Shopping Horrors and Genius Design
My most favorite holiday is Thanksgiving. No gifts. No pressure. It’s just a good old-fashioned food holiday. Amen.
Christmas is another story entirely. It blows. Or at least shopping for Christmas does. Obviously celebrating the birth of our Sweet Baby Jesus does not blow. Having to spend your life savings to make sure everybody gets a present, totally does.
I would also like to point out that these two holidays fall MUCH to close together. If they were just a few months apart I might actually enjoy seeing my family again. I’m usually so GD cranky from all the “fun” I’ve had at Thanksgiving I’m not quite ready for Round Two and all the expense it entails.
Even if the gifts were free the shopping has become so painful for me, I’m thinking of taking up a non-Christmas celebrating religion. Like Jehovah’s Witness or something.
Perhaps if you have never worked retail you can’t imagine how bad the public sucks and their infinite capacity for STUPID. I have. That means I am very nice to people that work retail, and that also means I get super pissed when the retail associate is rude. Like, “Uh, uh, girl. I know you just didn’t take that tone with me!” kind of pissed, with a few snaps and some head weaving.
Ugh! So this year I managed to do all my Christmas shopping in four hours, in one painful afternoon. I took the ‘rip the band-aid off fast’ approach. Which makes me feel like I might have missed a few people… But I then found myself distracted and shopping for a little something for me, in Macy’s. (I had a gift card.)
So I have a new shopping experience that is so horrible it almost rivals Christmas shopping on a weekday with 8 million other people that should be at work. (I mean SERIOUSLY! Does no one in Austin work during the week?) Unless you’re shopping for shoes or make-up, you should seriously avoid Macy’s this season.
I entered Macy’s and found myself dazed from the stink of perfume, moving like a ping-pong ball between the ‘Tiny Hiney’ and ‘I’m a Racey Slut’ section before mistakenly wandering past the crazy sweater sets that scream ‘I’m a Cat Lady.’ I had a very scary trip thru the velour sweat suits before I found tops that somehow managed to defy the law of physics and make even the poor manikin look fat. Which isn’t a good sign. And that was the entire store if you don’t count ‘Children’s.’ Am I the only one that feels ‘Normal Women’s Apparel’ is grossly underrepresented at Macy’s?
Next I tried Gap, another big mistake. Apparently Gap has reverted to selling the stuff American Eagle threw out in 1996, or a crazed flannel loving lumberjack has redone the entire place. It’s frightening.
Am I that old? (Seriously. Do NOT answer that.) Have I outgrown the Gap? Or perhaps now that I’ve been exposed to retailers like Ann Taylor and Nordstrom’s it makes it really hard to plunk down $40.00 for a cotton top that looks like your Uncle Joe and his beer gut borrowed it for bowling after it’s first washing. Or worse, you can spend more than 50 bucks for a Macy’s top, and the only place you’re able to wear it is out to your neighbor’s quinceanera.
And now I shall leave you with the image of my clothing montage. An ode to hideous fashion trends:
I envision a gold sequin top matched with a velour skirt in purple, worn over black and white polka dot tights. A traditional red and black flannel will drape the shoulders on chilly nights and a back up Santa sweater (reindeer embroidering included) is to be wrapped at the waist. Low-top Chuck Taylors in purple can be used for day, and a black ankle boot cuffed in suede for evening.
Well I’ll be damned. Add a dash of patchouli and I've just created the most perfect, New Age Hippie outfit. Eat your heart out Isaac Mizrahi and break out the booze. My shopping's done, my outfit's planned and I feel a little cheerful!
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Books of Note
To Blog or To Jog
Where does time go? Where have I been for the last 3 weeks, you ask? I have been busy trying to dry out after my pumpkin pie binder. I managed to take down 3 pies in the short 10 days before Thanksgiving… And there may have been a few more pie incidents over the actual Holiday. Which I have since renamed the Sugar Daze.
Since the beginning of November I have been mourning my Holiday weight gain by stuffing my face with chocolates. I also have spent some time reading and trying to convince myself the pain in my knees and hips will get better if I simply jog it out.
(The aforementioned most incredible Chocolates in the entire world can be found in Fredericksburg, Texas at ‘Quintessential Chocolates.’ Or order them here:
www.chocolat-tx.us Be warned. You will forever need just one more piece. I am almost certain her secret ingredient is crack.)
Out of the 6ish (or maybe it was 12) books I have finished since my last blog, my absolute favorite has been Chelsea Handler’s, ‘Are you There Vodka, It’s Me Chelsea.’ After reading this book I came to a few realizations: A) My measly use of The F Word has NOTHING on Chelsea. B) Her parents must be SO proud of her. C) I should have found Chelsea eons ago.
