May 15

This taco is a travesty.

As you may recall from earlier this week, I joined a gym again in a fit of madness. In my pursuit to be healthy and trim, I paired that gym membership with attempts at eating better – watching my portions, drinking more water, etc. You see, I’m registered with friends for the Color Me Rad 5k in Chicago this July. If you’ve never heard of Color Me Rad, it’s basically 3.1 miles of being pelted with colored cornstarch at regular intervals.

 

You read that correctly: I’m going to be a big sweaty mess of a runner, dressed head to toe in what basically amounts to rainbow bukkake, and this strikes me as being a fun idea. I have no idea what that says about me.  But even though it’s just over 3 miles, the last thing I want is to be a wheezing bukkake coronary, so training is in order, hence the gym and the modified diet.

 

Now usually, my husband packs my lunch with leftovers from the previous night and or various and sundry food items that, when combined, make no sense whatsoever. For my part, I still haven’t come to the conclusion that entrusting him with this task is a mistake, but it’s pretty much a laugh riot of failure. The man may well be the king of the Mech Warriors, Pwning n00bs and slaying dragons and shit, but if my lunch bag is to be believed, he just cannot figure out how to pack a damn lunch. He’s been banned from making me sandwiches because they’re always so abominable as to be hilarious.

 

I'm reasonably certain that this is where we're heading on the sandwich front.

I’m reasonably certain that this is where we’re heading on the sandwich front.

 

Some notable lunches from months past:

  • A meatloaf sandwich. That is to say, there was a hunk of meatloaf between two slices of bread. No mayonnaise, no cheese, not even a garnish.
  • Crackers, chips, and pretzel sticks. No vegetables.
  • A 4 ounce tupperware container with 2 gummy vitamins.
  • A chunk of steak, a container of salad with the croutons in it, already soggy. Random pink goo that I think might have been dressing? 3 whole triscuits
  • Four pounds of angel hair pasta with 1/4 cup sauce and 4 shrimp
  • A glass food storage container full of the cat’s wet food. Thankfully this was in his lunch bag, not mine.

 

Last night, we had soft tacos for dinner. The man excels at his taco making skills, and yet when it was time to make it into lunch? Fail.

Lunch tacos were a travesty. There was neither sour cream nor salsa. There was a whole leaf of iceburg lettuce in a baggie. Not shredded, not torn – the whole leaf. If I hadn’t thrown some carrots and grapes into my bag, I’d have no fruits or veggies either. He also packed me 2 slices of bread and a tupperware container of peanut butter.

 

Let me break this down: He made me tacos (sort of) and a peanut butter sandwich with no jelly. No, wait, that’s wrong -  He didn’t even make me the sandwich. He gave me the bread and the peanut butter in separate containers. In that action he was basically telling me, “Fuck you. Make your own sammich.”

 

I suppose I should stop making fun of the person who makes my lunch…

May 13

Dicks: An Omen

I have a confession to make: I have no life.

 

No, it’s true. I know it sounds like a lie, given that I haven’t posted in like, a month, but that has nothing to do with it.  After I get home from work, I spend my free time with my husband or playing video games, or playing video games with my husband. I’m completely okay with this. But every once in a while, the hubby travels for work or what have you and he may be gone for days at a time. Most people would be lost;  I’m productive.

 

My husband was out of town for almost a week last month which means that I practically built a scale replica of Taj Mahal in his absence with all my free time while I watched reruns of shows on Netflix that he wouldn’t be caught dead queuing on his own.  That’s not entirely true. While he wouldn’t queue every episode of Clean House, I didn’t build the Taj Mahal either. I just refinished furniture. But I did become a sort of psychic medium in the process.

taj mahal

 

I had cleaned and roughed up an end table that I bought a month ago, but it’s been so rainy that I haven’t been able to take it onto the patio to paint it. On Monday, I got so tired of waiting that I just decided to do it in the spare bedroom. I proceeded to drape every square inch of the room in painters plastic, plopped the end table in the middle and let the spray lacquer fly. But the problem with spray lacquer is that, unlike spray paint, it’s very heavy and incredibly potent. Even though I had the window open and a fan pulling air to the outside, by the time I was 3/4 of the way through the can, I was higher than a kite in Chicago and I needed to get more lacquer to finish the table to boot. I was in a tough place, so I sent my dear friend, Queen Inappropriate, a text asking for advice.

 

me: I’m accidentally fucked up on spray paint. How do I get un-high?
Queen Inappropriate: That question makes no sense to me.

