Some things are so outrageous that you think they can’t possibly be true. Yet they are. There is no way I could post the following on April 1st because no one would have believed it. Hell, I waited almost a week and yinz still might not believe it. Regardless, here goes…
My former coworker and I are still friends. He doesn’t work more than 10 minutes from our office and we will meet for drinks or sometimes another coworker and I will go to his camp for a night away. B is always full of stories about one of his employees, Tank. Usually when we meet at happy hour Tank joins us and I can assure you, the man is, how shall I say this…well, Tank is not the average bear. He is young, smart, funny, attractive, outgoing, and batshit crazy. His brain just doesn’t quite work the way same as most people. Tank’s stories always result in tears running down my face. Or my jaw hanging open. You never know when I’ll hear about Tank showing up in a limo, drunk, eating pizza at 4 AM on a night when one of the guys has a flat tire or some such insanity. Honestly, he is incredibly similar to the fictitious Twitter account DadBoner, but Tank is 100% real. (And technically homeless as months ago he moved out of his apartment, but not into anywhere new. An email from B: “One of Tank’s quotes written on the dry erase board right now is “Homelessness is the key to personal wealth – I’ve never had so much money.”)
About a week ago B emailed me that he thinks he made a mistake sending Tank and McBane on a work related trip out of town together. I received forwards of texts and emails:
“The two of them are traveling together. RW is spearheading the certification process. This is a listing of the texts I’ve received from Tank since the end of work yesterday:
McBane Packed for a fortnight (in regards to a picture of McBane with about 42 outfits on a hotel cart) (7:13 PM)
Dude, McBane just choked out RW. His tongue was literally sticking out of his mouth (12:38 AM)
Seriously (12:39 AM)
I’m never traveling with McBane again. (12:55 AM)
McBane loves Pepper, but he hates cinnamon (7:13 AM)
Everything I’ve said about him so far is absolute truth (7:15 AM)
He called the front desk last night because he lost track of which of his pillows was the “medium” firmness (7:17 AM)
That afternoon I received an update:
“McBane and I are pretty much the most unprepared people at this thing, but we’re really not sure what we need to do next. I just looked over at him and said, “so do you think we should start hammering this packet out or what?” To which he responded, “McBane has a deuce on deck that would choke a heifer” and he got up and stormed out of the room.
This is the worst.”
Did I mention that McBane is not much better? Oh yeah, that.
I received no more emails regarding their antics, so I kind of forgot about it. Until the next morning, when this popped up in my Inbox:
“Nothing from Tank, but I received these from McBane this morning:
Do you think Tank is going to be mad when he wakes only to find our curtains are decimated and on the ground and the mini fridge is laying next to him in the bed. (6:57 AM)
Our room looks like when they wake up in the hang over. Tank may have a monkey in his bed. (7:06 AM)
I’m pretty sure there’s a small Asian guy in the closet. Tank said he was making to much noise. (7:09 AM)”
Personally, I got nothing more until Friday. Then an email from B…
“Tank never came back to the hotel room last night. They were supposed to check out by 10:00 AM. McBane couldn’t get a hold of Tank and assumed the worst. It turns out, he hooked up with some girl and stayed at her place. The girl went to work and Tank went back to the hotel and he and McBane packed up and returned to this girls place (Tank had plans of staying the weekend there while McBane meets his brother in another part of town). McBane was looking around the place and seen a bunch of pet toys. He inquired upon what type of pet she had and Tank looked around and screamed in terror “Oh my God, we’ve lost the housecat.” They’ve searched everywhere and can’t find it. In an effort to find either the cat or a picture of the cat (Tank couldn’t remember what it looked like), they ransacked her place ripping apart closets, boxes under the bed, dresser drawers and the like. The place is now in complete disarray. They eventually looked outside and have found both a grey cat and a black & white cat. Being as Tank can’t remember what it looks like and never found any photos, he grabbed both cats and threw them in the door and they left. He’s just going to pretend like he doesn’t know what she’s talking about when/if she calls him to see why her place is ransacked and either a) she has an extra cat or b) her cat is missing and two strange cats are now living there. I can’t wait to hear how this turns out!”
