Mug Shots

Was today one of those days that had you responding "fuck off!" even when someone was just saying "good morning!"?

No? Was it just me? I must be getting less tolerant in my old age. And so begins my moaning about turning another year older in approximately 31 days!

Anyway.

Sunday was my 5th Anniversary at Arkham Asylum. I remember when I first started here, at the young whipper snapper age of 32 (although soon to be 33), and was still a Bambi (naive with balancing issues) with hopes and dreams and a small coffee cup. After a couple of years, I bought a bigger cup because my escapes from my desk for coffee refills became less and less frequent.

This year, to celebrate the demise of my sense of humor when it comes to the Asylum, I graduated to an Andre the giant sized cup. I stopped kidding myself about being able to leave my desk. Ever.

I know what you're thinking, doesn't this mean more potty breaks? I won't tell anyone if you don't!

Of course this also means I am celebrating 5 years of playing "Fetch OZ's sandwich" which is always nice. Especially because one of my joys in life is walking across a vacant lot, side stepping dog poop landmines, in 4 inch heels for a meatball sandwich that somebody else is going to eat.

Yay me!

And if I happen to be at lunch when his majesty wants *HIS* lunch? Well, Glynda and her CSI skills track my ass down.

Glynda [walks into my office doesn't see me so she asks Milton]: Where's Bee?

Milton: Lunch.

Glynda: I was just in the lunchroom and she's not in there but I noticed the toaster is still warm.

Milton: Maybe she stepped out?

Glynda: But her purse is still here. [points at my chair where I place my purse and then swivel it to face the wall so that I don't get burglared by criminal patients]

Milton [starts fidgeting because now she's faced with a puzzle she cannot solve (no, I wasn't there to see it happen but I know my Milton)]: Um well maybe she walked to the gas station/Subway.

Glynda [dusts my area with special tracking powder]: Her car keys were sitting on this ledge and now they’re gone.

Milton: I-I-I don't know where she could be! [cries]

Glynda [she leaves the business office and is hot on my trail]: The foot pattern in the kitchen indicates she headed to the back door. Tiny miniscule crumbs tell me she left the building. This twig that was lying facing the handicap parking spot is now broken in half with the longer piece pointing east. Aha! She's eating her toasted sandwich in her car!

And then I heard a knock on my car window so I looked up and there, in her 4 foot 9 inch flashy white uniform, stood Glynda.

Glynda: OZ needs a meatball sandwich with cheese and 5 onion slices right now.

Yeah, she must still believe in Santa Claus if she thinks I'm gonna jump like a trained poodle and rush over to fetch his sandwich before I've had my lunch.

Me: Did you bring me money?

Glynda: Uh, no but Milton can get it for you.

Me: Okay, I've got another 15 minutes. I'm sure OZ won't die of starvation before then.

Glynda: Will you go right now if I bring you the money.

Me: No.

Glynda: I'll tell him you're on your way anyway. No sense in upsetting him.

And she waited for me to respond but my brain had already dismissed her.

In the amount of time it took her to track me down, she could have walked over to get his damn sandwich but I guess it wouldn't have tasted as good.

One more year of this silliness before I'm fully vested in our retirement fund!

Andyisms:

We spent the weekend at my in-laws house and woke up before sunrise on Sunday morning. As I was getting ready to go outside so that I could witness the sunrise, I asked Andy if he was going to come outside with me and his response was classic Andy:

"Well of course you sappy bastard!"

He makes my heart SOAR!

Clarification, Pontification, Stupefaction. I think.

Just to clarify, my birthday isn't until Wednesday November 11th. Oh joy of joys. 37. 3 more and I get a set of spatulas. I'm registered at Tiffany's.

The picture I posted yesterday was of a bee (get it? because I'm Bee?] hanging from a noose. The Asylum was getting to me until I realized I could either work or play. Guess which one I chose. Also, Andy thought it was a potato.

Andy [from his dungeon]: Is that a potato? 

Me: What? Is what a potato?? [as I'm trying to make fajitas for 8 without setting fire to my cabinets. You know, again]

Andy: The picture on your blog, is it a potato?

Me: Nooooo. It's a bee.

Andy: I don't get it.

Me: It's a bee hanging from a noose. Because I was stressed at work?

Andy: Oh, I hadn't seen the noose.

Me: ... [hot oil splashing on my face]

Andy: I still think it looks like a potato.

Because he loves to torture me.

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Regarding OZ being an asswipe. Instead of feeling sympathy for the error in my bank account, he interrogated me because I asked for a copy of my cashed paycheck and treated me like a sneaky criminal who was capable of funneling money from his account to my account via my paycheck. Oh wait. That's not criminal at all, right? I mean, if I perform a service for, let's say, a person who hires me, shouldn't I expect payment? It's not like I can cash the same check twice and to make matters more complicated, the second time I cash the check it will be via a photocopy. I know I'm a genius but even I have my limitations.