 

As you can see, she was zero help whatsoever. I went to bed completely unsatisfied. I woke up the next morning feeling haggard and grouchy. Partly because my cat, who shall heretofore be known as “my little douche cute” (on account of I can’t get no [satisfactory sleep] with her around), attacked various parts of my sleeping form at 10 second intervals before pouncing on my face and tearing ass down the hallway to avoid whatever I threw at her. The other issue is that I had REALLY vivid dreams.

 

me: I had strange dreams all night.  There were dicks everywhere.
Queen Inappropriate: This sounds interesting. Please tell me more.

me: But not in a “It’s raining dicks – Hallelujah!” way either.
Queen Inappropriate: It’s far less interesting now.
me:  It was just so… fucking weird. Dicks were growing out of the ground and swaying like weird little mushrooms.
Queen Inappropriate: You inhaled far too much spray paint.
me: It gets better – there was this big hole in the ground that looked like a mass grave filled with dicks.
Queen Inappropriate: You need to get laid. Immediately. And well.
me: And somewhere in there, I got a job working with an advertising firm and I was somehow absorbed into their IT/graphic design department and we got drunk together and they thanked me the next day for showing them what boners looked like. Where did the boner come from? Who knows? Was it a live boner or just a picture? I have no idea. And I went to go find a bathroom, but found myself in a tree house that fell over and knocked over a bunch of other tree houses like dominoes.
Queen Inappropriate: Dicks in holes. Much like a dick in a box, except dirtier.
Most people would look at that dream and interpret it to mean that I was tripping balls, or that I need sex, stat. Instead, I think it was just a supernatural force trying to warn me that I was going to be beset by dicks all. day. long.
Remember my sign throwing tenants? My boss stopped by their house and got them to commit to a lease renewal, but failed to tell them that he’d increased the rent because they were well past their renewal deadline and we turned down another group willing to pay extra rent because they kept dicking around with their renewal.
And so started my day with them screaming at me over a rental increase for which I wasn’t even responsible.  The guy told me that I “need to have some decency” because I have apparently been nothing but disrespectful of him from the day they moved in (I wasn’t working here when they moved in), and I further disrespected him and his family by “bringing students into my house!” We don’t show that house to anyone who isn’t financially qualified, so his comment was just idiotic, but I replied with “What’s your point? You have no right to tell me who I can or cannot rent to if you aren’t intending to sign a renewal.”   And then he told me that he demands to be treated with respect and I told him that I expect the same.
 And do you know what the woman hating son of a bitch said to me?
“NO! I will NOT! You are not my equal!”
“Then take a seat until *boss* is ready for you because I won’t be working with you any longer.”
“NO!”
*Pointing at chair* “SIT!”

I swear, there are some days that I can’t tell whether to update my resume to include daycare experience, or doggie daycare experience.

More to the point, who put this dick in my office?

More to the point, who put this dick in my office?

This was followed by yet another stupid phone call (of which there are many lately).
“I’m calling about X apartments.”
“I’m sorry, we had 100% renewal in that building this year and those are not available.”
“Are you sure? Is there someone else I can talk to? Because the website says there’s one apartment available.”
“That’s because she just dropped off her renewal this morning and I haven’t had a chance to update the listings.”
“Can I just talk to someone else?”
“…NO!” click
And then I got three different emails about apartments I have listed where people wanted to negotiate the move-in date.If I have an apartment listed for July 1st, DO NOT message me to say that you need it by June 1st. There are people living there, and they’re not going to move out early because you want their apartment, Jackass. Likewise, I won’t hold an apartment for you rent free for a month because you don’t want to pay 2 rents while you wait for your lease to expire.
So let’s see here – since my last post, I finally got a review 2.25 years later and a small raise. I took a long birthday weekend to sit on my ass at home. I took a long weekend this past weekend to go on a weekend getaway to look at light houses. It snowed (in May) and I only saw one light house with my own eyes. I got some good wine though. I also joined a gym again and have been obsessively logging the calories of everything that enters my gaping maw. But those are topics for another day. For now, I’m going to go show an apartment and write a few posts so that I can get my brain lubricated.
Since there are clearly many people in the world who could benefit from this advice, I leave you with a handy gift for those thoughtless wank blankets in your life:
centeroftheuniverse
Happy Monday, y’all.