Followed up with one more from B…
“Update: I just spoke with McBane. Apparently she had no idea McBane was going to be hanging out there (he was going to hang there with Tank until 3:00, then go meet his brother), so while they were searching for the cat/cat photos, McBane thought it would be real funny to mush all of her underwear into his pocket so that she would think Tank was a total perv and stole them. So now, she’s going to show up at a ransacked place, with either one extra cat, or two extra cats less her actual pet, and all of her underwear gone. I kept telling him to get out of DC and come back here so they don’t get arrested. McBane just kept laughing screaming “it’s all on Tank, she doesn’t even know I exist” while throwing underlings out of the passenger side window and Tank is driving in the background yelling “shut up dude, get rid of those f’n things. We both made a pact to never speak of it again. This isn’t even funny. Not remotely.” I can’t wait for more phone calls!”
I don’t doubt a word of any of this. And I find it all hilarious. Sadly, I’ve heard nothing else. Maybe B will leave a comment here with an update.
Hi. It’s me. No, not hellohahanarf. I’m a friend. Or rather — she is. She’s lending me out some blog space semi-anonymously, and I appreciate it. This is the second in a series of posts about my journey as someone who is being let go from a job which I’ve had for the past ten years. You can find the first post here.
First and foremost: thanks to all of you for your support thus far. It’s a bit of a struggle for me, and I truly am in a good place with some wonderful family and friends both online and in the flesh. You’re helping to make a tough time for me not so tough.
I used to be a huge fan of “Wayne’s World.” No joke. I loved the sketch on SNL the first time it aired, and I tracked them through the making of and release of the feature-length movie — which I saw the weekend that it opened in theaters. I laughed out loud at the revolutionary notion that the narrative could poke fun at itself. (“Garth! That was a haiku!” And the scene with Robert Patrick reprising his police officer facade from Terminator 2. Among others…) It used to be the coolest thing in college to sing Bohemian Rhapsody and start head-banging after the choral part.
So — when the local Paramount-branded theme park decided to open up a new roller coaster called “The Hurler,” I was intrigued. Excited. Especially since the surrounding area would be themed with Wayne’s World attractions — such as Stan Mikita’s donut shop. When I went through the queue for the coaster for the first time, I was amazed: the ongoing video monitors were all Wayne and Garth patter about safety on the ride. Everything looked like Wayne’s basement. It was bliss.
It was similar to the sensation I felt when I walked into the interview for my current job. It started a bit awkwardly: I had spoken with the company recruiter, Dan, on the phone. I entered the lobby and called him; he said he’d be down to greet me shortly. Moments later I heard someone call out my first name; I exchanged a handshake and followed him. His voice sounded different on the phone than it did in person. We walked down the corridors as he talked a bit about job responsibilities that had absolutely nothing to do with anything I had put on my resume.
Turns out that my first name is a pretty common first name. And that the person I was following was not, in fact, Dan. Or at least the same Dan I had been talking to for days before. We both had assumed we were someone else. Oops…
Anyway — I rushed back to the lobby and found Dan. The real Dan. We had a good laugh about it as he gave me the tour of the place. This was a telecommunications company in a flashy, new building that had just been built. It was the turn of the new millennium, and the place had the feel of the next one.
He brought me to an alcove on the third floor. There was what appeared to be a whiteboard next to us. He flicked a switch and the alcove lights dimmed. The whiteboard switched transparent — and I saw the network operations center below. It was beautiful. It looked like NASA’s mission control — great big screens in the front of the room with graphs and information rolling by. I recognized CNN and the Weather Channel taking up some of the real estate. Behind it were rows of engineers at state-of-the-art workstations — two computers at each desk. People were collaborating. This looked like a great place to work.
And after two days of interviews? I was offered a job. I worked in that very network center at one of those flashy workstations. In fact, I work there now.