For some reason he didn't believe the bank teller had deposited my check into the wrong account. He also found it hard to believe that Andy knew our account number by heart and then he suggested I no longer do a manual deposit slip, did I know that the bank could generate some with our account number already on them? I asked him if he treated accident patients the same way. "When a guy on a motorcycle gets hit by a car, do you berate them for not knowing the car was going to hit them?" It wasn't our fault the cashier decided to guess as to what number was on the deposit slip and didn't bother to check the name on the account with the name on the deposit slip.

I said to Andy, 'you know, I grow tired of calling him an *asshole* because it does not express the magnitude of my disgust for him but I am so limited with my swears (because I am a God fearing short woman). Wait! You are the master of profanity, give me a new one for him!" His response was so vile I am putting it at the end of this post.* Who knew I had the delicate sensibilities of a fragile little hummingbird?

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Do you guys remember the dude I translated for who had an ankle fracture and his main concern was having "relations" with his woman? He came in last week to drop off some insurance paperwork. I had been talking to him for a few minutes when I realized something.

Me: Hey, who drove you here? [as I pointed at his cast and crutches]

Him: I drove myself. My woman doesn't drive. [hmmmm]

Me: Uh, I don't think you should be driving considering your cast is all the way up to your knee.

Him: Oh, I'm okay. Look, I can put weight on my leg now. [stands on leg with the fracture]

Me to him: Don't do that! [to myself "Oh sure, you don't ask permission to drive but you ask for a green light to have sex with your woman!]

 

My head hurts from all the shaking of it.

 

 

 

 

*"You mean like Taint Weasel?" (eep!)

 

 

 

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My happy place

 

A mile in my shoes.

So, lately I've been feeling a little depressed. It's mostly due to XYZ health issues and ABC medications. I know you wouldn't be able to tell from my chipper blog attitude because, due to your delicate sensibilities, I've been putting on a brave front for your sake.

You're welcome.

Anyway, I've been experiencing some swelling in my body due to side effects of testing this pill or that pill to see which one works best. One of the things that has me down is the fact that the size of my puffy feet make it impossible for me to wear any of my awesome shoes.

I know some of you are probably thinking in disbelief and yes, a little condescendingly, "Shoes?? You're upset because you can't wear certain shoes??"

Short answers "Yes" long answer "How about you shutty?" The shoes situation just served as my catalyst.

I don't know about all women but in my case, a great pair of shoes can do wonders for my spirit.

The past few months, I've been wearing a pair of Clark's Sandals that are nice but plain. I bought them 6 years ago because they were on a great sale but I hadn't worn them in about 3 years. Turns out they, and the sketchers sandals I bought earlier this year, are the only shoes that fit me comfortably. For some reason my right foot is considerably more swollen than the left. (anybody have Barnum and Bailey's number?) Because of this, I wake up in the morning and dig through the more casual of my clothes. There's no sense in putting on a nice outfit if I can't wear the shoes to match. Along these lines, why bother with make-up if I'm dressed so casually? Added to that the spider bites that left my legs with this ugly biohazard look to them, I've been too self-conscious to wear any of my skirts... and so I step onto the insane merry-go-round.

I know there are bigger issues in the world and mine are trivial in comparison but there is no talking logic to my depression. After all the things I've lived through, I felt like this one was crushing me in ways I never expected. I didn't have the will to fight through it either because my brain knew how ridiculous and irrational I was being. I was just letting it consume me one day at a time. Everything in my head ended with "what for?" or "what's the use?"

I finally snapped out of it on Friday.

Andy and I were doing some last minute shopping for our trip to Starved Rock. One of our errands was stopping to get him a new pair of shoes since his old shoes wouldn't be comfortable enough to do any hiking. There I was in my baggy shorts and my bleach stained T-shirt, hair all Nick Nolte-like, no make-up and looking haggard and old with my ugly feet. I felt like a tired old woman. Seriously.

The shoes Andy picked were a little narrow so I went around the shoe department looking for a salesperson to ask for a bigger size. That's when I stumbled upon the most beautiful shoe I've seen in a long time. I stood in front of it and, I kid you not, looked at it reverently- too afraid to pick it up for fear of getting my hopes up that it would be

a) in my size
b) affordable

and the most important

c) in my size and me be able to squeeze my elephant foot into it

I timidly picked it up and found it was half a size too big but this hasn't stopped me before. I set it on the floor and slipped my foot out of my sandal. I slowly pushed my foot into the shoe and wiggled it this way and that until it went in and it fit perfectly!