Apr 15

Because 3,000 Online Pharmacists Can’t Be Wrong

Are you lost, confused, irritated or frustrated lately? Do you spend your days trying desperately to hide a dark secret? Have you noticed a recent surge in messages from people wanting to help you out with your LIMP BONER?

 

No? Just me, huh? Well, shit. I must have a problem then, because if my email inbox is to be believed,

I am a sexually deviant tranny with erectile dysfunction.

7 out of 9 correspondents are very concerned about my sexual well being.

7 out of 9 correspondents are very concerned about my sexual well being.

 

I mean, I was bestowed with honorary testicles some years back in order to be initiated to hang with the guys, but there was no permanent surgery there. I know my way around my own private parts and I am 99.999999999999999999% certain that there is nothing permanently affixed in that region that could be a penis. But I have to wonder if someone knows something that I don’t because when I purged my trash folder this morning, I deleted 3,257 messages, most of them looking like that screen capture up there.

 

Just when I start thinking to myself that 3000 totally legitimate internet pharmacists can’t possibly be wrong, I remember that it’s impossible to have a “limp boner.” Either you’ve got a boner or you don’t. And then I put my credit card away and close that window.

 

Filed under news of the weird, I have some non-student dick tenants for a change, only it’s really hard to tell the difference because they’re still acting like 15 year-olds, raging on an overload of pubescent angst. I’ve been trying to show their house for 2 months now because they’ve been hemming and hawing over signing their renewal, and it’s a lovely house – huge house, lakefront property, private dock, unobstructed view of the downtown skyline – or it would be a lovely house, except that it constantly smells like dirty diapers and bad sauerkraut. I’ve never seen the dishes clean, and the 2 year old girl has more toys all over every surface of that house than I had in my entire childhood. It’s also wallpapered in some hunter green and floral atrocity reminiscent of the early nineties with plush carpet to match.

The only way this dish would be more repulsive is if that were an actual turd on top.

The only way this dish would be more repulsive is if that were an actual turd on top.

 

I wouldn’t blame them for not renewing, but they won’t give us a yes or no answer on that, and they’re assholes to me and prospective tenants every time I’m there to show it. It’s sort of tucked away, so I had maintenance drive out to erect a for lease sign next to the road where we get a lot of turn around traffic. My maintenance tech went over to install the sign the next day. No sooner did he get it in the ground and got in his van to leave, than the tenant stormed out of the house, ripped it out of the ground, and threw it. My boss is being WAY too lenient with them in my opinion because I’d have put the fear of their orthodox Catholic god into them the first time they told me that they didn’t want anyone showing the house, but he’s got the kid gloves on trying to make them feel warm and fuzzy. Still, they’re pissed because they can’t get a two month lease extension while they think about it for 2 more months and they will probably disappear in the middle of the night, sticking us with a rental reeking of spoiled Ukranian food and dirty carpet that no one will want to rent. Because honestly – who moves into a lakefront house after the time to enjoy the lake has passed?

 

And finally, my husband linked me last week to an article in the local newspaper about how some guy signed in as a guest at the front desk of  my former employer and then went around the building letting himself into random doors. At one point, he crawled in bed with some girl who was sleeping and groped her before she flipped her shit and told him to get out. A bunch more people said they had things missing. And I am almost positive that I know the moron who let him in because as long as no one interrupts his Netflix, it’s all good. I can’t wait to hear how much they have to pay out in the lawsuit.

 

I know I’ve been a little sparse with posting lately, but now that I’m finished with the hell that is baby shower crafting, I’ll see what I can do about being more entertaining. Meanwhile, feel free to submit topics for me to rant about. I can feel some anger and frustration simmering in my depths.

 

No, wait – that’s just an erection.

 

I have the weirdest boner right now.

I have the weirdest boner right now.

Apr 05

Sleep Deprivation: The Husband Edition

Happy Friday, and not a moment too soon! I’ve come to the conclusion that my Monday through Friday life has become a series of “I want your head on a fucking stick” moments and gratuitous video game violence peppered with “That’s what she said” jokes on Team Speak, in between moments of sanity and productivity called “The Weekend.”

 

Of course, Thursdays are the husband’s weekly Nerds With Friends night, and my weekly “Sit on my ass and play video games” night. So both of us stayed up much later than a responsible adult should and I still regret nothing. My husband, on the other hand, was a drooling, mumbling zombie after 2 snooze alarms and his mental state today is… alarming.

 

As we were driving to work this morning, we drove by an apartment building where both an ambulance and the fire department were parked, the latter turning off the fire hydrant.