I went back to visit that theme park a few years ago. Since then, the Paramount name has been stripped off of everything. The Hurler is still there, but any and all references to Wayne’s World have been removed. Who can blame them? The movie certainly didn’t stand up to the test of time. It contained too many references to icons of a static moment of time. I suppose the expectation was that it would last forever. But going through that path to get on the coaster, barren from any indications that made it any different from any other sleazy looking carnival ride, was a bit depressing — in that I had seen it so differently a decade earlier. Sure — there was no line this time around, no forty-five minute wait to get on. But then again — there was no line. Nobody wanted to ride the Hurler.
Which is how I see my very own network center. In 1999, this was state of the art: Giant video screens up front. New computers — UNIX and Windows — with screens embedded in the desks. Television monitors suspended from the ceilings in the back. But since then, technology has evolved and the corporate climate has receded. Tough, financial times for the company coupled with internal company politics made it impossible to keep those video screens on in front without footing an enormous bill — one which nobody was willing to pay. The televisions still hanging from the ceilings are old and outdated and show everything with a tinge of green. (Some of them have been removed, the empty brackets still hanging there.) The hardware that was built into the furniture had been so outdated that it was simply abandoned, new screens simply having been placed awkwardly on the desk in front of them.
Worst of all — when I started there, the center was full. Every desk was occupied at all times of the day. With so many reorganizations, cutbacks, layoffs and people voluntarily moving on, most of the seats are empty. There had been rumors of renovating the entire place and upgrading it with new equipment, and we were in the dark as to where they would move us for the time being. We now know the answer to that — our group will be long gone before that ever happens. Ultimately they’ll scrap the place, rebuild it, and probably find another group to fill it. That could take months. Years even.
But the depressing part is the memory of what this place looked like ten years ago. The possibilities. The flashing lights. The notion that I could work in that room and feel like I’ve entered the future. The room, however, hasn’t grown with us. It’s been stagnant. It has decayed. It’s no longer relevant.
The problem is — I can’t help but feeling the same way. My job is moving to a different place for cost-cutting measures. To keep the company competitive. The notion of using us — the existing group in our area — is too expensive. Not lean enough. Hence — stagnant. No longer relevant and no longer needed.
I watched “Up In The Air” this week. Not a smart move on my part, and I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone who has very recently been let go. Perhaps I thought that it would be more of a comfort for me, the camaraderie of many people who are fired by George Clooney in the film. (Interestingly enough, many of those who played employees losing their jobs in the film were actually people who had recently been let go from their jobs.) Their reactions to that meeting where they’re all told, point blank. that they are being terminated prompts many familiar responses. “Why? What did I do wrong?” “Can I have another chance?” “What am I going to do?” “Fuck you!” “This company will fail without me!”
For me, I suppose, the sticking issue is relevance. I’ve spent ten years amassing a great deal of knowledge for a very comprehensive job. I am, in no uncertain terms, a “go-to” within my workplace. A subject matter expert. And I know that I can pick things up rather quickly. I’m useful in my job. I’m missed when I’m not there. Hell, I carry a work cel phone for the times that my expertise is required when I’m on-call.
But I’ve just been made less useful. Even if I enter a new position in the same field, I’m not going to be the subject matter expert, the veteran who can help others out. I won’t be as impacting. As useful. There’s a scene which accentuates this is “Up In The Air” where George Clooney’s character finally sees himself as someone who, on some levels, is not useful. Who doesn’t have that same value. Whose services and talents really are not needed. And it’s the worst thing in the world.
Perhaps there’s a bit of narcissism in the way I feel. I am good at my job. I like that feeling of being the one people come to for help. I know I shouldn’t take it personally, but it hurts to think that for some reason that’s being taken away from me and from my group. I fear that I’ll be the person who really doesn’t need to be there. The one who doesn’t make a difference. And that I’ll fade away into the background — even within the confines of a new job.
I don’t want to become the roller coaster with no line.
Today I wore a tank top under a sweatshirt and jeans to work. (Yay for casual winters!) Getting dressed took practically no time at all, which was a good thing because I was running late as usual. When I run late it really isn’t much different than when I am on time…I don’t spend a lot of time fussing in front of the mirror. So long as my teeth are brushed and I am wearing deodorant, so long as I remembered to put on pants and shoes, I’m content enough to head out the door. So this morning was no different and out the door I went.
