, and not in a good way.

First things first (because it's more arrangey that way): The winners of my caption contest are Bone Machine, for the timeless "She's got Sandy Duncan Eyes." and Sheryl Stephen for the heartwarming sentiment, "Oh, Sonny, you just dislodged my mucus plug with your teeth!" I couldn't pick just one, so I am crowning Bone and Sheryl the King and Queen of the Cotillion Prom. Or is "Cotillion Prom" redundant? Either way, I'm forced to wear something made of taffeta and to put my hair up into ridiculous turd curls. Go on and dance your spotlight dance, you two.

In other news: Now that my local store has closed, I'm driving a half hour each way to a different store, and working an average of six hours a week. Like a 30-year case of diarrhea, it's gettin' old. So, my chaps and I are actively back on the job hunt. I'd really like to find employment as a court jester, or perhaps the pastie technician at a strip club; I'll keep you informed on my career progress.

Speaking of progress, how awesomely fucking awesome is it to have Project Runway back on the air? I'll give Bravo props for trying to give us a substitute, but let's face it: The Fashion Show was nothing more than a scrap of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of Tim Gunn's always-polished shoe. It was like asking for a Classic Coke and instead being handed a warm glass of piss. Well, maybe I'm being too harsh here; warm piss isn't as bad as The Fashion Show, not if it's fairly fresh, and doesn't have those lemonade fleaks in it.

Also, I did, in fact, make it to the zoo this summer. Here, have a camel's ass:

And, finally, I'd like to offer proof that just because you're about a thousand years old (in cat years) doesn't mean you ain't still cute enough to stop traffic.

Eeyore prefers to summer at the Monkey-Head Hilton condo. And where's that catnip julep he ordered ten minutes ago, hmmmmm?

That is all. Transmission ended.

Do it. Do it.

2009-08-09T22:30:00.004-04:00

Caption this picture!
(Bonus points if you know who this is and can work a General Hospital reference into your caption.)

The winner of this contest will NOT receive any Rice-a-Roni. Just thought that ought to be clear, as I have no desire to dress like Bucky Crocker again.

It's that time of the month

2009-07-31T23:20:00.000-04:00

Damn, how did I get to this point, this "oh, crap, it's the last day of the month and I haven't posted anything" point? Maybe I should start a policy of drunken blogging; the content might not make sense, but there would be content.

The last couple of weeks have been a blur, as the hammer came down on my store and we closed shop. The company has been assuring us for months and months, "Oh, yeah, we're gonna move you to a better location in town, we wouldn't just close your store, heavens, no!" Sure. And the Tooth Fairy is gonna respect me in the morning. I know bullshit when I hear it.

We had two weeks to pack up every last bit of merchandise in the place and ship it out to other stores, remove all the shelving and fixtures, and sweep and vacuum a building that is going to be demolished in a few days. Up until mid-day last Saturday, we were also doing all this with customers coming in to make purchases from our ever-dwindling inventory. Some of them felt the need to come in to gawk and generally get right in our way as we were trying to get shit done. We so desperately needed Officer Barbrady to come in with a cattle prod. "Nothing to see here, move along, all you lookie-loos." Really, folks - if watching a few people pack up a store is your idea of entertainment, I would suggest going home and jabbing a crab fork into your eyes; it's the next logical step.

Even after we put a sign on the door that explained the fact that we were closed, people would not stop coming in and asking about it, as if the sign were some kind of joke and we were withholding their precious batteries. Customers would phone us, and on average, would make us repeat "No, this location is no longer in business" at least five times during the conversation. Yes, we're closed, so get the fuck out of my way and have a blessed day.

It's all been a bit more physical work than I'm used to; it's made me realize, "Hey! I'm a middle-aged woman who's grossly out of shape!" And then I go get some pizza. Yesterday, we finally got the dumpster that we'd been trying to acquire for days, and the only two of us who were on site that day happened to be the two oldest employees in the store. I have to say, though, that the two of us kicked ass, kicked paunchy, varicose-veined, silver-haired ass. My muscles are still not on speaking terms with me, my knees are on strike, and my feet are in negotiations with a different, younger body, but the worst of my injuries out of all that lifting and tossing is the giant hole I ripped in the armpit of my RENT t-shirt when I hooked it with a bracket attached to the rather weighty shelf I was tossing over the side of the dumpster. If that shelf had been half an inch closer to my body when I heaved it up and over, I'd be typing this with stitches in my side.

Starting tomorrow, I'll be working at another of our locations. My drive will be half an hour instead of seven to ten minutes, but at least they're keeping me, and I'll no longer be working with Annoying Boy. Today we wrapped things up, took the last of the keep-it crap out of the building, and shut off the lights for the last time. Last Sunday was my one-year anniversary at this job, but I really didn't think I harbored any sentimentality toward the location, save for the fact that it was a short commute. But damned if I didn't spill some tears as I was driving out of the lot.

Shit, I'm gonna miss that crappy little store!

Because I'm a grownup

2009-06-30T21:48:00.000-04:00

The best-laid plans of mice and men never get laid. I'm living proof of that.

I had my day off all planned out: Tuesday would be My Day at the Zoo. I love the zoo. I haven't been to the zoo in years. Nobody fucks with my day at the zoo.

I would spy on the spider monkeys, drink beer with the bears, stroke the stingrays, badger the budgies, hump the camels, all the while working up the nerve to ride the four-story zip line that would send me in glorious pseudo flight over the petting corral. I would be five years old all over again, except for the driver's license and wrinkles, but those were mere technicalities. It would be a glorious summer day wherein I pestered animals besides my own with a camera and my insane, delighted giggles.

Somebody fucked with my day at the zoo.

Somewhere around the get-the-fuck-outta-here-on-my-day-off hour of 7:30 a.m., an hour that doesn't even technically exist on one's weekend, I was awakened by what seemed to be a marching band but was just my phone. I was just awake enough to mutter "Fuuuuuuuuck..." in a sleep-raspy voice when I saw on the caller ID that it was my boss. There had been an emergency in her family, and could I work for a few hours?

Now, you'll never meet an asshole who's more selfish than I am, but even I have a tiny sliver of decency when it comes to family medical emergencies, having lived through enough of them myself, so work was on and Operation GiggleZoo was aborted. My inner five-year-old went off into the corner to pout and draw pictures of me with a pig nose, and off to work I went.

Though rain had been predicted for the day, it turned out to be sunny and a little cool - the perfect day for a middle-aged woman to go compare necks with the giraffes for a few hours. I couldn't help but fantasize how my day would've gone had I not been called to cashier duty...

Monkeys! I love monkeys!

Aw, dammit, I knew I should've buttoned my shirt before I wandered over here. Sorry 'bout the stray nipples, guys.

Well, monkeys are just rude anyway. I'll go visit the elephants and see if they want these peanuts I shoved down my pants.

Hmmmmm...guess not.

There's a pretty polar bear. Oh, look - the polar bear wants to give me kisses! Butt kisses!

There's no way I could be misreading that signal, right?

Wrong!

Not my best zoo day ever. Even the puma hates my display of too much belly.

"Oh, I want a LOT of lumps!"

The point to all this is...there's no fucking point. The only way I can keep myself from having a pouty hissy fit over going to work and missing the zoo is to imagine massive amounts of animal vomit.

That, my friends, is maturity.

AfterBirth Day reflections

2009-05-31T22:24:00.002-04:00

Damn, I just realized I haven't put up a single post this month. I'd like to say it's because I'm much too busy shagging young sluts...so I'll say that: I'm much too busy shagging young sluts.

It's not true, but I can say it.

Things I haven't actually been doing this month:

Shagging young sluts.
Cleaning up the leaves in my yard.
Shagging old sluts.
Cleaning my house.
Shagging anyone.
Cleaning anything (unless you count loading the dishwasher; then I am a domestic goddess).
Earning commission.
Writing blog posts.

Things I have been doing this month:

Turning 44.
Looking 55.
Fighting off a nasty head/chest cold that has left me with the crown for Mistress of Mucous.
Putting a mighty strain on the scales at the doctor's office.
Attending a Mary Kay party and feeling as out of place as a...well, as a man at a women's party. If I could've sunk into the couch and slithered, unnoticed, out the door, I would have done so. I mean, really...I looked in the curio cabinet, and wondered why the hostess had a decorative plate adorned with a picture of 1980s-era Morgan Fairchild made up to look like she should be running the Best Little Whorehouse in Texas; then I realized it was a picture of company founder Mary Kay. What a whore. I thought it best to avoid the makeup and instead bought some Satin Hands. I can't even begin to tell you how disappointed I was to find out it was lotion.
Watching my cats freak the fuck out when my niece brought her chihuahua puppy over to visit. Stella hid in the kitchen cabinet, and when my brother opened the door to get a peek at her, she shot out of there with the speed of a much thinner cat, collided explosively with a bag of returnable cans, and hid under my bed for two hours. She seems to have forgiven me, but I won't be surprised if she pees on my feet during the night.
Feeling the subliminal pull of infomercials that offered me such tempting items as Dual-Action Colon Cleanse and Yoga Booty Ballet. Come to think of it, I'm not so sure those are two different products.

Here's to June, where I hope to finish the post upon which I've been dawdling for weeks, and maybe, just maybe, shag someone worthy of my charms. Trouble is, I never see homeless women in Grand Haven.

And it'll be choreographed

2009-04-27T15:30:00.002-04:00

Really, the original ad is more overdone and laughable than any parody. If you haven't seen the original "Gathering Storm" flatulence fest, check it out on YouTube.

Now, here's my favorite parody to date:

A Gaythering Storm from Jane Lynch

Beware the gobble-ins

2009-04-13T23:35:00.003-04:00

This used to be such a nice town, a serene town, a place where you could raise up a nice li'l family and your child could dream of growing up to be somebody. Somebody like a mail carrier.

I'm sorry to say that times have changed; it's like the Wild West up in here now, and not even a can of mace and a stout leather bag - a mail bag, I mean - can keep our postal workers safe from the threat of gang violence in the streets of Grand Haven.

Those god damned turkeys.

The devil wears blah blah

2009-03-26T23:30:00.003-04:00

Old guy wanders in, wanting product a co-worker ordered for him. I check and it's not in yet; old guy is very cool about it, and I'm thinking, Well, isn't that a relief that he's not bitching at me for something out of my control. What a nice old man. Then he compliments my speaking voice, and I suddenly remember that I've waited on him before, that he is the Talkiest Talkingest of the Talking Old Guys, and that I may be eligible for full retirement benefits before this conversation is over.

He tells me, at length, about his friend with the bright red hair and the melodious voice who used to be a DJ, and about another friend with a booming voice that needed no amplification, the guy who should have been a DJ but couldn't be bothered to learn the trade. Somewhere along the line, he segues into the story of his immigrant grandparents, and how they were made to run up and down the stairs at Ellis Island before being granted admittance to the States (I suspect that it was because watching people run in wooden shoes is universally hilarious, but I keep that to myself), and how his grandmother took all her money out of the bank the night before the stock market crashed in '29, and he doesn't know why they called it the "Great" Depression, 'cause it kinda sucked, actually.

My boss is wandering through and gets dragged into the conversation because she's found the item that was ordered for him. She and I share the thought, in our girlie telekinetic way, that perhaps he'll buy it and vamoose so we can get back to the stock that needs to go up. But no, he's now launched into the tale of how he and his wife ventured into the wilds of New York City in the late '60s, and how, by God, it was really a hellhole, and there were people dancing topless on the tables. I'm wondering, to myself, how I get on the waiting list for this hellhole, and then I remember that some asshole cleaned up Times Square in the '90s, and my little private bubble of breast awareness is deflated as the old guy relates, in excruciating detail, how he and his wife were trapped on the 88th floor of the Empire State Building during a blackout, but "this little Jap" fashioned a battery-powered lamp and led all the tourists down the stairs to the darkened street. I can't help but picture George Takei dressed as the Statue of Liberty.

We edge him over to the counter and manage to ring up his purchase as he launches into his explanation of how the Mexican drug wars could be easily eradicated with some of the US of A's heavy artillery. I decline to mention that the US of A's heavy artillery seems to be already in use elsewhere in the world, as doing so would only prolong the conversation. He asks me at least three times if I've ever been in the military, and I keep thinking, Do you really think anyone would willingly hand me a gun? Finally, miraculously, after the longest 45 minutes on record, he's out the door, and my boss and I are staring at each other, eyes wide with disbelief, exclaiming in unison, "Oh. My. GAWD."

And the thing is, he's a nice enough guy. Not once do I have the urge to hit him or gouge him or tightly wrap his danglies in speaker wire. Really, I feel kinda bad, because it's obvious that no one he knows will hold still long enough for him to get this out of his system, and dammit, it's a family's job to let him ramble at home so he's all rambled out before he's allowed to go out in public.

So, we go back to our work, and there is work aplenty for the two of us. We price, we stock, we hang tags, we sell phones, we sell cell phones, we sell cell phones by the seashore, we do price changes, and before I know it, it's an hour to closing time and my boss is leaving me to close the store by myself. I still have a few tasks on my list, but the last hour is usually slow, and I'm figuring it will be a breeze, a cakewalk, a walk in the park, a walk in the cake. Boss lady has her hand on the door when a familiar vehicle pulls up...

Chatty Grampy is back.

I shriek at my boss and she whips around to see what's gotten up my ass. Then she sees who it is and I can see her getting ready to bolt past him, out the door and into her car, where she will lock the doors and squeal out of the parking lot like she just robbed the place and put three bullets in the clerk. I beg her, "Oh, sweet Jesus, promise me you'll give me FIVE MINUTES and then call me on the store phone, where we will have a long conversation about digital converter boxes and their place in a kosher household. Promise me." She promises me, and I have no reason to doubt the sincerity on her face, though I only see it for a split second before she makes like the Road Runner and she's gone, into her car, a streak and a puff of dust, tire tracks on the concrete all she's left us to remember she was ever really there.

It seems we neglected to preach the gospel of "Do you need batteries with that?" when he made his purchase, and as it turns out, he needs batteries. The battery sale turns into his proud display of a bullet-shaped pen, which somehow turns into a solid half hour of his movie recommendations for me. He likes Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton together, and also that Jack Nicholson movie "where that one guy is a queer." He basically spoils the endings to several movies which, thankfully, I have no interest in seeing anyway. Surprisingly enough, his most enthusiastic recommendation is The Devil Wears Prada. In fact, he mentions high-heeled shoes and women in high heels so many times during the conversation that I begin to wonder if he's going to whip out a pair of red stilettos and beg me to wear them as I clog dance on his back. I begin to wonder exactly how much I would charge for that.

But mostly, I begin to wonder Where the hell is that phone call I was promised? Betrayal, that's what I call it. When a chick asks another chick to make a fake phone call to rescue her from an awkward situation, it's Chick Law that she make that call at precisely the preordained time. My boss has broken one of the cardinal rules of Honor Among Chicks. I make a mental note to fart in her office chair if and when this conversation ever concludes.

Thirty minutes to closing time, my work list not getting any smaller, and finally, miraculously, another customer walks in. Old guy sees him, grabs his batteries off the counter, and has the good grace to say "Well, you have a customer, so I'll let you get to it." The angels sing for just a split second, until New Customer smiles at us and says "Oh, you guys go ahead, I'm fine over here."

NO! I scream in my head. YOU'RE NOT FINE! YOU DESPERATELY NEED MY HELP TO PICK OUT A CALCULATOR! My attempts at telepathy fail. I will the phone to ring, but its will to remain unrung is stronger, and I swear that the caller ID briefly, silently flashes Sucks to be you. I'm sure New Customer is doing this to me on purpose, this blatant "knowing what he wants and where it's located" nonsense that he's pulling just to fuck with me.

