Monday, March 31, 2008

Those were the days....

Does ANYBODY remember this show? Korg: 70,000 B.C. was my favorite show as a kid. I was totally in love with Korg. What a shame that you can't buy it on DVD, or even VHS! Mitchell, I know you remember this show! EAT, KORG!!!


Today is the LAST day to get your entry in for the REname Miss Ann Contest-a-pa-looza!! I'll choose my brand new name and post it here tomorrow.......

Saturday, March 29, 2008

She didn't say what I THINK she said... did she?

So, I got a call on Sunday night from one of my mom's friends. I had not talked to this woman for at least 15 years, if memory serves. I had hoped to never have to talk to her again...

Suffice it to say she was not my favorite of mom's friends. However, my mom, generous spirit that she was, found something in her to like. And I have to admit, she was a completely different person with my mom than she was or is with anyone else.

The only thing my mom did not like about her was that she was a TERRIBLE gossip. One thing I will say about my mother, and it's something I strive for, but am ultimately not much good at, is that she NEVER EVER repeated gossip. She'd listen to if, if you wanted to tell her, but it went no further. That's why everybody and their grandmother trusted her, and she spent most of her life on the telephone, cigarettes and coffee close by, being subjected to the ugly rumours and most secret secrets of all and sundry.

At any rate, when my phone rang, I picked it up without bothering to look at the Caller ID. Here's the conversation we had: The responses I WISH I'd made are in red...

me: "hello?"

Irritating Friend of Mom (hereinafter referred to as IFOM): "Miss Ann? Is this Miss Ann Blank? (pre-married name)

me: "yes, it is..." (oh dear God in Heaven, please do not let this be who it sounds like it is.)

IFOM: "Hello Miss Ann. This is IFOM. Do you remember me?"

me: "Of course, how are you? It's been a very long time.." (but not nearly long enough. And thank you, God in Heaven, for subjecting me to this. Just another reason to be angry at you.)

IFOM: "Yeah, it has. *annoying laugh* I was just thinking about your family and thought I'd call you. So you married HUSBAND THROPE, did you?"

me: "I certainly did. Twenty-four years ago last Sunday, as a matter of fact."(huh-uh. I just took the name, because it's so much BETTER than my pre-married name.)

IFOM: "huh. That's something. Lot's of young people don't stay together that long."

me: *silence* (well, I wouldn't have either, but I'm trapped in HELL)

IFOM: "So how have you been? Are you working?"

me: "Yes. I work for Anonymous Attorney." (if it's any of your business, which it's not.)

IFOM: "I've heard of him. He's getting up there in years, isn't he?

me: "Yep. He's like, 113 now." (and how old are YOU now, Bride-of-Frankenstein?)

IFOM: *annoying, braying laugh* "Well, I doubt THAT!"

me: "Ha." (it was a joke, you stupid cow.)

IFOM: "So how's your dad?"

me: "He's doing well, he lives in..."

IFOM: *interrupting* "Florida. Yes, I know."

me: *silence* (Please don't interrupt me when I am speaking, you rude bitch.)

IFOM: "Is he still shacked up with that woman?"

me: "Yes." (shacked UP? Do people still use that phrase?)

IFOM: "Why do people do that? The bible speaks plainly against it, but EVERYBODY's gotta shack up these days. Marriage isn't good enough for anybody."

me: "I dunno..." (nor do I care, you judgmental ASSHAT.)

IFOM: "Brother 2 is divorced now, isn't he?"

me: "Yup." (and better off, in my most humble opinion.)

IFOM: "I hated to hear that. Is he doing ok?"

me: "Yup." (I would yank out my teeth with a staple-puller before I'd discuss Brother 2's problems with you...)

IFOM: "And how is Brother 1? Is he gettin' along all right?"

me: "He's great. He's married again, and has a beautiful little girl. And his older daughter has a baby of her own now. She's four. And a more beautiful child you will never see." (especially since you live at the ass-end of a dirt road to NOWHERESVILLE: pop. 1 old bitch.)

IFOM: "Huh. She has a baby? How old is she?"

me: "I think she is about 25." (Oh, let's hear your views on THIS, please.)

IFOM: "Is she married?"

me: "No." (She's SHACKIN' UP, donchaknow...)

IFOM: "Is she shackin' up, then? Kids these days. They don't NEED to be married, they just shack up with anyone, and then move on to the next one, when things get rough."

me: "Yup."
(Oh, God, please let it end....)

IFOM: "So, where are you going to church?"

me: "I don't go to church." (which is ALSO none of your business. So please don't ask me why not.)

IFOM: "Why not?"

me: "I just don't." (I hate you.)

IFOM: "You should be in church."

me: "Hmm..." (I double hate you.)

IFOM: "Did you know my daughter died?"

me: "Oh. Wow. No, I didn't. I'm sorry." (She probably died to get away from you, you sanctimonious, self-righteous bucket of SUCK)

IFOM: "Yeah, it's been two years now. But she's better off dead. That man she was married to put her through hell."

me: "Hmmm.." (She's better off dead? Did you just say that? Maybe I misunderstood, and you didn't just say YOUR DAUGHTER IS BETTER OFF DEAD.)

IFOM: "Do you miss your mom?"

me: "Every minute of every day. For the last seventeen plus years." (why no, I don't miss her at all! Why, I danced on her grave at the funeral? Don't you remember? I was the big fat PREGNANT one, doing the Texas two step on her CASKET. I TRIPLE HATE YOU, YOU HORRIBLE OLD BOWL OF THREE-DAY-OLD FUCK.)

IFOM: "I have a tape with your mom's voice on it. You're on it too. And your dad."

me: "Really?" (You've told me this before. I don't care. I hope we were talking shit about you on it.)

IFOM: "You know, if you EVER wanna see your mother again, what you have to do, don't you?"

me: *stunned* "I'm sorry? What did you say?" (She didn't just say, what I think she did... did she?)

IFOM: "I SAID, if you ever wanna see your mother again, you know what you have to do."

me: *silence* (um, DIE? Convince God to let YOU take her place? What the fuck is the right answer here? Oh yes, I forgot. You are a FreeWiller. YOU think I should drag my fat, sinful ass back down that church aisle, throw myself on the altar, and plead with the good Lord above to RESAVE me, don't you?)

IFOM: "Blah. Blahblahblah blu-ah...."

me: "uh-huh..." (DID she REALLY just tell me that I'll never see my mother again? Could even SHE be that nasty? Why the fuck am I listening to this? Why am I not hanging up on her? Why can't I just tell her to SHUT HER VILE, EVIL MOUTH?)

IFOM: "bla-BLAH, blah blahblblblblblblblbaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh. hahahahahahahaha!"

me: "Huh..." (I quadruple hate you. I hope someone boils you in a vat of fetid whale intestines. I hope when you die, the worms won't even EAT you! I hope when you die, you find out there is no GOD and you just spend eternity in NOTHINGNESS!!)

IFOM: "Well I guess I'll go now."

me: "Ok, then. Thanks for calling." (Thanks? THANKS? I hate you too, you weak, spineless jellyfish of a woman-wannabee)

IFOM: "You've probably got my number on Caller ID. Call me sometime."

me: "Ok." (not even if my guts were on fire, and you were standing five feet away with a bucket of water.)

IFOM: "Bye."

me: *click*

me: *whispering* "Mom? I WILL see you again some day. I will...."

Friday, March 28, 2008

I is not Happeh, y'all.....

So, ok. I'm disappointed in you people. I asked you, quite sweetly if I do say so myself, to go and visit my STARS, who took time out of their busy schedules to answer questions for me.

And did you do it? Ok, so one or two of you may have.

But the vast majority of you did not.

HMPFFH. I am stamping my foot over here. And making the UGLY, UNHAPPY face.

So, bright idea! I will ask you again! And this time, I will ask you to GO, forthwith, visit their blogs, and congratulate them on their OUTSTANDING abilities at question-answering. 'Cause that will make me HAPPY.

Go with God, and see:

Miss Janet's answers here, and here.

Miss Erin's answers here. (you'll have to scroll down to her post "Question and Answer Time")

Miss Baseball Mom's answers here.

Miss Ammie's answers here.

