The gays and really bitchy girls, are my people…

Having said that, I’m sitting here last night playing channel jockey because I’ve managed to have the most wicked case of insomnia on the fucking planet in the last four days, and have watched everything I’ve TIVO’d… pffft.  Anyway, I’m flipping through the channels and lo and behold, BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN is on, which is one of my favorite movies, not because of the man candy, but because it’s really very well done, and it’s a poignant love story, and not being a homophobe, I can get totally behind anything that is a poignant love story no matter what, and the man candy is just gravy.  So I flip to the channel and being about as punchy as a one legged man in an ass kickin’ contest I start to reminisce about the truly fuckin’ spectacularly fucked up and funny shit I did to me ex-fucktard when he was around, in that last year, and I had nothin’ better to occupy my time with than thinking of truly spectacularly fucked up shit to do to him, because by this time I was waaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyy over it and him and wicked resentful that I had been the only responsible, adult in the relationship for the better part of who knows how long.   Anyway, this particular incident is really just a very well played misunderstanding (snort) but I thought it was hysterically amusing…

So, he leaves it to me to choose a movie, right around the time that Brokeback Mountain came out, and I of course wanted to go see this movie having read the short story.  In my defense, truly the fucktard, knowing me like he did, shoulda really known better than to leave the movie picking to me, at that point was probably not a wise move, but what can I tell ya’, stupid is as stupid does… so I buy the tickets online, and over dinner at the restaurant right before the movie the conversation plays out a little like this:

FUCKTARD:   So what are we seeing?

ME:   Well - WAIT FOR IT – we’re seein’ a western… (snort).

FUCKTARD:  Okay, cool.

ME:  Yeah, it should be (snort).

FUCKTARD:  Are you ready to go?

ME:  Yep.

FUCKTARD: Let’s go.

So, we get to the theater and as I expected and hoped there are enough people in line that the fact that a good portion of them are MY GAYS is not really obvious if you don’t know why or what you’re lookin’ for.

So, you’re probably thinking why is this funny?  Well, if you had known my ex-Fucktard, you’d know he was extremely homophobic, and if you know anything about Brokeback Mountain you know it’s rather explicit in certain scenes, although tastefully done by two amazing actors, who just happened to be straight and man candy, but I digress.  If you read up, you should get the joke about the movie being a western (snort) and the fact he had no idea what he was in for…

Anyway, we’re watching the movie, and the heated, whispered conversation goes something like this:

FUCKTARD:  What kind of movie did you say this was?

ME:  It’s a western (snort) – also, the entire row behind us just about had a baby when they heard that crack, and it was everything I could do to not fall over into the aisle rolling around laughin’, and then even more heated…

FUCKTARD:  This is not a western.

ME:  Do you NOT see the two cowboys on the screen doing the dirty (snort)?  DUH! (snort)

FUCKTARD:  (A noise that sounded something like someone had grabbed his junk and pulled the whole thing up over his forehead) No fucking way!! Fuck this shit, I’ll be in the lobby.

ROW BEHIND US OF VERY WELL DRESSED GAY YOUNG MEN:   (snort) (apoplectic laughter)  Snap, oh no he didn’t (snort) (apoplectic laughter)!

ME:  I was pretty much crying’ at this point I was laughin’ so hard…

Anyway, I thought we were all gonna stroke out… I LOVE MY GAYS…

Anyway, I finally composed myself after about 20 minutes or so, and started to collect my shit to leave, and one of the young men leans forward and the conversation goes something like this:

NICE GAY YOUNG MAN:   Oh, honey, that was too much, you’re absolutely fabulous and he’s sooooo not…

ME:  Well, thank you, I am fabulous and I’m pretty much done… enjoy the rest of the movie boys…

You know, I know it was a pretty awful thing to do, but in my defense, you really don’t know the back story and exactly why I was so pissed and resentful at that point, but suffice it to say I had spent the better part of the last 24 months of the relationship playing mother to his midlife crises that was manifesting itself in a second fuckin’ childhood, complete with long board shorts, van sneakers and dirty shirties (t-shirts with dirty sayings – I mean come on, you’re fucking 40 years old), add to that his wicked bad ADD which went in to warp speed (hormonal????) and the fact that I was convinced he was now suffering from bipolar, and you do the math what I was dealing with.   I took care of him as long as I could, to the very best of my ability, but even those most benevolent among us, has her limits, and he took advantage at every opportunity, pushed me right to the limit, and then pushed me over  – I was done…