Around 9:30 it started to get pretty damn hot at my desk (our HVAC unit is the worst) so I unzipped the black hooded Maker’s Mark sweatshirt rather low without even thinking because I always have a tank top or t-shirt under hoodies.
About an hour later I looked down. Damn, my boobs looked great. Turns out the tank top was a Yummy Tummy brand tank and it pushed the ole girls together in all the right ways. Later in the afternoon I realized I had been distracted all damn day by my boobs. I don’t know how you men do it when beautiful breasts are around. Honestly!
Anyhow, I sent a message out on Twitter that said something about being distracted by my boobs. Instantly I had a few replies about sending a picture to TwitPic or saving a good picture for HNT. One of the folks who replied was Marty and I told him I was pretty much done with HNT, but he could guest post for me. Didn’t take too much before I received an email…
Your HNT needs some boobies, even if they are covered up by coconuts. 
It cracked me up that so many people immediately think of HNT when I mention my boobs. I figured what the hell, I’ll try to capture an image like nothing I have ever posted before. Thought it might be cool to show the view I was having when I looked down all day. Problem is my Blackberry was oh so not cooperative. It just wasn’t doing the view justice. So I snapped a photo like you are accustomed to seeing:
Nothing too out there, but still a little flashback to my HNT days. If you want to see folks revealing a lot more, head over to where it all started and check out the comments. Happy day!
A friend of a friend is a writer at heart. He wrote a short story that I knew immediately I had to post. Had to. Let me know if it speaks to you the way it did to me.
He wasn’t sure why he came to see the show, he loved art, or really used to love art, he used to love a lot of things. It seemed that there was little that could stir him anymore, he even stopped caring that nothing excited him anymore. Still, he was here, and at one time art made him excited, so it wasn’t that much a waste of time. The door was locked, but the sign said to ring the doorbell, which he had twice, he didn’t have time for this, it is a waste of time, he almost started to leave when the door started to open.
I am here to see the art show he said, the young man standing in the doorway. “Then please, come in” the old man motioned. He walked in and looked around at the large, long room with white walls, bare, except for one small plaque at the end of the long room. “I’m sorry, have I missed the art show?” he asked. “Not at all, but it is not a large show, it is made of one simple piece” the old man smiled, “I’ll take you to it”. The young man started to open his mouth to speak as he glanced around the bare walls. “So”, the old man said interrupting, “you love beauty?” “I do” the young man said, turning to walk with along with his elder guide. “or at least used to” the old man added. It was true the young man knew, but still it was an odd thing for the old man to say. The walk was slow for the old man seemed to walk with stiff legs, and slightly bent as if with a sore back, still he managed to speak with ease “Yes, it is a beautiful thing to see art, but that is only what has been captured by the artist, as they say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder – and if one opens his eyes wide enough, even a dark room can have beauty”. The young man tried to comprehend what he had just heard, but they at least reached the sole piece of art on the wall, a plaque, on which the young man read – Beauty, and the art of the world is not that which you go to see, but that which surrounds you, in every glance, in every smell, in every breeze, for beauty and art is not an object, it is life itself.
The young man stood frozen, ashamed that as he read, reread, and again reread what the plaque offered, he had tears in his eyes. Slowly glancing he looked for his companion, who was nowhere to be found. The room was empty, again he turned to read the plaque, to his surprise it too was gone, only the white wall remained. He startled, and stepped back, fearful for a moment, then he smiled, the setting sun cast the most beautiful shadow on the wall, he turned to look at the room again, and on the walls were wonderful shadows, reflections, and the floor a beautiful maple wood, glowing warmly. The plaque was gone, but he did not need it, nor pondered where it went, he knew every word, and he knew his life was never to be the same. He walked to the door, slowly, for even thought the old man was gone, he walked slow admiring every shadow, every knot in the wood, every reflection. His hand felt the brass door handle, and he felt the coldness, and smoothness of the brass, smiling he opened the door. Before him was a world he had forgotten. He breathed in deeply, staggering a bit from dizziness as he realized he had been taking many deep breaths. He laughed, and saw that the walkway he had passed over on his way in was built of cobblestones, with grass growing between the stones. He took off his shoes and socks, and stepped onto the stones, he felt as though he was a child again, and started to laugh, and he walked, he walked down the path admiring every flower, the settings sun, the breeze, and grass, and as he reached the end of the path he turned, the house was old, and broken down in many ways, but he saw that even the peeling paint was beautiful. “Thank you old man” he whispered.