Princess Jasmine's answers here.

Damon and Miss Sheri? Get thee off thine asses and post your questions already, whydoncha.

Burf, Alekx, Chris H., and This Mom? I finished them up this morning. I'll email them to you RIGHT IN ONE FUCKING LITTLE MINUTE. K? thx, bye.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

Itza Contest-a-pa-looza!!

***NOTE*** Go visit Baseball Mom!! I gave her questions, she gave me answers!!!

So, I'm a big liar. My middle name USED to BE "Always post about something when you promise to". But now it's "If you can't post when you SAID you would, be SURE to post the very next day".

Kids, I need a new name. Because I inadvertently stepped on the toes of the ORIGINAL Miss Ann Thrope, who turned out to be quite nice. Who KNEW? What are the odds?

So, here's what we're gonna do. Today is Thursday, March 27, 2008. We're gonna leave the contest open until Monday, March 31, 2008. At midnight. 'Cause I always wanted to have something that stopped at midnight. So you know, this is a dream-come-true for me.
Here are the rules of the FIRST EVER,

"REname Miss Ann Thrope" Contest-a-pa-looza!!

1. Think of a good name for me. Lord, please try to make it original. I don't wanna go through this shit again.

1a. I want my new name to be hotter than a bucket of Kentucky Fried Fuck...

2. Leave your entry in a comment on this post.

3. You may enter as many times as you wish.

4. I will choose the name I love most on Tuesday, April 1, 2008. Because really, what better day is there to reinvent myself than April Fool's Day?

5. The winner will receive (because Janet THUNK it up) a Blingy-type SOMETHING that links to YOUR BLOG, in the place of HIGHEST HONOR on my blog; ABOVE my blogroll. It'll point anyone who comes my way (all 12 or 13 of them) to your blog.

6. Mitchell, you are not allowed to play. Kate? I mean it. Don't let him. He already called me "mountain mama", for piss sakes. I love him, but he is "Chock full o' Suck".

Ok, the contest is officially open... NOW!!!

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Erin and Janet have my heart today!!

More questions, more answers!!!

Go give Janet some LOVE....

Then, go give ERIN some...

What's in a name? Let me tell you...

Sweet Crispy Jeebus, you people will NOT believe the shit I'm about to tell you. Promise it's all TRUE. Unless I change it up a bit, to make myself look better. But whatevs....

So, yesterday I was all feeling sorry for myself and moaning and pissing around all day. I gets myself home from work (and by the way, the boss came back EARLY and totally fucked up my PERFECT TWO DAYS OF TOTAL LAZINESS) and sit down to write the story of my "Sunday Night Phone Call From Hell, or Some Other Nether World" and I chance upon an email that I had missed, earlier in the day.

Before I go on, I must digress a bit. Did you guys know there was ANOTHER Miss Ann Thrope? I confess I did not, at least not until well after I used the name myself. A lot of you know why I chose not to use my real name, which kicks ass, by the way. I got tired of stalkers and drama and worrying about WHO MIGHT BE HELPING MY HUSBAND GATHER MORE EVIDENCE AGAINST ME. Trust me, it was a very real fear. It's happened before.

So, anyway, I get a message on my blog from the OTHER Miss Ann Thrope, and I go to check out her blog. When I get there, I figure she's in a league far ahead of me, and it's not likely we're gonna bump up against each other any time soon. However, in the interest of fairness, because my middle name is "I don't wanna PISS ANYBODY OFF", I tried to leave a comment on her blog telling her that, should she wish it so, I'd change my name. (Somebody please tell me that I was being generous, because I did not have to do this. She doesn't have a copyright on the name for PISS sakes.)

Well, as my life can never be EASY, thank you very fuckin' much, you had to be a MEMBER of her blog to leave a comment. I looked for an email address. Couldn't find one. I came back to my blog and checked out her comment again, hoping that there was an email address attached to her name. NO SUCH LUCK, OF COURSE. So, I go back and register to become a member of her blog. On the registration form, there's a question: (and I paraphrase, because I don't remember it exactly) Tell me how you heard about me. Or something like that. So, I figured, hey cool, I don't even have to leave a comment, I'll just tell her right HERE! Good idea, right?

I explained that I did not know anyone else used that name before I chose it. And I offered to change it.

Which leads us back to the email I found yesterday evening, which granted me access to her blog. There was no other message from her, and I very nearly didn't go back to her blog, figuring if she didn't say anything, it must be ok with her for me to use the name. But, visit her blog I did, and I have to tell you, I sat in shock at what I read there. I'll let you go see for yourself at the end of this post, because the story doesn't end there...

It wasn't that she'd written anything nasty about me. It's the fact that she wrote anything at all. And I should have been prepared for the comments that I would find on this post. Because when you blog, and people read you, you form relationships with those people and you begin to care about them and they you. So, I was a bit pissed off that she was blogging about it. I opened up the comment box to AGAIN tell her I meant no disrespect and offer to change my name.

And, you guys, I was like, WHATTHEHOLYFUCKISGOINGONHERE? Because the comments were so FOR her and so AGAINST me, and those people did not even know me!!! I was called a stalker, an impostor, someone even fucking called me an IDIOT!!!


I generally do not come up against such dislike from people who don't know me. That kind of thing is usually reserved for those who DO know me, and THEN dislike me!!! And oh, yes, it happens. But trust me, this is not the end of the story...

So, I did what I always do, I buzzed Janet. "DUDE!" I shouted in ALL CAPS. "I'VE BEEN ATTACKED! I'VE BEEN MALIGNED!" And before Janet could answer me, because she DOES have a job and, though it was only about 6:00 here in wild, wonderful West-by-God-Virginia, it was REALLY early for her, about 3:00, I guess, and before she could answer me, I left a comment on Miss Ann Thrope's blog. I don't remember everything I said. You can check it out yourself at the end of this post. I did use Fuck alot. I think I called them all 12 year olds.

In short, I totally overreacted. But, God love Janet's brave heart, she was totally on my side. She offered to hunt down each and every one of them, and slice open their necks whilst they slept. No she didn't. But I bet she would have, if I'd asked her to. Cause of the great and abiding love she has for me.

Anyway, I got answers to my comment, AND HOW. Those people and their voluminous verbage... I had a hard time keeping up. I was politely told to stop acting like a high school drama major, and then there were some apologies, and some funny comments, and then Miss Ann Thrope herself apologized for upsetting me.

So, while Janet is still fuming and plotting the complete annihilation of everyone involved, I'm back over at Miss Ann Thrope's place, schmoozing with the VIP's.

Luckily, Janet knows what a flake I am, and we had a good laugh over it. And we tried to come up with another name for me:

A. T. Tacked
Mae Ligned

Yeah, like that. Hilariously funny to me, but not such good blogging names, I suppose. Then, I had an EPIPHANY. "Janet," says I. "I will have a CONTEST!!! I will call it the NAME ME contest!!!"

Janet thought this was a good idea. And she even came up with a prize. And so the first ever Color Me... Complicated NAME ME (or REname me, which is ultimately more accurate) was born. Which I will post about later today. And you know I will, because my middle name is "Always post about something when you promise to".

Until then, I will remain Miss Ann Thrope, and I hope that the FIRST Miss Ann Thrope will understand, and grant me a few more days of glomming onto her name.

Those people over there are kind of wacky. But fun, for the most part. And a couple of them ADDED me to their blogrolls and/or readers or feeders or WHATTHEFUCKEVER they are called. And so I reciprocated. You'll find some of their blogs over on my blogroll.

If you want to read the POST THAT STARTED IT ALL, be my guest. But, as a personal favor to me, be nice. Because we are LADYLIKE, and GENTLEWOMEN (or men to the ONE or TWO males who comment here) and we never EVER pick fights with other bloggers, m'kay?

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Death of a Friendship... or Two.

I have not had a very good week.

I could write about just how bad it was, from the loss of two, count them T-W-O friendships, to the complete vegetation of my brain and body for THREE days, from the weather being cold and GREY on the first few days of SPRING, to the phone call I received Sunday night from an old friend of my mother's, who I am reasonably sure is either my stalker, or is channeling Jesus in a not so very good or appropriate way.