Anyway, some people just can’t appreciate a good western…

Theodore E. Bear & Freeway, or as they are otherwise known, Crazy Legs & Sir Farts A lot…

So, I’m sitting here watching my TIVO’d show and I’m watching the dynamic between my two canine boys unfold and I’m thinkin’ somewhere, the watchamacallit that sits up on top of the thing and passes judgment, on all of creation and it’s inhabitants, is probably thinkin’  how stupid are these humans that they can’t see I’ve given them one of the most precious gifts in the universe: the dog.  I mean seriously think about it, dogs are a one-stop-shop for pretty much everything the human condition requires.  A dog loves you conditionally, does not talk back (Teddy does but that’s a story for another day), accepts you unconditionally no matter what you might do, is always happy to see you come back, is heartbroken to see you go, always wants to cuddle, usually will make you crack up (unless he’s eatin’ your Ferragamo mules, then he’s makin’ you cry), and never, ever gets judgey.  A dog does not care that your bank account has taken a shit, that your stocks are worth far more if they are used for toilet paper than for anything else, won’t bitch if you change the channel, actually wants to watch YOUR shows, always wants to play and spend time with you, and typically as far as he or she is concerned, YOU are the sun that his or her little planet revolves around.  You will never hear your dog tell you you’re inadequate, not good enough, not present enough, not this or that enough, or anything else.  You know what this was gonna be a rant on the fact that Crazy Legs (Teddy) is forever chasing the cat and making his life hell, and Sir Farts A lot has the singularly most  lethal ability to gas ANYONE out of any room, but the truth is, Teddy’s self perception that only he matters and god help you if you get between him and his cookie, and Freeway’s noxious farts, really don’t matter, because when the shit hits the fan, typically, they are the ones that are there to help me sort through the fall out.   This Thanksgiving was really going to be just one more shitty holiday, especially given all of the upheaval in my life in the last 36 months, but the truth I have lots to be thankful for, farts notwithstanding.  I’m getting my health back, which means I can get back to my dojo, and to running and in general back to my life; I have my grandparents who I love more than anything else on the planet, and they are relatively healthy given they are 85 and 95 respectively; my businesses are starting to pick up; I’m writing a new manuscript; I’ve started this blog; and, I’m planning on getting certified in a few more things having to do with my tech services business.   Things can always be better, buy really in the big scheme of things I guess they aren’t really all that bad right now…

The Cheezewhiz Meter Movie Rating…

Okay, so I rate my movies and television programs by what I’ve come to call The Cheezewhiz Meter… in brief, movies and television programs get a rating that can range from a “10th Level of Hell” score or TOTAL Cheezewhiz, to a “OMG THAT WAS AWESOME” which is more like a really nicely, aged Brie…

In any event, I’m sitting here watching yet one more movie based on the 12-21-2012 Mayan prophecy of the apocalypse, with Dale Midkiff, Amy Dolenz, and a variety of other B actors I’ve never seen before, and I’m thinking to myself in the first 15 minutes, “well, shit, this is gonna be 90 minutes of my life I’ll never get back but what the hell” given that I still have work to do tonight, and need some time to turn my brain off and spud out before I even try to finish that.  No before I go on to riff this particularly movie within an inch of its ridiculous life, I have to say Amy Dolenz looks just like Mickey, sadly has none of the talent as far as I can see… pfffft… Dale Midkiff, you know he’s an odd duck in my book because I’ve always found him attractive, but he’s clearly far better off just standing there looking pretty than trying to really stretch his acting chops because he just does not really have them to stretch.