As he walked away with a bounce to his steps, whistling, the suns final rays for the day shown through the window of the empty old house devoid of any living occupant. Still a shadow was cast upon the floor of a very old man, the shadow of a man hundreds of years since past, of an artist, of a man no longer there, but a man with still many to teach, and along with the sun’s rays faded away knowing tomorrow the sun would shine again.
The stunning and kind and funny and smart and a whole bunch of nice adjectives Dutch Bitch asked me to guest post for her. I said something along the lines of oh hell no…well, if you really need someone.
Crazy Bitch insisted. So today, I’m over HERE, @ THE DUTCH FILES.
This post is part of Miss Britt’s guest post challenge. Because she? Is a fucking moron. In other words, she wrote this.
Every aspiring writer has to have a favorite book. You can’t call yourself a literary anything if you don’t have a favorite author and title that you can drop at a moment’s notice.
I was 16 when I discovered mine.
Charles Dickens’ A Tale Of Two Cities
As I’ve gotten older and befriended smart, pompous assholes, I’ve become painfully aware of how cliche my choice is. And yet, no matter how many books I read, I always come back to the same tired old love story when someone asks me to pin down my favorite.
For those of you not familiar with the book, allow me to ruin the ending.
The guy dies.
But more than that, the guy dies on purpose so that the woman he loves can be with the man she loves. The man who is not, despite a shocking physical resemblance, him.
Boy meets girl. Boy loves girl. Boy sacrifices himself to the guillotine so that girl can spend the rest of her life with other boy. Ah, the romance!
Ironically, I hated this book for the first several chapters. The language is heavy and the imagery threatens to suffocate the storyline. I never have been able to fully wrap my head around the significance of the house of footprints. Or was it corner or whispers? Perhaps if I’d been forced to read it in an English class with a study guide and omnipotent teacher I’d be able to tell you what the author meant.
Instead, I sobbed into a library copy, alone in my bedroom with the injustice and selflessness. I was in awe of the idea that someone would literally die for you with no expectation of reward. I was certain there could be no purer display of love.
I wonder how many relationships I’ve fucked up because of that book.
Not, of course, that I’d ever ask a man to die for me. I’d just like to think that he would if the opportunity presented itself.
People tell each other all the time how much they love one another. They profess to care about one another’s happiness and vow to do whatever is necessary to ensure said happiness. But ultimately what they mean is “I want your happiness to the point that it doesn’t interfere with my own”.
And maybe that’s healthy. And normal. And the absolute best we can hope for.
In the real world, that has to be enough. In the real world we don’t sacrifice ourselves to guillotines or unhappiness. We strive for a compromise of mutual content. In the real world we talk about boundaries and realistic expectations.
But in Dickens’ world, we can ask for more.
After Britt’s bestowing of the Ridiculously Awesome Person award, I was flying high from lots of bloggy love. Then I go to catch up on my blog reading only to find out that Karl has gifted me with this:
How fucking cool was that??!?!!! I’ll tell you. TOTALLY cool. Thanks, Kawol. Love yew and your little blog, too.
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Friday night my bowling buddy and coworker, Dang, had a few of us over for dinner and drinks. Lots and lots of drinks. Tasty fresh homemade mojitos. Dang cooked her ass off and a good time was had by all.
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(anyone else notice that their shirts from Avitable smell like freshly popped kettle corn?)
Speaking of t-shirts, the Dream Team shirt made me giggle all night…
Dang has two cats, both of which must have sensed that I am so not a cat person because they were all up in my shit, trying to drink my pomegranate mojitos and just generally making sure I knew that they lived there.
