I am a super hero.... See this spider? This spider was residing in The Associates abode. He came out to play on my trip to the loo. I did what any 'NORMAL' person would do. I faced off with that little spider. I stood still, he stood still. We stood still.

Then I realized that this spider pictured above could be a brown recluse. I also realized that this spider could be the death of me. I then ran. I ran like I had a pack of wolves behind me. I ran like my demise was just on my tail.

I informed the associate that there was a spider... What does he do? Yes folks. He grabbed his camera. He took some pictures from very far away. He then screamed like a girl and danced like he was standing on hot coals, all to remove himself from the spider that was quite certainly standing still. He then got the bug spray and said 'I can't kill that. It's too gross. Will you?'

...So I, actually, my superhero self, killed this spider.  ¶ 7:21 AM 3 comments

  Going postal never sounded so good Yes, for the record, I know that I am being irrational and moody and irritable and all things unkind.

But sometimes even we grown ups have to throw temper tantrums.

Things People Forget about the Temper Tantrum Episodes:

1) We all throw them. Basketball players literally lay down on the court and kick. Big Girls simply huff around.

2) The root of the ill is far more than whatever warrants the temper tantrum, but the warranting agent should also be removed. At least until the root is fixable.

3) Your closest friends just have to deal with it. You do the same for them, so they get to return the favor.

Sometimes, tempertantrums are multiplied exponentially due to external irritants.  ¶ 2:42 PM 1 comments

  On Malt Liquor and Gas Station Men. I do not know if I have mentioned this before or not, but I hate the gas station. I wish we still had full service gas stations at every corner where the village idiot would come, and ever so sweetly check out your car's stats and refuel it. You never even had to leave the vehicle, and all of this cost a few bucks in tip.

I assure you, that if I knew where a full service gas station was, I would NEVER refuel myself.

My dear friend has been pleading with me that I never return to gas stations, as I have terrible luck with them. And it is true, I have terrible luck. Case in point, my newest gas station acquaintance, Red.

There I am, standing about, pumping gasoline into my vehicle. When across the breezeway, a motorist who was equipped with a silver Ford Focus with several Decals on and about it, who was sporting a baseball cap and a white wifebeater, so that every one of his twenty-two tattoos could be seen decided to strike up a conversation.

Strange Motorist:Hello.
Me:(Ignoring the truly tragic fellow)
Strange Motorist:Hello.
Me:Hello.
Strange Motorist:You look beautiful
Me: Thanks.
Strange Motorist:Can I get your number?
Me:I am sorry, but my phone number comes with a one drink minimum. (Turns back to strange motorist)

A few minutes pass, I feel that strange motorist must have gotten the hint, and am very pleased with the prospect that I will never have to see that giant fuck again. When along comes strange motorist, bearing a gas station gift.

Strange Motorist: Here, I brought you this. (Which happened to be a bottle wrapped in a paper bag, with his phone number written on the outside)
Me:What?
Strange Motorist:My name is Red. Like the color. And you are?
Me:Suzanne.
Strange Motorist:Nice to meet you Susanne, So are you going to call me sometime, and let me take you out? We will get something real good to eat.
Me:(Evaluating the potential suitor in full, and noting the two female names that I can visibly read that are located about his body.) Oh. Right. Okay.
Strange Motorist: Well, call me. Do you promise to call?
Me: (no words can possibly flow out of my mouth.)
Strange Motorist:Bye.
Me:Yes. Bye.

As strange motorist pulled away, I dared to unwrap his gift. A bottle of Colt 45 Malt Liquor. I immediately disposed of the 'treasure' and am doing my best to block out the horror of it all.

Which leads me to my guest blog, Men who try to date women they clearly cannot afford.  ¶ 10:27 AM 2 comments

  Irritants of EPIC proportion This is a three part irritation. All stand alone. If irritation be the food of rants.... Rant on, rant on, rant on...

Part One:
Way back in March, I was writing cards to a few special people. I did this at the associates abode. When I was finished, I stamped the cards, and asked the associate to place them in the mailbox. He happily agreed. I left, assuming that the cards would find their way to the mailbox. Being that I am very familiar with the male species, I even asked if they had been mailed. He said yes. Cut to yesterday. I was, again, at the associates house, writing cards to a few special people. As I was stamping them, The ASSociate gets this EUREKA! look about his face, and says 'Oh!,' gets under the bed (Yes, thats right, under the bed) and removes the three month old cards and says 'I forgot to mail these...' Feel free to scold him in the comment box, he is a regular reader.