It may sound like I'm exaggerating but I felt my body drain itself of all the tension I'd been feeling the past few months. I asked the somber sales dude for the other shoe and gushed over their unusual color, their style, the fact that the heel looked like the paneling on my dad's old station-wagon (never in a million years would I have thought this to be a good thing in a shoe). I was so happy, the sales dude went from quiet and serious to smiling and cheerful. He told me they were $19 on clearance and with Andy's purchase we were able to save $15 instead of the $10 I thought we would save from a coupon they had running. The great price made the find even sweeter.

As the evening went on and I was cutting up fruit, marinating steak, making a check list of all things we needed to pack the next morning, I kept thinking about the shoes and when I'd be able to wear them. They were too special for their first time on my feet to be just to work. I decided on wearing them to a reunion a former boss of mine is organizing for this coming Saturday. From there my mind went to picking an outfit and with each passing minute my heart became lighter.

I started looking forward to going through my shoes and checking to see which ones I felt comfortable wearing. On Sunday I did just that and found a few that made the difference in my feet imperceptible.

I also painted my finger nails so they're back to looking sharp and lethal. This morning I woke up, ironed a nice pair of dress pants, picked out a pretty purple blouse and wore my killer black shoes. Some make-up, jewelry, and perfume later and I felt like I'd lost 10 pounds and grew 4 inches in height.

People at work were telling me how great I looked and commenting that the trip to Starved Rock must have done wonders for me. While I did enjoy the magnificent scenery (Andy and I are planning a trip in the fall where we will hopefully go on more than one trail) the shift in my attitude happened the day before. It made it possible for me to truly appreciate what I was seeing because I was at peace with myself.

Listen, I know this all sounds screwy and I have had some brief relapses but I've been able to pull myself out of my pity party quicker this time around. I also debated on posting this here since it sounds more Bee's Dark Side but I thought "screw it! I'm the boss of me!"

I feel like I'm back to my abnormal self. I've never underestimated the small things that can brighten my life. A pair of shoes, a flower, some kind words, whatever it may be, it's not silly if it makes you happy.

P.S.
I realize a pair of shoes does not cure any health issues m'mkay? Rest assured I have a team of gorgeous male models medical experts analyzing every molecule in my body.

P.P.S.

While hiking, we came across a bunch of carvings that stated 'so and so was here' my favorite was:

(here with your mom on 4/20/09)

Passive aggressiveness is the new assh*le.

I don’t know what it is about people lately but they are acting like insulted housewives! Oops. Was that not PC?

You know how some wives, I know not all of them so save the hate mail, will be mad at their husbands but they don’t tell them why so they resort to the “if you don’t know why I’m upset, I’m not telling you!”? I’ve never understood this behavior since I pretty much always tell Andy exactly why I’m pissed off. I let him know in great detail which of his actions have infuriated me. I even make a little graph so that there are absolutely no misunderstandings. I don’t walk around the house sulking and waiting for him to get a clue.

Anyway, this isn’t about Andy THIS TIME.

I’m getting my fill this week with people making it known they’re mad at me but not having the balls to tell me why. Did I not ask you if you needed to go to the bathroom enough times? Did I say good morning too sharply? Did I insult you when I asked you to double check something because you’ve been known to fuck up on more than one occasion? Was it the fact that I did not want to answer anymore questions on the bracelet you found that must have been sitting in the storage area since 1978 making it impossible to be mine because at that time I was 6 and my mom wouldn’t let me cross the street by myself much less come to a different state, sneak into a medical building and unlock a storage space with my pinkie nails. Yes I know the writing on the bracelet is in “”MEXICAN”” and I don't know if those dried flowers inside are indigenous to Mexico because honestly, I’m pretty sure there are more than one of us who roam the earth.

Let me tell you something, and by ‘you’ I don’t mean YOU, unless you’re pissing me off too, it’s not ME it’s YOU. Can you please shut the fuck up and/or kiss my ass? Thanks.

Phew! That felt great! I’m still trying to figure out the right combination of meds that will keep my head from exploding but this rant did wonders!

Oh and P.S.
Don’t feel bad for Andy because he has a crazy wife. I tell him everyday how lucky he is not to have a high maintenance wife. He is 98% free to do whatever he wants whenever he wants without having to ask my permission. Ever.

The other 2% he spends by taking me to a movie every once in a while.*

How's that for passive aggressive?

If someone told me 20 years ago that I would get old, I would have laughed in their face and said "Shut up stoopit!".

Sooooo as you may or may not know I work for an Orthopaedic Surgeon’s office. I’ve complained mightily about all the crap I have to put up with for average pay (and we can all agree I am an above average woman) (with an above average fixation for shoes and flowers/plants/garden stuff) and no glory.

However, one of the fringe benefits for working in an Ortho office, and being liked by the doctors and their nurses, is the fact that I can say things like “It hurts when I do this….” and I immediately have 5 different opinions and diagnoseseses (diagnosi?) free of charge. You need an X-Ray? Come on down and say cheeeeetos!

