How I Wish...

How I wish that this...



didn't have the attention span of this...


leaving me to pick up this...


and this...


and this...


and this...


and this...


and this...


and this...


from the yard EVERY FRIGGIN' NIGHT!

What? A Day Off?

I'm sitting here, on what is for all intents and purposes, a 'day off' from the office. I have two conference calls this morning, a brief appointment around mid-day, and then the rest of the day is mine to do with as I see fit.

The only problem? The Boy isn't feeling too well, so we'll be hanging out here at Blognut Manor and not doing much of anything. And that? Well, that is A-OK with me because that's what I wanted to do today anyway. Nuthin'.

And this is for all of you, because it amuses me:

So you want a day off. Let's take a look at what that really means.

There are 365 days per year available for work.

There are 52 weeks per year in which you already have 2 days off per week, leaving 261 days available for work.

Since you spend 16 hours each day away from work, you have used up 170 days, leaving only 91 days available.

You spend 30 minutes each day on coffee break which counts for 23 days each year, leaving only 68 days available.

With a 1 hour lunch each day, you used up another 46 days, leaving only 22 days available for work.

You normally spend 2 days per year on sick leave.

This leaves you only 20 days per year available for work.

We are off 5 holidays per year, so your available working time is down to 15 days.

We generously give 14 days vacation per year which leaves only 1 day available for work.

There's no way I'll let you take that day off!

Six Words, Huh?

It's Six Word Saturday, and those of you who regularly visit Cate know exactly what that is, and those of you who don't, well, you can go find out or you can probably figure it out.

I'm more than a little sure that I'm not qualified to speak for Cate, but I think the intent is to say something deep or inspirational about my life in six words. Not eleven. Not one. I don't know why, but I think Cate may have an affinity for the number 6. Especially when accompanied by two other 6's.

So - it's Saturday and I have nothing deep or inspirational to share because I am at work. Therefore, here are my six words:

Working Saturday sucks big monkey nuts.


What? It's SIX WORDS and it's how I feel today.

What Is Wrong With This Picture?

Ok - This is me. Notice I am with an alligator, a very nice and cute alligator that I very much wanted to take home with me to keep him in my pool.*


And this is The Boy and me. Notice I am with a yellow snake. The Boy is happy, but I didn't love the snake and that is my best, "Hurry up and take the friggin' picture because I am about to shit myself!" face . In spite of our lack of love for each other, the snake and I did give each other a little hug.


So... I loved the alligator and I tolerated the snake. However, this little bastard, mother-humping, six-headed spider almost made me drive off the road this morning. It was IN MY CAR!


And now...



*No, that is not a tattoo on my arm in the first picture. If I can't tolerate spiders, I sure as hell can't tolerate needles. It's paint. I was face painting all of the sweaty, hairy-faced children within the Chicago Metropolitan area that day.

The Rant, Blognut Style

Buckle up, hunker down, and hang onto your hooters! We are about to experience a rant, Blognut style.

I’m cranky.

Less cranky than yesterday, and more cranky than I will probably be tomorrow, but cranky, nevertheless.

Work sucked today, just like I knew it would suck. I sat in a meeting for six hours, which is about five hours past 'time well spent,' so there’s that.

Also? For the last several weeks, and for as many weeks into the future as I care to look, I am working. Actually working. Not sorta working, either. The real thing. And hello… what the fuck is that all about, anyway?

I am a manager. Isn’t that supposed to mean that other people work and I take the credit? Because, seriously, that’s what every manager I’ve ever had did to me. I’m really good at that and I don’t get to do it enough, so they should totally let me practice taking credit for other people’s work. Consider it a development opportunity. And anyway, managing is work. It’s not like I’m not used to a little work, but it’s been getting more and more ridiculous with each passing day. When do I get my Prima Donna days? Have I not yet earned the right to watch other people do all the work in between my golfing and lunches? Not that I even like to golf but, damn it, I should at least get the chance to hate it before I give it up completely.

AND THEN?!