But alas, I'm much too upset to write about my week. And I have to give that phone call it's very own post, anyway.

So let me say this, just so you know where I am: I do not go hunting for friendship. I do not do this because at the very core of my being, is the certain knowledge that I am not a good friend. I do not say this in jest, nor do I say it as a Fisher Of Compliments. It simply is what it is.

Be that as it may, there are people to whom I am drawn. Sometimes in a good way, and sometimes in a "Miss Ann, what the fuck were you thinking?" way. But each relationship is a learning experience, and a chance for me to grow. And everything that has happened in my life thus far, and every person that I have met, and known, and loved, and hated, has brought me to this place that I am now, and though I would change many things about it were I able, it is, at the very least, the place where I am meant to be. And it is a good place to begin.

To begin to know, and like, and respect who I am.

And so the loss of two friends saddens me deeply. But it won't crush me, and it won't destroy me.

**Portions of this post have been deleted.

Monday, March 24, 2008

She's got answers....

Jasmine, who is a pretty, pretty princess, has posted her Q&A. Go give her loves. Her boobies are sore...

Perception... It's the new reality...

So the other night, Janet and I are talking, while I'm totally kicking her ass at Scrabble on Facebook. (And I ain't scared of NONE of ya', I'll take you on anytime, just so you know. ) We're talking about something that's been bothering me for a few days. And I'm angry, and feeling just a bit abandoned.

I said this: "I think he's angry that I got angry. And he said that *I* took it wrong. Which totally threw the blame back at me."

And Janet said, "You have every right to be angry, if that's how you feel. It's what you do with that anger that's important."

And then she said this: "Perception is reality."

Well, this totally blew my mind. BECAUSE I SAY THAT ALL THE TIME, THAT'S WHY!! And I don't just SAY those words. I BELIEVE them.

Perception is reality.

And here's why:

Reality is fleeting, unsubstantial, and ever-changing. It wasn't so long ago that the REALITY was that big hunks of metal could not fly through the sky.

It wasn't so long ago, that, in REALITY, you couldn't flip a switch on your wall and light up a room.

You couldn't use the bathroom inside your house, unless you were prepared to dump it out the next morning.

Eating eggs was good for you. Then it wasn't. Then it was again. Is it now? Who the fuck knows?

My point is, REALITY changes. Something that is real and true today, can change overnight, and become false by morning.

Of course, great thinkers, inventors, and scientists had a lot to do with the changing of reality in the things I mentioned above.

But I can bring it down to a personal level.

I look into the mirror each morning. I see a woman who is unhappy. Who struggles daily with the trials of a failed marriage, the loss of loved ones, and the "empty nest syndrome". This perception of myself has become my reality. Perhaps you see something different when you look at me. That perception is YOUR reality. You cannot force me to accept your reality. Because I can't SEE it.

There are things we can accept as truth. There are things that we learn, and then have to UNLEARN, as reality changes, as truth becomes untrue.

But there are things that we PERCEIVE to be true, and these things are no less true to us, than if they'd been presented by the world's greatest scientists. And overcoming negative perception, or seeing things from a DIFFERENT perspective, is damned hard. Especially when those perceptions are reinforced in a negative way for years upon years, by a person or persons who SEEM to have our best interests at heart.

If I believe that I am unloved because I do not deserve to be loved, it does not matter whether or not I am right. Perhaps in the GRAND SCHEME of things, in the BIG PICTURE, there are some who believe me worthy of their love. But here, in my little world, in my country and in my state and in my little town of SUCK: Population 1., I can't see the big picture. I see what I see when I look in the mirror. I see what I PERCEIVE is in your eyes when you see me. I hear what I PERCEIVE is in your voice when you speak to me.

And the thing that I keep trying to make you understand, you stubborn person? What I perceive is REAL to me. It is MY reality. It may not be real to YOU, but then, you have not offered to live my life. Therefore, your reality doesn't really make a hell of a lot of difference to ME. And so thank you very much, if you will please not tell me that MY reality is wrong. It is mine. It's what I have.

For many years, I fully believed I was not a good driver. I was TOLD I was not a good driver. I believed it so fully that I never ventured farther than the state fair, about 40 miles from my home. And then only once a year, and THEN only after psyching myself up for the trip DAYS in advance. But I got tired of that truth, and I changed it. I packed my shit and my kids in the car and I drove for nine hours, through 5 states, to Brother 1's house. From then on, my reality is that while I may not be the BEST driver, I can usually find a way to get to where I want to go. But it took nearly 20 years for that reality to change for me.

I never believed I was a good mother. I was TOLD I was not a good mother. But my children are 17 and 21, and they are both intelligent, funny, loving and decent girls. They talk to me, they share their lives with me. They trust me. My perception of my abilities as a mom have changed. And it was hard as hell to change them.

You can talk to me until you are blue in the face. Until the cows come home. Until you want to bang your head into the nearest brick wall. But you cannot change my reality. And you totally blow it all to hell when you say something that hurts me, and when I tell you that it hurts me, you tell me *I* took it wrong. And then you shut me out.

Because it doesn't matter if I took it right or wrong. It hurt.

perception is reality...

Saturday, March 22, 2008

My heart belongs to Miz Ammie... today.

I asked Sleeping Mommy three questions. She's such a doll, she never complained once. Go check out my awesome questions, and Ammie's even MORE awesome answers...

More coming soon...

color me... working on your questions

I've emailed questions to a few of you. I'm working on more of them today.

Thing 1 is home for spring break, and grouchy as ALL hell. I'm probably gonna gut her like a fish.

In the meantime, talk amongst yourselves..... I'll be back soon.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

It's obvious to me that you suck...

Thanks for the LAME-O suggestions for a hobby you dorkwads spoonfed me yesterday... I'll be sure to give each the consideration I feel it is due...

I'm kidding! Don't get your panties all twisted up yer butt-cracks.

Today, I have a plan. And it is a good one. Because that's what I do. I come up with very good plans. And then, of course, someone comes along and sucks the joy and GOOD PLANS completely out of my life. But that's a whole other story.

Today, I want my new hobby to be Interviewer To The Stars!! You boneheads get to play the stars, because here in West-by-God-Virginia, the closest I've ever come to a star was seeing the TV weatherman getting a haircut, once. And weatherman dude? You let her take too much off the top, pal. And you probably tipped her way too much. I'm just sayin'...

Leave a comment if you'd like a few well-thought out, titillating, probably-porn-filled questions from me. I promise to make up questions to suit each of you. And they will be GOOD! Probably! Or, if not, I will at least try to keep the suck level at a bare minimum. Then you answer them and come back here and let me know. I'll post a link to you. Y'all know I'm so freakin' popular you want a link from me!!

Of course, you can choose NOT to play. And go eat a big, steaming hot bowl of FUCK. See if I care...

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Your One-Stop Hobbie Shop...

As I am a self-diagnosed sufferer of attention deficit disorder, I tend to get bored easily. Therefore, it's hard for me to find a hobby and stick with it. Over the years, I've collected things, cooked things, colored things, written things, sewed things, crafted things, and, quite frequently, broken things.

I need a new hobby.

Here's some of the things I've tried, and discarded:

I've collected these little ceramic heart dishes. Collecting things is fun, if you've a lot of patience. I, of course, do not. I did have fun collecting these things and the prize of my collection was a big, beautiful heart shaped covered dish, found underneath my favorite great-aunt's house, buried in dirt and goo, and picked up and cleaned up for me by my cousin Bea, just after my great aunt died. I treasured it. I collected the hearts for several years, picking them up at yard sales, and getting them as gifts from family and friends. When I had over 200 of them, I decided that cleaning them sucked big whale ba-dingies. And so I put them away.

For several years, I sewed all my kids' Halloween costumes. Thing 1 was, over the years, a Hershey's kiss, a crayon, a bumblebee, a mouse, a pig, a jester, a frog. Thing 2 was, among other things, a crayon, a pumpkin, a skunk, a scarecrow, a cow, Raggedy Ann, and a sumo wrestler. I made some stuffed dolls, some pillows, and some pajama pants. Sewing only once or twice a year helped me make sewing one of my longest running hobbies. I chucked it when my kids quit dressing up for Halloween.