So having said that on to the review of 2012: The End Of The World. Okay, for starters, LMAO at the title, but I don’t think it was meant to be funny.  This movie is a freakin’ riot, in spectacular, Cheezywhiz fashion.  Whoever wrote this, was not only drinking the Kool-Aid, but they were mainlining it, along with the Elmer’s… and yet, they managed to get produced and made into a movie, which calls in to question what criteria some production companies are using to in development of treatments but that’s a blog for another day.  Anyways, whoever wrote this movie pulled out the Good Book, dusted it off, turned to Revelations and pretty much wrote characters around each entry, and not really in a good way… every cliche is trotted out IN ORDER, and if you’re not Christian or Catholic, basically Revelations are all the Brimstone warnings about what the Apocalypse is gonna be like when God really gets fed up with our shit, and decides to pull the plug on the whole mess.  However, Revelations happen in a certain order, and I’ll be damned if this movie is not unfolding in the same way as Revelations was written.  It’s actually astonishing, because I’m  sitting here in riotous laughing fits, but having flashbacks to parochial school and the nuns, so it’s making me rather twitchy because I haven’t had scary nightmares of Sister Mary Whatsherface since I was 12 and I get the feeling I might have one tonight.  ACK.   In any event, I’ll say this much for the writers and producers of this flick, in typical B movie fashion, there has to be some gratuitous  T&A, and the chick they got playing the part of the Mayan’s version of the Virgin Mary, has a really bad boob job, not that you can see her boobs anywhere but through the dress she’s wearing but for fuck sake, if your boobs are hovering around your clavicle, you got a problem – FYI chickie no matter what the Tijuana, bargain basement doctor who did them tells you, they are most certainly NOT supposed to be up that high… if you’re jumping rope or jogging and they can literally bounce up and knock you out cold from blunt force head trauma THEY ARE UP TOO HIGH!!!!!!!!!!

RATING:   CHEEZIEST OF WHIZ

Redeeming Quality:  Anyone who has been to parochial school will get a good laugh revisiting some of the best written parts of the Bible that probably were fodder for many a sleepless night when you actually were too young to interpret it all any other way but verbatim.  Also, I got a good long laugh when my surround sound kicked in and scared the HUA HUA out of Freeway my Chi… I keep forgetting how small this house is compared to the other place, I’m betting you could hear the surround sound three zipcodes over… pffft…

For the benefit of those you your reading who are not Christian, Catholic or have the Bible handy to read Revelations, let me give you some of the highlights of this movie:

1.  California is the first place to go. This particular part is not exactly in Revelations, per se, but apparently the Almighty hates California as much as the rest of us do (I live in California and even I’m over it), so in typical B movie fashion, California is sinking into the ocean AFTER it gets torn asunder by a massive earthquake (no irony there) AND gets set on fire.  Very imaginative, not so much… pffft.

2.   Its snowing in the middle of summer?  Again, I don’t believe this is exactly, per se, in Revelations, but in the big scheme of catastrophes I guess this is right up there with #1.

3.   The earth has abruptly stopped rotating on its axis.  Again, not exactly in Revelations, but I’m thinkin’ that if that were to happen, #1 and #2 wouldn’t be too far behind.

4.  The Rapture.  Suddenly half the B roll cast disappears 3/4 of the way into the movie, THIS is in the Bible and presumably God is going to Rapture (take to heaven any and all who he deems worthy to be there for varied reasons) and the rest of us get to take our chances with the Big Bad that is Lucifer and deal with famine, pestilence, and assorted nasty shit his coming will unleash on the planet… hmmm… you know maybe this already happened and the whole dating experience is part of the nasty shit because I got left behind???  Well fuck… you know I can deal with pestilence and everything else but messin’ around with my dating life, is just not cool…

There are other things this movie trotted out and made a spectacle of, but my surround sound just freaked out Freeway again and I need to go peel his little bits off the ceiling… poor baby is gonna have a permanent tic at the rate we’re going…

Thoughts about Theodore E. Bear my Yorkshire Terrorist, uh, wait no that’s not right…

So, ya’ll know I just moved recently, and if ya’ll didn’t know that before you know it now, and in case you missed it:  HEY, 4-1-1, I just moved recently.