Seriously. Scandalous and Hysterical. If I wrote anything similar, I would constantly live in fear of my Father. One would think that bringing home buckets of money would make the content of your best selling book less troublesome… Or surely you’re immune from whippins after the age of 29… But those people do not belong to my family. This would definitely fall into the, ‘My Parents Would (Still) Beat My Ass For That’ category of activities.
(I know of at least one Singer Sister that can relate, and thanks very much for the book recommendation.)
Another notable mention is ‘Sippy Cups Are Not For Chardonnay,’ by Stefanie Wilder-Taylor. Complete opposite ends of the spectrum since she writes about being a new mother and the closest Chelsea Handler will ever get to that is adopting or abducting a little person… But it’s really, really good.
After reading all of these great books I must confess, I have developed a little bit of an inferiority complex… I simply must up the F Bomb content of this blog. I have also come to the realization I must immediately work less, take more vacations, and live a little more vicariously if I want good, scandalous content. And apparently being Jewish is helpful…
On another note, as of today I have made a whopping 11 cents on my blog! Keep clicking those adverts people and we will have us one hell of a lake house! In approximately 400,000 years…
Where does time go? Where have I been for the last 3 weeks, you ask? I have been busy trying to dry out after my pumpkin pie binder. I managed to take down 3 pies in the short 10 days before Thanksgiving… And there may have been a few more pie incidents over the actual Holiday. Which I have since renamed the Sugar Daze.
Since the beginning of November I have been mourning my Holiday weight gain by stuffing my face with chocolates. I also have spent some time reading and trying to convince myself the pain in my knees and hips will get better if I simply jog it out.
(The aforementioned most incredible Chocolates in the entire world can be found in Fredericksburg, Texas at ‘Quintessential Chocolates.’ Or order them here:
www.chocolat-tx.us Be warned. You will forever need just one more piece. I am almost certain her secret ingredient is crack.)
Out of the 6ish (or maybe it was 12) books I have finished since my last blog, my absolute favorite has been Chelsea Handler’s, ‘Are you There Vodka, It’s Me Chelsea.’ After reading this book I came to a few realizations: A) My measly use of The F Word has NOTHING on Chelsea. B) Her parents must be SO proud of her. C) I should have found Chelsea eons ago.
Seriously. Scandalous and Hysterical. If I wrote anything similar, I would constantly live in fear of my Father. One would think that bringing home buckets of money would make the content of your best selling book less troublesome… Or surely you’re immune from whippins after the age of 29… But those people do not belong to my family. This would definitely fall into the, ‘My Parents Would (Still) Beat My Ass For That’ category of activities.
(I know of at least one Singer Sister that can relate, and thanks very much for the book recommendation.)
Another notable mention is ‘Sippy Cups Are Not For Chardonnay,’ by Stefanie Wilder-Taylor. Complete opposite ends of the spectrum since she writes about being a new mother and the closest Chelsea Handler will ever get to that is adopting or abducting a little person… But it’s really, really good.
After reading all of these great books I must confess, I have developed a little bit of an inferiority complex… I simply must up the F Bomb content of this blog. I have also come to the realization I must immediately work less, take more vacations, and live a little more vicariously if I want good, scandalous content. And apparently being Jewish is helpful…
On another note, as of today I have made a whopping 11 cents on my blog! Keep clicking those adverts people and we will have us one hell of a lake house! In approximately 400,000 years…
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Gator On The Trails
And Other Delirious Thoughts
Exercise, or the concept of exercising rather, didn’t find me until I was in my mid-twenties.
I played tennis in middle school and I have ridden horses for ages. I had a brief, very painful semester of drill team before I decided that it required too much of the aforementioned exercise and I took up bar hopping and billiards for cardiovascular fitness.
Looking back at pictures of myself from those days I realize I was never the fatso I convinced myself to be. Now I rue the day my metabolism woke up and decided to throw itself over a cliff, like one of those demented lemmings... Or perhaps it went more like Thelma and Louise. Yes. I find myself liking that analogy much better. Lots of loud music and fire.
And… I hear it only gets ‘better.’ Woo Frickin Hoo! Sign me up for that shit.
After professional school and blowing up like a bit of a whale, (surviving on Taco Bueno catches up with a Sista) I have flirted with several exercise programs. First I found a personal trainer. Next I fell in love with P90X. After 4 months of staring at Tony Horton and his bod squad, I decided I needed a change. Especially since I had started having dialogues with his DVD, most of which included me yelling at TH to “Go Stuff yourself!” (Insert appropriate F word.)
My downstairs neighbors, I’m certain, give thanks to Jesus daily since I’ve taken a break from P90X. Rock star hops and jump lunges are just a few of the exercises that can really strain an upstairs/ downstairs neighbor relationship. Elephants performing ballet probably make less noise.
Hey. I’m just doing my part to pay it forward. The tiny Fella that lives above me weighs less than 80 pounds, soaking wet, and yet he manages to make twice as much noise as a herd of wildebeests. I mean, WTF does he DO up there!? I SWEAR it sounds like he’s dropping free weights.