Anyway, I couldn’t stand the pain in my hands anymore. They’re not bad everyday, like right now I’m all typey typey clickety clickety and I’m fine, but when they are bad, it feels like I’m the new wolverine experiment and they are inserting adamantium into my body (no, I am not turning into a comic book geek, I just happen to know a lot of things that then become useful when posting about fictional characters and metals). I know that would be cool because I’d be able to lance Andy’s pimples without getting too close for the splatter but it’s still major ouchy! I called the front desk from my office (literally 10 steps away, I counted) and asked for an appointment for day of the lord Thursday. I would be Mr. Roger’s first patient. The other fringe benefit is being able to go in to see the doctor while on company time and still getting paid. Woohoo! Look at me making minor bucks while reading a magazine in the exam room. Don’t you wish you had my job?

Weirdly, my main concern for this exam was my armpits. I know you just shuddered but get back over here so I can tell you why. You see, my skin is as delicate as the wings of a butterfly so I cannot do the pit shaving as often as one would like.

Stay right where you are! There’s more.

This leaves me with some undesired uh growth but lucky for me, I haven’t yet embraced the monkey within so I don’t have jungle pits. Still, I did ask his nurse if I was going to need to disrobe for the occasion because I would then need to take a razor and… well, you know. I wanted to avoid this at all costs because I break out in a rash for a few days after I shave and I have to walk around with my arms out like I’m about to take flight until the burning feeling goes away. I was instructed to shave anyway. Sweet nibblets!

I don’t know about you, but I think it’s kind of weird to go see a doctor for your hands and then have to take off your top. Maybe that’s their fringe benefit?

Last year he diagnosed me with rusty old shoulder syndrome and this year it looks like it might be carpal tunnel syndrome. But don’t fret because if I do need the great and powerful OZ to perform surgery on me it will be, say it with me, FREE OF CHARGE!

Again. Woohoo.

After my exam update.

I do have carpal tunnel but it seems to be mild as in it will only make me feel like I was kicked in the balls every once in a while as opposed to every day.

Mr. Rogers gave me some suggestions on how to help with the pain one of them being to walk away from my keyboard every 45 minutes with the horrible one being, wear wrist guards when I sleep. Say whhot?? On the positive side, I'll probably sleep more comfortably if I accidentally bop Andy over the head when he’s invading my territory.

Here are my happy hand x-rays.

Sorry my bones look a little chunky but that’s only because I’m retaining water at the moment.

Never let it be said that I am trying to fool you into thinking I’m super hot. I mean, I did a post about my body shape, the one weird black hair that grows above my lip, the adult acne and now the unshaven condition of my arm pits. It’s a wonder Andy hasn’t left me, really.

Also, I didn’t have to remove my top so the shaving of the pits was unnecessary! The hell!

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In other less depressing news, I just finished reading Chris Wood’s book Sherlock Holmes and the Underpants of Death and it had me in stitches! The man is a hilarious writer who has a flair for bizarre scenarios. I’d call him a genius but then he already knows that.

If you want to give yourself a good laugh or anybody else you might like to share the joy of laughter with, go here:

Sherlock Holmes and the Underpants Of Death

You will not be disappointed. Unless you hate laughing and if that's the case you and I can't be friends.

Yet another day at the crappy Laundromat.

I am seriously thinking about just washing my clothes in a giant tub and stomping around like Lucy did when trying to make wine... only drunker.

I figure it'll make my clothes cleaner and also give me the much needed exercise my butt needs. I'm just hoping I won't land face down in the tub and then accidentally drown myself in the process.

As a matter of fact, I'm going to market that as the new weight loss fad and I will only charge you, because we're buddies, $29.99 (tub, water, soap, booze and clothes not included). No need to thank me for the special offer, it is my pleasure.

We tried yet another Laundromat from hell and this one provided us with some unwanted entertainment. There was a couple there with 3 kids who came to do laundry as a family. Right now you're thinking "Family bonding over suds and fabric softener? How cute!" You'd be wrong though. It seems the guy might have been checking out some chicks and the wife went ballistic (as she should) at his eye-wandering sorry ass.

Now, if they didn't have those little tykes as witnesses to their horrible behavior, I would have grabbed some popcorn and enjoyed the show. Instead their kids just kind of stood by silently while their father called their mother a bitch and their mother mocked their father by implying he wasn't much of a man.

Here are some random little snippets from these paragons of parenthood:

Dad:
I don't give a fuck whose listening! (maybe I should have stopped walking back and forth looking for change?)

Dad:
What about the kids? They're kids! They won't remember this later! (au contraire mon ignorant douche, I remember each and every argument my parents had)

Mom:
Oh please! Like you would know what to do with one of those women if you had them! (he has 3 kids, I think he'd know)

Mom:
Don't push me! I'll call the cops!