I hate moving, almost as much as… well, fuck truth be told, there is very little else that I hate more than the drama of moving all my shit from one place to another, especially when that place is considerably smaller than the place my shit used to occupy before I moved, but that is a blog for a different day…

In any event, I’m in my new shoe box, er, uh, home, and I’ve got boxes aplenty all over the place.  Right about now you are more than assuredly wondering WTF does this have to do with her Yorkie, to wit, I tell you to keep your knickers on I’m getting to it…

Anyone that knows my Yorkie, Teddy, otherwise also known as that god damned dog, CUJO, Napoleon (little man with great, big fucking attitude), or my favorite, which he actually will answer to, for fuck sake Teddy… so now you have an idea of my baby’s back story in terms of relevant monikers.  Now, anyone who knows him, knows that Teddy is the doggie personification of a Hoover vacuum cleaner, and has absolutely no compunction about putting anything in his mouth and attempting to eat it.  I was never able to break him of this habit and god knows I tried after he ate a particularly fetching pair of Ferragamo mules when he was an itty, bitty baby… OMG, I so cried those were great mules…

So, I’m unpacking assorted boxes in my living room recently and I’m all caught up in the latest and greatest on my iPod so I’m not really paying too much attention to what is going on around me, well imagine my surprise when I hear my parrot start to go apoplectic (again a blog for another day, because Tikki is also a character in his own right)… anyway, I look over at the boxes that are scattered all over the floor and I don’t see anything particularly out of the ordinary and I almost have the quintessential TIKKI SHUT THE FUCK UP out of my mouth when I see one of the boxes move… hmmm… that cannot be good, especially since it’s marked X-MAS ORNAMENTS…

So, I get up walk over to the box, which if you will recall I now live in a shoe box, so it’s a pretty short fucking walk by all respects, and I look in, and who do I see happily munchin’ away at assorted X-mas ornaments, tinsel, and other shit, ah, if you guessed Teddy, you would be right… after I finish havin’ what has to be the umpteenth stroke of that particular day, and scoot him outta the box, get rid of the remains and proceed to scold him, to which he responds to by trying to bark at me louder than I’m yellin’ at him… go figure… bah, the point of this story is that I swear that one day that dog is gonna poop a X-mas ornament and I’m going to have to try and explain to what will undoubtedly be the Seven For All Man Kind Model who is temping as an emergency room vet HOTTIE Doctor, why exactly my Yorkie pooped a X-mas ornament…

Stay tuned to the blog, when I figure out how to do it, I will post pictures of all my critters, and there are plenty of stories to go along with each one of them…

Working out, and I should know better than to sass my personal trainer…

So, I’m working out one day, and I’m in one of my particularly tired and not all together motivated moods, but I’ve got a personal training session and I’m compelled to go because truth be told my personal trainer, bless his heart, is one hot commodity… BUT, if you know me, you know that at times I can be a ROYAL sized PITA, and today was one of those days when I was in rare form.  Having said that, he’s putting me through my paces, and I’ve convinced myself that in spite of very much enjoying the view of his ass and his guns, the shit is on a personal quest to kill me, and no I’m not feeling that endorphin high everyone talks about and someone point me in the direction of the nearest establishment that does not think putting JUICE and BAR in the same sentence is a good thing… well apparently my annoyance must be very evident with respect to the look on my face, and the following conversation ensues:

PT (Personal Trainer):  Suz, come on you can do it.

ME:  Someone lied to you.

PT:  Ahhh, come on now, let me see that six pack.

ME:  WHERE? I want one and make sure it has a lime in it.

PT:  Funny, come on 25 more to go.

ME:  Couldn’t we burn the same amount of calories doing something else (wink)?

PT:  Funny, now do those same 25 in reverse, I know you have it in you.

ME:  Seriously, who lied to you?  Tell me so I can go tear their arm off and beat them with it.

PT:  Ya’ know Suz it appears you’re really not trying very hard today, can I ask you to try harder?

ME:  Uh, yeah, because up till now I haven’t been tryin’ at all (snort).

PT:  Funny, now go run on the treadmill for 45 minutes.

ME:  I really should know better than to sass the hot trainer who I’m payin’ to torture me, because it never ends well, huh.

PT:  There ya’ go, as you would put it, we’re havin’ a state the obvious contest and you’re not winning.