Crochet is my second longest hobby. My grandmother taught me to crochet, when I was about 8 or 9, I think. It was really difficult for me to learn, as I was left handed, and my grandmother was right handed. The difficulty level is still high at times, as patterns are written for right handed people. Most of the time, it's not a problem. But sometimes, as in the case of a giant afghan I made for my mother, it's a nightmare. I basically had to do each new stitch I learned backwards, and that damned afghan took me FOREVER to make. But it was and still is beautiful. As far as crochet goes, it is my crowning achievement. I've never made anything as pretty. Crochet is something I can only do in the winter, and then only in fits and starts. Because of the boredom factor. And also because I smoke. It's hard to use one hand to smoke and two hands for crochet. In case you can't count that's three hands, and that's one more than I currently possess.

Reading... now that's been my lifelong crack addiction. Brother 2 taught me to read when I was four. I haven't stopped yet. My mother never put any restrictions on anything I read and, as a kid, one of my biggest thrills was going to yardsales and finding books I had not yet read. As a kid, who am I kidding? It's STILL one of my biggest thrills. I love new books. I love old books. I love the shape of them, the compactness, the fact that there's a whole other world waiting for me between those two covers. I'm a lot more picky about what I read now. I can afford to be. There are so many good books out there. And more are being written every day. Dude, I hope I don't die before I get all the books I want to read READ.

I went through a cooking phase, when my mother was sick. That was more or less motivated by need, rather than desire. My mom would only eat foods that were cooked in that down home, country cookin' way. I learned, in the space of a few months, how to make cornbread, pinto beans, green beans and new potatoes, "killed" lettuce, meatloaf, potato soup, chicken and dumplings, cole slaw, potato salad, and baked beans. I used to brag that if it didn't come in a bag, a box or a can, I wouldn't make it. My mother would not eat anything from a bag, a box, or a can. I can make a mean cobbler too, any fruit that suits your fancy. I've made 'em all, I think.

I've written poetry, short stories, and porn. Yes! Porn! Ok, I guess technically, you would call it erotica, but dude, a rose, by any other name, is still porn. Most of my poetry sucks wildebeast balls. Oh, OH!! If I can find the one I wrote called "Memories" I literally have to post in on here for your enjoyment. I'm ashamed to tell you how old I was when I wrote it, but let me just say I was older than 12, and younger than 16. 'nuff said. Once, in 4th grade, I wrote a ghost story that won me a stuffed rabbit. I have no idea why the prize was a rabbit, but it was beautiful and I won it. I gotta find that story too, because, Dudes, at 9? I was da' bomb. As far as writing ghost stories, that is.

My crafting left much to be desired, but I was doggedly determined. I've made a bazillion of those goofy sweatshirts that you make by ironing on a picture, then painting around that picture with puffy paint. I've made them for valentines day, thanksgiving, halloween, and christmas. I've made an INFINITE number of tree ornaments. I've made those little beaded key chains that look like animals, and bracelets braided out of string.

I've made thousands of cookies, candies, fried apple pies, muffins, and cakes. That's why I'm so fat, doncha know. Because candy making? Is a delicious, albeit expensive, hobby.

I've been through various spells of coloring, jigsaw puzzles, solitaire, crossword puzzles, checkers, backgammon, rook, and uno. I've never learned how to play poker or chess. I can kick ass at scrabble, as I've mentioned before. I love sudoku, and have probably 7 or 8 books lying around, in the living room, kitchen, bathroom, at work and in my car. I've even got a few stuck in my purse, from my sudoku calendar, in case I get stuck in line at Wal-Mart, with nothing to do.

And so here I find myself, nearly forty-four years old. Bored out of my fucking empty skull. I don't know what to try next. Forget photography, I have no eye for it, and don't give a shit HOW cameras work, I only care that they do, when I point and click. Forget ceramics, it bores me shitless. Forget gardening, because there ARE BUGS OUT THERE. AND DIRT!! And dirt is DIRTY. Forget sports, because I have a strict policy: I will only run if someone is chasing me. And then only if they have a knife. Forget belly dancing, my belly already dances, thank you very much, with each step I take. Forget piano or guitar, my hands will not do different things at the same time.

What's left? Well, I've narrowed it down to three choices. And I can't make up my mind. So, I'm asking you, dearest internets, to vote on "Miss Ann Thrope's New Hobby". Here are your choices:

1. Lesbian Crack-Whore

2. Spelunker.

3. Prestidigitator.

Vote early. Vote often. Pick me a hobby. Boredom = UNFUN Miss Ann.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

We are ALL welcome here............

I've introduced myself to you, told you things about me that I'd rather have kept to myself. I've let you in on the SECRET TO A HAPPY FRIDAY, especially if you have that day off. I've given you a glimpse into the life that belongs to Miss Ann Thrope, hater of mankind.

Now I'd like to let you know that I'm happy you are here. I am! Let me tell you how much:

I was told yesterday that I am a people person. That I NEED people. I've thought about that and realized it's so very true. Though I claim to hate the very existence of humanity, the truth is, (and I'll thank you to keep this secret, I've a REPUTATION, donchaknow) I really LIKE people. Now, I have to admit, I'm kind of selfish when it comes to liking people. I like the cool ones. The ones who aren't afraid to say "FUCK" and the ones who can say to their kids, "Leave me alone already, I'm watching Oprah! And keep your hands outta my cheesepuffs..."

I like people who are really, really smart. And people who can make me laugh. I like the ones who don't give a shit what their hair looks like on Sunday. The ones who say to the world, "Leave me alone, you fat bastards, let me live my life!"

I like people who will call bullshit, when they SEE bullshit. Even if I'm the one spouting the bullshit. I like people who will let me cry on their shoulder and then tell me, "Ok, enough. Suck it up. Move on."

Yeah, I'm sort of selfish. Because the people that I love the most? Are the ones who love me. I used to think there weren't many of them out there. I felt alone and sad and undesirable. But then, then I started a blog, and though I can't name that blog, those of you who have been with me since time began know which one I'm talking about. Because you came to me there, you read my words. You read my joys, my heartbreaks, my anger. And you gave me support and friendship and understanding. And when I was forced to shut that blog down, you waited patiently till I began another. And you came back, and you STILL loved me. And I met more of you with that blog, too. My cup surely runneth over...

And when I shut THAT blog down, you came with me to the new one. And I picked up some very special ones with that blog. That blog, my last one, was my joy. I had friends! People liked me! I was POPULAR!!

And now, here we are yet again. Most of you followed me here. And I've even seen a few new faces. Ok, not actual faces, but you get the gist. I'm here, and hopefully this is where I'll stay. And believe me, friends, we are ALL welcome here.

You're welcome here if you are smart, or if you're dumber than a five pound bag of STOO-PID.
You're welcome here if you are beautiful, or if you are uglier than the south end of a north bound donkey.
You're welcome here if you are conservative, or if you are a bleedin' heart liberal.
You're welcome here if you are a republican, or if you are a damn dirty democrat.
You're welcome here if you are white, black, red, green or purple. In fact, You are MOST welcome here if you are purple. I like purple.
You're welcome here if you have kids, or if you've never been around kid in your life.
You're welcome here if you have a job, or if you are a drain on our nation's economy.
You're welcome here if you are American, or if you're one o' them foreigners from other nations.
You're welcome here if you believe in God, or if you're one o' them God-hatin' atheists. (and yes, I know, atheists don't hate God, because they don't BELIEVE he exists. Leave me alone, it's my joke with Miss Katie. Hi Kate!! You look very beautiful today!)
You're welcome here if you beat your kids, or if you're one o' them NEW AGE parents, who don't believe in beatings, and whose kids are meaner than FUCK.
You're welcome here if you eat meat, or if you're one o' them Godforsaken, tree huggin' vegetarians.

Well, I believe you get my drift. We ARE ALL welcome here. Cause this is my blog. And you are my friends. And we must all be considerate of each other while we are here. Cause this is MY time with you. And God help the scum sucking mo-fo who comes here and is rude to one of my friends. You will be hunted down and shot. And then run over with my car. And then set on fire. And then probably I'll find one o' them necrophiliacs to do dirty things to your damn dead carcass.