After an eternity of movie plot spoilers, I see New Customer making his way toward the counter, slowly, slowly, slowly, and I practically spit a lung out screeching at him, "I CAN HELP YOU OVER HERE, SIR!" Old guy moves aside and bids me adieu, and I take my time waiting on New Customer, making sure I ask a lot of questions, make a lot of recommendations, assure myself that old guy is really and truly out the door, on his way out of the parking lot. I bag New Customer's items, and then I pick up the phone, dial about four digits, and pretend to engage in a fascinating debate about the availability of lead-free solder, just in case Grampaw Fuck-Me Pumps changes his mind and turns the car around.

It is with the greatest sense of relief that I lock the store, kill the lights, and shut down the electronics; it is with the greatest sense of revenge that I let loose an ass-rumbling thunderstorm upon the office chair where my can't-bother-to-phone boss will sit in the morning.

I shall never again forget to offer batteries with each purchase. Amen.

Lazy Bucky's quickies (Spring edition)

2009-03-20T22:39:00.002-04:00

I've started and abandoned about four different posts since the last one that went up, so I guess it had better be quickies or nothin' at all.

I got my hair did! Squirl's very nice hairdresser (also the stylist who dyed my hair the last time it was done, about a year and a half ago) offered to do it for me pro bono (because who doesn't like Cher's ex?). How could I pass up an offer like that? I went about as wild with the color as I'm allowed to at my present job (where they also make me button my shirt right up to the collarbone; how's a girl supposed to make commission with her cleavage obscured?).

It's called violet burgundy, with just a little Roxy mixed in for brightness, whatever that means. I give it the Bucky Stamp of Approval, which is generally reserved for the finer things in life, like Corona Light, solar-powered buttplugs, and drama-free girls who will put out on the first date.
Perhaps the TV needs to be turned off while I sleep. I recently had a dream where I was in a natatorium, but for some reason, there was snow in there, so as I walked to the main pool, I kept falling into the drifts and found it difficult to stand back up again (I think this is my subconscious mind telling me "Lose some weight, you four-eyed lardass!"). After I regained my feet, I decided to walk in the opposite direction, where I spied a smaller, wading-type pool. Martin Sheen was in the pool, showing some boys how quickly it drained when the plug was pulled. Apparently, West Wing was on TV as I slept, because I walked to the edge of the pool and addressed him thusly:

Me: Mr. President, do you plan to fill the pool with Jell-O Shots?
Martin Sheen: Not in front of the minors.
While I have no use for their service (I don't need anyone to tell me my credit is about as solid as a bowel movement the day after Cinco de Mayo), I love the free credit report commercials. You know, the ads with the three dorky guys who sing about how their credit sucks ass big-time? I recently found out that there is a pirate hat in each one of the commercials. Of course, the one in the seafood restaurant is rife with pirate hats, but I've also managed to scope them out in the used car spot (it's in the back seat next to the bass player), the "married my dream girl" spot (on a table next to the singer), in the bicycle ad (on a shelf in the garage where the band is playing), and at the renaissance fair (on the drum kit). But I can't find the one in the ad where the guys are waiters at the hip-hop party. Has anybody else cared enough to spot that one? Do tell, do tell.
I have about had it with this itchy nipple syndrome. It's not wintertime anymore, I'm not wearing steel wool in my bra, and I'm not being stingy with the goddamned lotion. I know that itchy palms mean money is on its way (or, in my case, it means a fresh growth of hair is always sprouting every time I shave), so what do itchy nipples mean? Is the milkman on his way?
Millionaire Matchmaker Patti Stanger has given me a new word for which I find daily use: Bragasaurus. I think it every time I listen to that kid at work open his mouth. Why is the Bragasaurus not extinct? Can't we move that bit of evolution along a little faster? He and I had the following conversation today:

Bragasaurus: (talking about how he's charmed his latest romantic conquest) I really try hard not to brag or talk myself up...
Me: (incredulous, to say the least) No, you don't!
Bragasaurus: (caught off guard) Uh...well...that's what I like to tell myself.

And then I smashed him in the face with a subwoofer while screaming "Why don't you tell yourself to shut the fuck up?"
Well, no, I didn't. But I thought it, and that has to count for something.

Outta my way, whippersnapper!

2009-02-18T00:21:00.000-05:00

I could try to be delicate about it, like the blushing, shrinking violet I am, but for your sake, Internet as a Whole, let me be blunt: I am as good at romantic relationships as Hitler was at celebrating diversity.

After my last breakup, a little over a year ago, I felt so burned that I didn't even consider jumping back into the dating pool. By the time the emotional blisters had receded a bit, I was too broke to consider putting myself out there (let's face it: dating girls is not cheap, not even dating cheap girls). Now that I've been working for a while and finally have the means to take a chick out for a dinner and movie or something else terribly folksy and modest, I find that I just don't have any desire to start all that again. Sure, getting laid would be great, if I can properly remember the mechanics and geography of it all, but that would just cut into my quality time with the cats, and with my Playstation, and with my blissfully thought-free marathons of Bravo reality schlock. I might even have to clean my house, and that just isn't on my list of things to do this year.

So, there I was at work today, bidding goodbye to my co-worker, a young man in his very early 20s who is a nice guy but who is very full of himself and doesn't really have that switch in his brain that tells him when to stop talking, doesn't read those social cues that say "Dude, the customer doesn't give a shit about your long-winded story regarding something that happened in high school, he/she wants to take his/her cable splitter and go the fuck home." He had his coat on, had clocked out, and was just preparing to depart for the day.

At about that moment, a new rep for one of our products walked in. Normally, I squirm and fantasize about gouging my eyes out with a box cutter when product reps are around, because they're usually phony and slick and obnoxious. But I dug this girl on the spot - I'd guess her to be in her early 30s, cute, a very casual feeling about her, and an exuberant personality that didn't seem like a salesman's fakey bullshit. I have to say, I was getting a little vibe off of her. I'm usually pretty dense about that kind of thing, but I'm pretty sure there was a bit of interest there right off the bat. It's been ages and ages since that's happened to me, so I was enjoying the moment, chatting her up...

...and then the Young'n had to step in and fuck up my little moment. He's young and horny, and has the hots for anything with tits and a pulse, age be damned. Not that that's a bad thing, but he just walked right over, inserted himself (ahem!) into the situation, and proceeded to dominate the conversation with what he thinks is his witty banter (it's not). I was desperately trying to develop telekinetic powers, trying to push his ass out the door with my mind. To my utter chagrin, it did not work. She went out to her car to retrieve something she'd forgotten, so I thought I'd throw a hint in his direction by looking him dead in the eye and saying "I saw her first." But no, dense boy just laughed and said he was willing to take my sloppy seconds. Silly me, I should know that hints don't work on people with quadruple-layer skulls.

The little fucker continued to cock block me for the girl's entire visit. He left when she did, and I noticed that he followed her out to her car before returning to his own vehicle. Yeah...I'm sure she was thrilled about that.

You'd better believe that boy is gonna get an earful from me next time we're working alone. Don't fish in my pond, son, unless you want that treble hook in your scrotum.

And then we made shish kebab out of her

2009-01-24T08:34:00.000-05:00

Here's just about the most unnatural thing you'll ever see in your life.

Picture stolen from my friend Cherie (who is pictured here). I'm guessing this is from 1992, 1993 at the very latest. We were having a Meijer party at the Ambassador in Flint (which is now a Rite Aid...excuse me while I mourn the fireplace and the strong drinks), and my boss at the time decided it would be fun to hand me her baby. Can you see the panic in my eyes? The panic in my hair? How do I hold this thing? What if I drop her? What if her mother won't take her back? I'm still scarred from the experience.

Truthfully, though, if lifting babies would make me that skinny again, I'd go all Mary Poppins on your ass in a heartbeat.

A seed-spitting contest would have been more civilized

2009-01-13T23:40:00.002-05:00

Mom's been gone for over two years now, and I still dream about her on an almost-nightly basis.

I'm the last person who would classify my dreams as anywhere in the vicinity of "normal" - if I shared most of my nocturnal subconscious adventures, you'd all probably track me down and team up to lace the straitjacket - but when Mom makes her appearances, it's usually as a casual observer to whatever demented scenario my brain cooks up for my dining and dancing pleasure.

But not this time.

Several nights ago, I dreamt that I was walking down a flight of stairs, and noticed little pieces of watermelon scattered all over the steps, the floor, on the railing...it was MelonPalooza (which would be an excellent name for a topless bar, but I digress). When I inquired as to the source of the haphazard fruit explosion, I was informed that my mother and my sister had gotten into a knife fight. With each other. Apparently, the watermelon was a proverbial innocent bystander, a victim of "I rolled into the wrong place at the wrong time."

Rushing into the adjoining room, I found Mom and Squirl, disarmed and unharmed after their impromptu slashfest. They'd been told to sit down and calm themselves, get control of their tempers, and there they both were, sullen but less stabby expressions on their faces...each with a plastic champagne cork in her mouth. The plastic corks, you see, were to help regulate their breathing and chill them both out. Obviously.

Sure, it was only a dream. Just to be on the safe side, though, I'm being extra nice to Squirl, because one never knows when one's sister might lose her shit and cut a bitch. Or a bitch's melons.

Lazy Bucky's quickies (New Year edition)

2009-01-05T13:50:00.000-05:00

Oh, hell, is it that time already? Time to flip over the calendar, time to flip that underwear, time to clean the litterbox? Yup, it does seem to be a new year already. Guess I'd better write something before my blog is condemned for lack of occupancy.

I've become a little too involved in what the Real Housewives are doing, whether they be in Orange County, New York, or Atlanta. Please, Bravo, do not leave any lag time in between installments; it makes me feel wonderful, as I sit with my generic ginger ale, my no-name chips, and my decidedly un-pedigreed felines, to observe the spectacularly fucked-up lives of vapid women with more money than brain cells. My dream is to one day witness a bare-knuckled boxing match between Vicki from Orange County and Ramona from New York. It might not compare to the random delight of seeing Vicki take a football to the back of the head at Lake Havasu, but it would still call for popcorn, a comfy chair, and the phone off the hook.
Stella was such a tiny, skinny li'l thang when she wandered up onto my porch last summer, looking for food and love and food. Well, lemme tell ya, the girl does not miss a meal around here; I couldn't even begin to locate her ribs anymore. She also feels the need to comment on anything and everything, earning her a theme song of her very own, Kitty With a Lot to Say. Also, following in the litter-dusted footsteps of King Eeyore Bubbies Flippytail, Lord Thirteen Sarsparilla Puffington, Esq., and Duke Friday Aloysius Ptang Ptang Olay Biscuit Barrel Tuxbury, Stella has now earned a royal title: Marchesa Stella Barbarella Foofinella Rotunda.

Disapproval with every glance, at no extra charge!
I've reached the stage in life where I've put up the Cap'n Crunch and replaced it with Raisin Bran. My need for fiber has finally outweighed my sweet tooth. Now, if everyone would please whip out the kazoos and play a lively rendition of Taps in memory of my youthful colon...
Speaking of Taps and asses, it's been about a year since I've tapped anything, ass-wise. All work and no foreplay makes Bucky a cranky bitch. Now taking applications for sluts with low standards. No high-maintenance princesses need apply, but if you've got lots of cash, that'll put your application right at the top of the pile. And by "pile" I mean empty inbox.
The Monitor and the Merry Mac: The monitor on my Mac has officially gone belly up. Its glorious 19 inches will stay alit for an average of five seconds at a time, which kinda puts a damper on any music projects I might be attempting to begin or complete. On the one hand, I could probably replace it for a little over $100; on the other hand, I could use that same $100 to keep the heat on in my house. It's a tough call, but ultimately, keeping the heat on will save me money in replacing burst water pipes and nipple-torn blouses.
Friday's bullying of the other cats has of late elevated him to the status of Evil Gay Boy. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's been emulating Dr. Smith from Lost in Space.

Wholesome for the Wholidays

2008-12-17T14:11:00.001-05:00

Who says a two-dollar whore can't get all festive and shit?

While I'm not traditionally a Christmas-y person, since working retail at this time of year saps not only my will to live but also my will to allow others to live, I couldn't pass up Susie's challenge to throw my own little Ho-Ho party at the Cotillion. As I was busy assembling letter bombs to send to anyone who has ever recorded a version of The Little Drummer Boy (well, not Bob Seger...I'm just sending him a care package of red-and-green diarrhea for his trouble, because I love him so), the Sugar Plum Fairies started whispering sweet yet slightly odiferous nothings in my ear, and the Ghost of Christmas Present smacked me upside the head with a side of bacon, so here I am.

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the trailer
There lurked a hot chick, but I just couldn't nail her.
The condoms were stashed by the nightstand in case
Her vagina had sprouted a schlong in its place.

(Okay, I tried, but that's all I've got, folks. Be glad.)

Favorite Holiday Food

Because it's the holiday season, I love to cook my favorite meals and share them with friends, friends who rarely recover from the ~~food poisoning~~ afterglow. Did you know that I invented a whole new kind of salmonella? Don't mean to toot my own horn, but I'm kinda proud of myself for that one.

I'll let you in on a little secret (aside from the fact that I'm currently carrying the wooden love child of Howdy Doody): it doesn't matter what the main course is, as long as it's smothered in my special gravy:

Now, I don't want to give away too much, because I want my recipe to be unique, but I will say that there's a very specific way to gather the main ingredient.

This picture is only a fictional representation, of course; I prefer to use an oversized turkey baster with a board strapped to its ass.

Decorations and Adornment

I know I've said in the past that I don't really decorate for Christmas, but thanks to a link sent to me by HTGT, I've changed my ways this year. In fact, my new favorite consumer product is not only a decoration, it can count as my gay apparel, too!

No, silly rabbits, they're not tiny Christmas trees....they're bejeweled buttplugs! Why? Well, because my anus is quite possibly the fanciest place on earth. Not, perhaps, the most exclusive, but certainly the fanciest. I've always had the urge to use a Bedazzler on my asshole, and now I can have that experience without the unsightly puncture marks.

You can't really tell, but I'm totally winking at you all right now.

Holiday Traditions

I think the holidays are a great time to get together with folks I might not see as much during the year, like that bar of soap I keep meaning to use, so I like to invite all my friends over for modest hootenannies. Maybe I should stop furnishing the alcohol, though, because things always seem to get out of hand in a hurry around here.

I thought I asked for these two to be kept in separate orgy rooms.

I had to slap T-Rex on the pee-pee shortly thereafter. Dick on someone your own size!

Scarface agreed with me that it was just plain rude for these two to start getting sloppy on my end table. Use a footstool like everyone else, you guys!

Kiss this guy's ass and you'll just encourage him to whip out his Precioussssss.

It's a few years old, but the sentiment is still the same. To all of you from the monkey, Mr. Hankey, the Homies, and me!

Addendum: Christmas Music. I'm Totally Cereal.

There's one song I always play on Christmas day, without fail. Anybody who knows me is aware of the fact that I really can't stand most traditional Christmas music (though I've found, through being forced to listen to the Sirius Holiday Music Channel at work this year, that I don't mind it so much if it's instrumental or jazzed up), so my yearly choice is not in any way traditional for anyone but me. My Christmas song is Tom Waits' Christmas Card From a Hooker in Minneapolis...and just for you guys, I've found a live version of it where he actually throws in a little bit of "normal" Christmas music (well, as close to "normal" as anything Tom Waits does).

"I don't have a husband...he don't play the trombone."