So my new exercise infatuation is jogging. Austin is home to some of the most beautifully fit people in the world, and apparently none of them actually work because the trails at Town Lake are always full. I have slowly and painfully worked up to jogging a full 2 miles of a 3-mile loop. (Insert pat on the back here. My pain tolerance is so low it doesn’t even register on a scale, and this has been kind of painful. I’m not gonna lie.)
So I’m Cruisin’ the Dunes (running the trail) the other day, playing Lets Make a Deal, the only thing that keeps me moving. Hey, whatever it takes, and for me it’s mind checkers. “Just make it past that next tree (or bench, or hill). You can do it! You’re not WEAK! YOU’RE NOT WEAK!” I use this strategy to drown out the screaming from my muscles, “Abort! Abort! We’ve lost a Fricken leg!”
It’s my own personal version of the Little Train That Could. (BTW: I’m talking in my head, not out loud. This may seem doubtful, but as far as I can tell it remains internal monologue at this point.)
I have just crested the last hill I fear I can jog without my heart exploding or my spleen bleeding… And by the amount of pain coming from my side, I fear I’ve just blown past that point. My pants are on the sag, somewhere just below Crotchville and my beautiful jogging form has regressed to something more similar to a frightening, drooling, red-faced troll.
As I start my ‘I Didn’t Die!’ victory celebration with an air punch, a small Whoop, hop and a jump, an explosion of realization hits me. I am standing in the proverbial shit storm. Or sliding rather. I barely manage to save myself from an ass plant while I partake in a brief but infuriating one-foot slide down the hill. Who else manages to execute a celebration on top of a cleverly disguised, GD puddle of sludge, resembling a cow patty but smelling far worse? And who, I ask, would LEAVE that in the MIDDLE of the trail?
I finish my loop mourning the demise of my brand new shoes, shooting dirty looks and the finger at all the dog joggers not carrying poo bags. Okay, I didn’t shoot the finger but I really wanted to.
Delirious thoughts on the trail:
Shouldn’t all maniacs on mountain bikes be required to use a (non heart attack inducing) bell, when occupying the same trail as the hikers? I bet it's infinitely more fun to watch the hikers scatter like frightened lambs to a chorus of bike brakes and screams.
People that make eye contact on the trail… Are they checking you out, like, “Hey Baby?” Or maybe they glance around just to admire the scenery? Perhaps they enjoy the camaraderie of sharing internal hemorrhage with fellow exercise enthusiasts? Why do I get that paranoid felling they’re gawking at my shockingly red face I attribute to an unfortunate Irish heritage? (Being Irish isn’t unfortunate. The red face that last for days post exercise is awesome.)
Why do the super skinny bitches jog in tiny bra tops when it’s 60 degrees outside? And to these same women, I would like to make a suggestion. For the love of Baby Jesus! Go sit your skinny ass on the couch and eat some big ‘ol sammiches.
Exercise, or the concept of exercising rather, didn’t find me until I was in my mid-twenties.
I played tennis in middle school and I have ridden horses for ages. I had a brief, very painful semester of drill team before I decided that it required too much of the aforementioned exercise and I took up bar hopping and billiards for cardiovascular fitness.
Looking back at pictures of myself from those days I realize I was never the fatso I convinced myself to be. Now I rue the day my metabolism woke up and decided to throw itself over a cliff, like one of those demented lemmings... Or perhaps it went more like Thelma and Louise. Yes. I find myself liking that analogy much better. Lots of loud music and fire.
And… I hear it only gets ‘better.’ Woo Frickin Hoo! Sign me up for that shit.
After professional school and blowing up like a bit of a whale, (surviving on Taco Bueno catches up with a Sista) I have flirted with several exercise programs. First I found a personal trainer. Next I fell in love with P90X. After 4 months of staring at Tony Horton and his bod squad, I decided I needed a change. Especially since I had started having dialogues with his DVD, most of which included me yelling at TH to “Go Stuff yourself!” (Insert appropriate F word.)
My downstairs neighbors, I’m certain, give thanks to Jesus daily since I’ve taken a break from P90X. Rock star hops and jump lunges are just a few of the exercises that can really strain an upstairs/ downstairs neighbor relationship. Elephants performing ballet probably make less noise.
Hey. I’m just doing my part to pay it forward. The tiny Fella that lives above me weighs less than 80 pounds, soaking wet, and yet he manages to make twice as much noise as a herd of wildebeests. I mean, WTF does he DO up there!? I SWEAR it sounds like he’s dropping free weights.
So my new exercise infatuation is jogging. Austin is home to some of the most beautifully fit people in the world, and apparently none of them actually work because the trails at Town Lake are always full. I have slowly and painfully worked up to jogging a full 2 miles of a 3-mile loop. (Insert pat on the back here. My pain tolerance is so low it doesn’t even register on a scale, and this has been kind of painful. I’m not gonna lie.)