Me: They must have actually had a fire if they’re turning the hydrant off.
Him: Or they got bored with always coming out to the same building for the same old lady having a heart attack and decided to get some practice.
Me: By turning the hose on her?
Him: Why not?
Me: At 7:40 am?
Him: Emergencies know no hours. It’s good practice.
Me: What, setting the building on fire?

world-burn

 

And because there was no coffee to be had in our kitchen this morning, we stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts. I love that place with almost every fiber of my being, except for the lone fiber screaming, “STOP CAKING YOUR DONUTS IN POWDERED SUGAR, ASSHOLES!” Seriously, my wardrobe looks like I went on a coke bender whenever I eat them. All the more magical about Dunkin Donuts is that you can count on Fridays to be Dunkin’ mascot day.

mascots

As we pulled into the parking lot, our friendly Dunkin’ Cup was standing on the sidewalk, beckoning to morning commuters to come get some sweet, caffeinated goodness.  Ken took one look at him and immediately said, “I refuse to make eye contact with that thing.”
“Really? Because I think I’m going to ask him to give you a hug.”
“I hate you.”

Don't fight the love. Embrace it. Embrace HIM.

Don’t fight the love, embrace it. Embrace HIM.

If we make it to 5:00 today, we will be so brain fried that I don’t think we’ll remember where home is.

 

I was informed that in addition to being a funny bitch, I was also nominated for a Liebster by the fabulous gal over at Phenomenal Lass. And because I’m already mentally checked out for the week, I am eager to answer her questions.

 

And here they are:

What is your favorite thing about blogging?

 

It is the most superb outlet for everything. You can vent, rant, rave, share, over share, and it’s all incredibly cathartic. Especially when I go off on one of my famous rants about one of the various groups that’s pissing me off. Who needs sharp, stabby implements when you’ve got a sharp wit and a vocabulary that could confound Merriam-Webster?

 

If you could only watch one movie for the rest of your life, what would it be?

Hmm… Toss up between Serenity and LOTR: Return of the King. I think I’m going to have to go with Serenity. I loves me some Adam Baldwin redneck humor and Nathan Fillion eye candy.

 

What is your greatest strength?

I can adapt to anything. When you move around as a kid as much as we did, you have to. There is no “fake it ’til you make it.”  You just walk into a new situation and own it. Like a BOSS.

 

If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?

Neuschwanstein Castle in Germany. I’m going to be a princess who’s high as a kite in her bona fide castle.

 

What’s your favorite song (of the moment)?

Oddly enough, Talk Shows on Mute by Incubus. I heard it on the radio earlier this week and I’ve listened to it a dozen times since then. Mostly because the line “You’re so much more… intriguing with the sound turned off.” is strangely appropriate for my line of work and life in general.

 

Are you what you wanted to be when you grew up?

I can’t even remember what I wanted to be when I grew up, but that point is moot since I’m pretty sure I’m not finished growing yet. So for now, let’s aim for entrepreneur. I don’t get along with people when I have to work for them. Or anyone, really.

 

If you had to retake one class from school, what would it be and why?

English. Because I’d spend the entire class period beating it into the heads of the redneck chicken fuckers who were my classmates that they no talk good and that they would forever be steaming piles of chicken shit idiocy until they learned how to grasp the English language, even if it meant using two hands and a flashlight. I’d beat that into them with the flashlight if I had to. Of course, a few of them would find the flashlight beatings too close to the horse that kicked them in the head when they were performing their personal own donkey show and they’d probably get an enormous boner.

On second thought, I think we can leave a few children behind. In fact, I think we must… for the greater good of humanity.

 

If you had to commit one of the Seven Deadly Sins, which one would you choose and why?

Atheists don’t really subscribe to those things, but I’m always a big fan of carnal knowledge and geekery. Oh, Geekery isn’t a sin? YOU’RE DAMN RIGHT IT’S NOT.

 

Your new best friend is a character from a book. Who do you pick?

Bob Howard from any of the Laundry Files.  Laid back, kinda geeky. Says “fuck” a lot. Summons demons via computer. He sounds like he’d be my new BFF.

 

What’s the best thing you ate this week?

Bambi. Bambi roasted, Bambi barbecued on pretzel buns. I’ve eaten so much Bambi this week that I’m looking forward to chicken.

 

What are your plans for the weekend?