For those who want to hear the originally recorded version of the song:

Holiday hotcha!

2008-12-07T02:04:00.001-05:00

I have finally lost the last shred of my mind. Enjoy.

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

Lazy Bucky's quickies

2008-12-05T12:20:00.001-05:00

Pullin' from my ass, tuggin' on your heartstrings...

Department of Redundancy Department: Heard on Jeopardy! last week, straight from the venerable lips of Alex Trebek, after a contestant found a Daily Double: "You have the most money...and you're in the lead, too!"
Safety First...no, wait, "Fuck you!" First, then Safety: Yesterday, while attempting to pilot my car along slippery roads, I was bullied by two different vehicles. Really, what kind of sadistic douchebag menacingly tailgates a fellow traveler who is obviously having difficulty staying on the road, much less building up any speed?

Well, the first one was driving a salt truck, and felt the need to drive right up my ass while I was headed in to work. What's the rationale there? "I'm gonna push this bitch into the bayou so I can hurry up and make the roads safe!" Dude, your truck weighs a million pounds, whereas my car weighs slightly more than the two bags of kitty litter in the back. Wow, yes, I'm super impressed with your size and the huge load you're carrying; now go shoot it somewhere and stop bothering me.

As I was leaving work, I pulled out onto the road and found that I had no traction, so the Cruiser was just kind of spinning its wheels and dithering left and right instead of going forward as I had planned. I've seen it happen to other cars plenty of times, and I believe the proper etiquette when you're behind such a vehicle is to slow the fuck down and let the car get its bearings; it will eventually straighten out and continue on its course, and all will be well in Gotta Get There land.
Sure, I saw the other vehicle as I exited the parking lot, I gauged its distance from me, and since the speed limit in town is 25, there should have been ample time for me to get my bearings on the slip-n-slide road and be out of its way with no incident. But no. Halfway across the intersection, I looked into my rearview mirror to see the grill of a school bus trying to take a bite out of my rear bumper. I believe I yelped "What the FUCK?" as I swerved into the parking lot of a gas station, looking back to see the school bus continue its upapologetic takeover of the road at a too-fast-for-safety speed. Now, dear bus driver, I can completely understand that you have a bus full of children and you want to get them the fuck out of there and away from you as quickly as possible; don't think that sentiment is lost on me, because it isn't. But did it ever occur to you that if you hit me, then you'd be stranded in the bus with the little heathens for that much longer as we waited for the police to arrive and take details of the whole sordid affair? Tsk tsk, Mr. or Ms. Bus Driver; think of the children.
Speaking of douchebags: For every pleasant, enjoyable customer who comes into the store, there is an equal and opposite asshole customer.

* The customer who wants a specific item, then screeches, "Why does it have to be so expensive?" Oh, I'm so sorry! I evilly marked it up 4000%, not knowing that I would be selling it to you, oh wonderful human being who is gracing my presence. Let me just change that price tag to 10 cents for you, because I have so much authority to do so. Yeah. Back of the line, asshole!

* The check writer. I don't know if anyone clued you in to this, but while you were sleeping, Rip Van Tinkle, the clock turned over to the 21st century and we now have these groovy, space-age inventions called debit cards. Use your checks for things that don't involve people standing in line behind you while we take your life history to verify the unbounciness of your antiquated method of payment. And if you start bitching about all the information we are required to gather when you insist on paying us like that, I'll have to dismember you and feed your remains to a brontosaurus, like the caveman you are. Back of the line, asshole!

* Old people who hate anything invented since 1940 and yet haunt the store several days a week. If you hate technology with such a Geritol-fueled passion, then why do I see you in this electronics store every other day? Can't you vent your righteous indignation at bingo or something? Let me tell you some things you may not know: It's not my fault that you can't buy 78s for your Victrola anymore. I had nothing to do with the fact that you won't be able to upgrade your 1948 television to receive a digital signal. I am not responsible for the fact that no one makes batteries anymore for that newfangled cordless phone you bought in 1980. Hell, I'm still upset about all these 8-tracks with no player, but you don't see me chewing out a Best Buy clerk. I'm doing my very best to assist you in adjusting and upgrading where necessary, but you make me feel less helpful by the minute when you spend the entire time bitching about "Why do I need this?" and "This technology has gone too far!" I'm not even sending you to the back of the line - I'm busing you all to a museum, where you'll feel more at home and better able to adjust to changes, like the agricultural revolution.

Recycled turkey wishes

2008-11-27T09:28:00.000-05:00

It's two years old now, but still heartfelt. In a creepy kinda way.

Shout-out from Port Charles

2008-11-22T23:11:00.002-05:00

If I said that General Hospital was my guilty television pleasure, that would be a lie; 99% of what I watch on the cable suckhole could be classified as "guilty pleasure" variety broadcast bullshit, and I'm being kind in my description.

I share my General Hospital viewing ritual with Squirl. With each other's company, and our running commentary, it makes us both feel a little less like "That was five hours out of my week I'll never get back!" about the whole shameful thing.

After watching all these years, I finally got a moment of recognition from the show. Granted, this loving tribute to me could have been done in a kinder, gentler way, but when you 're as freaky as I am, you take it where you can get it. I give to you a clip from GH that could only have been directed toward me. I don't know how those clever rascals found out so much detail about me, but I suspect my sister is in on this.

"Paging Dr. Katy Grossfart..."

Your moment of zen

2008-11-03T01:13:00.002-05:00

This came in a package of wax lips I bought last year (oh, like you wouldn't grab a handful of wax lips if you saw them in the checkout lane at Meijer around 3:30 in the morning, when the bars won't have you anymore and no one wants to see you naked).

I'm extremely confused by it, so I keep it displayed prominently on my desk to remind me that there are people out there who are on more drugs that I am.

Hand me your Stella and fly

2008-10-26T14:38:00.003-04:00

Meet Stella Barbarella. I'm making a valiant effort to integrate her into my House of Spoiled Boy Cats.

Yes, because that's just what I needed...a third long-haired black cat. As if I weren't already confused enough.

Needless to say, my boys are not in the least bit pleased with this new turn of events. Eeyore is kind of resigned to it, and doesn't do more than give her a perfunctory hiss when he is forced to pass her somewhere in the house. Friday and Thirteen are much more dramatic about the whole thing, but Friday will at least forgive me when I bring him into my office/studio (the cats aren't really allowed in here, but I bring him in on occasion as he's a little less rambunctious/destructive than is Thirteen, and less likely than Eeyore to poop in the corner if he doesn't like the music I'm playing). Thirteen, however, has a stick up his puffy little ass about the whole thing. I'm guessing it's because he sees another cat who looks like him, and he's all "Oh, no you DI'IN'T!"

Stella hisses equally at all the other cats, which probably isn't helping things at all. Her favorite activity, though, is to climb on top of me while I watch TV on the chaise, and then to commence loudly purring and softly drooling on me. I get the impression she didn't get a whole lot of cuddling at her last home and she needs to make up for lost time.

Stay tuned as the feline drama unfolds before me...

Edit:

Thirteen decided to forgive me last night, so I feel a large part of the battle is won!

Also, the story of how Stella found her way here: She originally belonged to the guy who lived across the street. She was always an indoor cat until this summer, when he decided to just cut his cats loose (there was also a pretty little Siamese who was then reclaimed by his ex-girlfriend). I was leaving food out for another stray, and Stella started coming over to eat. It didn't take long to gain her trust, and soon she'd come running over every time she saw me leave the house or pull into the driveway, telling me lots of cat stories and demanding affection. It broke my heart to see her getting left outside in the rain, probably not getting fed by anyone but me, and definitely not getting loved on by anyone but me, so I tried for ages to coax her into the house. It took a cold rainstorm to convince her. So we shall see how this plays out.

Stella is named after Stella Barbarella Zotis, queen of leathuh and the most kick-ass designer on season 5 of Project Runway.

No phones, no lights, no motorcars, not a single luxury

2008-10-23T14:15:00.002-04:00

Ok, so I do have phone, lights, and a motorcar. What I don't have? Internet and cable. While I get that straightened out, I'm spending my time leeching internet off Squirl and various restaurants whose free wi-fi reaches the parking lot. It wouldn't really be a matter of urgency, except for the fact that I'm teaching now, so I really do need to be on here every day. Too bad nobody in my neighborhood has an unsecured network with a strong signal. *sigh*

I've also been putting in a lot of hours in the retail biz the last couple of weeks, and I can't see that slowing down any as Christmas hurtles at us like an oversized, overpriced asteroid.

This week, I learned something new from a customer. Apparently, Hustler magazine voted Grand Haven as the best place in the USA to lose one's virginity. I think I might give it a try.

Also, Eeyore threw up in my shoe. Just in case anyone was wondering.

And now, back to your regularly scheduled deprogramming.

Take it for another spin

2008-10-12T23:14:00.000-04:00

I've had to dump my music/video hosting service, so it may be a bit before I've adjusted all the music/video links on the Cotillion.

At this point, I'm looking for a free host that will let me embed my songs here. In the meantime, in between time, for anyone who's interested, here's a link to my playlist at The SixtyOne:

Katy Barzedor at The SixtyOne

I think there's even one song on there I've never posted here before. If it doesn't autoplay, just click on the name of the first song on the list, then click the song name that appears in the white area above the list - it should play the whole list in order then. Lucky you!

Will update when I've gotten the videos and non-music audio posted on an accessible site. If you can't stand to wait that long, here's Quasimodo's dick for your nostalgic viewing pleasure, you sick fuckers.

If you stroll down memory lane, wear a codpiece

2008-10-07T13:23:00.002-04:00

Even though I've been living back in Grand Haven for over a year and a half, it's not until recently that I've started to encounter people I knew in my previous life here (that's what retail will do for ya).

I've had cash-register run-ins with two guys who used to hang with my older siblings; one of them I recognized from the name on his check, and the other one could tell right away that I'm Tardist's sister. Come to think of it, there may be a slight family resemblance.

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

Yup.

This past summer was the 25th anniversary for my high-school graduating class, and I thought it might be interesting to attend the reunion, partly out of vague curiosity, but mostly out of the desire to have a really bizarre series of stories for the blog. It's not like I had scads of friends there or anything, but I thought it would be interesting to see how people had aged, what paths their lives had taken; there may also have been a tiny bit of hoping for a little entertainment of the schadenfreude variety. Those guys who used to throw soaked towels at me on swim day in phys ed: are they married to ugly women? Check. The burnouts who used to verbally abuse me at my locker every day: are they unable to attend because of prior commitments to the county lockup? Check.

Oh, it could have been so satisfying, soft as an easy chair, but alas - my classmates are obviously slackers, too, as no reunion ever materialized. Or, hell, maybe they had one and just didn't invite me. Can you blame 'em, what with my planning to run around and check them for their misery index?

A big part of my curiosity is my wondering if I'd even recognize these people. Really, when you don't see somebody for 25 years, it's easy to forget what he or she looked like. Add a quarter century of saggin' and baggin' on top of that, and we're probably all abstract, wrinkly mysteries to one another.

Damned if I didn't look at a customer a few weeks ago and think "Fuck me in the ass with a side of bacon if I didn't go to grade school through high school with that girl." Sure, it's the 40-something version of that girl, and I guess we're not so much "girls" now as grannies, but I recognized her at first glance. It happened again last weekend, too, where a customer walked in and I thought, "I know her." This one took me a second longer to place, but sure enough - she was yet another classmate, one whose wedding I attended very shortly after graduation, back when a hall full of teenagers could openly drink beer and the police didn't lead all the tipsy adults out of the joint and into the paddy wagon. Good times!

With that in mind, I checked out the message boards on Classmates. com this morning. While browsing, I came across a note posted by a girl who'd been the ultimate tough, smart-mouthed broad in junior high. Back in the day, she alternated between being my friend and promising to beat the living shit out of me, a threat I never took lightly, since there was no question I'd have quickly been reduced to a puddle of Bucky goulash if she'd ever decided to follow through. I clicked on her profile: She's now a grandmother. BUT, a grandmother with a motorcycle and tattoos. I'll bet her grandkids mind her just as pretty as you please. The best part of her profile, though, was this gem she shared from junior high, something I hadn't thought about for over 30 years:

The funniest thing I can remember from school was when Bob Alger slugged Leo Zupin in the nuts!

Comedic gold, especially considering Bob Alger was a student and Leo Zupin was the Vice Principal. We all had the giggles about that one for a long time. Although now that I think about it, it would make more sense for most teenage boys to be slugged in the nuts on a regular basis. Adults don't generally need nut slugging, and when they do, they have wives to take care of that sort of thing.

I wonder if any of my high-school teachers are still alive. I'm just waiting for the day one of them comes into the store, recognizes me, and stage whispers, "Aren't you the little heathen dyke who used to come into my class stoned out of her gourd?" to which I will innocently reply, "You must be mistaken; I was never little."

Robo-Bucky

2008-09-29T17:32:00.001-04:00

Maybe I've embraced technology with just a little too much enthusiasm.

Diva of design

2008-09-20T21:34:00.002-04:00

Hi. My name is Katy and I'm addicted to Bravo.

It started innocently enough. "A little Top Chef won't hurt now and then, just socially. I can take it or leave it."

Then it escalated. "No, I can't come with you to the free beer and horny strippers party - are you insane? Project Runway is on tonight!"

Before I knew it, I was spinning out of control in a frenzy of Real Housewives, Shear Geniuses, and aspiring Supermodels. I realized I had hit rock bottom the morning I woke up twitching in a rat-laden alley with my veins full of Date My Ex; I felt so dirty and cheap, and not in a good way.

I've tried to step away from the Bravo, really I have. But the lure of the gayest reality TV in the history of gay reality TV has proven too strong for me. Of course, you know I'm not going to ever Just Say No to Project Runway, especially in this, its final season on Bravo. Where else would I have met my imaginary TV girlfriend, the much-maligned (perhaps deservedly so, but don't talk about my woman like that!) Kenley?

"Only Katy can harness the power of my brattiness for the good of human sexuality."

And as each season of Real Housewives becomes more absurd, how can I possibly stop watching the train run off the tracks, over and over again? Then there's Tabatha's Salon Takeover, which is impossible to resist when Tabatha spouts abrasive gems like "Here's your smoking schedule: Fuck off!"

However, I decided to take a small step toward recovery and had made up my mind that I would not become addicted to Top Design. But Bravo is one sneaky-ass pusher, and scheduled it immediately after Project Runway. So, the night it premiered, I'd left the TV on after PR, and wasn't really paying the show any mind...until this designer was introduced. None of us will ever be the same after this clip.

ICYMI: Opera Singer on "Top Design" @ Yahoo! Video

God help us all. I've never watched the whole episode, so maybe there's hope for me, but anytime I see they're rerunning it, I stop and watch Wisit sing (there's actually a little more to the song, but I couldn't find a complete clip...if you see it being shown, I urge you to watch it, just to see him finish the song and then look down in the most hilarious display of demure I've ever witnessed).

The only thing I can say at this point is that someone may need to come put a toe tag on me when Real Housewives of Atlanta premieres.

Hugs, not drugs. I mean, unless there are some drugs lying around, then both would be cool.

2008-09-08T21:17:00.003-04:00

I had one of those customers on Saturday. You know what I mean, don't you? The shoppers who make outrageous requests out of the blue and don't bat an eye? Well, Saturday I had one who demanded a hug from me before I could make the sale.

Can you imagine?

Of course, I did it. A girl's gotta keep her sales average up.

Oh, alright, it's not even a bit as sordid as that all sounds. Actually, the customer was Squirl, and she was kind enough to buy something from me while she was visiting (oh, and also gave me homemade pizza and beer after work). And the hugging was not coerced.