ME:  Hmmm, it is strong, the force in this one…

Musings, opinions and lascivious thoughts about assorted hot guys…

So, I’m sitting here watching all of the shows I’ve TIVO’d over the last week, and I’m thinkin’ that the running, blatantly obvious theme, is that they all prominently feature some really seriously HOT guys and I’m not talking your garden variety, everyday hot guy, you might come across at the gym or wandering around the mall, either, I’m talking about the stunningly, mind numbing, OMG I caught myself drooling and touching myself, kind of hot guy that is Adonis personified… my TIVO is a veritable Who’s Who of the hottest of the hot, and you’ll quickly see that I have some pretty all over the map tastes in terms of men and what I think is hot…

Monday – One Tree Hill and Castle, neither of these shows needs any explanation.   There is also the daily episode of Las Vegas, Angel and Bones, in reruns, featuring hot men aplenty…

Tuesday – NCIS, any one of them, V, 90210, Melrose Place and the daily dose of Las Vegas, Angel, Bones, all again in reruns, but always fun to watch and salivate over…

Wednesday – SONS OF ANARCHY – Can you say Charlie Hunnam??  OMG I could eat him with a biscuit given half the chance… on this day we also have Nip/Tuck, again, good lord, anything with a bare ass shot of Mario Lopez, Julian McMahon, and Dylan Walsh, works for me on every conceivable level – see biscuit reference above… also, see above for the daily rundown of the regulars…

Thursday – Grey’s Anatomy, here you have Eric Dane, (no I don’t care that he is a manwhore, this season Little Grey has cleaned his act up), Patrick Dempsey, Justin Chambers, Kevin McKidd and any of the newbies.  And Private Practice, TAYE DIGGS, OMG, total biscuit time…then there’s Supernatural – NOT ENOUGH FUCKING BUSCUITS ON THE PLANET TO SOP UP THE HOTNESS ON THIS SHOW – and Vampire Diaries.

Friday – Ghost Whisperer, Bones (2009), and Smallville.

On cable, GOD LOVE THE CABLE COMPANY, I can now also catch at my whimsy any of the series that I love watching on the premium channels whenever I want, which pretty much includes some of the above, as well as Dexter (Anthony Michael Hall) and Californiacation, – David Duchovny is kind of a manwhore but you know what, don’t care, totally hot guy, well-read, and funny, the whole package… AND, BONUS Rick Springfield is on the show this season, albeit his character makes me want to scrub my eyes and brain with bleach as he’s a total perv, but I’ll be god damned if I didn’t grow up wanting to sell my little soul for a crack at being Jessie’s Girl.  And there is Evan Handler, in all his balding goodness, again kind of pervy on this particular show, but still hot in his own right… and lets not forget HRM, on The Tudors, OMG, is all I can say about Jonathon Rhys, criminy talk about breaking a sweat just thinking about this guy, or for that matter any of the guys on this show.

And of course given that I have cable I can watch Gerard Butler, Mark Wahlberg, Vin Deisel, Patrick Wilson, Heath Ledger, Will Smith, Seth Rogan, Paul Rudd, Ryan Reynolds, Mark Ruffalo, Ed Harris, and I can sit here and type names until my fingers bleed… GOD LOVE TIVO and the cable company.

It’s not easy being a girl…

So, I’m sitting here considering my dating life, and it occurs to me that men have it sooooooo much easier than women on just about every conceivable level; however, there is one specific level where the complete and total injustice of the disparity between the two is just astonishingly revolting.  Let me explain…

In order to get ready for any given date, all men, all across the country fuck around all day long, well into the evening, and then possibly take a nap.  Upon arising from said constitutional, they will energetically scratch themselves,  almost assuredly burp, and wander clumsily into the bathroom at which point their preparation begins in earnest, to wit, they shit, they shave and they hopefully shower, in that order.  Preparation se fini (French for fucking done).

Now my friends, for women and how they prepare for a date…

14 days before said date – We crash diet, read we eat nothing but a handful of grapes, maybe a lettuce leaf and possibly water.  This process goes on for the next 13 days until the date.  Also at the commencement of this timeline, which for our purposes is DAY 14, we also do the following:

1.    Start tanning.   2.  Set an appointment to get our hair colored and highlighted, for DAY 7 on the countdown to the date, and then low lighted, glazed, cut and styled and DAY 13 before the date.  3.  We also set subsequent appointments, to get a mani, a pedi, a salt glow scrub, a bikini wax, a leg wax and underarm wax, botox, possibly collagen, and definitely a facial, all for every evening after work the entire week before said date.  4.  We also set an appointment to get our nails refreshed the afternoon of said date at the same time that we are getting coiffed.