So I’m Cruisin’ the Dunes (running the trail) the other day, playing Lets Make a Deal, the only thing that keeps me moving. Hey, whatever it takes, and for me it’s mind checkers. “Just make it past that next tree (or bench, or hill). You can do it! You’re not WEAK! YOU’RE NOT WEAK!” I use this strategy to drown out the screaming from my muscles, “Abort! Abort! We’ve lost a Fricken leg!”
It’s my own personal version of the Little Train That Could. (BTW: I’m talking in my head, not out loud. This may seem doubtful, but as far as I can tell it remains internal monologue at this point.)
I have just crested the last hill I fear I can jog without my heart exploding or my spleen bleeding… And by the amount of pain coming from my side, I fear I’ve just blown past that point. My pants are on the sag, somewhere just below Crotchville and my beautiful jogging form has regressed to something more similar to a frightening, drooling, red-faced troll.
As I start my ‘I Didn’t Die!’ victory celebration with an air punch, a small Whoop, hop and a jump, an explosion of realization hits me. I am standing in the proverbial shit storm. Or sliding rather. I barely manage to save myself from an ass plant while I partake in a brief but infuriating one-foot slide down the hill. Who else manages to execute a celebration on top of a cleverly disguised, GD puddle of sludge, resembling a cow patty but smelling far worse? And who, I ask, would LEAVE that in the MIDDLE of the trail?
I finish my loop mourning the demise of my brand new shoes, shooting dirty looks and the finger at all the dog joggers not carrying poo bags. Okay, I didn’t shoot the finger but I really wanted to.
Delirious thoughts on the trail:
Shouldn’t all maniacs on mountain bikes be required to use a (non heart attack inducing) bell, when occupying the same trail as the hikers? I bet it's infinitely more fun to watch the hikers scatter like frightened lambs to a chorus of bike brakes and screams.
People that make eye contact on the trail… Are they checking you out, like, “Hey Baby?” Or maybe they glance around just to admire the scenery? Perhaps they enjoy the camaraderie of sharing internal hemorrhage with fellow exercise enthusiasts? Why do I get that paranoid felling they’re gawking at my shockingly red face I attribute to an unfortunate Irish heritage? (Being Irish isn’t unfortunate. The red face that last for days post exercise is awesome.)
Why do the super skinny bitches jog in tiny bra tops when it’s 60 degrees outside? And to these same women, I would like to make a suggestion. For the love of Baby Jesus! Go sit your skinny ass on the couch and eat some big ‘ol sammiches.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Encounter With the Law (Number 456)
Gator Encounters the Law
Anyone that has ever had the pleasure of driving on I-35 will agree with me. It always seems like the National Conference Of Idiots has just ended, and they have all been ushered onto I-35 at the exact same time. Anytime, night or day, this is where you will find the WORST drivers in America. Hands down.
If ever a check point was estalished, I’m certain less than half of these people would have a valid driver’s license. I can hear my Pops yelling from my youth, “Sears must be giving driver’s licenses away again!” Or, “Did you get your GD license at SEARS!?” And thus the cycle repeats as I yell the same things in addition, adding my own personal, colorful expressions.
So the scenery is set. Idiots all over the road. It’s three lanes, mind you… But the left lane entitlement runs real deep here. That’s how we roll in Texas. No passing in the left lane unless you can fit into half a carspace and wiggle thru all the Cash-For-Clunkers headed to Mexico.
JS and I were heading South for my birthday bash on the Frio River. I took the wheel because my Grandpa (when he was alive) drove twice as fast as JS... When he was 80. Do you ever feel like your going so slow you’re moving backwards? Then you understand exacly what it feels like to ride with my dearest JS.
JS, rather than hear me gripe for 3 hours, graciously let me get behind the wheel. Which is a notable occurrence, because I rarely manage to return his truck unscathed. He usually sees me off by saying, “Let’s try not to hit anything today,” or “Remember my truck takes diesel!”
Gator vs.Truck saga is as follows:
I accidently pushed the wrong button on the automatic entrance gate the first week JS owned the truck… It was truly a horrific sight. It happened in slow motion (with me yelling Nooooo!) as the gate bounced repeatedly against his truck.
The back bumper might have the slightest gangster lean, after I backed into a tree. (This I totally blame on JS. He was standing in front of the truck yelling and waving his arms. Who looks in their mirrors when you have a dance party to watch?)
I might also have had something to do with the cracked side mirror, which might have occurred while trying to fit into the bank’s drive-thru lane. Clearly the Effing drive-thru engineers are at fault for that....
Lastly, there may or may not be horse bite marks on the body of the same truck. This remains to be seen, because the truck has not had a bath in at least 12 months. I guess seeing the damage in the sparkling light of a clean exterior makes it more painful.