Part Two:
I went into a department store to browse for the impossible items. FYI- The obnoxious perfume ladies are out in full force. On my way from the entrance, to the escalator, I was attacked SEVEN times. This could not happen again, I had to make a plan of attack for my exit. I thought, I thought, and I thought some more. I stepped on to the downward escalator, and I saw them, like pirhanas, ready to bite. What did I do? I shit you not, I RAN through the department store to the exit. Nay. I sprinted.

Part Three:
I returned something to a department store. I paid with cash, and I had the reciept. Their policy: You must return item at the place in the store that the item was purchased. You must then, if you want your cash, find your way to the customer service counter, and recieve your cash there. I waited approximately fifteen minutes for a CS associate to help me. They then go through a series of questions as to why I wanted to return the item. Once it was deemed that I was STILL returning the item, they reluctantly handed me my cash back. ASS HATS.

I mean, really. Seriously. People kill me.  ¶ 1:49 PM 2 comments

  The male species is rendered completely useless unless they want to be in your pants, have been in your pants, or are currently in your pants. I had a flat tire today.

I remove all of my tools, and decide to do this dreaded deed myself. And though I am certain I could perform this task on a deserted residential street, there were several issues that made the task quite a bit more complicated:
- I left the significant somethings abode this morning, still sporting my pajamas.
- I was on an interstate that has no shoulder.
- I pulled off of the road into the DIRT (Where a large snake skin and a bird carcas was located)
- I have never actually done this for myself.

But damnit, I was determined. So I remove the jack and other tools of doom and begin to try to change the tire. Lo and behold, the lug nuts are not going to move. I drive a Japanese car, so I think to myself, 'self, maybe the Japanese don't employ the righty tighty lefty loosy rule... Why don't you call and get confirmation on the way we should be turning this dohickey.' So I call my brother, who chooses to fire an arsenal of insults, and hangs up without answering my question. Fuck. Next person on the call list: My most mechanically enclined gay friend: Scotty. Scotty is a 8 to 5 er, and he does not answer his phone. Double Fuck. Who to call now? My best straight male friend, D.Wayne. Now, for those of you who know, D.Wayne is brother of DAP. DAP and I have quite the story that D.Wayne does NOT know about... But DAP lives remarkably close to the site in which I was located. But damnit I had no choice. So I call D.Wayne, and he tells me not to move. I protest the event that is about to take place, but to no avail.

I knew what was about to happen, and there was NOTHING I could do about it.

There I am, in all of my diva glory, standing on the side of a highway, in my pajamas, wearing no makeup, wearing flipflops, hair in a very JBF style. I was a picture of beauty. I was a picture of high society.

DAP pulls up and gets out of his vehicle. What does he say? Not Hi. Not good to see you. He says 'So I take it you are still dating Mr. Dallas?' I look. I smile the really fake smile. I say 'good to see you too.'

DAP changes the tire, all the while making very uncomfortable small talk, regarding my attire, regarding my lovelife, regarding several hot button items that were completely inappropriate. As if this activity was not fun enough. I answer his questions, and with every answer I give, the air gets thicker, and thicker, and thicker.... I swear, by the end of it, I was trying to breathe jello.

...The only redeeming thing about this event was that it only lasted fifteen minutes.

Note to self (and anyone reading this): Always put real clothes on before beginning your journeys.  ¶ 11:36 PM 2 comments

  I think men are far dumber than we ever anticipated... Or maybe we are far smarter than any females could ever hope to be. My dear friend Elle, Also known as the other half of my daily Lucy and Ethel Team, is always helping me orchestrate a ridiculous plan.

We always have something on the agenda. We always try our very best to accomplish the agenda without 'blowing our cover.'

It has come to my attention that men are daft.

More daft than i would have ever guessed.

This leaves me with two options.

1) Become overt.

2) Complain profusely to Elle.

I think I shall stick with option two.  ¶ 10:13 PM 0 comments

  Slap a pair of ovaries on my Tiara. If I ever look like this with my betrothed... I ask you-- Nay, I beg you, drag me out into the street and shoot me.

Examine. They are wearing collared shirts. Matching Blazers. Standing outside of some historic home. Or maybe it is their home. Who knows? What I do know is that the thought of living my life in a Southern Living Magazine makes me nauseous.