13 days before said date – we are now starting to feel lighter from the crash dieting, so now the crazy extra workouts start, marathon sessions in the sauna and steam room, fully clothed in latex to get maximum sweat benefit, while of course wearing a pound of lotion on our hands and feet so that the steam and heat can help the product penetrate better.  Bear in mind we also have a hair mask on our head made from anything under the sun the the media has sold to us with the promise of silky locks.

12 days before said date – We are still doing the dieting, the crazy workouts, the beauty treatments in preparation of the other beauty treatments, and we’ve now more than likely enlisted the help of half a dozen friends to come over to the house and help us sort through our closet.

11 days before said date – Again all of the above is still going on but now our tempers are a little short because we’re fucking starving, and have come to unanimous conclusion with the aforementioned half a dozen friends that we have nothing appropriate to wear.

10 days before said date – See above, ibid.  We are now starving to death, pissed off because we have nothing to wear, and behind the wheel of a potentially deadly weapon on the way to the mall with an arsenal of credit cards in our pocket and half a dozen friends in tow.  At the mall, we have all unanimously come to the conclusion that we need not only the perfect outfit, but the perfect shoes, the perfect accessories, and of course the perfect lingerie, on the off chance that we’re feeling benevolent enough to let Romeo get some.

9 days before the date – See above, ibid.  Starvation has evolved into a near psychotic obsession with EVERY food, candy, and potentially edible item commercial that comes on the TV.  We’re pretty much at this point Pavlov’s dog because we’re salivating at the thought of tossing back those yummy pureed prunes that we just saw on the Gerber Babies commercial.  BUT we’ve lost 8 pounds so there will be none of that and we immediately call the trainer and schedule some more extra workouts, to which he is entirely to enthusiastic about and we are now wondering exactly what we would need to make a voodoo doll of the energetic little fuck, becaus ehe’s a man and what the fuck does he know about getting ready for a date when his biggest concern is whether or not his fucking underpants are in fact clean AND bright white, and not yellow in front and brown in the back.

8 days before the date – See above, ibid.  Moreover, we go get our hair colored with our grapes, our lettuce leaf and our gallon of bottled water in tow, and happily collapse thereafter onto the aesthicians table to be waxed and facialed to within an inch of our lives.

7 days before the date – See above, ibid.  We’ve lost 12 pounds, we’re deliriously happy, our outfit rocks, our hair is glorious, and we are looking pretty fucking fine in that Victoria Secret number we bought, so all is well with the universe.

6 days before the date – See above, ibid.  We go get our botox, possibly a little collagen, and maybe some plumper in our lips because a girl can never have to fetching of a trout pout.

5 days before the date – See above, ibid.  We’ve decided that we want to lose 5 more pounds before the date so we start tossing back prune juice and prunes like it’s a fire sale in the dried fruit department and juice department.

4 days before the date – See above, ibid.  Back to the aesthicians table we go to get our salt scrub, and to get any stary hairs tweezed, and any last minute waxing done below the neck and set an appointment for 2 days before the date to get our hair rewashed, restyled and blown straight as well as for the eye brow designing.

3 days before the date – See above, ibid.  The prunes and prune juice are working, we’ve lost 2 more pounds, nevermind the fact that we’re pissier than a longtailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, we’re lightheaded and we’re convinced that the personal trainer is trying to kill us, and no we can’t fucking do JUST FIVE MORE YOU FUCKING MUSCLEBOUND HALF WIT… then we realize the entire weight room is strangely silent and figure out that in our haze from being near starving, we actually DID in fact say that out loud rather than just thinking it…

2 days before the date – See above, ibid.  We go in for our salt glow, our eyebrow waxing, the mani and pedi, and we look absolutely stunning.  All is good with the world.

1 day before the date – See above, ibid.  We’re a nervous fucking wreck and absolutely freaking out the little bastard will cancel after all the fucking work we’ve done to look hot, and be desirable, so we commence to have a nervous breakdown in the presence of the half a dozen friends who have come over to help you prepare your makeup and lay out your clothes.