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Saturday I was scheduled to volunteer at a fundraiser in the morning & afternoon, then attend Wicked in the evening. There was a mix up with tickets for the play and it turned out that we could only secure tickets for the 2 PM show, which meant I had to be selfish and cancel my volunteer work. Normally I would have still volunteered and missed going to the theater, but this is Wicked we are talking about here! I have wanted to see the musical for years and I wasn’t about to miss my opportunity.
Any guilt I had about skipping out on volunteering was quickly forgotten the moment I stepped onto the elevator within the parking garage. I saw the marque and got to wiggling.
Our seats were pretty damn decent, although the fiasco that we went through to even get the tickets threatened to ruin the entire adventure. We weren’t about to let that happen because all four of us were terribly excited to see this performance. As much as I struggled while attempting to read the book (I mean, it took me forfuckingever to get through the damn book!), live theater changes everything. And my cousin’s teenage daughter lit a fire when she sang song after song for me a few years ago after she saw Wicked on Broadway.
When we were in NYC there wasn’t enough time for any Broadway play, but dammit Wicked is here in my town and I was wiggling with anticipation. I know that the taking of pictures is strictly prohibited, but I couldn’t help myself…
It was awesome. All around consensus revealed enthusiastic thumbs up from all four of us (Doodle, Dang, Dang’s Mom and me). If you get the chance to go, I highly recommend it. Just be sure to sit close enough to appreciate the costumes.
Towards the beginning I found myself wishing my Mom were there with me. She loved live theater and took me to the Pittsburgh Playhouse’s Junior Theater as soon as I was old enough to sit still. Hell, she probably had me there before I could sit still, but I remember being very young and finding myself mesmerized by what was happening on stage so maybe it helped me sit still. What I remember most was meeting the cast of the Wizard of Oz after the show. The Wicked Witch scared me. I kicked her, then clung to my parents as I cried.
It was difficult to fight the tears that had welled up in my eyes when Wicked started, but I somehow managed to get through the moment. Glad I was able to get back to concentrating on the play, because it was phenomenal. The sets were awesome, the costumes were gorgeous and the songs so great that I bought the CD. You know I also purchased a magnet because heaven help me if even one little bit of white show on my fridge.
Speaking of the songs, Defying Gravity gave me chills and also brought tears to my eyes, but for totally different reasons…
GLINDA: (spoken)
Elphaba, why couldn’t you have stayed calm for once, instead of flying off the handle!
I hope you’re happy
I hope you’re happy now
(sung)I hope you’re happy how you hurt your cause forever
I hope you think you’re clever
ELPHABA: (spoken)
I hope you’re happy
I hope you’re happy, too
(sung) I hope you’re proud how you
Would grovel in submission
To feed your own ambition
BOTH: (sung)
So though I can’t imagine how
I hope you’re happy, right now…
GLINDA: (spoken)
Elphie, listen to me. Just, say you’re sorry…
(sung)
You can still be with the Wizard
What you’ve worked and waited for
You can have all you ever wanted…
ELPHABA: (spoken)
I know.
(sung)
But I don’t want it
No, I can’t want it
Anymore
Something has changed within me
Something is not the same
I’m through with playing by the rules
Of someone else’s game.
Too late for second-guessing
Too late to go back to sleep
It’s time to trust my instincts
Close my eyes, and leap
It’s time to try
Defying gravity
I think I’ll try
Defying gravity
And you can’t pull me down
GLINDA: (sung)
Can’t I make you understand
You’re having delusions of grandeur
ELPHABA:
I’m through with accepting limits
‘Cuz someone says they’re so
Some things I cannot change
but ’till I try, I’ll never know
Too long I’ve been afraid of
Losing love, I guess I’ve lost
Well, if that’s love
It comes at much too high a cost
I’d sooner buy
Defying gravity
Kiss me goodbye
I’m defying gravity
And you can’t pull me down
(spoken)
Glinda, come with me. Think of what we could do…together.