Dad:
Do you think I care if I'm locked up? I don't give a fuck!

Dad:
Where is the goddamn attendant?

Mom:

I don't know! It's not like I own the place!

Dad:
Yes this is your place! You're the one who wanted to live in the fuckin suburbs!

Wait a second! Do not go offending my little suburb! That was over the line buddy!

Now we are at the nucleus of the problem. He was taking out his frustration on his wife because he feels he would get better treatment in a Laundromat located in Chicago. I hate to break it to you sweety but THEY ALL SUCK. Be it here, France or the moon, they're all dingy, dirty and smelly. I remember hearing about one in New York that had a bar in it. That one sucks too but you're too drunk to figure it out until you wake up with a hangover the next day and wonder why there are rats mixed in with your whites.

We can't get a new washer until the laundry room is rebuilt which is closer to being finished than not but oh dear lord is it dragging.

So anyway, if you're looking for me, I'll be in the backyard playing a fiddle while I'm knee deep in sudsy water and dancing a jig.

"I can't reach the clothes line, Pa'!"

P.S.

You guys were all extremely supportive of my new movie making endevour but I snorted when I read:

People in the Sun said...

I laughed. I cried. But most of all, I think you have provided a mirror to society.

That part where the two lovers meet on the driveway, then go their separate ways... I need to be alone now and reflect.

April 6, 2009 11:01 PM

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Last I checked, my back didn't have the word "WELCOME" stenciled on it. You know, because it's not a doormat?

The other day, I was sitting at my desk pondering my bad luck in not being born rich and then thanking the lord I wasn’t because I would probably be more obnoxious than Paris Hilton and that Kardashian chick put together and really who wants that?

I had just had another DISAGREEMENT with Glynda. She was trying to convince me that my getting a paycheck meant my soul belonged to OZ and I was extremely lucky to even have a job in these tough economic times so I should just shut up and scrub the toilet. Not literally m’mkay? I’m just trying to say that they want me to be responsible for everybody and their mistakes plus also be everybody's vacation back up but not give me more money. I was hired for a specific position and being a babysitter/receptionist was not part of the job description. While I don't mind volunteering, I will not be walked on, bullyed or threatened into doing anything.

I gently disagreed with OZ owning my soul and also pointed out that no, he was lucky to have ME in these tough economic times. At her look of disbelief I elaborated that I, Bee Lastname, am not a believer in 1) Belittling anyone (unless I hate you and in that case I don't have control over my tongue) 2) LETTING myself FEEL belittled (because I can’t stop people from trying to belittle me, I can only stop my reaction to their stupidity)

I am an independent thinker that is not easily brainwashed into believe that OZ is my savior.

This information did not go over well with Glynda. In fact she huffed and she puffed- oh wait that a different story book- well, she put me in the crap house again.

Back to my ponderings. I was wondering what made me so different from the other lackeys who work here that enjoy bemoaning the footprints on their foreheads but never fight back because they think “he'll fire me and who will hire me?”. This led me to a shocking revelation. I have the Jehovah’s Witnesses to thank.

You read that right.

picture is from an issue of the Jehovah's Witnesses magazine on the children who have died because they were not given blood transfusions that may have saved their lives.

You see, being in the Jehovah's Witnesses (JWs) opened my eyes to something I might have missed had I not been a part of this cult. I may call it a cult because I was in it for a few years so I feel I have the right to shed a light into some of my experiences.

I was very young when we became JWs and my pops thought he had found his religion. He also sold Amway so I’m thinking he was halfway to Brainwashville and didn’t have a chance.

Even at a young age, I remember thinking that their teachings were a big crock of shit. Or crock of doo-doo since I didn’t swear back then. I noticed how the elders were always men in the upper middle class while the rest of us broke asses were delegated to do the grunt work. You know, going from house to house and getting the doors slammed in our faces? (Stories for another day)

I remember seeing the yearning in my dad’s eyes to fit in with those phonies and doing anything they asked just so they’d notice him. I hated that. You see, I knew how smart my dad was (during our stint in the JWs he was sober which I guess they did us some good for those few years), he was attractive (and this I new because of the women always staring at him), he had a gorgeous wife (and this I knew because of the men always staring at her) and a beautiful family if I do say so myself.

I didn’t feel the elders deserved the reverence everybody else showed them, respect maybe but washing their feet in a bowl of milk and lavender? I don’t think so.

As an example I give you one of the yearly pilgrimages which in this case took place in Arizona. The motel where we stayed had a swimming pool and I remember thinking ‘yay pool!’ Well they made the kids exit the pool at about 7pm so the grown ups could swim. Crummy but that’s not what this story is about.

We were sitting in the hallway outside of our motel room with our legs dangling down from the railing of the second floor. From there we had a clear view of the pool and we noticed that there were only 2 people left in there. One was one of the elder dudes who was married and the other was a young single woman who came with her sister.