This afternoon, she stopped in for a minute to visit me about an hour before I was scheduled to clock out, and I told her that if she wanted, she could go let herself into my house and visit with the cats until I got there. I'm sure I probably hugged her somewhere during the exchange.

You have to understand, my sister and I share a strong family resemblance, to the point that we've been mistaken for twins many, many times since I was in my teens. Our voices are also similar, and our laughs are identical.

After she left, a young male co-worker sidled up to me and inquired, in all seriousness, "Is that your girlfriend?"

Son, we may be from the South, but we ain't from that far south.

That is all; the till is now closed for the day.

Dibs on a dancing zebra

2008-09-03T07:32:00.002-04:00

Why can't we have commercials like this in the States?

Now I feel all funny, like I just climbed the rope in gym class.

Thanks to Anya for sending this bizarro masterpiece my way.

SIR strikes again

2008-09-02T08:34:00.002-04:00

She was one of the sweetest customers I'd encountered in the store, a diminutive lady, probably in her 70s, and from what I could tell, completely sightless. She wanted to buy some headphones, so I gave her my elbow to grasp and steered her over to the display of earbuds and lightweight sound devices. I didn't have to be told that she didn't want anything that would fuck up her hair - my mom and her bouf had already instilled that lesson in me.

When she'd ask to "see" a particular product, I'd take it out of the package and put it into her hands for closer inspection. She chose a pair of behind-the-head 'phones, and once again I gave her my elbow and we started toward the counter. On the way there, a friend of hers recognized her and came over to chat. They talked for a minute or two about churchy things, things obviously beyond my comprehension, then her friend asked if she was having any luck with her shopping.

"Oh, yes," my customer enthused. "He's been helping me all over the store." "He" meaning me.

Maybe I should've let her feel my nametag; maybe I should've let her feel my tits. Either way, I wasn't going to ruin the illusion for her.

Maybe she didn't think it was an elbow she was grabbing.

If I could turn back time (I'd do some fucked-up things)

2008-08-24T18:54:00.000-04:00

Thanks to the website Yearbook Yourself, and I blame Susie Fairchild for my obsession with this, I have assembled a fantasy collection of high-school pictures. All voting in the following categories was done by me, and is subject to change, depending on my whims/hormones.

Most Likely to Respond to Spousal Abuse by Baking a Cherry Pie

Most Likely to Fuck the Milkman, the Mailman, and the Meter Reader

Most Likely to Take Quaaludes Before Anal Sex With Gay Boyfriend

Most Likely to Grow a Penis

Most Likely to be a Frigid Bitch

Most Likely to Die a Virgin, But Not by Choice

Most Likely to Submit to Drunken Hairstyling

Most Likely to Enhance Peppiness With "Diet Pills"

Most Likely to Undergo Extensive Electrolysis

Most Likely to Bite While Sucking Dick

Condensed soapbox

2008-08-18T14:17:00.002-04:00

I've been trying, for days and days, to write a coherent post about music and attitudes toward music. Obviously, that article isn't going to be finished any time in the foreseeable future. Let's just have a "cut to the chase" version of what I was trying to say.

Music, movies, the arts in general...I consider all of these to be necessary parts of my life, both as an observer and a creator. Just try to take away my iPod, fucker, and you'll see a clumsy bitch turn into a hair-pulling ninja warrior quicker than you can say "slacker goes ballistic."

But it irks me, has always irked me, when reviewers declare that certain albums or movies are IMPORTANT. That automatically prejudices me against whatever work is being discussed, because it just feels so overwhelmingly pretentious. It makes no sense to react that way, since my boycott is depriving me of music or art that I might actually enjoy, and in a way punishes the artist, who had no hand in that declaration of IMPORTANCE (unless the artist has made this claim himself, and then he or she goes into my "Snotty, Entitled, Presumptuous Egomaniac" file).

Works of art can certainly be considered more innovative, more influential, and have greater staying power than others, but I hesitate to single out works of art as IMPORTANT. Because, really, isn't all art important to someone, even if it's only the poor sap who's singing into a shoebox recorder in the bathroom at midnight, or fingerpainting pictures of her cats on a tempura-stained bench in the garage? To say that one piece of art is more important than another ignores the fact that every work of art is important to at least one person.

I guess what it comes down to, for me, is that all art is important on a personal level, but when someone in the faux-authoritative role of critic decides that it must be IMPORTANT to everyone based on this particular review, then I've gotta call bullshit.

This message was brought to you by The Society of People Who Record Music In Their Spare Bedrooms And Think That Farts Are A Valid Form Of Expression.

Cocktail warfare

2008-08-08T00:52:00.001-04:00

No one told him
The swizzle stick was a
Lightning rod,
Or that the
Waxy yellow buildup
Was, in fact, flammable.

Ya want batteries with that?

2008-08-04T10:43:00.001-04:00

Alright, for those of you playing along at home: I have a new job. Well, a NEW new job. I realize my last job was still kinda new, but to be perfectly honest, it got moldy awfully fast.

Really, in my (admittedly damaged) mind, I thought the photography gig would be a great, artistic career for me, taking me in a whole new direction where I could show everyone my grand visions and be paid for all of it. The truth of the matter, though, was that I was being thrown into a nasty whirlwind of overbookings, ill-tempered children with idiot parents, and bitches who will stab you in the boob with a black pen while you're wearing a white blouse. Okay, so the boob stabbing only happened once. But isn't once enough for that shit?

On top of all that, I was only working one or two days a week, and was being asked to drive all over west Michigan to do sessions in the crappiest little studios you can imagine. There is too much variance in the company, so that some studios are grand and well appointed, while others are the size of a matchbox and their props look like the Diarrhea Squad got to them before I did. The record-keeping routines also vary from location to location, so I basically had to re-learn how to close at every store where I was sent to my doom. I've never worked for a company so reluctant to document their money-handling procedures.

Also, did I mention what that job was doing to my knees? You'd think a two-dollar whore would have bendies made of stronger stuff than that, but I found out that wasn't so. Photographing babies and toddlers requires the schmuck behind the camera to squat, kneel, and crawl around on the floor for most of the session, and by the end of any given shift, I felt like I'd been blowing midgets in a gravel pit all day.

I've never abandoned any job that quickly, but if I hadn't quit, I'd have just ended up in jail after breaking the neck of some bitchy mother or grandmother who couldn't get over the fact that I couldn't magically coax a smile out of a three-day-old baby.

So, here I am, enjoying my first day off since beginning my NEW new job last week. It pays less (on an hourly basis) than the last gig, but the drive is short, I know where I'll be working every day, I get scheduled in advance so that I know when I'll be working, and there is actual documentation for everything I'm learning. It's a small electronics store (if you're in the States, you definitely know the name, but let's not mention it here, hmmm?), so I get to be surrounded by geeky gadgets all day, which is never a bad way to go for me. I haven't worked a cash register in over 20 years, and let me tell ya - they have some fancy, fancy buttons on 'em now! I'm still learning my way around the merchandise, and of course, we're resetting the whole store right now, just to keep me confused. Consequently, I feel like a big ol' tard when people ask me where to find a fiber-optic cable, or an A/B switch for RCA plugs, but I do eventually find the goods, so I think there may be hope for me.

The best part of this job, though, is that my livelihood doesn't depend on getting small children to stand still, look at the camera, and smile. I just need to get adults to stand still, browse the cameras, and buy.

Now...do you have a minute? I'd like to show you a great wireless plan...

You guys made me do this...

2008-07-28T13:07:00.002-04:00

There. Does that make him a little less scary? More scary? I still wouldn't invite him in, though I might steal the carrot.

Bugs Bunny?

2008-07-25T07:53:00.004-04:00

It's not hard to confuse me. Really, it's no challenge at all, so most people don't even try - it just kinda happens organically, no pushing required.

That said, maybe some of you will be less confused by this than I am. Is mother nature fucking with me, or are these common and I just never noticed? That's entirely possible, as I spend a great deal of time with my head up my ass. Either way, this was on my door yesterday:

Moths? I've seen plenty of 'em, but never one with bunny ears. This one was perched about eye level on my door, gazing in at me as I was on my way out to feed the neighborhood cats.

Normally, I'm no fan of bugs (insects, flying creepy things, whatever the hell category a moth is filed under...I never said I was a goddamned scientist), but this one was just oddly fascinating to me, so I grabbed the camera. The thing just stared at me as I got the shots, neither flinching at the flash nor cowering in the face of technology.

No, this is not Photoshopped; if it were, don't you think I'd have added a carrot and buck teeth?

So I'm left to wonder: is this a freak of nature? Did a randy moth stick his proboscis in a bunny's hoo-hoo one drunken evening?

Help me out here, folks. First of all, tell me you see it, too. I'd hate to think people were right all those years ago about acid flashbacks.

This one's for Stacy London

2008-07-21T11:34:00.001-04:00

Holla back

2008-07-15T02:36:00.001-04:00

My dad was the king of the shaggy-dog story. He could take a thirty-second joke and stretch it out for five minutes. It got to the point where he'd start and we'd all roll our eyes and beg him, "No, Dad, not the corn-borer joke again!" or "Please, no, not 'Leroy VanHoosiegickle knows everybody' again!" I'm sure our mortification and discomfort were all part of the fun for him, as evidenced by the fact that he never once stopped his drawn-out retelling in spite of our agonized pleading.

The man had a great sense of humor, except when it came to religion. You did not fuck with the Catholic church in his presence. I blame my grandmother for a lot of that attitude. What can I say about Nanny? The best example I can think of is that she sincerely believed the baby Jesus would never, ever have dirtied his diaper and inconvenienced Mary like that, even when my uncle Bob, a priest, tried to argue with her that he was a baby and that's what babies do. She just wasn't having it.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to bite your tongue when you're a Catholic-raised, smart-ass teenager who's lost all faith in the infallibility of the church? I'll tell you how hard it was: it was nigh unto impossible, and when the inevitable irreverent comment would slip out in Dad's presence, we'd be subjected to an immediate stony-faced and stern lecture about showing respect for God.

One of the biggest challenges for keeping my mouth shut was my Dad's peculiar little habit of greeting Jesus every time we passed a Catholic church. Seriously, and Squirl can back me up on this one, each and every time we drove past St. Patrick's, or any other franchise in the chain, Dad would say "Hello, Jesus." If there was a hat on his head, he doffed it while saying howdy to the Prince of Peace. We were not only expected to refrain from laughing about this; we would be scolded if we did not join him in this spiritual salutation.

Is this a common Catholic thing, or did that year in the seminary just seep a little too deeply into Dad's brain?

All I know is, Jesus never once said "Hello!" back to us, and in my book, that's just plain rude.

Macho up that baby

2008-07-04T10:40:00.001-04:00

The baby boy was beautiful, just gorgeous, with big, soulful brown eyes that were deep enough to drown a whole camera crew of full-grown women, which they damned near did.

He was such a mellow little guy as we fussed and clucked and cooed over him during the photo shoot, unashamedly making asses of ourselves in the presence of his quiet yet overwhelming air of Cute Enough to Kill Us All. His willingness to endure all our poses and prop changes only made us all love him more, and we were all a bit sad when the session was done and we had to relinquish the little fellow to his mom and grandmother.

After the lethally adorable pictures were transferred to the computer, mom and grandma came over to review the set with us, to make that most difficult choice of which poses would be purchased and which would be left in the bit bucket. My heart did a double flip when we came to what was undoubtedly my favorite image in the whole batch: Baby Boy with a soft blue blanket draped over his head, framing his cherubic face. We all simultaneously squealed in delight, a collective squeal that caused all the windows in the store to shatter, and all the car alarms in the parking lot to begin sounding.

Well, grandma didn't squeal. Grandma was the lone voice of dissent on what was, to my mind, the genius picture of the day. We were all genuinely confused, and wanted to know why she didn't love the blankie picture like we did.

"I don't like it," she repeated. "He looks like the Virgin Mary."

Okay, that was completely unexpected and hilarious. All of us broke up with laughter, and I figured that this would go down as the quote of the day. But grandma wasn't done yet.

"No, really," she continued. "He looks like a faggot!"

OH, NO, SHE DI'IN'T! But yeah, she did. This woman had just used the word "faggot" when describing a photo of her mega-cute infant grandson.

Needless to say, they didn't purchase that particular shot. It had kinda been ruined for the mom at that point.

When they come back in to get their finished pictures, I am so tempted to give that boy a tiny purse. For grandma's sake.

Most action I've had in six months

2008-07-01T00:01:00.000-04:00

It's not very damned often that I have a graphic sex dream, but I was finally visited by the angel of subconscious erotica as I enjoyed my glorious sleep-in on Monday morning. I'll spare you all the details, because a lot of my readers probably have an active gag reflex, but let me just say: Young lady, I don't know who you are, but thank you, thank you from the bottom of my cold, shriveled, lecherous heart.

I will, however, share the post-humping part of the dream, because it's actually more bizarre than the thought that I could get laid.

After the let's-not-get-into-the-filthy-and-delicious-details sex, in my dream, I returned to my apartment, which I happened to share with Sarah Jessica Parker. I have no idea why SJP was a part of my subconscious carnival; it's probably because we're both so fucking sophisticated and glamorous that it's only natural that we would be roommates. You know, she's not nearly the whore that Carrie Bradshaw is. But, apparently, I like her anyway.

Anyway, in my nighttime involuntary fantasy, roomie SJP and I had the following conversation:

Me: Well, I got some tonight!
SJP: Was she a stripper?
Me: Yeah.
SJP: That's our Bucky!

That's all I'm willing to divulge. I'm thinking about putting the first part of the dream on a pay-per-view site.

We now return to our regular, not-getting-laid programming.

Smile, OR ELSE.

2008-06-30T04:52:00.001-04:00

I've seen a lot of babies this week. Happy babies, grumpy babies, babies who find me charming, babies who want me dead and mangled immediately...baby pictures are a staple of the portrait business, so we see legions of infants, marched by mommy or grandma past the backdrop and into the prop bathtub.

Being a trainee, I'm not allowed to photograph actual babies yet, so I've done a lot of setup and observation of the bebeh photo sessions. My trainer is a whiz with the camera, a genius at getting the tit-feeding army crawlers to smile and laugh and forget their angry tears just long enough for the flash to pop and the most unbelievably adorable expressions to be captured.

My fellow trainee and I have been learning to use the camera, mostly by taking turns modeling for each other, which has mostly taught me that I will never, ever be a model, unless someone decides on a need for the new face of Haggard Skank Adult Diapers. Posing an adult, though, is not a thing like posing an infant, so our trainer went home on Friday and brought back the Training Baby (TB). The TB is incredibly realistic, from coloring to veins to real hair to the weight of the thing. It's been a big help in giving us ideas for prop setup, subject placement, camera and lighting angles, backdrops, all that crap that the pros make look effortless.

Truthfully, though, we've had far too much fun with the TB outside of the photo room. The studio is in a busy grocery store, so shoppers walk past us constantly while we're working. When we're sitting out in front, trying to drum up business, you'd think we were invisible, or at least untouchable. People do everything in their power to avoid eye contact, lest we draw them in, rendering them helpless to resist our Bonus Package Voodoo. But take that TB out front to fix its hair while we do paperwork, and no one can walk past without staring.

Once we noticed this phenomenon, we all got downright evil.