Prologue to my 456th traffic stop: JS is coaching me to pass the clunkers and other folks driving less than 5 miles over the speed limit. “Drop the hammer! Hit it! Punch it baby, that hole is closing up! Do it! Drive woman!” I was under extreme peer pressure from the Over Caffeinated Driving Grampa. And the rest, unfortunately, is New Braunfels PD history... Keep in mind that the truck in question is a speeder’s dream. The equivalent of a diesel turbo, whatever that’s called. It’s quite easy to loose your head and get a little carried away. It can smoke a clunker in like 2.5.
Oficer: Mam. I clocked you driving 86 in a 70.
G: Oh my God! Really!? (PRAISE the Sweet Baby Jesus! The Hallelujah chorus is so loud in my head I think he might actually hear it. I was certain he was taking my ass straight to the Pokey for driving a little faster than that.)
G: You’re kidding!? I sped up so those crazy people could get around me. I seriously thought those two trucks were going to run me off the road.
Officer: Yeah… They passed you like you were sitting still. Unfortunately, I clocked you ‘bout 10 miles back there when you cut off that van. And since I already had you in my sights…
G: Oh… In that case, I probably was going really fast back there. Damn it! I've been on my best behavior lately and everything!
At this point I can’t quit giggling. In hindsight, it’s surprising he didn’t give us both a sobriety test. (It was 9 am and we were both totally sober.) The moment we see flashing lights JS turns into Napolean Dork Dynamite. He’s sitting over there, snorting with laughter, hanging out the GD window so his hands can be seen, at the same time trying to effectively restrain the rabid chihuahua with his elbows. (She’s wiley and she really hates when I get speeding tickets. In her skittle sized brain, lunging at the Law Officer seems helpful.)
Officer: Mam. I’m going to need to see your license and registration.
JS: Officer? I’m going to slowly bring my hands into the vehicle, open the glove box and pass you the insurance. Is that okay?
Officer: Scrunches up his forehead like he might be dealing with someone just escaped from a mental institution and says, Uh, Yeah… That’s just fine.
G: Officer? You realize I'm never going to hear the end of this, right?
Officer: Laughs, like really hard. Yes, Mam. I expect as much. Y’all have a real nice day and thanks for being so nice. Drive safe now, you hear?
I told JS if he didn't quit laughing I was kindly going to break his face... Then I had to listen to him change the lyrics to any song on the radio to include speeding or ticket references (He’s so clever) for at least the next 100 miles. He said that he forfited any guilt because he had already caught me passing folk in the mid 90's before our little incident with the Law Man...
Epilogue:
G: We need a radio station change. This crap is bringing me down.
JS: Or maybe that's just your 300 dollar speeding ticket.
G: Touche Mister!
Anyone that has ever had the pleasure of driving on I-35 will agree with me. It always seems like the National Conference Of Idiots has just ended, and they have all been ushered onto I-35 at the exact same time. Anytime, night or day, this is where you will find the WORST drivers in America. Hands down.
If ever a check point was estalished, I’m certain less than half of these people would have a valid driver’s license. I can hear my Pops yelling from my youth, “Sears must be giving driver’s licenses away again!” Or, “Did you get your GD license at SEARS!?” And thus the cycle repeats as I yell the same things in addition, adding my own personal, colorful expressions.
So the scenery is set. Idiots all over the road. It’s three lanes, mind you… But the left lane entitlement runs real deep here. That’s how we roll in Texas. No passing in the left lane unless you can fit into half a carspace and wiggle thru all the Cash-For-Clunkers headed to Mexico.
JS and I were heading South for my birthday bash on the Frio River. I took the wheel because my Grandpa (when he was alive) drove twice as fast as JS... When he was 80. Do you ever feel like your going so slow you’re moving backwards? Then you understand exacly what it feels like to ride with my dearest JS.
JS, rather than hear me gripe for 3 hours, graciously let me get behind the wheel. Which is a notable occurrence, because I rarely manage to return his truck unscathed. He usually sees me off by saying, “Let’s try not to hit anything today,” or “Remember my truck takes diesel!”
Gator vs.Truck saga is as follows:
I accidently pushed the wrong button on the automatic entrance gate the first week JS owned the truck… It was truly a horrific sight. It happened in slow motion (with me yelling Nooooo!) as the gate bounced repeatedly against his truck.
The back bumper might have the slightest gangster lean, after I backed into a tree. (This I totally blame on JS. He was standing in front of the truck yelling and waving his arms. Who looks in their mirrors when you have a dance party to watch?)
I might also have had something to do with the cracked side mirror, which might have occurred while trying to fit into the bank’s drive-thru lane. Clearly the Effing drive-thru engineers are at fault for that....