MORNING OF D DAY – See above, ibid.  With a gaggle of your friends in tow, back to the salon you go for a refresh of the mani and pedi, to tweeze any stray hairs, to have falsie eyelashes carefully applied and a professional make up, and to have your do blown straight.  Then you proceed to get driven home by your gaggle of friends who will then commence to help you prepare for the date that mind you is still some 10 hours away.  BUT preparations must be made, clothes must be laid out, we must decide if any last minute shit needs to go be gotten, and determine if the perfect outfit, is in fact, PERFECT.

Now if you’re a woman reading this you’re thinking MOTHERFUCKER because you know your date is probably lighting farts with a gaggle of his friends, and probably scarfing a triple Tommy Burger, and chugging a beer, and that the one trip he’s made, god bless his heart, is to the drugstore for the Magnum Trojans (He’s way too optimistic but bless his heart for setting his sights high) that he’s hoping he might get to use.  So as I said you’re good and pissed because all you have is a handful of grapes, two lettuce leaves and maybe some cucumber water and have put a good 100 miles on your car driving all over fucking town, $750 on the AMEX, and logged something like what has to be 1000 miles on the treadmill and the stairstepper trying to get your ass to perk up, in an effort to get ready for this asshole, and he better so be taking you to a nice fucking restaurant and not some dive, because god help you, you’ll tear off his arm and beat him to fucking death with it, if you see one chick  wearing a belly shirt and daisy dukes and the word HOOTERS is emblazoned on the napkins.  You will absofuckinglutely go BATSHIT.

Having said that, the time has come, 15 minutes before your date begins, you look smoking hot, you feel even better, and the doorbell rings – he’s early, brownie points, maybe this won’t be as bad as you think it will… but then as you step down onto the porch and turn to lock your door, you see four pairs of eyes looking at you like they are about to cry from your sofa, and  you look at Mr. Right Now and you think, fuck this date better be good and if I decide that he’s getting lucky he better be one fucking spectacular lay, because I could be sitting on that couch with those four pairs of eyes, in my flannels and my fuzzy slippers, a mug of hot cocoa, watching a marathon of Iron Man, X-Men Wolverine (NOW HE’S HOT), and anything with Jonathon Rhys Myers in it,  for what has to be the tenth time, and not dealing with the drama of all this shit and some pervy little man who’s more than likely gonna try and maul you, probably has sweaty palms, and more than likely can’t string together a coherent sentence without the use of dude, homie, pimp, or god help you, aight (WTF DOES THAT MEAN?????????????????)  and is he really all that cute???  Is that a fucking combover??????????????????   Is he wearing a Member’s Only Jacket?????????????????? OMG, he showed up driving a moped… FUCK ME SIDEWAYS, AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH…

Now, I ask you how anticlimactic is that???

I tell you being a girl is exhausting, and blind dates, are simply NEVER a good idea…

MUSINGS ON RESPECTABLE WAYS TO SAVE MONEY…

This one is for the ladies, hmmm, on second thought given some of the dates I’ve had could apply equally to the men… coloring your own hair when money is tight is a perfectly respectable way to save money; however, trying to wax your own legs, underarms or privates, is a sure way to spend an obscenely amount of money on pain meds, assorted burn remedies, and enough gauze to TP the Rose Bowl, several times over, but worse than that, it is ASSUREDLY a guaranteed trip to the ER, heavy on one very painfully embarrassing explaination to a group of doctors that will ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS, resemble the United Colors of Benetton/Calvin Klein Underwear Ad for the medical profession doing their very own version of one of the new Sexy Nike Running shoe Ads, with tight ass camera shots included… I’ll tell you at that point, and given that we live in the techno age, you can pretty much count on the fact that your privates are gonna be up on YouTube before the day is out getting compared to that “one time when the guy came in with a bunch of golf balls and his celly up his hoo-hoo”… who does that??? I mean for real???