So, I'll sum it up. We are all welcome here. Except you pinheads and mean people...

Leave a comment today and introduce yourselves. And go visit one of my friends, over there on my sidebar. And tell 'em their friend Miss Ann sent you...

Monday, March 17, 2008

Whoda Thunk I had a Conscience?

Have you ever done the right thing, only to sit, moments later, in abject horror over what you've done? Because you gave up something PRECIOUS to you, all in the name of doing the right thing?

Well, I didn't.
Thank you very much. I gave up something PRECIOUS because it was driving me bug fucking nuts. We'll see how it goes....

I'd like to tell you a NOT-SO-VERY complimentary story about myself. I told Thing 1 and Thing 2, and they have joined the ranks of the "Miss Ann Thrope is a dirty sum-BITCH" society. Y'all can contact them, if you wanna join up, they're happily accepting applications for new members.


I'm in the sixth grade at the tiniest little elementary school known to modern mankind. The whole school, I think, had maybe 50 kids, first through sixth grade. I'm the queen of the school, everybody wants to be my friend. I'm so popular, we keep a LIST of which little girl I'll play with each day of the current week. It is a popularity I have never known before, and one that I will never know again. Soon enough, I will disappear into obscurity, in that great social pond known as JUNIOR HIGH.

So, a bunch of us are in the girls bathroom, right after lunch, and just before recess. We are excited, it's a pretty day. We might actually get the boys to join in a rousing game of Red Rover. Of course I would be in the middle of the two cutest sweaty little sixth grade boys, each holding one of my hands, while the other side sent runner after runner over, trying to break that hold, to bring the QUEEN back to their side in triumph. My little chubby heart is pounding in pre-hormonal glee at the mere thought of it.

As we prepare to exit the bathroom, we run into a small group of girls, encircling a younger, terrified little girl. She was one of THOSE kids, socially backward as all hell, from one of the poor-as-dirt families that dotted the hills of that little southern place where I grew up. She was one of I don't know how many, but at least three of them had passed through the halls of our school already. Her name was Lisa, and she was probably in the second or third grade. Her sister Connie was in the same grade as me, but she was an UNDESIRABLE too, and I had never paid her much mind. The entire family was borderline retarded and had endured the scorn and "I'm better than YOU-ness" of the entire community.

Lisa had a habit. One we saw as weird. In sixth grade, in 1977, weird=bad. She kept the first two fingers of her left hand stuck in her mouth. She didn't talk, or smile, or meet anyone's eyes. She kept those fingers in her mouth throughout the school day, taking them out only to eat her lunch, or to get a drink of water.

This day, in the girls' bathroom, she stood in that little circle of scornful girls, eyes downcast, her little cheeks bright red, fingers held almost defiantly in her mouth. The girls were laughing, taunting her. I stopped at this group, said, "What's going on?" One of the other girls said, "Watch this!"

As I watched in horrified fascination, she pulled Lisa's fingers from her mouth, and slapped her face. I realized Lisa's cheeks weren't red from shame. They were red from receiving who knows how many of those stinging little slaps...

Immediately, she put her fingers back into her mouth.

"Try it," the girl said.

Wouldn't it be nice if, right at that moment, I got in that nasty bitch's face and gave HER the slap she'd just given Lisa? If I'd given her ALL the slaps that Lisa had endured? If I'd said to her, in no uncertain terms, "You touch this little girl again and I'll you up and horsewhip you until you bleed from your pores.."?

Yeah, that would have been nice.

But what I did was pull Lisa's little hand from her mouth, and smack that smooth, red little cheek. I remember that her eyes were full of unshed tears, tears she staunchly refused to cry. She DID raise those eyes to meet mine and stuck those fingers slowly back into her mouth. A better "FUCK YOU" has never been said.

Filled with complete horror at what I'd done, I did the only thing I thought I could do, both to save face among my peers, and to, hopefully, stop what was being done to her.

"Wow, THAT was fun," I said with heavy sarcasm. "C'mon girls, we've got better things to do."

I do not know if the other girls continued abusing her. I never saw it happen again.

When I told my girls this story, I cried. After all these years, I am still horrified by what I did that day. And I'm horrified by what I didn't do, which was to stand up for someone who couldn't stand up for herself. I tell my kids to treat people fairly. I tell them to be KIND to people, and kindness will be returned to them. I tell them to have fun, but not at the expense of others, and to offer a hand in friendship to someone without any friends. I tell them this because I know what kind of karma comes back to bite the ass of a snotty little bitch who was afraid to do the right thing...

So at this time, I'd like to take this opportunity to fling a wish out into the heavens. Lisa, if you're out there, know that I've paid, a thousand times over, for what I did to you. And that even now, I regret it from the bottom of my heart.

To the rest of you: confession is good for the soul, I think. Leave a comment, tell me something you've done that has caused you heartache and regret. My blog allows anonymous commenting. You don't have to leave your name. Surely I am not the only person in Blogland who has ever been cruel to another human being? Maybe I'm offering you a chance to get it off your chest. More likely, I need to know I'm not alone in my guilt...

Sunday, March 16, 2008

Happy 24 Years of Marital Incarceration TO ME!!!

yeah, it's like THAT, yo'....

Saturday, March 15, 2008

That's wasting time? Surely, you jest....

My husband suggested to me the other day that I waste a lot of time. In a fit of absolute brilliance, and to prove to him what a ridiculous notion that was, I decided to document everything I do in one random day. I chose yesterday. I present, for your certain approval,

"Miss Ann's Day of complete NON-WASTE"