We carry the TB in the most careless fashion possible, leave it sitting precariously on the counter, set it upside down by itself in a chair...we may or may not have tossed it to each other at one time. How can I describe people's reactions? Well, if looks could kill, we'd all have our skin flayed clean off of our bones. My fellow trainee was sitting with the TB in her lap today, and she set her notebook on top of it during a meeting, and a couple stopped dead in their tracks, staring and whispering to each other for several minutes, looking slightly aghast. Oh, they figure it out eventually, every one of them, and then they look sheepish and usually giggle and shake their heads. If someone looks like they're too confused, we call out after them, "Don't worry - it's not real, it's a doll!" So far, no one has called the authorities on us.

Don't worry, I promise to treat the real babies with care. But I make no such promise about the teenagers.

My muse has gas

2008-06-24T00:31:00.002-04:00

Can't play this? click on the mp3

Those conspiring against me obviously took a day off

2008-06-23T14:26:00.000-04:00

The bad news: I have to dig out my never-worn white bras to wear under the white blouse I just had to buy, because all my dress shirts are some variation of black, to go with the color of my cold, shriveled heart.

The good news: The reason for the sudden need for virgin-colored clothing is that I got a job!

I shit you not. The call came yesterday afternoon, and I start my training on Wednesday. This time around, I'm moving out of the realm of the computer geek and into the kingdom of the camera nerd. While I would prefer to be photographing nekkid vixens finding inventive uses for in-season vegetables, I'm afraid that won't be part of my job description. But I will be working behind the camera (not in front, people, so stop gripping your keyboards in front of your face with the sheer horror of it all), and will probably pick up lots of tricks that will be helpful in the advancement of my true calling (snapping candid shots of my Homies and action figures).

Is it a high-paying gig? No, not by a long shot. But does it sound like fun? Hell, yeah!

Annie Liebowitz had best watch her back.

Advice that should have stopped while it was ahead

2008-06-20T20:42:00.000-04:00

When Squirl brought me some dinner the other night, it came complete with napkins emblazoned with sage counsel:

It's not a bad piece of advice, this admonition to WIPE! I think wiping is a wonderful invention, and I don't even think I'm going too far to call it the cornerstone of a civilized society.

But...but...but...did they really feel the need to follow a good rule of, ah, thumb with a slogan like "Tasting is Believing"? Is this some sort of a nod to analingus? Tasting is Believing that the ass you're licking was thoroughly wiped before the tongue hit the pucker?

Note to Jimmy John's: please stop making me think about ass while I'm eating your sandwiches. It's distracting, and you didn't even have the courtesy to include a side of anus with the meal.

It's your day!

2008-06-13T11:39:00.004-04:00

The fact that I'm a sad, sorry individual with nothing resembling a real life is probably not news to anyone. Right now, my existence revolves around my cats and my TV shows, and the neighbors all know at this point that I'm slightly deranged, as I spend most of my time talking to the cats and the TV.

Every week, when that day between Thursday and Saturday rolls around, I spend every waking moment chasing Friday around the house, proclaiming "It's your day, Friday!" As if they named the day after my cat (it's not outside the realm of possibility in my little world). Friday's reaction generally hovers somewhere between humoring me and running under the chaise to avoid looking the crazy bitch in the eyes.

Once a month, when the date between the 12th and the 14th occurs, it's poor little Puffington's turn, and he gets an entire 24 hellish hours of "It's your day, Thirteen!" Which, all things considered, probably isn't half bad compared to the way Squirl and I have turned the General Hospital theme song into Thirteen's personal anthem (if you don't want to bleed out of your eyes, don't ask for details on this).

Then there are time like today, where it just so happens to be Friday's and Thirteen's day. Frankly, I'm exhausted from all the chasing and exclaiming. Although I should point out that its being Thirteen's day in no way precludes his being soaked down with the water bottle when he refuses to stop treating my love seat as a scratching post.

Anyway, it's their day, whether they like it or not, and as is my tradition, I'm offering up new pictures of their poor, abused faces for your consideration.

Her natural habitat

2008-06-11T08:37:00.001-04:00

Where the hell have I been?

Playing with dolls, of course.

All those mushrooms need is a caterpillar toking on a hookah. Janis was the closest I had to that.

Lazy Bucky's quickies

2008-06-03T09:01:00.000-04:00

Okay, alright, I'll put up a new post on top of the bloody vagina talk.

The upcoming Hulk movie is not a sequel to the 2003 Hulk movie. Is his story really that compelling that we need a re-imagining of the angry green guy so soon? I'll make the producers a deal: you promise to show me some giant green dick, and I'll buy a ticket.
I want to be famous just so Kathy Griffin will make fun of me in her act. Seriously, hearing my name roll off her lips, even in the snarkiest of contexts, would be the highlight of a sad, sad lifetime. Who else here is just counting down the minutes until My Life On The D-List begins its season 3 run next week?
Wii Fit? Oh, I don't fucking think so! If I wanted to do something healthy and active, I sure as hell wouldn't be playing video games. Y'all can go work out with the Wii...I'm gonna eat some bagels and let my ass slowly take over the entire couch while I play some Grand Theft Auto.
I am officially past the age where I think it sounds like fun to have sex on any surface that isn't a bed, a sofa, or a car seat. Yeah, still haven't outgrown the back seat, so there's still hope for me. Beanbag chairs are comfortable, but I just can't take the noise; the sound just screams "CRUNCHY VAGINA!" That might make a fine breakfast cereal, but it just doesn't trip my trigger.
For once, I have no words for this.

Yeah, how the hell am I gonna follow that?

Bloody well right

2008-05-28T09:54:00.000-04:00

Last night, Debutaunt mentioned a site called Menstrual Poetry, and said she was afeared to click on it to see what the poems might say. If you know anything at all about me, then you know that I had to go over there posthaste so that I could revel in the delicious squickery of it all. Squickery Dickory Doc. To my eternal disappointment, there was no poetry, no monthly whimsy; instead of "that time" rhymes, I found an utterly humorless political blog about feminism. Don't misunderstand me - I'm all for being given the same opportunities as penis wielders, but I have little patience for a site where a story about a carload of men who fired a gunshot into a car full of women is equated with catcalling construction workers. Catcalling = annoying. Gunfire = deadly. See the difference? Yeah, well, the people who write for that site don't. I dared not read any more, lest I come across the word "womyn" and completely lose my barely together shit.

So there I sat, unsatisfied in my lust for verse of a completely wrong nature, feeling like I'd just bought a bitch dinner and then found her hoo-hoo sealed over with pink papier mache. (Ooooh, if the wimmyn from MP happen to see that, it's sure to raise some blood pressure, don'tcha think?) There is only one way to deal constructively with that kind of disappointment, those raised and dashed hopes: DIY.

Henceforth, I will periodically feature my own menstrual poetry here. I mean poetry inspired by menstruation, and not verse written on the wall with...well, you get the idea.

Here are my first ovulary offerings.

High-stress haiku

It's that time again:
Sugar, cramps, and cotton plugs;
Butcher knife in hand.

I'm a week early!
Damned if I didn't wreck my
First-date underwear.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
With a side of goddammit;
Cramps? They piss me off.

What a way to wake up

2008-05-24T13:20:00.001-04:00

In the mid-1980s, Tardist and I both lived with our parents in their Flint apartment. It was kind of a tight squeeze, as you might imagine, and there was only one bathroom for the five of us (Tardist's then-wife lived there also). As families do, though, we managed to work around the toilet shortage in a fairly civilized manner, with very little bloodshed and only a bit of cross-legged dancing.

I was working at 7-Eleven then, pouring Slurpees, selling noxious coffee, and wishing disfiguring diseases on difficult customers, and I generally worked second shift. That left me wide awake late into the night, with plenty of time by myself to drink beer and think awful thoughts, and I took full advantage of those opportunities.

Tardist, on the other hand, had a first-shift factory job that required him to be on the road by 5:30 a.m., a cruel, cruel hour of the day, so I was often just going to sleep as he was stumbling out of his room in the morning. Being the thoughtful little sister that I am, I took it upon myself to brighten his dreary ass-crack-of-dawn experience by leaving him the occasional rude note or drawing, since I was up until 3 or 4 in the morning, buzzed and bored.

Out of all the obnoxious wake-up notes I left for my brother, I can only remember one of them, and I really wish I still had a copy of it. After I giggled my silly ass into tears drawing it, I taped it up over the toilet so it would be the first thing his bleary eyes beheld that morning. The picture was of a group of men in military garb, all bent over, pants down, with funnels in their asses. Their eyes were all on their commander, who stood by with a raised sword, ready to send them into action. The caption read:

The Diarrhea Squad had their orders: Shit to kill.

Oh, I can offer the excuse that I was 20 years old when I created that monstrosity, but then again, that does nothing to make up for the fact that I'm still laughing about it. Because I am so sophisticated and mature. Damn, I miss that cartoon.

Maybe I should recreate it in a painting. That'll get me a gallery show.

Please Hammer. don't hurt 'em

2008-05-21T20:45:00.000-04:00

Perhaps I've mentioned before that there are too many trees on my lot. In case I haven't, let me just say: Curse you, towering giants who drop your barren leftovers on my lawn! The amount of leavage is seriously staggering, in a "How the fuck will I ever keep up with this shit on my own?" kind of way. I've always been a bit of a tree ~~humper~~ hugger, but this year, I must admit that I've had more than one fantasy about a mad lumberjack having his way with these bastardly maples that have made my life more difficult than it needs to be. He'd clear cut my yard, and I'd appear on the porch with gratitude in my eyes and a pitcher of Logger lager for him to swill in his sweaty flannel. Hell, I'd even blow the guy if he'd promise not to yell "TIMBER!" when the sap started to run.

Alas, the man with the axe to grind never graced my yard, and I was left with enough dead leaves to hide the corpses of several dozen telemarketers. Unfortunately, the park frowns on impromptu backyard cemeteries, so I set about the task of raking and bagging. Now, let's be honest here: I'm not young anymore; I'm not in the best physical shape of my life. So I can generally fill about three or four of those big paper bags at a time; at that point, my back and my knees are whining like little bitches, crying like schoolgirls with burlap training bras. I'm working at it steadily, but it's not a quick process.

Last Friday, there was a little note on my door from the park, a cheerful missive reminding me that it would be awfully nice if I took pride in my home and pity on my neighbors and cleared my yard waste. I assume this meant leaves and branches, as I don't think anyone's caught me in the act of taking a crap on the porch (which I manage to do, by the way, with the utmost dignity and grace). So I kept at it all weekend, four bags at a time, with what I saw as steady progress from front to back of the lawn. When Monday rolled around, I was perturbed to find a new note from the park tucked into the handle of my door, a more formally stated Reminder of Rules, Motherfucker. At this point, I was being given until the 22nd to finish the job. Say what? As if I was supposed to have the whole job done in one weekend? Please line up to suck my spastic pucker. If they couldn't see that I was working on it and clearly making progress, then perhaps a slight draw on my sphincter could open their weaselly little eyes.

Tuesday morning, I was in the yard dancing the dance of passion with my rake when my next-door neighbor wandered over and asked if I'd heard what happened over the weekend. I had not, in fact, as I tend to keep my head up my own ass most of the time. As it turns out, early on Saturday morning, two guests of a neighbor right around the corner from my place had quarreled, and another neighbor drove past and spied one of the gentlemen knocking on doors with a hammer in his hand, and the other gentleman sitting on a porch with blood gushing out of his head. The police were called, and the hammer-wielding crackhead was tracked down by the K-9 unit, twitching in the woods behind the park. I have to say, I'm not usually freaked out about the idea of living alone, but I'll tell you one thing: from now on, if some guy I don't know knocks on my door and is carrying a hammer, I'm not going to assume that he's a handyman who's come to fix my garbage disposal.

As of now, I've racked up 30 giant bags of leaves from my yard, and there are still more where those came from (from those wretched trees). I seriously doubt I will have the lawn spotless by tomorrow, and I'm sure someone from the park office will be by to shake a fist at me and leave an even nastier note. At this point, though, I don't feel half bad about the yard debris. I am no longer The Biggest Scumbag in the Park. Thanks to MC Hammer's little performance last weekend, I can now point my finger down the street and say, with as much righteous indignation as I can muster, "Don't you people have something a little bigger to worry about right now?" Oh, I'm sure the fuckers will still fine me, but sometimes smugness is its own reward.

Cooking with pussy

2008-05-16T02:58:00.000-04:00

I got hungry, okay? There was no protein in the fridge, and the noodles alone weren't gonna cut it. As the rumble in my tummy drowned out the sound of the recession sucking the fighting spirit out of the unemployed, I spied a volunteer main course.

Sure, there's not much meat on Thirteen, but I knew Friday would never put up with being marinated in cheap wine, so Thirteen au Vin it was.

Just as I was ready to add ingredients, I saw what his true motive was.

The little bastard was making off with my pasta!

He was not only stealing my pasta, he was making a moustache out of it. A moustache and a mockery.

It's a damned good thing I can live off my body fat for up to six months.

ePerfidy.com

2008-05-12T23:40:00.000-04:00

After Susie wrote about her experiment with an online dating site, curiosity got the best of me and I decided to check it out for myself. I was, at the time, freshly single after months of a "What the fuck is actually happening here?" relationship with a nutjob blonde, and I wanted to find a low-impact way to meet new, and possibly even more unbalanced, women.

My first stop was the heavily advertised eHarmony, where I quickly found out that I wasn't allowed past the gate unless I opted to search for a partner of the opposite sex. Therefore, Dr. Neil Clark Warren can put on lipstick and go fuck himself.

I then found Match.com, which was gracious enough to allow me to look for broads, even though I am one myself. Kudos to them for not trying to force tab A into slot B. I filled out a fairly detailed profile (don't go looking for me there, by the way; I took down my information when it became clear I wasn't going to be employed any time soon; pussy ain't free, people!), and when I was finished, a message appeared telling me that my profile would be available after it was screened for content. True enough, my information wasn't available for several days, so I assume someone actually looked through everything I had submitted and had pronounced it fit for human consumption.

Being the cheap-ass bitch that I am, I only signed up for the free version of the site. In short order, I found out that this allowed me to look at other profiles, but I could in no way contact these women to beg for sex. Only paying customers can message other users, so I was basically allowed to look in the window of the candy store, but I couldn't inquire about the lemon drops. Also, the inclusion of personal email addresses is strictly forbidden, so it was really just a vagina on a string, dangled in front of my face, taunting me, "Subscribe, you horny, loveless bitch, subscriiiiiiiibe!"

The service sends weekly emails alerting me about possible matches (more vaginas on more strings). Even after I made my profile unavailable, the emails continued. Out of vague curiosity, I browse through them to see which women who live 500 miles away from me that they've matched me up with this time. Sometimes, though, the pictures are a little...off. Like, facial-hair kind of "off." Now, I understand that some women look closer to men than a lot of men do, but after seeing a few suspicious "she's a man, baby!" pictures, I decided to click on the photos and check out these profiles.

Upon further investigation, I'm slightly relieved to report that these are, indeed, natural-born men. I was confused as to why the site would consider them matches for me, until I looked more closely at these profiles. What I found was a bunch of men who have marked their sex as "Female."

Okay. So...someone is examining our new profiles to make sure that we don't include pornographic pictures, don't solicit sex from minors, and especially don't include an email address in order to bypass the need to pay for contacting other members. But somehow, the fact that men are identifying themselves as women seems to have penised under the radar. Good job there, screeners. Way to keep the fox out of the lesbian coop.

I give up. I'm going back to meeting women the old-fashioned way (waiting for them to pass out in the bathroom at the bar and then copping a feel).

Jumping to Conclusions

2008-05-07T12:46:00.001-04:00

I decided I wanted to try my hand at some jump blues, so here's a brand-spankin'-new track, "Jumping to Conclusions."