Ode to the perfect revenge…

So I’m on my new friend’s blog and OMG apparently there is a firesale on asshats in Ohio because my ex science experiment is from there as apparently is hers… go figure…

So we’re discussing the merits of pay back and what not, and my new BFF is wondering if I in fact did duct tape my naked ex ASS HAT to a waterbed filled with gasoline and throw lit matches at him while tossing back Jaegermeister shooters.  Well, the truth is no, I did not in fact do that,  but I will tell you that many such a fantasy was literally sparked and fueled (PUN very much intended) whenever I lit a match for whatever reason there for awhile after I kicked ASSHAT to the curb.   What I will admit to doing, is cleaning the litterbox with his toothbrush the night before he was moving out… fucking not my fault he’s such a halfwit that he leaves his shit all over my house unattended, pffft… I gave the box a good, long scrubbing, and I was thisclose to giving the cat’s asshole a good scrubbing but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, I love that cat too damn much to hurt him, regardless of the merits of a poopyfilled, and poopytasting toothbrush… I might have also put a few cat turds in his suitcases and repacked them, and quite possibly put lighter fluid in his mouthwash, I really can’t say I remember, I was rather P.O.’d and had in fact, tossed back a couple Xanax and Ambien and chased them down with a couple shots of Vodka, and I’m assuming that the black box warnings on those things are gospel, given that I have indeed taken those wonderful pills before and then gotten a surprise visit from the UPS guy with shit from Amazon I don’t actually remember having ordered.   What can I say, I never once said that I was above it all, because I’m not, and yes I can stoop as low as it will take to get my due.  I figure I’m Catholic, that’s what confession is for, and I sincerely doubt that Saint Peter will be docking me any points with respect to my getting into heaven for having gotten the urge to clean out the litter box at that particular moment because lets face it, all things being equal, Saint Peter is the guardian of the gates to heaven and thereby sees and knows all and he has to know that my ex is the KING OF THE ASSHATS and deserves what he got.  In fact, I’m expecting Saint Peter to bitch slap me and ask why I didn’t pick the lock of the guestroom and put the cat turd in his mouth, because in retrospect I really was not on my game that night due to the booze and the happy pills, and that woulda been hilarious.  Pffft.   You know come to think of it, I may have also cleaned the toilet that night, pfffft… oh well, you know what they say don’t leave your shit unattended anywhere where someone can do really disgusting shit to items that go on your face, or in your mouth, and if you do, then you’re a fucking halfwit and deserve everything you get…

A followup on Internet Dating and dating in general…

So I’m reading this other blog about this poor woman’s situation/relationship, or monumental waste of time, or science experiment, I guess it really depends on how creative you wanna get with what you call it, and it seems that there are just entirely too many assholes out there and not enough real men who are boyfriend/husband material.  Pffft.   And then when you add to the one or two who might be, a crazy, somewhat skanky, certainly insane, self-appointed bodyguard (read as deluded “friend” who really wants to be more than a “friend” to this guy, but she’s either, too fat, too ugly, or too unhinged to be GF material to the poor sap),  and the decent guy pickings, get even slimmer because come on now, who wants to deal with a whacked out friend who fancies herself more than that to your potential man??   I’m sorry that’s just one too many pieces of Samsonite and I can be pretty tolerant for the right man as can most women.  Now by right and decent guy I’m talking about the upright, non-knuckledragging, non-cretin, who can dress himself without the help of Grrranimals and does not, in fact, still live in mom’s basement, and has a paying job that does not require a hair net and the phrase, “do you want fries with that.”   Oh, and lets not forget the ability to string words together to make a coherent sentence, minus the use of the words, “dude”, “homie”, “bee-atch”, “gangsta”, “pimp”, or “aight”.   I mean come on now WTF does that mean, “aight”?  It’s like one of those words that sounds like it’s slang for a body part.  Oh, and lets not forget the ability to be able to wear his pants somewhere in the vicinity of his waist and not down around his knees with his underwear showing because they just saw whoever the newest gangsta rapper is and they think it’s cool, and this is nevermind the fact that they are 30-something or worse 40-something, because then you are dealing with all of the above AND a really fucking bad hair piece that looks like something my cat hawked up after a really enthusiastic licking of himself.  I’m telling you dating in the 21st century let alone finding a relationship with any merits is near impossible.  ACK.

You know god help us all, at this rate if the dating situation doesn’t get any more favorable for women, if 2012 doesn’t make the human race extinct, we’re gonna become extinct anyways because women won’t be doing the dirty with much other than the latest, and greatest Rabbit on the vibrator market because actually finding a guy you can stomach sleeping with will have become an exercise in futility.   People, my strongest and best advice, BUY A FUCKLOAD of stock in Duracell… ya’ll stand to make a fortune in the New World…