  • 5:10 a.m. wake up to annoying voice of husband: "hey, you! get your ass out of bed." Say a silent "Fuck you, Gomer" in head.
  • 5:12 a.m. smoke cigarette while I pee and rest head on sink in front of me. Should get points for multitasking.
  • 5:15 a.m. toss cig in toilet and flush, hoping for the millionth time to scald husband in shower. Lament to the gods that it doesn't work.
  • 5:16 a.m. - 5:18 a.m. Make pot of coffee. Twiddle thumbs and sing, "hurry up, fucking coffee pot!" Remind self it is a genius for investing in a Bunn. Fix cup of coffee in favorite "Today I am Bitter" cup, take first satisfying drink.
  • 5:18 a.m. - 5:23 a.m. Pack husband's lunch. Complete waste of time, as he is 49 fucking years old and could do this himself.
  • 5:24 a.m. - 5:25 a.m. Go outside to retrieve barking dogs. Let barking dogs know that I'm going to beat the mortal fuck out of them one of these days. Feel bad. Give them all a kiss.
  • 5:26 a.m. Take coffee and cigarettes to computer. Forget to give barking dogs treat. Tell them, "Jesus Christ, it's no longer such a terrific thing that you poo-ed outside!! You don't have to have a treat for this anymore!" Feel bad. Give double treats. And a kiss.
  • 5:27 a.m. - 5:36 a.m. Check weather, local newspaper, and email. Thank God for not sending snow. Curse criminals. Lament that no one on the internet likes me anymore.
  • 5:37 a.m. Point out bagged lunch, as I have every single morning for the last 23 years and 364 days, for husband. Same place as every other day. Lament that husband seems to be an idiot.
  • 5:38 - 5:40 a.m. Promise husband that I will do housework today till I drop from exhaustion. Will spend no time on internet. Will be good wife, blah, blah, blah.
  • 5:41 a.m. Light cigarette, begin writing on my blog.
  • 5:42 a.m. - 8:00 a.m. Write on blog, read blogs, comment on blogs. Experience bloggy nirvana.
  • 8:01 a.m. Realize feet are cold, so move to couch to nap with puppies. (It should be noted here that my puppies are NOT puppies. They are 3 years old. They're like, arrogant little teenagers. Whatevs. They will always be puppies to me.)
  • 8:02 a.m. - 9:14 a.m. Nap. mmmmm, warm fuzzies.
  • 9:15 a.m. Begin day of texting. Text like a motherfucker.
  • 9:16 a.m. - 9:40 a.m. Talk Thing 1 through a calamity at the post office, talk to office manager and laugh at BIG SCREW UP she made. Talk to Thing 1 again, promise to order checks and send money.
  • 9:41 a.m. Promptly forget to order checks or send money.
  • 9:42 a.m. - 11:10 a.m. Email with friend, play Scrabble on Facebook, text with other friends, check blog to see if any comments. Lament to the gods that everyone on the internet hates me.
  • 11:11 a.m. - 11:20 a.m. Take shower. Accidentally wash hair twice. Complete waste of 2 minutes. Decide not to shave legs, to save time.
  • 11:21 a.m. - 11:30 a.m. Dry off. Get dressed. Brush hair.
  • 11:31 a.m. - 11:40 a.m. Apply whitening strips to teeth. Read 2 chapters of Vampire, Interrupted while waiting for teeth to magically whiten. Discover Marguerite and Julius are life-mates. Think for a while about sex with vampire. Decide probably not good idea.
  • 11:41 a.m. Remove whitening strips, brush teeth. Lament to the gods that it's taking too frickin' long to whiten teeth.
  • 11:42 a.m. - 12:42 p.m. Text more. Do sudoku puzzles. Play scrabble. Check blog. No comments. Try to think of a way to blow up internet. Decide am no mad scientist. Send emails.
  • 12:43 p.m. - 1:00 p.m. Fix self lunch. Eat. Smoke cigarette.
  • 1:01 p.m. - 1:20 p.m. Decide to do housework. Carry 2 baskets of clothes to bedroom. Fold one basket. Feel tired. Smoke cigarette and debate with self.
  • 1:21 p.m. Lose debate with self and go back to bed with puppies.
  • 1:22 p.m. - 4:00 p.m. Sleep. mmm, more warm fuzzies. Wake up for 7 seconds and mumble to Thing 2 when she comes in at 3:00.
  • 4:01 p.m. Wake up and realize am in BIG TROUBLE. Think of excuse for not doing housework. Check email. Laugh. Check blog for comments. Despair of ever making friends on internet. Begin texting. Should get major points for multi-tasking.
  • 4:02 p.m. - 4:05 p.m. Discover cops have pulled someone over in my driveway. Debate telling them to move, as it is time for husband to arrive home. Decide to watch instead.
  • 4:06 p.m. Discover that I know cop. She is a friend. Debate on yelling "Hey, Freako!" to her. Decide not prudent at this time. Notice that cop's ass is getting much larger. Decide promotion is reason. Now she sits at a desk, mostly.
  • 4:07 p.m. - 5:00 p.m. Sit and be bored. Text. Husband finally comes in from garage and I try out my new excuse. "I had cramps." Husband rolls eyes. Asks what is for dinner.
  • 5:01 p.m. Beg for money for Arby's. Cite need for ham and swiss melt. Show coupons.
  • 5:02 p.m. - 5:15 p.m. Go to Arby's. Lament that window dude is way hot. And I am wearing pj's and no bra. Say few curse words. Feel better.
  • 5:16 p.m. - 6:00 p.m. Eat dinner of 1 Arby's ham and swiss melt, 1 Arby's beef and cheddar melt. Play scrabble on Facebook. Smoke cigarettes.
  • 6:01 p.m. - 7:00 p.m. Play Don't Break The Ice with Thing 2. Decide isn't near as fun as we remember. Play Jenga. Hilarity ensues. I lose. Argue with Thing 2 over how to put up game. Lose argument. Do it Thing 2's way. Blocks all fucked up. Cram lid on anyway.
  • 7:00 p.m. - midnight. Text in earnest. Learn much. Laugh often. Tell secrets. Smoke cigarettes, drink two diet cokes. Pee alot. Good times.
  • 12:01 a.m. - 12:10 a.m. Feed dogs. Talk baby talk to them. Many kisses. Pee last time.
  • 12:11 a.m. Lights out. Cover up, snuggle puppies. Sleep well. Good dreams....

So, as far as I can tell, I wasted only 7 minutes the live-long day. So how can he even think to tell me I am wasting my time? Ha! Men know absolutely nothing.

Friday, March 14, 2008

The great and terrible "F" word...

First, I'd like to post a new apology, because my middle name is "I am fucking sorry, ok?":

To the people on certain streets of my hometown: I'm sorry I drove through this morning at 6:11 a.m. with my windows rolled down, singing Hanson's "Penny and Me" at the top of my lungs, yo'. But I hadda go to my office and retrieve my phone charger...


I remember once, when I was a little girl, my cousins Angie and Paula came to visit. Angie was a year older than me, and Paula a year younger, so the three of us got along fairly well. I was terrified of their mother, and of course, they were too, doncha know, because she was a frightful bitch back in those days. She's since changed in the most fabulous ways, but that's a story for another day...

We had these three or four pine trees on our property, with really low branches. They were easy to climb, and though I wasn't technically supposed to climb them, Angie and Paula and I were like little monkeys that day, climbing and swinging and laughing and daring each other to climb faster, go higher. I remember that it was great fun, made more so by the danger of trying not to get caught doing it.

After a while, we each found branches to sit on and settled in for a story. Angie told us she was going to tell us a secret and we must swear not to tell. Now, mind you, I don't know about you, but I took this shit seriously. Remember, I was a very good girl back then. I solemnly swore never to tell what she was about to reveal to us. I'm sure I was a little scared. Climbing trees AND swearing to secrecy? It was all a bit much for my little country-girl mind... I remember Paula's eyes were big and she looked a little scared too, but she went along.

And then Angie said that most awful of all curse words. That word that was guaranteed to bring a beating down upon any kid unlucky enough to utter it. The great and terrible "F" word. I threw both hands up over my mouth and nearly fell from the branches. What in the world had I gotten myself into? Oh, I knew this word was bad. I don't remember how I knew it, but I knew without doubt that I was going to bust hell wide open and Angie and Paula would be right there with me.

"Ah-ah-AH!" I whispered, in that sing-songy little way kids have of telling you what you just did was the worst of the worst, and you were gonna get an ass busting for it as soon as they found someone to tell who was big enough to give it to you.

"Do you know what it means?" Angie asked me, smugly. Being one year older gave her certain advantages, like knowing all the latest cool things, and she lorded that over us like a tyrant.

I shook my head yes, then no. "It's baaaad," I whispered again. I looked at Paula, and she looked terrified. "Angie, you're gonna be in trouble," Paula said.

"I'm not gonna get in any trouble if you two morons don't tell anybody what I said!" she told us derisively. "Who's gonna know I said it?"

And then she proceeded to tell us EXACTLY what it meant. She hadn't said more than three or four sentences before Paula burst into tears. "Mommy and Daddy do NOT do that! You're lying, and I'm telling!!" Paula climbed down out of the tree and raced off, only not in the direction of the house. She knew better than to go tell on Angie. Their very survival seemed to hinge on their sticking together in those days.

Angie didn't bat an eyelash. She looked at me and proceeded to finish telling me all of it. And I sat, completely unable to move, and listened to it. It was the most horrific of all horror stories. I couldn't listen, and I couldn't not listen. I sat like a stone, through it all. I hated Angie that day. And I hated my mommy and daddy, if they did what Angie said they most certainly HAD done, at least THREE times. And probably more.

Angie grew bored waiting for a reaction from me. I remember her laughing "See ya' later, little BABY," tossed back over her shoulder as she ran off to find Paula.

I sat quietly and cried, hot tears stinging my eyes and staining my cheeks. I knew that I had learned something that day that little girls were not supposed to know about. And knowing it was a great and terrible burden. I knew that I had lost something that I wouldn't ever get back, though I'm sure I wasn't savvy enough to realize that it was a precious drop of my innocence.

I never told anyone what Angie told us. I never asked anyone if what she said was true. I learned much later, through reading, that most of what she said was accurate enough, though exaggerated by her childish mind, and her need to enrich her story enough to terrify two younger girls. And I was sad for Angie, most of all...

Thursday, March 13, 2008

What? You don't think that's sexy?

Here are some conversations I've had recently that PROVE I'm old:

Me: I'm not going in the store.
Thing 1: C'mon! Please, mom?
Me: No! I brought you down here so YOU could go. I don't even have a bra on.
Thing 1: That's OK! Do that thing you do, where you pretend like you're cold? And cross your arms under them and hold them up!