******************

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Mekka lekka hi mekka heinie poke

2008-05-06T23:55:00.003-04:00

As far as flamingly gay characters on children's television are concerned, Tinky Winky's got nothing on Jambi. Who'd like to venture a guess as to how many times a wish was granted by holding the box at crotch level?

Also, I'd be willing to bet that, with that turban, Jambi has a bitch of a time with airport security these days.

The earliest known PSA

2008-05-05T18:27:00.001-04:00

Say it with me: PEHDTSCHJMBA

2008-05-05T13:58:00.001-04:00

Damn, I love this man!

Behind the Playhouse

2008-05-05T01:03:00.003-04:00

There was a whole lot more than homemade mayonnaise goin' on at Pee Wee's Playhouse.

A return to audioblogging

2008-05-02T14:12:00.003-04:00

mp3 link if the player won't work for you.

The grammar cop has her panties in a bunch

2008-05-01T15:02:00.003-04:00

Things that will bother me, to different degrees, until I get this stick dislodged from my ass:

teh - Yes, I know people are purposely using it to be witty and tongue in cheek, and I do understand that it's a common misspelling. But keep using it, and Webster's will wimp out once again and include it as an accepted alternate spelling of "the"; I hate it when Webster's pussies out and refuses to stand up for the way the language should be spoken and spelled. (Note to Brits and Canadians: this does not apply to Americanizations of your superfluous use of the letter "u" - we are merely conserving keystrokes for the good of all mankind.)
pwn, pwned - Please make it stop. I like to game as much as the next geek, but the day I use any variation of this odious term in my writing is the day someone should come and smother me with a pillow. It's also unpronounceable, which is just as irritating as that symbol Prince insisted on using for all those years, but without the added benefit of at least being attached to Prince's music.
FTW - When I see this, I don't think "For the Win" - I think "Fuck the World." Or "Feed the Walrus." Or "Finger the Weasel."
Pronouncing the "t" in the word "often" - Don't. It's a silent "t" and it has the right to remain silent. The same goes for the first "c" in "arctic." When you say "Ark-tik" all I can think of is a creature that I really wish Noah had skipped when he set sail.
"Me" vs. "I" - This is a common one, and if you want to know the truth, I'd much rather hear people misuse the word "me." Hearing someone use "I" incorrectly just makes me think that he or she is trying to sound classy, and it isn't working. If you weren't talking about someone in addition to yourself, it wouldn't be a problem. I don't hear people saying "Me had diarrhea right when the movie got good!" or "Give I the darts before you hurt someone else." Think about that before you say "Paris Hilton and me threw up in the back seat of a squad car" or "Send a dirty postcard to your grandfather and I."
"Each other" vs. "One another" - Yes, I'm being totally anal bringing this up. But "each other" is used in the case of two people relating, and "one another" is for three or more participants. As in: "Stacy and I gave each other head until our tongues blistered," and "The members of the orchestra gave one another sly smiles as the unwitting conductor ate the jizz-laden cookie."

I'll let it go at that for now. And I'll be the first to admit that I'm guilty of using slang that's probably highly annoying to other people, so even though I'm not without sin, I'm casting the first stone. How's my aim?

Wheels on the bus go something something something

2008-04-30T21:36:00.002-04:00

I just hope one of my fellow passengers has some safety scissors, 'cause I need a haircut in the worst way. And that would definitely be the worst way to get one.

Wriddle me this

2008-04-28T23:30:00.001-04:00

Usually, I'm not what you'd call a fast-moving individual. If you don't believe me, take a look at the dishes in my sink, or the email replies saved as drafts populating my inbox. However, there's one thing that will cause me to move at lightning speed, to jump over furniture, cats, or hapless visitors, and that is my need to clutch the remote and change the channel when any sort of "entertainment wrestling" sullies my TV screen. It's not even a conscious reaction on my part, more of an ingrained reflex, like breathing, or shutting the blinds when I see Jehovah's Witness squads making their way down my street.

When I was a kid, we called it "Big-Time Wrestling" and I remember engaging in many heated debates with classmates who were convinced that this was a real sport, that the Sheik was actually setting his opponents on fire, that those folding chairs were being swung in true anger. The thought that these "athletes" were actually laughing together and patting each other on the ass backstage was blasphemy to the kids at school, and probably to a large portion of the American population south of the Mason-Dixon.

Of course, in these sophisticated times, we all know it's just for show, all done with a wink and a flex of the pecs. (We do know that, don't we? No one from Appalachia is going to show up at my door and break a chair over my head for this post, right? Right?) But this knowledge has done nothing to quell the popularity of the WWF, WWE, WWC, WWWTF, WWSTFU, and any other acronyms to which I've not yet been subjected. There's more money in the business than ever before, and the production values are really top drawer, from the snippets I've seen while falling over the love seat to change the channel to anything else, please god. I'd rather watch Oprah than wrestling. Well, maybe that's not true. If my only choices were to watch Oprah or WWE, I'd probably resort to a more old-fashioned choice of entertainment, like slitting my wrists in the bathtub.

So why all the vitriol for the overhyped, homoerotic, steroid-lovin' choreographed rasslin'? I mean, aside from the fact that it's wridiculous, wretarded, and wreally, wreally stupid, why take it so personally?

Here's the truth: I associate TV wrestling with being sexually snubbed.

There's a leap of logic, I hear you say. Explain yourself, hater.

When I was about 19, I broke up with my high-school boyfriend, and found myself on the market for the first time since my delicate deflowering. Of course, I was ready to swing into Full Slut Mode, and the first man to come into my sights was Harry, a friend of Tardist's upon whom I'd been crushing since my early teens. Blonde, bearded, leather-clad, motorcycle-riding Harry; I suddenly found myself in a position to do something about my crush. I couldn't imagine why he'd be interested in a gawky, awkward girl like me, but even through my dense little head, I could tell he was indeed interested. By that time, I was already living in Flint, but I'd visit Grand Haven frequently, staying at my brother Timmy's place and partying like it was 1999 (which, at the time, actually meant something). Harry and I hooked up a couple of times when I was hanging out in town, and I just assumed he knew that Tardist knew about the whole thing.

Then came time for Harry to visit Tardist in Flint (we lived in an apartment with our parents at the time). My folks were away for the weekend, so we took advantage of that freedom to invite Harry over for a couple of days. I was tickled to be entertaining a gentleman caller, finally, in my own home. Harry's a guitarist, so he, Tardist and I would spend the evenings drinking beer and jamming, having a grand time as we turned the apartment into Party Central. He was never openly affectionate to me in front of people, but that was no skin off my ass - I had no romantic aspirations about Harry; I was in no mood for love, just wanted to act like a slut now that I was single and not afraid to do something about it.

The first night he was there, Tardist and his wife had long since gone off to bed upstairs, and Harry and I were sitting in the living room watching TV. I just assumed that we'd get to the wild thing as soon as my brother was out of sight. Yeah, we all know about assumptions, don't we? He had the remote and kept flipping around the channels as I sat there, going through the stages of Horny and Ready, Horny and Anxious, Horny and Bored, and Horny and Annoyed. The final straw was when he arrived at a station showing a large man jumping on top of a slightly less-large man inside a ring, and he exclaimed "Oh, cool - wrestling!" as if someone had just given him a pony for his birthday. Trying not to fume, I tried to rationalize that he was probably just tired because he'd ridden over to Flint that day, and that I should just cut him some slack. We finally ended up having what I would deem as "token sex" and I went off to my own bed, alone and perturbed. But Saturday night was sure to be the night of wild monkey love. Right?

Saturday night rolled around. We drank, we jammed, we laughed, and Tardist and the Mrs. discreetly went off to bed fairly early, obviously to leave us to our own, ah, devices. I was drunk, I was revved, I was fully in Horny and Ready mode. Tonight's the night, gonna be alright. Aw, yeah.

Aw, no. There he sat on the couch, remote pointed at the evil box (I don't, sadly, mean my vagina), seeming to want to watch anything and everything to avoid sex with me. And then he found wrestling again. It was at that point that I decided that wrestling was my mortal enemy. Again, we sat in front of the TV until the middle of the night as I pondered how my attractiveness at age 19 couldn't compete with the image of a bunch of sweaty, bulky men fake wrestling. Again, we had a quick session of token sex and I slept alone.

I don't take well to being ignored sexually, especially when I'm being ignored for the lamest possible shit that has ever been televised. It left a bitter taste in my mouth, unlike sex, which would just have left a salty aftertaste. It gave me the insane urge to stab men in spandex who holler every utterance.

Years later, I found out that Harry didn't realize that my brother knew that Harry and I were gettin' it on, and felt overwhelming guilt to be doing his best friend's little sister while said best friend was in the house. His heartfelt, slightly drunken confession to Tardist after all that time had passed, his near-tearful "I...slept with your sister," was met with Tardist's barking laughter and a declaration of "I know!" I wish I could've seen the look on Harry's face when the realization hit him that he could have been hitting the teenage poontang with no guilt attached.

Nevertheless, my hatred of wrestling was burned so deeply into my soul that I still have an involuntary reaction when I see the fireworks and the spandex, when I hear the shouting and the sound of oversized male bodies slamming together in staged anger. I associate all those fuckers with sexual deprivation, and trust me, that's not a good place to live in my psyche.

Needless to say, Hulk Hogan is not invited to my birthday party.

Chica Mojo

2008-04-25T23:02:00.001-04:00

If this one sounds familiar, it's because I posted an older version of it with an odd video a couple of years ago. The vocals are all redone on this one, and it's the full length instead of the abbreviated one that accompanied the video.

***************************

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Mommy queerest

2008-04-23T11:02:00.001-04:00

Yesterday, I had a dream that I was pregnant.

Did I say dream? I meant nightmare. Once I awoke, it took me a good half hour to shake off the feelings of dread and panic.

Deep terror aside, it's an absurd notion because:

a) Becoming pregnant would require my engaging in sex with someone besides myself;

and

b) The kind of sex I like to have doesn't generally result in pregnancy, unless someone brings along a jar of David Crosby's jizz.

Since no one I know is on one-eyed-handshake terms with Mr. Crosby, I can assume I'm safe for the moment.

So what brought on this incredibly unlikely and scream-inducing bout with my subconscious? It's hard to say, exactly. I often sleep with the TV on, so it's possible some knocked-up bitch's drama on the screen was leaking through into my sleeping brain. It's not like I have some secret longing to be a mother. In fact, the very thought of it makes me want to guzzle a six pack and throw darts at a giant inflatable penis. My maternal instinct extends as far as my cats, and even then, I draw the line at breastfeeding.

Don't get me wrong; I don't dislike (most) children. In fact, I get on quite well with the crayons-and-Play-Doh set. I'm probably not any more mature than the average fourth grader. But when I've reached my limit, I've reached my limit, and it's essential to me that I'm able to make a graceful escape when that time comes, to retreat to my sophisticated adult world of drinking beer, watching reality TV, dressing my cats as hookers, and having the Play-Doh all to myself. When it comes time to eat, I don't want to be sharing my dip with someone who's probably just had his or her fingers knuckle deep in a nostril before reaching into the chip bag. And if I had my own kid, people would likely look down on me if I didn't change a diaper now and then. Fuck that - I've never changed a diaper in my life, and I intend to continue that trend until I reach an age where I have to start changing my own diapers. Unless I can con some hot little nurse into doing it for me.

At least at my age, and being single now, people have finally stopped asking me when I'm going to have a baby, as if I've been playing the overture all my life and everyone is waiting for Act I to start, wherein I push a 9-pound squirming human out of my screaming lady bits, let it maul my nipples mercilessly for a couple of years, and am thus fulfilled as a woman, finally. You know what? I think I'll just go stand over there, where the man batter isn't flying around the room. Thanks.

Just to be on the safe side, though, from now on, I'm using a condom when I masturbate.

Solos and bandaids are for pussies

2008-04-21T12:17:00.001-04:00

Aside from cutting the bejeezus out of my finger and then bleeding heavily enough to warrant taping a tampon to my hand, I've finally set up my recording studio and begun to use it. This song, "Ain't That Easy", is one I wrote years ago but never recorded until now. Listen and discuss amongst yourselves while I check to see if that flap of skin on the pad of my finger has stayed in place.

Some things never change

2008-04-20T16:38:00.000-04:00

This is what Thirteen was doing shortly after I adopted him:

I thought he would grow out of his kittenish need to blog about every detail of his life.

I was wrong, as this recent photo proves:

He may be bigger, and he may have upgraded his laptop, but in all honesty, his content still sucks. He has no idea of when to use "me" and "I."

(I'm just jealous because he sells more ad space than I do.)

Wind tunnel

2008-04-18T06:00:00.001-04:00

My cats like to play. All three of them. Yes, even Eeyore, at approximately 19 years old, likes to bat at a string or a puffball when the mood strikes him, frisky old boy that he is.

One of their favorite pastimes has been running in and out of a blue nylon tube that I acquired shortly after moving here. It's always sat somewhere in the living room, and it's fun to throw toys in there and watch the kitties scramble in after them.

Last week, when Squirl was over, I picked up the tube and noted that one of my babies had unceremoniously puked inside, leaving a rather large hairball as a souvenir of a meal not quite digested. Of course I had to find it with company present. Way to keep house, slob girl!

I set it up in the kitchen, thinking to clean it out when I wasn't embroiled in a General Hospital marathon, and would have liked nothing better than to've not thought about it again until my sister was safely on her merry way. Of course, Thirteen was having none of that, and he was determined to knock it over for the purpose of irritating/embarrassing me by running through the puke. After his fourth or fifth round of "Let's annoy Mommy!", Squirl picked up the tube and set it on the porch. Take that, naughty cat!

After the shows had been watched and Squirl had departed, the puke tube was the last thing on my mind, so I let that fucker sit on the porch. What harm could there be in that?

The next morning, I awoke to the sound of a fierce wind howling outside my window, and my first thought was, Shit, I'd better grab that tube and bring it inside before it blows into the yard. So I threw on my slippers and headed for the door, in all my bedhead-and-jammie-pants glory.

It was gone. I looked in my yard, in my driveway...the fucker was nowhere to be seen. All I could think of was some neighbor, spying a curious blue tunnel that had suddenly appeared in their yard, picking it up for examination, and then flinging it aside with a resounding "EWWWWWW!"

No, I sure as hell didn't go looking for it. The thing is made of kite-like material, so who the fuck knows where it ended up? Somehow, I didn't think it would do my neighborhood standing any good to claim it at that point.

Oops.

Playing post office with the monkey

2008-04-15T23:52:00.001-04:00

So, let me get this out of the way first: Yes, I'm one of those people. I wait until April 15 to mail my tax returns. Let's just call it my rebellious nature, instead of what it really is (egregious procrastination). Hey, listen - it's my blog, so we'll call it my way. Who's tellin' this damned story, anyway?

Now, where was I? Oh, yeah - the post office. I believe they even stay open until midnight today, just because there are legions of people just like me, people who woke up this morning and said, "Holy fuck! I've gotta mail in my taxes today!" and then soiled their drawers.

I was expecting a circus at the post office when I got there, but really, I've seen it a lot busier on other, non-taxing days. Nonetheless, there were lots of extra workers posted all around to make sure no one would bust a vein when making the last-minute dash. I had need of some stamps, and as I approached the self-service dispenser, a nice lady came over to guide me through the touch-screen jungle.

As she explained the process to me, I was juggling my keys from hand to hand, trying to get out my wallet. This is on my key chain:

Why yes, I do have a monkey Pez dispenser on my key chain. If this surprises you, then you must be new here. So, hi! Nice to meetcha. Just remember that, in my world, monkey equals vagina. A vagina that dispenses candy. Everyone wins!