They were awfully chummy. Hugging and laughing while splashing around in the pool. We decided to give his wife a little help in the cooling his pants department (okay, not really trying to help his wife, we were just kids but we knew he was doing something wrong). I got up, grabbed a bucket of ice and we started throwing ice cubes into the pool. We weren't trying to hit them and that was made apparent by us sending the ice cubes softly to the other side of the pool. I was probably 9 or so and I’m assuming my partner in crime was my brother Sergio since Dan has always been a goody 2 shoes and was probably sleeping.

The elder guy started yelling at us and his moobs were shaking as he tried climbing out of the pool. We ran into our room and dissolved in a fit of giggles. The next day, at the JW assembly, he came up to me and grabbed my arm whispering that he knew it was us throwing ice and blah blah. I remember yelling as loud as I could “LET GO OF MY ARM! YOU’RE HURTING ME!!” and then people turning to look and his face getting all red and then laughing it off like it was no big deal. Hearing the commotion, his wife came over and I decided to apologize for my bad behavior. We were at a place of worship after all, “I’m sorry we threw ice while you and that lady were hugging in the pool.”

I don’t know what happened to them because I don’t remember anything else about them after that.

Example # 2

I went to school with one of the elder’s (not the same elder who was frolicking in the pool) sons. He was a short little bastard who thought it was okay to corner me by the lockers when we were in junior high. He thought it was okay until I slammed his head against a locker and punched him in the gut. When he threatened to tell his dad so my dad could get in trouble I dared him to go ahead because I really didn’t care.

This is where my epiphany comes in.

See, what my father failed to see is that yes, the elders may have had a higher education and more material things (which is really not living the life they evangelize) but in my head, that just makes them more polished but not better than us. The fact that I resisted their brainwashing at such a young age and I was able to see through their self righteousness made me immune to any future jackholes trying to make me believe I was beneath them. Nobody has the power to make me feel inferior but me and why would I give someone that power? That just doesn’t make sense.

I’ve used that logic in every aspect of my life. When dating, I waited for the right guy to come along who appreciated me and basically deserved having me (we can all agree I'm pretty cool) and sent the rest packing. Lucky Andy! Coincidentally, he and his family were JWs for many years too. In dealing with people or mindlessly following crowds- nu-uh I do things because I want to and if others are doing it too, coolio. But! Let's not remember my skiing trip please because that was a total lapse in judgment!

This brings me back to the present day. OZ is a respected surgeon and I’m sure he worked hard to get where he is but so what? I worked hard to get where I am too. What makes his journey more special than mine? What makes him a better human being than me?

He may have more zeros and commas in his bank account but that doesn’t make my life worth less than his.

Sure, my ambition wasn’t high since all I have ever wanted was my family to be healthy and happy, my own home, a decent car and as a bonus, a man who loves me. I’d say my path was the right one since I’m right where I want to be.

The moral of this story? OZ (and people like him) can kiss my unpolished ass.

You know what we haven't had in a while? F*ck off Friday on a Saturday!

It's long over due but I need to set OZ straight. I haven't been watching The Godfathers I and II for nothing (three sucks donkey balls)! I've also seen my fair of The Sopranos so I know exactly what to do with dickheads.

Preparing for my Friday meetings is always stressful. It is one of my busiest days since it's the day I relieve the receptionist for lunch and for some reason, every Spanish speaking patient we have is always scheduled for that day. Add to that the fact that we meet at 3, makes a recipe for one very frazzled Bee.

Last year, I told him he could not SHOULD NOT add accounts right before our meeting because this would not give me enough time to prepare them. The rule is no less than 24 hours notice. Three guesses as to what he did.

I had to get them ready anyway because, as we have established, I have a cheese addiction so I really need my job.

HOWEVER!

He pushed my button one to many times during our meeting and I really had no choice but to blow up. It's amusing to see a man a foot taller than you back pedal. He looked at Glynda, held up his hands and said "It's okay. We're all okay here. We're just conversating." at which point he stopped being a jerk and sat there like a meek Philip Seymour Hoffman afraid of the wrath of the beehive.

So, OZ? You can fuck off!

In other news, I am now the proud owner of a gorgeous water fountain (which we were out buying while a torrent of water was pouring into my house because of course the rain can't wait until we finish with the repairs that will prevent us from having ugly mermaids* splashing away in my mom's living room) :

How can I afford such a magnificent water fountain in these times of cat food for dinner you ask. Well I had to save my allowance for a few weeks (at the time I thought I was saving it to buy Andy a new dresser but then he pissed me off 1,456,741 times so I thought "you know what? he can just stack his clothes in that hollowed out drawerless old dresser he has until it regenerates") and then we took advantage of a very lucky sale. Now, if only I knew of an electrician who could hook a power thingie outside. Otherwise it'll be a beautiful non running water fountain. If anybody has any suggestions or knows of ANYBODY please let me know.