Thing 2: Did you just fix a wedgie, right here in the middle of Wal-Mart?
Me: How did you know?
Thing 2: Cause you did that little curtsy thing you do.
Me: I do a curtsy thing?
Thing 2: Yeah, and you did it right in front of that lady back there at the front. That's why she was grinning.
Me: There was a LADY back there?

Thing 2: What time is it?
Me: I dunno.
Thing 2: Mom, look at the clock, for God's sake! It's right there!
Me: Why don't YOU look at the clock?
Thing 2: Cause that basket is in my way! Just tell me what time it is!
Me: (squinting) It's 13:23
Thing 2: Ah, shit, that's not funny! (raises up) It's 12:58 mom. Can you not SEE that? How can you not SEE that?
Me: I dunno.

Boss: Why are you holding your arm like that?
Me: Cause my shoulder hurts like a motherfucker.
Boss: What did you do, lift something?
Me: No, it just started hurting.
Boss: (who is 78) Well, you ARE getting old. Things start to hurt.
Me: Are you wanting me to kill you?

Brother 2: Hey sister! How are you feeling?
Me: Whaddya mean, how am I feeling? I'm feeling fine. What do you want?
Brother 2: A lot of women get grouchy when they get old, I'm glad to see it's not happening to you.
Me: Damn skippy.

Thing 1: Oh God, you're doing that thing again. I know it's unreasonable, but I get so mad when you first get up and you're all, LIMPING and shit? Like, that really pisses me off...
Me: Dude, you get MAD because I'm stiff and it's hard for me to get going in the morning?
Thing 1: Oh yeah, I can't stand it. I can't even look at you, it makes me so mad. Damn, I hate old people.
Me: Well, YOU'RE a fucking charmer, aren't you?

Thing 2: Who was that on the phone?
Me: Someone calling about my high school reunion.
Thing 2: Oh cool! How many years has it been?
Me: Twenty-five.
Thing 2: Wow! Are you gonna go?
Me: Good God, no. I hated all those fuckers in HIGH SCHOOL. Why would I want to see them now?
Thing 2: Well mom, that WAS a REALLY long time ago. You might like some of them now.
Thing 2: (walking away) A lot of them are probably dead by now anyway.

Thing 1: Oh my God, did you see that? She almost hit that truck! I saw my life pass before my eyes!
Thing 2: Yeah, she can't drive for shit anymore.
Me: Hello? I'm right here! And I'm a good driver. Besides, I see both your asses jump in the car with me to go to the mall.
Thing 1: Old people shouldn't be allowed to drive.
Thing 2: True that...

Husband: I think, when you turn 44, I'm going to trade you in on two 22 year olds. THEN I'll get to have some sex, maybe.
Me: They can have MY room, if they'll cook.
Husband: Oh, they'll cook, all right. In the bedroom.
Me: Yeah, but what will they do the OTHER 23 hours and 50 minutes of the day?

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Sphincter apologizes, but is he just blowing smoke?

I'm sure most of you know that I hate the news. I hate it anywhere I see it, newspaper, TV, magazines, the internet... but sometimes you just can't avoid seeing it.

The other day, as I was preparing my chubby little boss' lunch (I do this because he has MS and it would take him 7 hours to do it himself), I happened to glance down at the newspaper as I put it beside his plate.

Seems like some governor was apologizing for his involvement in a prostitution scandal. His name, as you all surely know, is not Sphincter but Spitzer, but for the purposes of this post, believe me, Sphincter works well enough.

My first thought, on seeing the headline, "Sphincter Apologizes for Involvement in Prostitution Ring" was, "Oh give me a fucking break. Sure, he's sorry. AFTER he got caught!"

Don't you just get so fucking tired of celebrity apologies? From Hugh Grant's mumbled apology on The Tonight Show, to Mel Gibson's ridiculous request for the Jewish community to help him on his road to recovery, to Michael Richards' "I'm not racist, that's what's so insane about this." From Don Imus' apology to an entire basketball team, John Rocker's apology to the people of New York City, to Bill Clinton's apologies to the entire nation, to Mark Foley's "I can't help it, I'm gay and I was abused" apology, I think this country has seen and heard enough.

You know what I think? I think I'd like to see some REAL apologies. Apologies that don't come from the "Oh Shit, I got caught!" mentality. America wants to hear you apologize for something IT DOESN'T YET KNOW YOU DID. Accept the responsibility and the blame for your own actions.

Because my middle name is "show 'em how it's done," I'm here to get the ball rolling with some apologies of my own:

  1. To an old friend: I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you needed me to be. I'm sorry for standing so tall and noble and upright, glorying in my own innocence, while you paid the high price you paid for what you did. No one is that innocent. Least of all me.
  2. To a new friend: I'm sorry I haven't been around for a while. I'm sorry that I was self-righteous and self-pitying, feeling neglected by you, when you are working like a dog to better yourself and your family.
  3. To a bitter, bald friend: I'm sorry that I demand that you listen when I need to talk, and then I resist your best efforts to help me. I am sorry that I intrude on your life, with nothing to give in return.
  4. To a warm and loving friend: I'm sorry that you repeatedly have to scrape me, hysterical and incoherent, off the floor and put me back together. For things that are my own fault. And then I go right back out and do them again. I'm sorry that I don't tell you more often how much you mean to me.
  5. To a nearly anonymous friend: I'm sorry that I ask more of you than you can give. I'm sorry that I don't do enough for you. I'm sorry that I am so exhausting.
If you're reading this, leave an apology for someone. I can't be the only sorry individual on the internet... (wait, did that come out right? you KNOW what I mean, dang it!) If you find you have nothing to be sorry for? Leave a message of forgiveness. Let someone know you are ready to bury the hatchet. (incidentally, you may not bury the hatchet in anyone's cranium, just in case you didn't already know that)

If you have nothing to be sorry for and nothing to forgive? You are a big hot steaming bowl of SUCK. And you lie. So apologize for that.

Monday, March 10, 2008

Boobs in Toyland...

So, yeah... today I wanna talk about boobs. Not boobs in general, because that would be a little weird, but specifically, my boobs. And the giganticalness of them. And how I hate, loathe, despise and deplore the giganticalness of them.

But let's make one thing perfectly clear: If you're a guy and you're reading this, get the fuck over yourself. You ain't gonna get to see 'em, I'm not writing this for you to compliment 'em, and please don't drool all over yourself trying to find something in this post to tit-illate you. Hee. I made a joke.

One more thing: If you are my brother reading this, this post is NOT about my boobs. It's about my... um... feet. Yeah, my feet are big and gigantical and hurt. So, nothing here to see, thank you very much, get back to work. Love, your sister.

Anybody who has ever been a big woman knows that life is not a big fat bowl of red cherries when you are carrying around extra weight. You're not in shape, so everything you do is harder to do. It's hard to find clothes that look good on you. People treat you differently when you're LARGE. Funny as it may sound, you get overlooked a lot.

If you've ever been a large woman over 40, it's even worse. Your back hurts. Your hips hurt. Looking for clothing that flatters? Forget about it. All you can find in stores is trendy young clothing for overweight teenagers, or muu-muus for fat old grannies. And you don't really give much of a fuck anyway, because even if you COULD find clothes that fit and looked good on you? You're too old and tired to wear 'em anywhere anyway.

If you've ever been a large woman over 40 with gigantical boobies? Shoot yourself in the fucking head, because your life sucks. This is the category I now find myself in and I'm 'bout to tell you WHY it sucks:

Can you find a bra that fits? Not for less than a bazillion dollars.

What's the first thing that happens to every shirt you own? You run into something dirty with your boobs, or you spill food on them.

Do they sit up nice and high on your chest, where gigantical boobs would look best? Are you fucking kidding me? I can put mine in the pockets of my jeans...

When you lay down, they either fall to the side, and get crushed under your arms, or, if you're wearing a bra, they back up and choke your neck. It gets hot and sweaty under there, and first thing you know, you've got a case of the boobie diaper rash, and wearing a bra is then agonizing and hallucinatory. They get in the way of EVERYTHING. And forget about hugging someone. You can't get close enough without feeling like you're molesting them.