The definition of 'Live'- To pursue a positive, satisfying existence.

Positive and satisfying is different for everyone. I know. And this is a close, personal friend of mine. Needless to say, she does not have my blog address. At least I don't think she does. I really am happy for her- because this is the path that makes her happy.

Maybe this makes me so nauseated because this is the close, personal friend of mine that (I shit you not) handed me a bible when I told her that my marriage was over with the statement of 'Maybe you can find your marriage AND God in here.'

Or maybe this makes me so nauseous because I have learned that anything that looks placid and serene from the top is bound to have one hell of an undertow.

Or maybe it is because I am so blissfully happy with my life right now, even though there are obvious cracks on the exterior.

I am reading a feminist revolution book currently, and there is a whole rant upon our species feeling that if they can make the exterior look perfect, then the interior is bound to line up. Those of us who have lived life just a touch will know that this is not how it works. Moreover, exteriors do lie. Think Bree Van De Camp on Desperate Housewives.

I suppose what I am getting at is this: I don't care what my life looks like on the outside, so long as I am happy on the inside.  ¶ 3:37 PM 1 comments

  So Apparently I have a pressure gague on my mouth ... At least that is my brothers summation.

The whole analogy as follows

Him: "Jeebers (OK, so I am replacing some words, as this is a PG 13 blog) Jebroni (His newest and favorite nickname for yours truly), you look like shit. Whats wrong with you?"
Me: Nothing.
Him: "Famous last words. Are you going to tell me or am I going to have to pin you?"
Me: Neither is looking good. Pinning is not advisable.
Him: "Well then, I shall just have to guess from your posturing as to whats wrong with you. Hold on, I need my tools. (Returns in less than thirty seconds with two wineglasses, and one full bottle of wine.) Say when you want me to stop pouring..."
Me: You can pour all day long, I am not in the mood to drink.
Him: "Oh, ok. So, what you are saying is that you are having a bad day. Judging from your location, it is a bad day involving a member of the opposite sex. Judging from the fact that you are not drinking, you are saying that your pressure gague on your mouth was activated... And you verbally vomited, only it didn't make you feel better?"
Me: Christ, brother. First of all, what tools do you use for these psychic diagnoses? Second of all, what are you talking about a pressure gague on my mouth?
Him: "A true magician can never reveal his tricks, but I will say that the wine bottle holds far more answers than the crystal ball ever thought about holding. As far as the pressure gague goes: You are easy to read. You may make no sense, but you are completely an open book when people pay attention. You and your verbal vomit is like a shaken beer can. You are never without carbonation, people keep shaking, you get eerily quiet... People keep shaking, even if they don't mean to shake. Even more silence ensues. The calm before the storm. Then something seemingly meaningless, like a simple jostle of the cooler, and the pressure gague on your mouth loses it. You spew beer, or words, violently. Only, and this is often the case, nothing is actually accomplished by this verbal outpour... Because noone ingested the beer, and there is still beer left in the can. You should probably consider a different management technique. This one rarely works for you. When you care to fill me in on the details, let me know... Until then, I will be forced to polish off this bottle of wine"

Yeah, so my method of crises management is clearly as flawwed as FEMA, now what am I going to do about it?  ¶ 5:22 PM 0 comments

  Last night, oh last night....

... I arrived at a bar in which the Mavericks game was playing, fans of that sport amaze me-- Really they do. I understand chanting and cheering while you are at the arena watching the game... But I do NOT understand partaking in this type of activity when you are in a sports bar.

... I met a lovely new character with an interesting name that does not reflect her personality at all. Cruel parents.

... We went to a bar entitled 'Half Yard House' in which they serve beer in half yard glasses, sing karaoke, and cater to very "interesting" patrons. I learned several things from this outing...
1) I plan on dying a karaoke virgin.

2) You should not sing 'Close to You' Whilst wearing moccasins, and sporting a mullett.

3) There will always be a group of obnoxious males who have to sing songs with lyrics as enchanting as " Whos that girl out there? With the little bitty titties and no pussy hair"

4) There will always be a group of ridiculous females who must butcher every musical you have ever loved.

5) If you are REALLY lucky, you can catch a man preaching to a bar patron whilst making your exit from said 'enchanting' location.

That pretty much concludes my critique on my evening. I hope you learned as much from my experience as I did first hand.  ¶ 7:55 AM 2 comments