The nice post-office lady noticed my Pez dispenser, and we had the following conversation:

Nice lady: Oh, you have a monkey!

Evil me: Yup, I never go anywhere without my monkey.

Nice lady: Well, everybody likes monkeys!

Me: I have found that to be absolutely true. Who doesn't love a monkey?

Nice lady: I'll bet you get a lot of comments on your monkey.

Me: Yeah, people do tend to notice my monkey.

Nice lady: I guess I wouldn't want a real one, though.

Me: I suppose...they throw things.

Nice lady: And they drop down on you!

(Stamp transaction continues, monkey free for the moment, though I am unable to stop thinking about monkeys dropping down on me.)

Me: Thank you for your help!

Nice lady: Have a great day, and take care of your monkey!

Me: (Stuffing stamps in my purse and trying not to collapse in tears of laughter) You do the same.

It just goes to show that monkeys bring people together.

Oh, and if your taxes aren't in the mail by now, you and your monkey are so fucked.

The white paw of gayness

2008-04-14T16:14:00.000-04:00

When he pooped on his tuxedo
Friday was dismayed;
He's just too fastidious
To let it stay that way.
He groomed and groomed with all his might
'Til glossy black and gleaming white
Was all you saw on little mister
Poster cat for gay.

Forget Stacy's mom - Stacy's got it goin' on

2008-04-12T21:08:00.001-04:00

Meet my future wife, Stacy London.

Dear Stacy,

You have no idea who I am, but you should find out quickly, as we are meant to be together. Trust me on this one.

We complement each other so well. You're cheeky, and I'm twisted. You're fashionable, and I'm desperately in need of help choosing clothing that doesn't make me look like Joey Ramone. You're gorgeous, and I'm...passable on a dark night. We're both Geminis! It's fate, I'm telling you, blisters-in-the-hot-sun fate.

Ultimately, our romance hinges on one thing:

I like you. Do you like me?

(Check one)

__ Yes

__ No

Please answer as soon as possible so that I can begin to plan our glorious honeymoon at Motel 6.

Delusionally yours (until that restraining order reaches my hands),

Katy "What really, really not to wear" Barzedor

Lazy Bucky's quickies

2008-04-08T22:24:00.000-04:00

Project Runway is moving to Lifetime Network? Dear lord, now I need to stop sending hate mail to Lifetime. Maybe they got tired of being the spokeschannel for weepy bitches.
Last night, I dreamed that I was at a big food festival. I was carrying a plate of chow and a glass of beer, and walking in high heels (I told you it was a dream). When the ground turned to plexiglass under my feet, of course I slipped and fell...but didn't spill my beer! I guess even in my dreams, I can keep my priorities straight.
Eeyore just grabbed a partial potato chip out of my hand and happily ate it. I haven't seen him that excited about my food since he realized that there is tuna in those pouches I open.
Sweeney Todd gives a whole new meaning to Manwich.
I love cream cheese, but I detest cheesecake. Go figure.
Right now, I'd like to viciously stab the silly-ass balloon that is the romantic myth of the starving artist. I find no inspiration in being broke. It's neither cool nor hip to have no idea where the next dollar is coming from. In fact, being unemployed and having no income has had the effect of hollowing me out, artistically speaking. Once somebody hires me, I'm sure there are a million ideas that are hiding under my panic, waiting to be released by a regular paycheck. Until then, you'll get lame lists like this from me.

Dream within a dream

2008-04-03T23:47:00.002-04:00

For the past few weeks, I've been having extremely vivid, bizarre dreams. Some are particularly disturbing, but most of them are just downright weird, even for me.

One thing's for sure: I watch entirely too much Bravo channel. Last weekend, I dreamed that I was in a class taught by Sweet P from Project Runway. We needed to smuggle her out of the building, so I put her in a towel and wore the towel on my head, and then we escaped on a motorcycle. Now, that's not to say I wouldn't hang out with Sweet P, because she rocks, but I seriously doubt I could wear an adult woman on my head, much less convincingly conceal her with a bath towel. And there is no way in hell I would drive or even ride on a motorcycle.

Earlier this week, I had a dream that I was (I'm gagging just writing this) making out with Ben from Make Me a Supermodel. Dammit, there are models on there I'd jump on in a second, and my dreams betray me by delivering the decidedly un-sexy prison guard instead. What's next? Sweet monkey love with Miguel from Top Chef? That thought makes me want to stay awake forever. Somebody make me some espresso and fetch some sturdy toothpicks to hold my eyes open!

Last night, I had my Top Chef dream. I'm thanking my lucky charms that no sex was involved. Let's face it - I'd rather fuck the food than most of the chefs who appear on that show. No, in my dream, I was a contestant on the show (because I'm such a wizard in the kitchen; I can punch those microwave buttons like nobody's damned business) in some future season, where they are obviously desperate for participants, or they want the judges to die from my disgusting cuisine. Hey, I didn't set up the conditions - my subconscious took care of that.

In any case, there I was in the house with all the other chefs. It was not the greatest house in the world, kind of a borderline-ramshackle country house (although it was all city out the front door...I'm not going to pretend that any of this makes sense). Unlike the real show, we each had our own room, so I was alone when I went to bed the first night. As soon as I'd settled into bed, I looked down to see the covers being pulled off of me, and then felt my legs being lifted up in the air. Oh, yeah; they put us in a haunted house. I'm not sure what my visiting ghost hoped to achieve with that odd display of power, but it didn't do a thing to scare me off. The next morning, I came downstairs with the other contestants and asked if anyone else had experienced any spirit antics (several had). No one seemed particularly put off by it. Yeah, we culinary experts are a tough-ass bunch. We carry spatulas and we're not afraid to swing those fuckers.

Another chef was making cherry pancakes, so I volunteered to do the dishes. The ghost thing was pretty far out; my volunteering to do the dishes took the dream right into the realm of the ridiculous. After breakfast, I was hanging around the back of the kitchen, kind of assessing the amount of work I had in front of me in the sink. Suddenly, one of the guys started stomping something and making disgusted noises. He then announced that we had cockroaches.

Okay, I could survive the ghostie leg lifts without flinching. But as soon as the word "cockroaches" left the guy's mouth, I freaked the fuck OUT. The ever-present cameramen were digging that, because you know those reality shows will just have to work to manufacture drama if it doesn't really happen. I was bringing the drama on a silver platter, with a heapin' helpin' of hysteria. I was acting like such a...such a girl. However, I was not alone in my demand that we be moved into a different house. There was much bitching that the last batch of chefs were put up in near-palatial digs in Chicago and we'd been hustled into this roach-ridden dump.

Some suits showed up to assess the situation, and while they made it clear that they thought we were being huge babies by demanding to move, they agreed to find us a better house. As we prepped for the relocation, it was like I was packing my whole house instead of just a suitcase full of clothing. I was in a hurry to get the hell out of there, so I was just picking and choosing what would come with me. Every time I thought I was finished, I'd find more notebooks, and anyone who knows me knows my notebooks must come with me.

It was about at that point that Friday woke me up with a cold nose to my cheek and a bite on my chin. The imagery in my dream was so vivid that it took me a little while to shake it off (and to get Friday to stop nibbling on my face). I got up, drank some water, and watched a little TV (will I never learn?) before I crawled back under the covers. Surely I'd dreamed myself out for the night, right?

Nuh unh.

If writing a blog about blogging is meta-blogging, is having a dream about your dream considered meta-dreaming? Because that's what I did. I started dreaming that I was recounting my odd Top Chef dream to Squirl. I just couldn't get away from that stupid buggy farmhouse, even in a subsequent dream. I was quite glad when Friday woke me up from that dream, and decided it was a bad idea to go back to bed.

So now you've had a quick peek into my warped subconscious. Sorry to grab you by the hand, all trusting and shit, and then take you into the tarpit of my mind. Helluva thing to do to my friends.

Just be glad I didn't recount my recent nightmare about zits gone wild. You'd never eat mayonnaise again.

Big Brother owns your nipples

2008-03-31T23:11:00.001-04:00

Anybody else see this story?

Woman goes through airport security and nipple rings set off metal detector. She offers to let an officer look at them to make sure she's not wearing a "bra bomb" but TSA officers insist she remove them. She is sent behind a curtain with a pair of pliers to de-jewel her nipples while several TSA officers stand nearby laughing about it.

Wow.

I fully expected the TSA to single out the offending officers as abusive assholes and distance themselves from the incident. Imagine my surprise to read that forced removal of body jewelry is an action approved by the TSA, and that the agency "...supports the thoroughness of the officers involved as they were acting to protect the passengers and crews of the flights departing Lubbock that day."

Um...SHE OFFERED TO LET SOMEONE LOOK AT THEM. Why was that not good enough? There were female TSA officers present who could've done a quick visual inspection behind the curtain to make sure the offending boobs weren't going to explode on the plane. To my mind, this is a case of a bunch of inbred redneck dickhole bullies with badges amusing themselves at this woman's expense, playing a little game of Fuck With the Freak.

The bejeweled passenger is demanding an apology from the TSA, which I think they should serve to her on a red satin pillow with mints on it. The TSA also acknowledges that its policy will now direct officers to perform a visual inspection in cases like this one. I just don't understand why this wasn't the directive in the first place. From my own experience, I know that removing body jewelry can, in some cases, result in the piercing hole closing, resulting in either painful reinsertion of the jewelry or the need to re-pierce.

Way to make us respect your authori-tai, fuckheads. Because when a woman can board an airplane with decorative metal in her tits, then the terrorists have already won.

MOM, PUT SOME CLOTHES ON!

2008-03-28T02:11:00.001-04:00

Bad influence

2008-03-24T21:50:00.003-04:00

Another way I know I'm getting old: my friend's kids, kids that I've known since they were toddlers, are now old enough for me to engage in a conversation about the logistics of making ice cubes out of jizz. You know, a typical Easter Sunday topic.

Suddenly, I'm not hungry anymore

2008-03-18T22:43:00.000-04:00

You know how some dogs will put their assholes against the carpet and then paddle across the floor? And how the reaction from the people in the house is always "NO! BAD DOG! GET YOUR ANUS OFF THE CARPET!"

Normal reaction, right? Yeah, I think so, too.

Well, tonight I saw a commercial for a carpet cleaning company. The commercial featured a big dog, doing the big ass-paddle across a white carpet.

Ummmm...that means that someone taught this dog to rub its ass on the carpet. On command.

Does this disturb anyone besides me? Is there such a demand in show business for this Disgusting Pet Trick that trainers anticipate its use and teach it to the pooches in between "beg" and "roll over"? Upon whose carpet do they practice? And what spoken command, do you suppose, is used to trigger the butt drag?

"Fluffy! Brown streak!"

I'm never letting my pets into show business.

Faith and blogorrah

2008-03-17T21:56:00.000-04:00

Oh, yeah, it's the quintessential Mick's holiday today, and I've got plenty of the Mick running through my veins. But you'll not find me swilling tinted brew in a shamrock-laden pub tonight. For one thing, even if you came to my house and offered me a non-green beer of my choice, I feel too crappy to take you up on it. And even if I was feeling at the top of my game, I consider this an amateur's drinking night, much like New Year's Eve. I prefer to imbibe with professional drunks, thank you very much.

Also, green beer? Gag me with a shillelagh! Sure, you can tell me all night that it's just green food coloring. But how do I know it's not really ale that's permeated with the essence of Wicked Witch? Ha! I rest my case.

So, what does a pasty-skinned potato eater do to celebrate St. Patrick's Day with no beer and no pub crawling? For one, I celebrated by eating the first good food I've eaten in almost a week, thanks to the awesomeness of my just-as-Irish sister. We ate sandwiches the size of our faces while catching up on last week's General Hospital. Sadly, we were too pressed for time to start any brawls with Protestants, but we did dress Friday up like a leprechaun, and he sang us a lovely rendition of his favorite song from the old country, Oh Tranny Boy. Seriously, that cat has a beautiful tenor.

Tonight, I'm celebrating by watching a History Channel documentary on the secret tunnels underneath Chicago (if I see Geraldo with a sledgehammer, though, I'm changing the station). Later on, I'll take out my Pogues albums and...look at them, since I don't currently own a turnntable. But it's the thought that counts, right? I believe I have a recording of Tom Waits singing The Piano Has Been Drinking that was recorded live in Ireland. Close enough? Perhaps later I'll polish up my Uilleann pipes. Um, okay, that joke only works if I actually have a schlong, huh? Dang.

I'm not big on toasts, but I suppose the occasion calls that I leave you with one. Hmmmm, let's see. What would be appropriate for this readership? Oh, I know!

May your ass cheeks clench that butt plug like it was the Blarney Stone, and may your Lucky Charms find their way into some hot bitch's bloomers. Slainte!

The wearin' o' the green.

On my back. But not in a good way.

2008-03-14T23:17:00.000-04:00

Lucky, lucky me. I seem to have found a strain of the flu that wasn't included in my flu shot this season. Now, why can't I have the same kind of odds-beating ability with the lottery?

So...I've been pretty much in bed since Wednesday night. I haven't felt as horrible as I did last night since I had the chicken pox about 21 years ago. If I didn't know better, I'd suspect that I was on the losing end of a drunken brawl. A drunken brawl with Bigfoot. And Bigfoot carries a baseball bat. While wearing cleats.

All in all, I'm mighty grumpy right now. Just grumpy enough to make a grand declaration. So here goes.

If you're going to appear on television while willingly wearing a fauxhawk, then I'm going to have to tell you that it makes you look like a douchebag with a fin on your head. What, are you trying to fuck Nemo?

There, I've exhausted my supply of Bitch for the night. I'm going to take a big dose of Nyquil and try to find a show with bald dudes in it.

I'd watch it

2008-03-11T19:58:00.001-04:00

Lament for a six-string goddess

2008-03-10T12:20:00.000-04:00

Pink, paisley, ridiculous...miraculous
With your swing-sweet lows
And your bee-sting highs
Your visual confetti thrown on the walls
Whenever I turn this way and that
How you stayed in tune, clever motherfucker
When every other guitar on the stage was
Begging for a turn of the pegs
You held steady and smirked a little
But we all still loved you anyway.

Every man I knew
Wanted you in his arms
But you always came home
Because you were my girl
You saw me through my first gig
That night I turned 30 and
They liked me, they really liked me,
No small thanks to you.

And there you went on Saturday
Stoic in your coffin case
But I wonder if you knew, deep down,
That I wasn't just lending you out this time
That this bearded fellow was your new man
That I'd turned you into a house payment
And a way to keep my cable on.

Sad fucking way to end
An affair like ours.

I'm sorry, baby.

Incontinental congress

2008-03-06T21:22:00.000-05:00

Now that Project Runway season 4 is bagged, tagged and wrapped, I'm not sure what I'll do with my life. How, exactly, am I to go on with no weekly infusion of fashion ferocity? What part of my daily routine can compete with regular doses of Tim Gunn? Christian, come back and let me carry you around in my purse! There's room for you and all your little friends in there, I promise. And by "little friends" I mean all those dollars you won, you Fierce Feather Fashionista.

The best thing I can do, I've decided, is to become equally obsessed with another TV show. What would be the next logical step after hanging on every minute of a clothing-design competition show? I pondered this long and hard, like Johnny Wad. And then the obvious answer smacked me upside the head like a slab of uncooked bacon.

The Simpsons, of course. It's the only solution to my woes.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized my long-unrequited love for Homer, Marge, and the brats. My thoughts drifted, as they will, to a guest-starring role on the show, and I smiled dreamily as I thought of how glamorous my entry to Springfield would, indeed, be. In fact, I think I would be so excited that I might just...lose control.