(sung)
Unlimited
Together we’re unlimited
Together we’ll be the greatest team there’s ever been
Glinda, dreams the way we plan ‘em
GLINDA: (sung)
If we work in tandem…
BOTH: (sung)
There’s no fight we cannot win
Just you and I
Defying gravity
With you and I
Defying gravity
ELPHABA:(sung)
They’ll never bring us down
(spoken)
Well, are you coming?
GLINDA:(sung)
I hope you’re happy
Now that you’re choosing this
ELPHABA: (spoken)
You too.
(sung)
I hope it brings you bliss
BOTH: (sung)
I really hope you get it
And you don’t live to regret it
I hope you’re happy in the end
I hope you’re happy, my friend
ELPHABA: (sung)
So if you care to find me
Look to the western sky
As someone told me lately:
“Ev’ryone deserves the chance to fly!”
And if I’m flying solo
At least I’m flying free
To those who’d ground me
Take a message back from me
Tell them how I am
Defying gravity
I’m flying high
Defying gravity
And soon I’ll match them in renown
And nobody in all of Oz
No Wizard that there is or was
Is ever gonna bring me down!
GLINDA: (sung)
I hope you’re happy!
(This wasn’t the cast I saw, but I really think I liked my cast better than these original Broadway stars.)
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And then there was Sunday. Sundays are ALL about the football. I’m writing this before the Steelers head to Cleveland for the Sunday night eight o’clock game. GO STEELERS!!!
P.S. How do you get a Browns fan to stop masturbating? Paint his cock Black & Gold and he’ll never beat it again! hehee
So, how was your weekend?
I met Southern Sage by way of Half Nekkid Thursdays and we pretty much immediately hit it off. He is always quick with a kind and supportive word…the man appreciates the nekkidness! One of my favorite things about him is fact that he will take suggestions as to what photos we would like to see for his HNT posts. (Thanks for the hot hand shots!!)
The other day he interviewed me and if you feel so inclined this fine Monday you are welcome to check out his site for me being pimped by Sage. Just click HERE.
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In other news, my weekend was awesome! Donnie, his wife and their youngest daughter came down from their big ass farm with no animals in New York. We went to the baseball game Friday night and watched the Mets beat up on my Pirates before Collective Soul put on a fantastic concert and fireworks lit up the sky. Lemme tell you, the Pirates sure as fuck know how to put on a hell of a fireworks display. Whew! (My attempt at photographing fireworks will show up sometime this week. Too funny.)
Saturday it was up around 4:30 to get my act together and get out to Chippewa (almost in Ohio) for a charity golf outing. Every year for the past nine years or so I volunteer at this wonderful outing, raising money for Melanoma cancer research. My NOT SO little cousin (you remember Twinkle Twat from our April adventure to Maker’s Mark in Kentucky, right?!?!) met me there to help me at the putting contest, plus we had daughter of Donnie Van Donnie to assist. Basically Twinkle and I drank, daughter of DVD did all the work. Yay, slave labor! Good news is the outing raised over ten grand on only 60 golfers. Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahoooooooo!
After the outing we headed across the state line to the Shaker Woods crafts festival in Columbiana, OH. As much as I hate shopping, I love this show. Over 200 crafters in the woods, set up in permanent wooded structures, dressed as Shakers selling any type of crafty crap you can think of, and then some. When they closed at five o’clock, we were ready for the hour plus drive back to the Burgh anyhow.
After quickly taking care of the dogs it was off to dinner at Benihana. Yum! Home by 10:30 or so and oh so ready for bed.
Sunday held another baseball game with DVD & family, then home to take care of the dogs before heading to Nakama for dinner to celebrate my cousin Sarah’s 21st birthday. Great fun, lots of sushi and insanity. And now I am home, too fucking tired to get photos together from my camera so that they could be posted here. Instead you get a stupid cell phone image of my craptacular sunburn.
Yeah, I should know better than to wear a big honkin necklace to a sunny baseball game. Sheesh!
This time my HNT Guest is a gorgeous woman, trying to take photos of herself to send to her new husband who is in the military and therefore entirely too far away. Personally I think she did a damn fine job! And I love, love, LOVE that she giggled when showing me the photos, then quickly offered to throw one of the pictures up on this site for HNT.