Don't forget! Tomorrow is "Bee n' Andy: Married and sometimes, still in love...". Be there or be square.

And since I'm announcing posts. Here are a couple of upcoming ones you might find interesting.

Tuesday:

From the same people that loved reading Interview with a Vampire, Bee’s Musings presents: Interview with a Vegetarian.

Thursday:

Brian's music review (with my reHEADbuttal).

Now wish us luck. Andy and I are taking Tazz to the veterinarian. One of us (probably Andy) might not come back.

*Of course the mermaids would be ugly! Do you think I would have beautiful big busted half-women in my home??)

When a day off attacks you at the end.

I didn't go to work today. The sister, my mom, nieces and I went to the land of IKEA where I dream about things I cannot pronounce. All was well, the kids behaved and we only had one disappointment in the form of the lack of cacti. I'm too tired to explain what that means but you just need to know it almost made me cry.

Anyway, since we arrived home sooner than expected, the husband, also known as Mr. Torturing Jerky Pants, decided we should go do laundry. I was exhausted but after many loving insults, I changed my mind.

We packed up our crap, got in the car and drove to our regular laundromat only to find it CLOSED and covered up in weird can't-see-in paper! Damn! But at the same time yay! Surely Andy would say we should go back home? Nope! Mr. Torturing Jerky Pants decided we should go to the one we used to go to before. The crappy-leaky-cold one with weird bugs? That one.

I cant wait until the laundry-room gets rehabbed! I hate having to lug around my clothes all over my town in the dead of freakin cold.

Speaking of rehab. Once we got home, we received  a call from the guy that's supposed to quote us how much it will be to install a sump pump system in our house so that we never ever ever get a single drop of water. He's a nice guy with a reputable company but they're all car sales men at heart. He started with "I'm going to show you one of the two things we could do for you. With this one we would have to break up your porch, your patio, flower beds, pull up your bushes and eat babies all for 50 billion dollars! Nobody EVER chooses that one but I have to tell you about it anyway."

See, he has to do that so when he quotes you an exorbitant amount, you say "well, at least it's not FIFTY BILLION DOLLARS!" he's a nice guy but hey what do we look like? A couple of new born mopes? Fucker.

And as if all that wasn't enough activity for one day, Andy finally caved to my "please buy me the Gazelle! pretty please? I love you long time?" so we went to buy it at our friendly neighborhood Kohl's because we had a coupon. I called them first to make sure they had one and the old lady was all "The WHAT, hon?" THE GAZELLE! "What does it do, hon?" You get on it and you swish like this and that with your arms and legs. WITH YOUR ARMS AND LEGS! "Oh. You just had to explain what it was for, hon. Let me check. ---- Yuppers! We have a bunch come on over!"

Now, now. Don't mock me because I bought into that Tony Ponytail's hype. I need to lose me these parasitic pounds... although, they've been keeping me warm this winter so I have that going for me.

LOOK AT THAT ASS!! THAT WILL BE MY ASS!! Only, less manly. Hopefully.

P.S.

When I was telling the lady how to use the machine I was physically demonstrating how to use the machine. Why? Why would I do that? It's not like she can see me.  I think that should count as my first work out.

Also, Andy doubts my balance and thinks I'll fall on my butt the first few times. I have a feeling he's going to push me off it just so he can say he was right.

Ah, you thought cakes were only dangerous because they make your butt bigger...

Have you missed the fact that I haven't posted about Milton? Would you like a little Milton today?

As I've said before, sometimes I wonder if we are secretly being filmed by some far off extraterrestrials that get their giggles from us, the lesser beings (well, you guys maybe lesser but me? I'm a woman and a half which makes for difficulty in buying clothes). To those extraterrestrials I say "SCREW YOU!" and I say it in a shrill, obnoxious voice right into their mics so I may annoy the shit out of them!

Yesterday, day of the lord Thursday, also known as Treat Day or Social Thursday here at the Asylum, I made the innocent mistake of saying the following to Milton: "Yum!! Glynda brought RedVelvet cake!"

I know! How stupid can I be?? Why would that be the first thing I say in the morning? What happened to just plain ole' "good morning" and then a mouthful of shutty??

You see this prompted Milton to debate my saneness.

Milton: "Who brought RedVelvet cake? I thought you said Glynda."

I did say Glynda because she brought the cake.

Milton: "Did you mean Scarecrow? Because it's her week to bring in treats and Glynda isn't on the rotation to bring treats so I think you meant Scarecrow."