Note the blatant Burger King advertising; I think I should get some revenue from that, for all the tens of visits I get here daily.

Ah, fuck it

2008-03-04T10:48:00.002-05:00

Things I've learned the hard way:

I can't save crazy chicks. No matter how shiny my white-knight armor is, I can't heroically extract a whacked-out girl from a metaphorical burning building, because even as she's screaming "Help me, Obi-Wan Katy, you're my only hope!" she's got her arms wrapped around the banister as tight as they can be and the bitch ain't budging. I'm so fucking tired of mixed signals and schoolgirl-mentality games, and most of all, being thrown over for men because it's just easier for the crazy girl to get by that way.
Bring your own lubrication when entering a pawn shop with merchandise to sell; it won't make the ass fucking any less painful, but it will prevent spontaneous combustion and excess blistering.
Potential employers, apparently, are allowed to demand anything they want of job seekers, and it's perfectly acceptable since so many people are scrambling for scraps these days. Case in point: I applied online for a job last weekend - a secretarial job for a company whose business involves making people's yards pretty - and was sent an application to complete and return. They not only wanted me to sign off on urine, blood, and hair samples (a different rant all in itself), but they wanted access to any and all medical records from every doctor I've ever visited. Call me a big ol' liberal queer, but I find that highly invasive, insulting, and frightening. I fully expected the next check box to demand possession of my first-born child. A line has been crossed, and people are too cowed to bitch about it.
Grey pubes are not cute. At least, they aren't cute on me. I don't know why that disturbs me more than the grey hair that sprouts more and more liberally from my scalp each day, but it just does.
I never realized how good the writing was on soap operas until the writers went on strike. Squirl and I could've written better dialogue for General Hospital during the strike than the replacement dudes did. (And BOO! to them for resurrecting a dead man to be the Text Message Killer...I was really convinced it was the cop, Harper. Come ooooooon...Diego would not have killed Georgie, especially in such a brutal manner; she was the only person who was ever nice to him.)
No one wants to see my ass crack in Wal-Mart. I understand that now. So here's the deal: Wal-Mart, you stop putting your store-brand club soda on the bottom shelf, and I'll stop bending over and half-mooning everyone in the liquor aisle.

Chutes and bladders

2008-02-29T04:48:00.001-05:00

After submitting...well, more resumes than I could even count (after you send out 20 or so, you lose count, y'know?), on Monday morning I finally got two nibbles. (I really, actually, unconsciously just typed "two nipples" and had to correct; I already had those.) I set up both interviews for Tuesday, and then spent most of the night flipping around quite sleeplessly, and unfortunately sexlessly, in bed. Really, the last time I was on that side of a job interview was sometime in the last century. "Nervous" doesn't even scratch the surface of what I was feeling; I think a combination of "panic" and "terror" might be more accurate.

Tuesday I rousted my dolphin-sized ass out of bed around 7 and undertook some seriously overdue grooming. I realized, as I labored to make myself presentable, that I had neither shaved my legs nor worn any makeup since Molly and I split. It's a wonder one razor did the job, and that I didn't put mascara on my lips or something equally fucked up. Sasquatch bitch needed a makeover. I also weigh a lot more than I did last time I wore dress clothes, and I couldn't find my damned waist cincher to save my life. My good winter coat has a lining that tends to make any shirt I'm wearing hike up underneath it; I don't just mean a couple of inches at the belly - I quite often wind up with the bottom of my shirt up to or over my tits by the time I'm done driving somewhere. So there was something else to add to my general sense of distress; the last thing a potential employer needs to see from me is an expanse of bare belly and bra-clad bazongas. I'm too old and out of shape to apply for jobs where those things would be an asset. One more thing to remember: make sure body is covered before entering interview venue.

After all that worry, my morning interview was short, sweet, and surprisingly smooth. I was all set for an intense grilling, and instead, I had a nice, informative chat with a sweet (and very, very cute) young lady. Of course, my nerves were still playing volleyball in the pit of my stomach, and by the time I'd thanked her and exited the building, my bladder was making an urgent pitch for immediate drainage. I drove toward the main drag, several miles away, where all the fast food restaurants and their lovely public bathrooms were just waiting for me, trying all the time to think about something not pee-related. It just wouldn't do to wet myself, at least not until my second interview for the day was complete. Call me old fashioned, but I just don't think it makes the right impression on a potential employer to see an interviewee with a soaked crotch (again...not applying for jobs where that would be a plus). All the way to 28th street, my thought process went something like, "Hmmm hmmm hmmm hmmm, I sure don't have to pee, nope, not me. Hmmm hmmm hmmm hmmm raindrops keep fallin' on my head...NO! Hmmmm hmmmmm hmmmm hmmmm not peeing, not peeing, not peeing. Think about cats...cats step on my bladder...hmmm hmmm hmmmm hmmmm...dry bladder, dry bladder, not peeing, not peeing. Hmmmm hmmmm hmmmm hmmmm..."

I've never been so happy to pull into a goddamned Wendy's in my life.

After taking the Best Piss in the World, I had a couple of hours to kill before my second interview. Normally, I'd have gone to the sushi restaurant and lingered over some miso soup and crab warships, but my finances are too fucked for that right now. I'm a little familiar with downtown Grand Rapids, but not totally confident of where I was going, so I decided to just head in the direction of the second appointment. I thought about checking out the gay bar that was on the way - I figured I could afford a bar Coke - but when I pulled into the parking lot it was...packed. Pun fully intended; sorry, it had to be said. I drove on. It took me quite a while to decide exactly where my destination was, as the office building in which it's housed has no number displayed and the name of the company is nowhere on the doors. I finally called and had my destination confirmed. Still an hour before the interview, and my nervous bladder was starting to bedevil me once again. "Bitch," I scolded my bladder, "I just took care of you at Wendy's. Why you gotta do me like that?" And my bladder said "PEE. NOW. OR ELSE." I drove back down the road, probably for a couple of miles, before I found a gas station. My car whipped into a parking space almost of its own volition, and I bolted out and up to the door...where I beheld a sign which informed me "No Public Restroom" with a definite subtext of "Hahahaha, we enjoy watching you wet your pants, fuckers!" I limped back to the car and headed back to the interview. Though I hated the idea, I was going to have to beg the interviewer to let me use the bathroom. I know that they know that everyone has to pee, but it just makes me feel unprofessional to bring it up when I'm begging for a job.

I entered the building, intent on finding the correct office for my appointment, and very nearly missed the giant "Restrooms ----->" sign next to the stairs. Oh, hell yeah! My dress boots made a quick-time KLONK KLONK KLONK on the wooden floors, in perfect harmony to the SLOSH SLOSH SLOSH in my about-to-say-fuck-you-and-void-itself pee reservoir. There it was, the angels were singing like they had to go as badly as I did, and after locking the door with trembling hands and navigating what seemed like half the length of a football field to get to the toilet at the back of the room, I experienced the Best Piss in the World for the second time in one day. Did you know that was possible? It's a new one for me. I started to wonder: Will it be like this every time I interview for a job? If so, somebody better hire me pretty fucking fast here, because my dress pants are too snug to hide Depends.

Alright, I think I'm done discussing urination. For now. I reserve the right to return to the topic as the whim strikes me.

My second appointment was with an agency who'd indicated a need for employees to handle a variety of jobs, including several kinds of clerical work, which is what I'm seeking. However, once I sat down in the office for my interview, it became clear in short order that they weren't hiring anything but salespeople. Sales just aren't my thing. I'm not slick enough for the kind of bullshit talk that most sales jobs require. I initially accepted an offer to return the following day and work alongside an established salesperson to see if I was suited to the work, but the more I thought about it, the more uncomfortable I was with the idea. That interview in the morning was brief, but the sales interview was like a bad speed date. The guy did all the talking - fast talking - never gave me the opportunity to ask him any questions, and made me feel completely hustled. I began to have doubts about my doubts: Was I just being a big pussy about trying a new kind of job? Can beggars really be choosers? I was awake until after 4 a.m., flipping around and tossing and turning and watching really bad TV. When my alarm went off at 8, I decided I'd call and decline the offer. I think I can get fucked in the ass without driving all the way to Grand Rapids for it.

So, I'm hoping for a callback on the first job, and in the meantime I'm whoring my resume all over the Internet. You think I should start mentioning my $2 tricks? Maybe having "Whore" on my resume would catch somebody's attention.

In other news:

Chris vs. Rami on Project Runway this week. Each had to show three pieces to break their tie for the third spot in the finale at Bryant Park. As if they weren't planning to pick Rami all along. I liked Chris' collection waaaaay more that Rami's ugly, clunky dresses and that ridiculous coat that looked like the shameful love child of a Jillian and Christian design tryst. Why was Rami's fugly gown with the pods attached to the hips described as acceptable because it's a "fantasy dress" when Chris was criticized for designing clothing that's all drama and not ready to wear?

Also, I'm puzzled why everyone seems so grossed/creeped out by the use of human hair on Chris' work:

People clip other people's real hair into their own for extensions all the time, and I've never heard that referred to as creepy. People wear animal fur on their clothing, and to me, that's a lot more disturbing than human hair; at least no one, presumably, has to kill the humans to acquire the hair. I would call the use of human locks on clothing unexpected, but if anything about Chris' presentation was creepy, it was the models' makeup.

Hmmmm...I really thought I had another topic or two for this, but hell - it's nearly 5 a.m. and I have shit to do today, so I should probably attempt to sleep.

But first, of course, I shall pee.

Someone had to decide this was a good idea

2008-02-25T12:30:00.000-05:00

Another "gem" I found with my camera phone. What the fuck were they thinking when this name was chosen?

"Hey! How about a catchy product name that's only mildly to moderately racially insensitive?"

"Great thinking, Ray! We can put it on the shelf next to the BlessJew! tissues."

"Will this delay the launch of the new line of Cheap-Ass Scotsman cleaning products?"

"No, but we do also need to review the packaging for our Drunken Mick Instant Potatoes."

You kiss your mother with that mouth?

2008-02-23T19:37:00.002-05:00

I don't remember what product this was on in the store, but I found it on my phone and realized I'd been a selfish bitch and never shared.

No one said it had to be realistic

2008-02-21T23:30:00.001-05:00

Per Susie's request, I've compiled my own "bucket list" - things I'd like to do before I straddle that handbasket and floor it all the way to hell.

Travel. I've done a little, but I'd like to do a whole lot more. New York, San Francisco (I've been there, but it's been over 20 years), all the places in Europe where I can see timeless art and architecture, and misbehave without ending up making ugly drunken mugshots. I'd love to go back to New Orleans again and take in my beloved French Quarter and the ghosts of its seamy underbelly that haunt the streets when the sun goes down and the nightlife fires up.
Publish a book. That one I'm actually working on. Slowly. Very slowly. The cats keep sneaking onto my computer and adding chapters about my abusive behavior toward them. I'm so offended; their spelling is atrocious.
Make a CD. I've made "albums" before, back in the day when cassette recording was the high-tech solution for home recording. I've got the equipment now to make a decent digital recording, and I've already got a handful of songs that have never seen the light of day outside live performances, so now all it would take would be a little patience for my lazy ass to put it all together.
Finish painting my house. I finished my bedroom, then ran out of steam about halfway through the living-room project. Now that a bunch of the boxed furniture is assembled, it will be easier for me to finish that job. I have paint for the kitchen, too. Once I get those done, I can decide what colors the office and music room need to be. I have a really soothing color in mind for the office; the music room may end up being a little more...out there. Maybe you can all come over and draw on the walls with magic markers.
Make sweet, sweet, dirty, filthy love to Kelly Monaco.

A girl can dream, can't she?
Own another bitchin' Camaro. I've had two, and I want another one. However, I will never make the mistake of having a sports car for a year-round ride, ever again. Come summertime, though, I keenly miss zipping around in that gorgeous little red ticket magnet.
Get my teeth beautified. Someday, porcelain veneers will be mine. Then perhaps I will smile with my mouth open in pictures once in a while. Of course, by that time, I may well be skipping over the veneers and shopping for dentures. Who wants a little gum, baby?
Sit front-row center at a Tom Waits concert. Every time I see him, my seats are farther and farther back in the venue. I want a ringside seat next time around.
See the shows for which I've had tickets but, for one reason or another, didn't see the concert. Amy Winehouse, Primus, Joss Stone, Rob Zombie...I'm sure there are more, but those are the most recent one.
Write a post that isn't a list. I'm sure you'd be happy about that one, too. Maybe I'll get myself all worked up over something and post a rant. Let me go watch the news for a while and get pissed off.

Lazy Bucky's quickies (snow advisory edition)

2008-02-18T18:39:00.001-05:00

A headline that will live in infamy, found here:
Historic beef recall: West Michigan schools pull meat

I hope they're not all doing it at once; we'd run out of Kleenex!

Addendum: Apparently, someone at the news site was paying attention, because the headline was changed to something less masturbatory. Damn, I wish I'd gotten a screen capture of that!
My Sweet P got auf'd last week on Project Runway. I'll bet she wins the fan favorite competition, though. If you don't like Sweet P, we're gonna rumble. Of course, you'll easily beat my ass, but I will put up a pitiful but heartfelt fight to defend Sweet P's honor.
This winter it's snowing here like it did when I was a kid. I'm nostalgic about a lot of things, but getting dumped on repeatedly with ridiculous amounts of snow is not on that list. After a couple of days where the weather wasn't sure which outfit to wear, the rainy one or the snowy one, my driveway looks like a tiny mountain range, and a blizzard is a-brewin' as I type. I almost let the neighbors see how graceful I was when I walked to the mailbox on sheer ice Sunday (if anyone was looking, they did get to see a fair amount of flailing followed by a sheepish grin).
If any gamers here haven't played GTA: Vice City Stories yet (I know, the game is old news...but I like my games that way, old and cheap), I urge you to rent it just to listen to the VCPR station on the radio. The radio plays alone are worth the price of admission. "What's that whistling? Pablo, you old dog!"
Speaking of which, I am currently being driven absolutely bat-shit crazy by a helicopter mission where I have to lower a magnet onto a stationary object (tricky enough where it's situated between buildings), then a box on the back of a slow-moving truck (tougher still), and finally, bitchiest of them all, a whole moving car (the car is moving fast, too, because it's being chased by bikers with machine guns, and I have to pick it up before the car explodes from all the gunfire). So far, the guy in the car is a dead man every time. The moral of this story is: never hire me to be your helicopter bodyguard.
I'm going to be trapped in a blizzard with no beer and no Coca-Cola. It's a damned good thing I stocked up on chilled monkey brains.
My last name isn't actually Barzedor - it's my pen name, if you will (my keyboard name?). I realize not everyone is familiar with the phrase upon which my name is a play. Katy Barzedor is a twist on the phrase "Katy bar the door!" which means, roughly, hunker down 'cause the shit's about to hit the fan. Now you know. (The "Katy" part is totally real, though, I promise!)
Also, in the interest of full disclosure, I should point out that I am not a millionaire, and I own neither a mansion nor a yacht. Yet.

See? My thumb hasn't been up my ass every minute

2008-02-13T17:15:00.000-05:00

Here's what I've been doing instead of writing (well, when I'm not playing video games, watching reality TV, or surfing for eggbeater porn):

Side Effects 2008 - Acrylic

And because I know just what kind of people you are, here's a close-up of what I'm sure is your favorite part:

Who couldn't use some sock monkey nipples on a dreary hump day?

Probably next time I pick up a paintbrush, it should be to finish the living room. But, admittedly, this was more fun.