Do you know what I am doing tomorrow? And the next day? Seriously, I am hosting training sessions where we will talk about our bank’s business continuity plan. Do you even know what the hell that means? That means we have to have a documented plan FOR EACH DEPARTMENT, where we have written down step-by-friggin’-step instructions for how to resume business in the event of a disaster. Know why? Because the godforsaken bank examiners make us do it. Do you know where they will be in the event of a disaster? Yes, you are correct. They will be at home. Where we all should be in the event of a business-stopping disaster.

But NO. Not your bankers from Bumblefuck Bank & Trust! Not according to these documents that I have spent untold hours preparing and reviewing. These documents say that I will be AT WORK doing everything under the sun to keep the bank open all through whatever crisis, including ebola and other plague pandemic events, no matter what happens. I even have masks, gloves, and sanitizing gel on hand for just such an occasion. Not because anyone will there to use them, mind you, but because we have to pretend we will really go to work if this shit actually goes down.

Do you know where I’ll really be? In spite of the document? And in spite of whatever it is they’re expecting of me?

Yeah, I’ll be at home. Fuck ‘em.

WTF Wednesday - Cranky Iz Me

Back away and don't ask any stupid questions... I gave ya' fair warning!

Have You Seen This Worm?

The title of this post alone should scare the hell out of you.

Are you still here?

I was reading up on the ridiculous news stories of the past week or two, (yeah, I'm a little behind, what about it?), and came across this thing going on in Idaho. Apparently Idaho doesn’t have a whole lot to do and they have to really search for their fun. Literally.

They’re searching for an earthworm that they suspect might be as much as three feet long. I don’t know why they suspect it is three feet long as opposed to knowing it is three feet long. I have no idea. They even say he gets spotted once in awhile. I think they mean that someone sees him once in awhile, not that the earthworm actually takes on spots, but again I have no idea.

Apparently the people in search of the worm have asked the Obama administration to have it declared an endangered species. They base this request on the fact that they cannot find the worm, therefore it must be endangered. So… since we have no actual proof that the thing exists, it must exist and be considered endangered. Kinda makes me say, “hmmm,” but what do I know?

Why are they looking for him? Umm… the news article I read did not say. I have no idea. But if they find him, will they have to retract their request to make him endangered? And if the poor thing doesn't want to be found, shouldn't we just leave him hidden? 'Cause seriously, I'd really like to continue believing the thing does not exist.

How are they looking for the worm? Well, that’s interesting. They have three ideas. The first idea is to dig a hole. Now that sounds like the most effective idea to me, but we’ve already determined that I DO NOT KNOW.

The second idea was to pour vinegar and mustard on the ground and piss off the worm enough for it to come to the surface. Now I don’t know about you, but I’m not really going to try and piss off an earthworm that is 3 feet long. Hello! Did anyone see Tremors?

The third method was to shock the shit out of the worm using electricity. Huh? A minute ago they wanted him to be protected as an endangered species even though they cannot find him, and now they want to fry him.

Personally, I think this whole thing came about when some of their good ole boys in the militia had a little too much to drink. Who else would come up with this stuff?

It's a Good Idea, Right?

Dear Bare Minerals,

I have to be honest with you, you are probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me as far as make-up goes, but there is something I need for you to consider.

You see, for years, I had myself convinced that those wrinkles on my face were not really on my face at all, and were actually on the mirror. However, I had a little extra time this morning so I attempted to fix the mirror and discovered the root of the problem. So... I'm thinking we should talk about my new idea. Ready?

You know that stuff you call Mineral Veil, and how it’s supposed to hide the fine lines and give me an airbrushed appearance. (Where ‘airbrushed’ = soft and unblemished, I imagine?) Is there something else you can make, maybe a little stronger, like Mineral Spackle? Because those fine lines on my face aren’t so fine anymore. I’m thinking spackle would fill in the crevices and ravines around my face and I could just wash it off and reapply every few weeks. Think about it – I think there’s a market here.