I’ll finally get off my lazy ass and assemble my sewing table, refinish that thrift store table I bought, play some Guild Wars 2… Oh, and take my husband to the symphony. Because the boy needs to absorb some culture that doesn’t come from yogurt.

Mar 29

I’d like to thank the mental institution for letting me be here today.

 

 

In case you haven’t already been there, I did a guest post on Naturally Inappropriate today and used up a large portion of my allotted brilliance for the day.  However, I’ve been terribly neglectful of this thing lately, and that makes me feel this yucky sensation in my stomach that kind of feels like rocks mixed with moping…

 

…Guilt. I think they call that guilt.

 

And so here I am.

 

With the upcoming Zombie Deity Day on Sunday, I’m sure many people have plans to shepherd their family about to chase colored eggs or pay your respects to the original Lord Zombie. I, on the other hand, am one o’ them there atheist heathens, so I’ll probably be sitting around in my underwear eating Jelly Bellies straight from the Costco size container. And in true atheist fashion, we’ll be hosting Easter Dinner on Saturday.

Don't you bastards dare judge me. I know you've all done worse.

Don’t you bastards dare judge me. I know you’ve all done worse.

 

I love hosting dinner parties, but I have that crushing guilt thing if I don’t clean up my house in advance. Granted, what  I tend to call “cleaning up” most people call “what my house looked like right after I moved in,” but I’m mildly obsessive compulsive, and the clutter has been tormenting me lately. Don’t judge. Also, my house still smells like greasy chain smoker 6 months after we moved in, despite new paint and carpet. So while my husband went off to his weekly nerd night, I took the opportunity to scrub my kitchen from ceiling to lower cabinets (I saved the floor for my husband).

 

On that note, I never want to hear a tenant complain ever again about how their apartment was filthy when they moved in. I spent 2 hours on a step ladder with citrus turpene and Murphy’s Oil Cleaner stripping years of nicotine and grease off my cabinets before I ever even started actually cleaning. And then I did the same thing to my front door.  My counters and floors were covered in sticky little balls of gray, gooey nicotine that the cat kept trying to eat. Everything now smells like oranges and bleach, but my cabinets are light brown – who knew?

 

And this is why you people aren’t allowed to smoke in your apartments.

 

The point is that my kitchen is clean enough that I can work on my piece de resistance: Bleeding Bunny Cake. Contrary to what people tend to believe about me, I don’t sacrifice actual bunnies. Come now – I love animals more than people (especially dumb animals), and if I’m going to gnaw on their flesh, I make someone else kill ‘em. Because I’d cry. No, bleeding bunny cake is just Italian Cream Cake in a bunny cake mold filled with raspberry sauce so that it bleeds when you cut it. It’s awesome and disturbing and this holiday is only time I get to use a cake pan that I spent $30 on. Screw ham – I’m just here for the bunny cake.

 

 

So after all that hard work and dishpan hands, I woke up this morning to find that I was also voted in as a League of Funny Bitches All-Star and such a thing cannot go unrecognized.

 

Yeah, I made my own trophy. I is still one funny bitch.

Yeah, I made my own trophy. I is still one funny bitch.

 

Because there are so many people who made this possible, I’d like to take a moment to thank each and every one of you.

 

First and foremost, thank you to my mom for encouraging me to be snarky and verbose. Were it not for her periodically egging me on, I’d probably be normal. And thank you to my dad (rest in peace) for providing me with my genetic potty mouth and propensity for making up random words and insults. A vocabulary isn’t taught; it is built out of the misery and perturbation that comes from people who irritate the shit out of you.

 

To Queen Inappropriate and occasionally her family, I thank you for being a party to providing the thought provoking fodder that stokes the wildly inappropriate inferno deep in my soul. In some places (I’m looking at you, bible belt) you’d be guilty as an accomplice to crimes against decency or lewd acts or something. Just remember – those same states would never call upon family to testify against you. Cousin.

 

To my loving Husband, you also provide a fair amount of ammunition for my little dossier of duh, and I trust that you will forever support me in these pursuits, so long as you can maintain enough plausible deniability that it can never be traced back to you.

 

And last, but certainly not least –

Here’s to you, every roommate, boss, customer disservice flunky, and disgruntled employee, coworker, or tenant I’ve ever had. Without your persistent, obnoxious shenanigans and wholly vexatious existence, I would not be the appalling, offensive troll that I am today.  For you, I leave you this exceedingly awesome picture of what you reduce me to at the end of the average work day:

easter_zombie

Happy Easter, and hopefully spring!

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