Lastly, there may or may not be horse bite marks on the body of the same truck. This remains to be seen, because the truck has not had a bath in at least 12 months. I guess seeing the damage in the sparkling light of a clean exterior makes it more painful.
Prologue to my 456th traffic stop: JS is coaching me to pass the clunkers and other folks driving less than 5 miles over the speed limit. “Drop the hammer! Hit it! Punch it baby, that hole is closing up! Do it! Drive woman!” I was under extreme peer pressure from the Over Caffeinated Driving Grampa. And the rest, unfortunately, is New Braunfels PD history... Keep in mind that the truck in question is a speeder’s dream. The equivalent of a diesel turbo, whatever that’s called. It’s quite easy to loose your head and get a little carried away. It can smoke a clunker in like 2.5.
Oficer: Mam. I clocked you driving 86 in a 70.
G: Oh my God! Really!? (PRAISE the Sweet Baby Jesus! The Hallelujah chorus is so loud in my head I think he might actually hear it. I was certain he was taking my ass straight to the Pokey for driving a little faster than that.)
G: You’re kidding!? I sped up so those crazy people could get around me. I seriously thought those two trucks were going to run me off the road.
Officer: Yeah… They passed you like you were sitting still. Unfortunately, I clocked you ‘bout 10 miles back there when you cut off that van. And since I already had you in my sights…
G: Oh… In that case, I probably was going really fast back there. Damn it! I've been on my best behavior lately and everything!
At this point I can’t quit giggling. In hindsight, it’s surprising he didn’t give us both a sobriety test. (It was 9 am and we were both totally sober.) The moment we see flashing lights JS turns into Napolean Dork Dynamite. He’s sitting over there, snorting with laughter, hanging out the GD window so his hands can be seen, at the same time trying to effectively restrain the rabid chihuahua with his elbows. (She’s wiley and she really hates when I get speeding tickets. In her skittle sized brain, lunging at the Law Officer seems helpful.)
Officer: Mam. I’m going to need to see your license and registration.
JS: Officer? I’m going to slowly bring my hands into the vehicle, open the glove box and pass you the insurance. Is that okay?
Officer: Scrunches up his forehead like he might be dealing with someone just escaped from a mental institution and says, Uh, Yeah… That’s just fine.
G: Officer? You realize I'm never going to hear the end of this, right?
Officer: Laughs, like really hard. Yes, Mam. I expect as much. Y’all have a real nice day and thanks for being so nice. Drive safe now, you hear?
I told JS if he didn't quit laughing I was kindly going to break his face... Then I had to listen to him change the lyrics to any song on the radio to include speeding or ticket references (He’s so clever) for at least the next 100 miles. He said that he forfited any guilt because he had already caught me passing folk in the mid 90's before our little incident with the Law Man...
Epilogue:
G: We need a radio station change. This crap is bringing me down.
JS: Or maybe that's just your 300 dollar speeding ticket.
G: Touche Mister!
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Why Gator?
Why Gator?
Of all the pen names one can think of, I understand my choice may seem a bit odd. (Unless you have spent any length of time in a classroom with me, or we’re lucky enough to be related. Insert big toothy grin here.)
Our family has a thing with nicknames. We like to give them to the chil’rens. Most of them are used less frequently (thank you Jesus) as we age, but occasionally they resurface. Boozy family gatherings are a prime place to hear them. That statement seems rather silly, at least for our family. I’m almost certain the Webster’s definition of family gathering has zero text and pictures several bottles of booze. Surely some of you can relate?
The family list of nicknames includes: Sara-Bo-Beara, Boo-Rachi, Re, Bird, Crow, T-Bone, Christopher J. Moose, and mine, Gator. It’s actually shocking that none of us grew up to be professional wrestlers or Nascar drivers. Keep in mind these names were created in the late 70’s, early 80’s. Who’s to say what the driving inspiration was?
Gator, to this day, remains a very appropriate moniker. Peaceful, toothy grin one minute. Lots of blood and feathers the next. Have you ever seen Steve Irwin feed a chicken to one of his crocs? (RIP Steve) Very similar, I just prefer to bite the heads off of people I find annoying. Fewer feathers.
This is a perfect example of why you don’t name your dog Cujo or your pony Widow Maker. If you want them to be nice animals, give them nice names, Fluffy, Daisy, Freckles, and such. (Trust me when I say Cory, although a seemingly harmless pony name, is NOT. It falls directly into the satanic pony category. Somewhere, in some language, it equates to the devil.)
Of all the nicknames I’ve been given, Gator is actually the nicest. When I started day care I would throw huge, wailing, screaming fits, and I was named Crabby. In high school I broke both my arms and had road rash covering one entire leg, so I was called Scabby. Side Note: When you are sliding down a cement sidewalk at a great rate of speed on your ass, you will immediately and with great clarity realize roller blading is much more enjoyable standing in an upright position, and shorts were indeed another regrettable decision.