Also, since we’re together so much, what with the time it takes each day to use 212 separate little jars and containers, each with its own screwy little top that NEVER wants to go back on, and its own special applicator brush that must be located in the special applicator brush keeping thingy, I thought we might be close enough for me to give you some feedback on your pricing. Now don’t get offended or anything, but $1,909.34 is a lot of money to spend on make-up even if your stuff does last six months. So… if you can’t lower your prices to the masses, can you at least give me your stuff for free? ‘Cause I’m all about the free stuff, and I’ll speak nicely about you on my blog if you’re my friend who gives me free stuff.

Your loyal and almost broke friend,
Blognut

PS I’ll totally sign up to be a test dummy if you make the Mineral Spackle I suggested.

PPS If you can’t make the Mineral Spackle, can you make a pretty, brown paper-bag mask that I can wear, and put your logo on it so that everyone will think it’s cool? Image is everything.

Stop, Thief!

Hey! This lady stole my t-shirt and I totally want it back.

If you see her, can you get it back for me? And no, Michel, you can't keep it if you find her first. I know you're going to say that shirt was meant to be yours, but it's mine and you can't have it.

Bloggus Nuttus Patellus Junkus

In case you're wondering about that title, I think it's Latin for I just destroyed the ever lovin' hell out of my right knee.

The blognutians and I rode our bikes up to the tennis courts tonight because I was thinking it sounded like a good idea. I was all 'tennis mom' on them and they were all 'draggin' dog' on me. At one point Girl #1 and Girl #2 decided they were done and sprawled full out on the tennis courts to show me that they meant it.

So The Boy and I grabbed our balls (and by that, I do mean tennis balls as I lack the required anatomy to actually grab my balls, although I've been known to grab other peoples' balls but that is beside the point), and we moved over to the other open court and continued to play.

Let it not be said that I give up easily, or that I haven't acquired the ability to play through the pain somewhere during my 40 years on this planet. The Boy and I played on in spite of the fact that my knee was screaming. In fact, before my knee ever started screaming, back when it was just whining a few minutes after we started to play, I said to my knee, "Bitch, shut up. We are not that damn old."

And so, after we played for a LONG TIME and my knee started screaming in protest, it told me, "Listen to me! We ARE that damn old, and I am going to make you pay dearly for ignoring my pleas. In fact, I'm going to refuse to hold your fat ass up tomorrow if you keep this up any longer."

Did I quit? Oh, I don't think so. And now? My ice pack and I are going to head over to that comfy chair with a Diet Pepsi and some Aleve.

By the way, this is the note I left Mr. Blognut when the kids and I went to play tennis:

I guess I was only half-kidding. My heart didn't fail, but my knee is another story!

Is This Day Over Yet?

You know the kind of day when you’re completely overwhelmed with life and you just don’t want anyone to talk to you? Only you can’t put a sign up on your office door saying, “Dude! I SO don’t feel like talking to you today.” And you can’t hide out in there all day because you have tens of thousands of things to do and you need stuff from other people in order to do ‘em, so you’re forced to walk around and speak to people. And you have to speak in a nice, warm, gentle tone that says, “You really want to get this done for me because I’m such a nice person and doing things for me makes you super happy.”

And then that customer shows up; the one whom we shall call ‘Looky Lou” because he has never once looked you in the eye. However, he most likely knows your bra size, the number and location of each freckle on your chest, and the exact temperature of the room in which you are standing. Also, you’re pretty sure that he knows you’re wearing a thong because he studies your ass and makes statements like, “You got a niiiice swing in your backyard.” Which you totally do, but the idea of him noticing this about you makes your skin crawl because this particular customer is a pig. So you reach into your drawer and hit the speed dial button on your cell phone that dials your office so you can apologize and say something clever like, “I’m sorry Looky Lou, but I really need to take this call.” Only today he doesn’t leave, he steps two feet outside your office door and waits for you to finish your call with yourself while you pretend to be concerned about the phantom caller and get into a detailed conversation with yourself about the format required when uploading mass exchange files and you offer up another half-assed apology and waive to him wishing him a nice rest of the week. And you hope that he does indeed believe that you will be on this call for the rest of the week and not bother coming back.