My brother, the one who isn't the brother who reads my blog, stands three feet away from me and opens his arms. He puts his hands on my shoulders and says, "love you sister." That's the hug I get from him.

My other brother, the one who SHOULD NOT BE READING THIS POST ABOUT MY FEET, once found my bra and put it on his head. "Look!" he yelled. "It's a hat for two people!" It fit his damn head, too. And that was 15 years ago. They are BIGGER now. Jesus, take the wheel...

I was measured, not long ago, by an overzealous Lane Bryant employee, who wanted to be sure I was buying the right SIZE. She was like a fucking drill instructor. "Lift those arms! Suck in that gut! Tighten those chest muscles!" Dude, tighten my chest muscles? I just took my boobs out of the pockets of my jeans so you could MEASURE them, and you want me to tighten my chest muscles?

"You kiss yo' momma with that mouth?" I growled. It didn't help that she was about 20, with HUGE boobs that sat where they were supposed to sit.

"You need a 42 G." she said sweetly.
"I do NOT wear a 42 G." I just as sweetly replied.
"The tape measure doesn't lie." says she.
"The tape measure is a wormy camel-toed liar!" says I.
"We don't sell that large a size here in the store," she said, totally ignoring me, "so we'll special order it for you. Will that be cash, or would you just like to trade in your car?"

I bit the head off a chicken, to show her how tough I was, and how she'd better not mess with me...


And then I pulled out my Lane Bryant charge card, and said, "Can you at least have it delivered to my house? In plain brown wrapping paper?"

My girls, Thing 1 and Thing 2, thought it was hilarious that their mom wore a 42G. "Do they even make G's?" asked Thing 1. She was in awe.

Thing 2 was embarrassed and in denial. "Dude, you can't ever tell anyone you wear a 42 G, for God's sake. How humiliating."

Aw, Gee. You mean I won't be able to wear that great t-shirt, I had special made for me? The one that says, "Look at these, world!! They're G's!!!" Thing 2 pisses me off, sometimes.

But, I had the last laugh...

On that fateful day, when the box arrived with my brand new NUDE-colored 42G bra, with heavy duty straps and underwires the size of BRIDGE arches, I took it out of the box and gazed at it...

You could fly a plane into that thing. Hell, you could fly TWO planes into it.

Carefully, I tried it on, in the privacy of my bedroom, with the door closed and locked... I hooked the hooks; I adjusted the straps; and I turned to face myself in the mirror....

My boobs were lost in that thing...

"AHA!" I screamed in triumph. "I am NOT a 42G! What NOW! Uh-huh! Whatchoo think 'bout THAT!!" And I took that giant motherfucker off and stuffed it back in the box.

Where it sits, still, because I am too embarrassed to take it back to the store and say, "Ya' got this in a 42F?"

Sunday, March 9, 2008

Here we go again....

If you're here because I sent you an email, hello, hello, I'm so happy you're here! Yes, it's me, although for the time being I choose not to use my name. Don't worry, I'm not doing it to "hide" anything.....

I'm just tired of being stalked.... you'd think I had something seriously important to say. But we know different, don't we?

For my first post, I've decided to go back over some basics. Here's a little "about me" for your review: Read carefully, there may be a test later...

  • I was born in Chicago, Illinois on November 8, 1964. I'm special. Because the delivery was difficult, as the cord was wrapped around my neck. Of course everyone was extremely happy that I was ok, despite what my two brothers would have you believe.
  • We lived in Chicago for two years before moving to West Virginia. I won't say what town we ended up in, or the town I live in now, because that's how my last stalker found me, the sniveling bastard.
  • I was a sweet little girl, but lord, did I grow a mouth and an attitude. Of course, with two brothers making my life a living nightmare with their torture, I developed the mouth out of sheer necessity.
  • I'm five foot three inches tall. I weigh a lot. This sucks balls, but whaddaya gonna do?
  • My hair has some brown, lots of red, and an inappropriate amount of grey. It's short.
  • My eyes are hazel, and one of them is gorgeous. The other one does it's own thang... which is generally to make me look stupid in pictures. I'm thinking of getting an eye patch...
  • I do have a particularly nice smile, courtesy of my orthodontist. Two years, two months and twelve days of torture produced an ear to ear smile that shows nearly all my teeth. Lucky me, I still have most of them... Were I not a smoker, my smile would also be particularly white. I solve this problem by wearing dark lipstick and getting a tan.
  • I have two children, both girls. The oldest is 21, and the light of my life. The youngest is 17, and the OTHER light of my life. I couldn't live without them. I hope I never have to try.
  • I will soon have my 24th wedding anniversary. I probably won't celebrate it...
  • I lost my mother 17 and 1/2 years ago, on Thanksgiving Day. I haven't been the same since.
  • I work for an attorney, and our clients are, for the most part, the scum of the earth. They provide me with lots of stories, most of which I'm afraid to share. Because of the aforementioned stalker...
  • Diet coke is my drink of choice. I like it plain, and with lime. I like it over ice, and warm, straight out of the bottle.
  • I love to read, but I'm fairly picky about my books. I don't like true stories, biographies, westerns, or classics. Mention Dostoevsky to me, and I will pretend to listen, but inside, I will go to my happy place. Some of my favorite authors are Dean Koontz, Laurell K. Hamilton, Kelley Armstrong, Janet Evanovich, John Grisham, Lee Child, Joshilyn Jackson, Elizabeth Berg, and Jeff Lindsay. I also read all the Harry Potter books.
  • I love lots of different kinds of music, but of course, I'm partial to sappy love songs. I don't have a problem with rap, but I think music should tell a story. If that story is, "I smoked a lot of dope and fucked some bitches," I'll pass, thank you very much. Some of my favorite singers/groups are Maroon 5, Martina McBride, Carrie Underwood, Cute is What We Aim For, The Format, Augustana, Rod Stewart, Eminem, Rascal Flatts, Fleetwood Mac, the Beatles, Dr. Hook, and Bob Seger. Right now, "Almost Lover" by A Fine Frenzy is my favorite song.
  • I watch a lot of television and about half of it is reruns. I do loves me some reality TV also. Some of my favorites are American Idol, Rob & Big, Ice Road Truckers, Law and Order, Law and Order SVU, King of Queens, Reba, Bones, Will & Grace, Friends, Seinfeld, Monk, Psych, and The Office. My two official favorite shows are House and Prison Break.
  • I don't go to the movies alot. But I do watch a lot of movies. I tend to like comedies and tearjerkers. Some of my favorites are: Napoleon Dynamite, Joe Dirt, Anchorman, absolutely anything Denzel Washington has ever been in, The Green Mile, Erin Brokovich, What's Eating Gilbert Grape, and Superstar. I HATE movies about war, space, industrial espionage, or any century other than the twentieth or twenty-first. I saw We Are Marshall and cried my eyes out.
  • I hate video games, monopoly, and any game that requires me to move anything other than my hands or my eyes. I kick ass at scrabble, backgammon, and sudoku. Except for Mark Willie's ass. He's beaten me at 8 or 9 scrabble games running. The prick. Hopie and I have recently become addicted to Pass The Pigs.
  • I'm not political and I don't really give a shit who wins the presidential race. I registered as a republican only to piss off my father-in-law, and as the only statement I will ever make against abortion.
  • I don't hate gay people. Neither do I give much of a shit about them. If you are reading this and you are gay, don't feel bad. I don't give much of a shit about anybody. Except my girls and my dogs.
  • I think the American judicial system sucks ass. However, it's all we have, and I try not to break laws.
  • I believe in God, although at the present time I am angry with Him. I don't give a shit whether you do or not.
  • I try not to point fingers. If you do something wrong in your life, I believe you will pay for it, whether or not I point it out. And unless it bothers me or my children or dogs, I seriously don't give a shit. I'll try not to bother YOU, you leave me and my family the fuck alone.
  • I am sad alot. I am afraid alot. I whine and moan and bitch alot. Even so, I find something every day to laugh at, even if it is myself. I think it's important to laugh.
Thanks for stopping by my blog. I'll be adding my blogroll soon, and, should you wish to add me to yours, feel free. Just remember not to use my real name, please.