In professional school I was stuck in a classroom for 10 hours a day with the same 100 people for 3 years, and I earned the name Limbic. (This implies I have Swiss cheese for a Frontal Lobe, where normal people have self-control and language filters… SO WHAT! Maybe I yelled a little every once in awhile. Big deal. We were a less than happy dysfunctional family. Trust me when I say I’ve seen people crack up under a lot less pressure.)
And that’s the story. Although Crabby and Scabby might have generated some very interesting Google Ads, Gator won by a landslide.
Of all the pen names one can think of, I understand my choice may seem a bit odd. (Unless you have spent any length of time in a classroom with me, or we’re lucky enough to be related. Insert big toothy grin here.)
Our family has a thing with nicknames. We like to give them to the chil’rens. Most of them are used less frequently (thank you Jesus) as we age, but occasionally they resurface. Boozy family gatherings are a prime place to hear them. That statement seems rather silly, at least for our family. I’m almost certain the Webster’s definition of family gathering has zero text and pictures several bottles of booze. Surely some of you can relate?
The family list of nicknames includes: Sara-Bo-Beara, Boo-Rachi, Re, Bird, Crow, T-Bone, Christopher J. Moose, and mine, Gator. It’s actually shocking that none of us grew up to be professional wrestlers or Nascar drivers. Keep in mind these names were created in the late 70’s, early 80’s. Who’s to say what the driving inspiration was?
Gator, to this day, remains a very appropriate moniker. Peaceful, toothy grin one minute. Lots of blood and feathers the next. Have you ever seen Steve Irwin feed a chicken to one of his crocs? (RIP Steve) Very similar, I just prefer to bite the heads off of people I find annoying. Fewer feathers.
This is a perfect example of why you don’t name your dog Cujo or your pony Widow Maker. If you want them to be nice animals, give them nice names, Fluffy, Daisy, Freckles, and such. (Trust me when I say Cory, although a seemingly harmless pony name, is NOT. It falls directly into the satanic pony category. Somewhere, in some language, it equates to the devil.)
Of all the nicknames I’ve been given, Gator is actually the nicest. When I started day care I would throw huge, wailing, screaming fits, and I was named Crabby. In high school I broke both my arms and had road rash covering one entire leg, so I was called Scabby. Side Note: When you are sliding down a cement sidewalk at a great rate of speed on your ass, you will immediately and with great clarity realize roller blading is much more enjoyable standing in an upright position, and shorts were indeed another regrettable decision.
In professional school I was stuck in a classroom for 10 hours a day with the same 100 people for 3 years, and I earned the name Limbic. (This implies I have Swiss cheese for a Frontal Lobe, where normal people have self-control and language filters… SO WHAT! Maybe I yelled a little every once in awhile. Big deal. We were a less than happy dysfunctional family. Trust me when I say I’ve seen people crack up under a lot less pressure.)
And that’s the story. Although Crabby and Scabby might have generated some very interesting Google Ads, Gator won by a landslide.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Sweet Baby Jesus and the F Bomb
Sweet Baby Jesus and the F Bomb
So I shall forever hold hope in my heart that my funny stories can and will, one day become profitable… And I think I might have figured out how, with the help of my most favorite and dearest Sister. (How do you like that shout out?)
So Sister says she actually knows (like really actually ‘knows’)
people that have accomplished this seemingly magical feat.
She says, “They talk a LOT about Jesus and their children and make lots of money. Like, 30 or 40 thousand dollars a MONTH worth of money on those advertisements.”
So I shook my head in disbelief muttering, “There’s no effing way!” And in the same breath immediately proceeded to cover my blog in advertisements.
I promise those same ads will be much less obnoxious when we are partying at my lake house or yachting together in the Caribbean. Be patient. It’s a virtue. If you happen to see mine please send it home. I can’t remember the last time she and I had any quality time together.
After just one blog I’ve had such a HUGE positive response. I have quickly jumped to the conclusion that frankly, I’m funny as shit and people like the shocking use of a well-placed F word. I think this really is my ticket to popularity (and dollar bills yall)!
I realize I don’t have chil’ren and this puts me at a distinct disadvantage. Cute kiddie mugs really jack up the ratings. But what I DO have, is the F Bomb (and really cute dogs).
And that leads us to our next question. How does Jesus play into all of this crazy conclusion jumping and moneymaking? (Bible Thumpers- DeFib) With more crazy conclusions of course. My Dear Lord Baby Jesus actually approves of the F Bomb. Seriously. Do you think He sits up There all day with no sense of humor? Does He NOT have better things to worry about than these supposed ‘Bad’ words?
In all certainty Jesus is sitting up There right now watching a big screen TV, munching the most amazing kettle corn imaginable, occasionally Himself yelling, WHAT THE FAACK are My idiot children doing!? Especially if He catches the traffic in Texas… Or worse, tries to watch an Aggie Football game.