The kind of day when the files in your office have spilled over onto the chairs and you’re a little bit happy about that because at least no one can sit down when they stop by to tell you about the time they had an awful infection that drained pus “as thick as pudding” from a wound on their leg. And the whole time they’re telling you about it, they’re eyeing those chairs full of files and hoping that you’ll offer to move them so they can sit down and finish their story. Only you don’t, because you’re doing everything in your power to avoid vomiting into the trash can and throwing them right out the window. And you’re doing all of this with a smile on your face because you don’t want to appear impatient and unsympathetic, but you’re also busy running numbers in your head to determine the amount of salary being wasted while they tell you this story.

Yeah, I had exactly that kind of day. Can I stay home tomorrow?

A Real Live Pink Ribbon Contest

I was sitting here minding my own business yeah, like that’s ever gonna happen, when I received this email from a person I didn't know asking me to talk about something on my blog. Now normally I would tell you that I probably wouldn’t even open the email, but this one caught my attention because the subject line was Paint Your Appendage Pink.

Only… that IS NOT what it said at all. It’s what I read, but not what it said. Given that I am drawn to any conversations regarding a person’s appendage, I was hooked and clicking away before I caught on that the word was actually APPLIANCE. It said PAINT YOUR APPLIANCE PINK.

Well, okay, that could be interesting, too. And my ADD was already called away from the task at hand that I didn’t want to be doing anyway, so I figured I may as well see what this thing was all about and that’s what I did.

It turns out that what we have here is a contest and I don’t have to do anything to make it work or keep it fair and a company called PartSelect will donate $25 to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation for every entry received.

All you have to do, if you’re interested, is paint a pink ribbon on one of your appliances, take a picture of it, and send it to PartSelect via email, Twitter, or even FaceBook. Click HERE to go THERE and find out more about it.

If you’re wondering what’s in it for you, you can win one of three Pink Prize Packages valued at $369.97 as detailed on the website. And just to show you what a good sport I am I’ll throw in the extra .03 and round that off to an even $370 if you let me know that you entered and won because of this post, and I’ll post any pictures you send me if you enter the contest. (Where ‘any pictures’ is defined as pictures of pink ribbons on your appliances, not on your appendages, and where you agree to understand that sending ME the picture does not mean that you entered the contest and you still have to send it to the nice folks over at PartSelect.)

You may know that Breast Cancer is one of those things that touched my life (and by ‘touched’, I mean that it kicked the crap out of my family) a little over a year ago when my mother-in-law was diagnosed with it and then died just two months later. This whole year has been a year of ‘firsts’ without her and there isn’t a single day that I haven’t missed her laugh. I’m still knocked over by it when I reach for the phone to call and tell her something then remember that she’s gone. So if I can do something simple to honor her and further along the research, or to bring about a cure just a little bit faster, count me in. Especially if that research leads to a cure that will keep my daughters from ever having to face the monster that is breast cancer.

Oh, and one other thing, the lovely Diane is just a gnat’s whisker away from her donation goal for the 3-Day Walk that she’s participating in this fall. So… if you haven’t… and you can… and you want to help… and you love me… or her... click HERE, or on that ribbon in my sidebar. She’s really nice and will send you an email telling you that you rock, or that you’re wonderful, and that she likes you almost as much as me. Or, she’ll just say thank you because she’s polite like that.

**Updated with a picture of my dishwasher with its new frosting...er...paint. Yeah, paint.

Love Comes With Strings Attached

So... this made me smile today. Until I got to wondering how much it was going to cost me. Because... really... Girl #1 is up to something.