This blog has become so much of who I am and so many folks recognize that. Seems I am not the only one who appreciates the rush you all offer. How cool is that??!?!! Thanks, Internet!
Next Thursday is back to me. And I can guaranfuckingtee that my photos won’t be as smoken hot as this one. Whew!
Until next week, when the theme will be the Olympics, head over here to visit the comments to find other participants.
You might have seen Donnie in my comments before. We know each other professionally and that spilled over into a personal relationship. He is a friend. A good friend. I adore his wife and the daughter I have met is so adorable I would keep her if he wouldn’t miss her so.
ANYhow, the other day he needed to vent so I received an email saying it could be a guest post if I wanted to use it. Donnie may be a great friend, but we certainly don’t agree on all things. My boys Reilly James Scarff and Ludo Collins should be clues as to one of our many differences! (Yes, my dogs both have last names different than mine. I mean, we live together, but I didn’t give birth to them! And yes, Reilly has a middle name. Suck it, Donnie.)
Regardless, he knows he is always welcome to post here. So here is his rant guest post:
You know, there are very few things in this world that I can say that I honestly hate. Within the last few weeks I have figured out what one of those few things is and I’d like to throw this out there for you all to consider. I was out in my rather expansive yard a couple of weeks ago, taking care of some of my domestic duties, when out of the blue I hear a ruckus from across the road. Dogs barking, humans yelling…the norm from the neighbors. I looked to see what was up and two of their six dogs (yes, I said SIX DOGS) were on my side of the road and making their way further and further onto my property. Now, I own 60 acres of land so the fact that these two mongrels were taking up a smidgen of it should not bother me. But the fact that these people seem to think that they can treat my property like it is theirs and have done so on many, MANY occasions in the past causes me great disdain and this creates undo tension in the relationship that I attempt to maintain with these people on a daily basis. This, however, is not the thing that I can say, quite honestly, that I hate. As I approached said canine scoundrels to expedite their return to the other side of the boundary, I hear something that makes my skin crawl every time I bring it from the bowels of my memory. The neighbor woman, who for reasons that shall not be discussed here, is known to us as Regina (not Rageena…but rhymes with vagina…see, RAGINA?) comes towards me and yells, “SASHA RENEE RICE, GET OVER HERE!” So…there it is. I really, really hate this shit. Not only has this dumb bitch (not the dog, the neighbor) given the dumb bitch (not the neighbor, the dog) her LAST NAME, BUT THE DUMB BITCH HAS GIVEN THE DUMB BITCH A MIDDLE FUCKING NAME!!! Now forgive me if I have offended any of you dog lovers out there, but I hate people that think they have to give these animals (and that is what they are folks, animals) their last name, let alone a middle fucking name!!! Come on. The dumb bitch (the dog, not the neighbor) has no clue that you have yelled a middle name at her. Dogs do not understand sentence commands. Thus the need for simple one word commands like “sit” and “stay”. Hell, even if you say “rollover” which may or may not be one word, you have to give the animal a hand signal to teach them how to make this happen. “SASHA RENEE RICE…BLAH BLAH BLAH FUCKING BLAH!!” Dumb bitch (the neighbor…and the dog.) Now you might say that you think that I hate dogs, but you would be dead fucking wrong with that one, madam!! I happen to have two of the dumb fucking beasts that live here with me that I love with all of my heart (can’t you tell?) One of them is a pure bread boxer. He is a lovely shade of white with a fawn spot over his right eye. His name is Otis Marie Magilicutty. The other is a beautiful little bitch, half Jack Russell Terrier and half Border Collie. She looks like a Border Collie except for the fact that she is much smaller and has a shorter nose. She is extremely smart and active and we just love her to death. Her name is Kasey James Wonderlove III. OK, I was kidding. The boxer is and shall forever more be Otis…only Otis. And the little bitch is and shall forever more be Kasey…only Kasey. Now it is up to you folks out there looking at us through the world wide window to tell me how stupid I am for hating such a thing and to get on with my life. I know that is the way it should be, but I really, really hate this shit. I really, really do.
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