(If this last paragraph offends, I do sincerely apologize and invite you to take the stick out of your hiney and follow a less controversial blogger. Which, incase you were a little confused, will not be me, XO)
And that is how I know The Sweet Baby Jesus approves of the F Bomb. Perhaps not a totally fail-safe way of garnering blog supporters but, eh…. Whatcha gonna do? I, for one am going to praise the Good Lord Jesus, post smashingly cute dog photos, use the F Bomb a lot, and have a blast.
So I shall forever hold hope in my heart that my funny stories can and will, one day become profitable… And I think I might have figured out how, with the help of my most favorite and dearest Sister. (How do you like that shout out?)
So Sister says she actually knows (like really actually ‘knows’)
people that have accomplished this seemingly magical feat.
She says, “They talk a LOT about Jesus and their children and make lots of money. Like, 30 or 40 thousand dollars a MONTH worth of money on those advertisements.”
So I shook my head in disbelief muttering, “There’s no effing way!” And in the same breath immediately proceeded to cover my blog in advertisements.
I promise those same ads will be much less obnoxious when we are partying at my lake house or yachting together in the Caribbean. Be patient. It’s a virtue. If you happen to see mine please send it home. I can’t remember the last time she and I had any quality time together.
After just one blog I’ve had such a HUGE positive response. I have quickly jumped to the conclusion that frankly, I’m funny as shit and people like the shocking use of a well-placed F word. I think this really is my ticket to popularity (and dollar bills yall)!
I realize I don’t have chil’ren and this puts me at a distinct disadvantage. Cute kiddie mugs really jack up the ratings. But what I DO have, is the F Bomb (and really cute dogs).
And that leads us to our next question. How does Jesus play into all of this crazy conclusion jumping and moneymaking? (Bible Thumpers- DeFib) With more crazy conclusions of course. My Dear Lord Baby Jesus actually approves of the F Bomb. Seriously. Do you think He sits up There all day with no sense of humor? Does He NOT have better things to worry about than these supposed ‘Bad’ words?
In all certainty Jesus is sitting up There right now watching a big screen TV, munching the most amazing kettle corn imaginable, occasionally Himself yelling, WHAT THE FAACK are My idiot children doing!? Especially if He catches the traffic in Texas… Or worse, tries to watch an Aggie Football game.
(If this last paragraph offends, I do sincerely apologize and invite you to take the stick out of your hiney and follow a less controversial blogger. Which, incase you were a little confused, will not be me, XO)
And that is how I know The Sweet Baby Jesus approves of the F Bomb. Perhaps not a totally fail-safe way of garnering blog supporters but, eh…. Whatcha gonna do? I, for one am going to praise the Good Lord Jesus, post smashingly cute dog photos, use the F Bomb a lot, and have a blast.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Blog Numero Uno
Blog Numero Uno
Yo Blogsville! I have arrived. Prepare yourself by buckling your seatbelts, securing your oxygen masks and by all means… Please refrain from screamin’ out like a little girl. It distracts the driver.
(These, coincidentally, are the same instructions I give for riding in my car.)
I Make The Rules…
1. Here after, I shall only be referred to as “Gator.”
My apartment, unfortunately, is much too small to hold all the gifts I would undoubtedly be sent from all my adoring fans ;) And Stalkers make Bella nervous. BTW: For all the would be Stalkers… I have a BUNCH of guns in my house… and one Bear. Her name’s Prada. 2. Please feel free to leave negative feedback elsewhere.
I am certain I will offend someone at sometime (perhaps entire nations of people) and frankly, I don’t give a damn. If obscene language offends, I suggest reading someone else’s blog. Fuck is my most favorite word and I retain the right to use it regularly. On the same note, I expect LOTS of positive feedback, so get busy!
3. One of you must be in charge of defibrillating my Mother.
She probably needs a good ZAP after that last paragraph. I find it enormously funny that the same word I learned from my Mother about 26 years ago has the power to shock her so intensely. I hear this frequently, “Oh Gator! I hope you don’t speak like that in public!” Which really means, “Jesus Christ! I raised a Sailor… I hope this does not reflect too poorly on my Mothering skills…” So Mom. Let me officially take you off the hook. You are NOT responsible for my foul language. The public schools are! Hahaha! Now seriously Mom, read that first part a few more times.
I will try to warn you people of potentially hazardous areas by using the following notation: (MOM- DeFib)
4. Enjoy!
This blog most likely will never be deep or meaningful. This is my creative outlet for the funny ramblings in my head. I do however, hold onto some hope that it will lead to my "Discovery.” Honestly… Who wouldn’t like to sit in their PJ’s all day and write funny things and be paid enormous amounts of money? Who, I ask? Very similar to winning the lottery. A snowflake’s chance in hell, but we all hold hope in our hearts!
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