Dear Mom

I Love you so much! You are the cake part of my cakes! (Because that part is way better than the frosting!) You are the darkness of my day! (Because I love sleeping!) You are the butterfinger chunks in my ice cream! (Because who needs maraschino cherries when you've got butterfinger chunks?) Without you, my candles would melt into a pile of frosting! Without you, I may as well move to Alaska! I don't want to move to Alaska! Without you, my ice cream would be bland!!!! Not bland ice cream!!
I Love you so very much Mom!!!!!!!!!!!
Love, love, love,
The Good Child


And we ALL know who that is!!

The Racetrack, The Blognut, and The People

I didn’t go to work yesterday. Know why? I volunteered to work a fundraiser. I was never very good at saying no, but I probably would’ve done this anyway because you gotta do what you gotta do.

What was I doing? Tending bar... at a friggin' racetrack... where some NASCAR event was taking place... and no, I have no idea what was happening out on the track because I never set foot out from behind the bar except to pee and I only got to do that once in twelve friggin' hours... and even if I had gone out to look at the track, I still wouldn't have known what was going on because watching cars go fast in a circle to the left has never really interested me and I hardly see the point.

However, if there was one redeeming quality to this day, it was all in the people watching. Holy Mother of God! I have seen it all now! And people who are pounding down shots of booze will tell you anything. Trust me, this day was as amusing as it was disturbing.

Here are a few random observations from my day:

People will pay an ungodly amount of money to watch cars go ‘round in circles, and this was just for the time trials or something (whatever that means, it’s what they told me).

On top of the heaps of money spent to BE there, they will spend even more money to drink at the bar while they’re there. I was serving shots for $9 each. Did you hear me? I said NINE DOLLARS. And they were pounding them down one right after another.

There are a lot of mullets at the racetrack. A LOT OF MULLETS.

Sometimes people who wear mullets are actually bald on the top. I don’t know what to call that.

At the racetrack, there are almost as many gold teeth as there are mullets.

There are almost as many missing teeth as there are gold teeth.

I saw a man wearing two pairs of jeans. And his belt? He wore that on the inside pair of jeans, and let the outside pair ride down a little.

I was afraid to ask.

I saw a man wearing two baseball caps. I did ask about that, and the explanation made no sense to me.

Race cars are loud and rumbly. You can feel the noise in your tummy.

People who go to racetracks do not wear a lot of clothes. Well, except for that guy with two pairs of jeans. Hey! You think he brought those extra pants to give to someone who forgot their pants?

Port-a-potties should be outlawed. They’re disgusting. Jack Daniel’s should spring for real bathrooms. They charge enough for their shots, they can afford a decent bathroom.

I hang onto that little cord on the inside of the port-a-potty door so I can do the ‘dangle’ and not have to sit on those seats.

If that little cord ever breaks on me, I will fall into the hole and drown in a disgusting concoction of stewed poo-poo.

There are tons of people who bring their toddlers into the Jack Daniel’s bar so they can take their pictures in front of the Jack Daniel’s sign. I guess they’re sending those photos to Grandma?

People who pay $9 a shot will tip you $5-$6 each if you smile a lot and you pour their shots heavy.

And you compliment them on their mullet.

Where do you go to find a barber who will still give you that style? Or, do you get that from a home haircut by your mama?

Just wonderin’.

So, yeah, that was my day. I had fun, met some ‘real friendly’ folks, and had some very interesting conversations. Not bad, and we made a lot of money. The blog fodder was just an added bonus.

And Now I Really Have to Move

Last night I was VERY, VERY tired and I collapsed into my little blognut bed before 10 o'clock. Now you know that is unusual because we blognuts tend to be nocturnal creatures, but last night was an exception.

Just before falling asleep, I felt like there was something crawling on me right by my ear and I promptly, and very appropriately, freaked the fuck out. In the mayhem, I clawed most of my right ear off my head and then checked around, scanning the area for any creepy, crawly things. Finding none, I decided that I was a paranoid nut, and fell asleep.


This morning I woke up to find two, count 'em two, very large spidery bites on my left butt cheek. Do you have any idea what it's like having to walk around all day with an itchy ass? And not be able to scratch it? I tried everything. I even put toothpaste on it while I was at work. Hey! Shut it! Somebody once told me that would work.

It didn't help the itch but it did make me do a little, 'Hey, my ass is on fire!' dance.

Now, in addition to two incredibly itchy spider bites, I have a minty fresh ass.

And Now I Must Face Facts

Do you see this? What kind of shit is this?

Let me just say that when I wake up to the blue screen of death (as shown above), I know that my computer, which has been threatening to die for weeks, has finally pulled its own plug.

Sure, I heard the whining of the fan. I heard the moaning and groaning each time I threatened to open a file. I saw the errors. I saw the repeated invitations to diable BIOS memory options and restart my computer. But I was in denial people. DENIAL.

And now? Now it says to contact my system administrator or technical support group for further assistance. Support group? Where? Who?The?Heck?Are?Those?People? I ask you - Do you see a phone number on that screen anywhere? No, no you don't. How friggin' helpful is that?

If I do, by some magical grace of the universe, actually manage to locate a phone number to call for support, will they keep me on the phone for hours on end? Will they say things to me that I do not understand? Will they give an exasperated sigh each time I have to admit that I have absolutely no idea what they're asking me to do?

Is this really how I wanted to spend my sunny Sunday afternoon?

I think not. The thought of dealing with the computer issue actually makes me sweat - and it also kinda makes me feel like I need to go potty.

Maybe I should just buy a new computer.

Everyone Loves a Parade, Right?

Here’s the deal. I have to be in a damn parade tomorrow. All because we had to go and win that little skirmish with the Brits just 233 years ago, I have to be in a parade.

Now I’m not complaining about the outcome of the skirmish, so before you get your red, white, and blue knickers in a bunch, please know that I’m grateful for our independence and just not so much the parade, okay?

Tomorrow morning, while you're sitting in your comfy chair planning your BBQ and contemplating whether or not you should shower before noon, picture your favorite blognut walking the streets of Bumblefuck Suburbia in 100 degrees with a chance of hurricane. I'll be the one dying from a mixture of heat exhaustion, parade geeks, swoobs (sweaty boobs), and swack (figure it out). And if you happen to be watching my local cable station, it should be easy to pick me out of the crowd. I'll have frizzy Krusty the Clown hair and a fake smile pasted on my fuzzy, blue face.

Children and small animals beware! This is the stuff of nightmares.

I Can See Clearly Now

Oddly enough, yesterday I had two different people tell me that I need to start wearing my glasses.

In the first conversation, with this person, I may have admitted to the whole driving blind thing, and she may have threatened me with some sort of punishment that was really much too harsh for the crime, and more than a little bit over the top. Ahem. I do not wish to say more about this, but she knows that she threatened my very existence. It would be like taking the batteries away from the Energizer bunny, but that’s all I’m going to say.

Later, standing in my driveway talking with Mr. Blognut, I motioned to something in the yard and asked if it was a toy or an animal. To this he replied, “Oh God! Would you just put some glasses on already?” What! It was small and was more than 7 feet away from me, and why can’t we be happy with the fact that I saw a lump there and not worry about whether or not I could recognize it for a bird?

Anyway… I took all of this harsh treatment to heart. I did not put on my glasses because they make me look like this:


I did, however, and after multiple attempts, manage to get my contacts into my eyes; along with my perfume… and my mascara… and several eyelashes. But I can see! And how exciting is that? I CAN SEE!

And OH CRAP! These contacts make my butt look big! What the fuck? Also? There are lines around my eyes. Big, deep, crevices that no Botox can touch.

I’m really thinking it would be better if this particular blognut remains blind. When I was fuzzy and out of focus, (SHUT UP!), my butt looked better and I did not have cellulite or stretch marks anywhere on my body. Nowhere on the package of contacts is there a warning that says contacts give you cellulite. NOWHERE. I even looked on the contact solution bottle, too. There is nothing. Someone should report this problem to the warning police. Who do I call? Better yet, who can you call on my behalf? Because… hello… lazy.

And? Exactly how long have I had this moustache?