No, I meant Glynda—

Milton: "Why would Glynda bring in treats? That just doesn't make sense! Are you sure it wasn't Scarecrow?" [and she stood up as if to emphasis what I dumbass I am for getting two completely different people mixed up]

Glynda brought the cake because—

Milton: "Scarecrow. You mean Scarecrow." [and she gave me that look that shows she is trying her hardest not to lose her patience]

Hey, how about you let me complete sentence? GLYNDA BROUGHT A CAKE FOR HER BIRTHDAY!

Milton: "Glynda's birthday? [she blinked about 20 times] Scarecrow brought a cake for GLYNDAY'S birthday?"

No. Glynda bought herself, Glynda, a birthday cake because tomorrow is her, Glynda's, birthday. No to Scarecrow. NO TO SCARECROW. NO TO SCARECROW!!!

Milton: "Is Scarecrow still bringing cheese and crackers??"

At the end of the fuckin day I was calling Scarecrow Glynda and vice-versa. Maybe I was wrong and don't really know everything? Maybe I'm really Milton?

Somebody?

Anybody?

I need Beyonce to SHUT THE F*CK UP!

Okay, I know everybody has different tastes in music and who am I to criticize since I still listen to PolyMarch. The difference is that I do so in the privacy of my own home, when nobody else is around... and the blinds are drawn. (and if you clicked and listened to it, you're probably thinking I'm less cool than I was yesterday)(but I'm still cooler than you) (well, maybe not)

Anyway, I can explain away Country music but Beyonce is working my last nerve! I'm twitching and shaking from sheer over-Beyonce-ness. She is on my radio station every hour on the hour, she is on my TV with her cheesy cable commercial and now she is in movie previews.

Look, I know she made it big with that Oh-Oh Oh-Oh booty dance thing but does every. single. song. after that have to be the same? Last year it was that song that declared the guy's belongings were "to the left- to the left- to the left" now it's "if you like it better put a ring on it- if you like it better put a ring on it- if you like it better put a ring on it". I'm sorry but that video is horrible! I thought it was a spoof.

Beyonce, do you know how many words are in the English language? There's about uh... 15,000 x 45,124,478 carry the carrot... well a lot. Granted, I don't know many of those words myself but I'm poor so I can't hire somebody to write stuff for me.

If you have nothing to say, stop repeating yourself because it makes you sound like you either have dementia or a speech impediment- you either have dementia or a speech impediment- you either have dementia or a speech impediment.

See how annoying that is?

Beyonce fans, I don't apologize because it needed to be said.

In other news,I see brother Dan finally put up his picture for "Bizarre/Weird WTF-was-I-thinking? Picture day". I wonder if we were better off, as a society, before he did.

Go check out the rest of the pictures if you haven't already.

P.S.

Brian, Beyonce is a singer. You may click here for more info. I wouldn't though.

Reincarnation. I'd like to come back as Arnold Schwarzenegger as the Terminator. Only less racist. And with an easier spelling name. And taller. Maybe I want to be Hulk Hogan? With a full head of hair. And no beard. Do titles really matter anymore?

Okay, so it's been a long time since I had a nice long rant. I feel I've been neglecting my soul in not regularly purging the venom deep inside of me so today I will let loose ladies and gents. Are you all ready? If not raise your hands.

You. That person in the front with the audacity to raise your hand. You are dismissed and can go HERE.

Okay, as some of you may know, the Cor-Rut household was about to float away into the deep blue sea. Luckily, we had the foresight to anchor it to our pine tree before the flood came.

This event took place on 9/13/08. When did I file my flood claim? Same day, 9/13/08.

I posted here how the douchebags at my home owners washed their hands of us. How FEMA themselves came out and said we had minor damage and because we must be living on a mountain of gold covered turds, they were not offering us any help. But they did help those who only had an inch of water in their basement with no damage because they didn't have flood insurance so why not give them 3 grand?

Okay, our flood insurance finally sent us the check and I posted about that HERE saying how we needed to have the check signed by all parties involved. That would be the hubs, me and the 2 mortgage companies.

Here is where it gets wild!

We went to the first bank and spoke to some lady. She asked if we had started the paperwork to get an authorization for a signature. We said no because this was new to us and I asked her if she had the paperwork so we may fill it out.

Now, you'd think that they would have all the information necessary to guide their customers along something they had never done before and considering the traumatic events leading up to it, they would be more than happy to help, right?

Nope.

She told me to call the 800 number and ask them what to do, niiiice!

We left that bank and went to our primary mortgage holder bank where we were informed that the check had to be fully endorsed by us and the lame-nut bank we had just left before they would help. Once that was done they would take our check and send it to their mortgage department in Whothefuckknowswhwheresville so they could look it over, sign it and then mail it back to us.

I'm not sure if you know me by now but I'm not what you would call a trusting person by any stretch of the imagination. The bank guy seemed like a nice guy and I'm sure they go through an extensive background check that probably stops short of a prostrate exam but this is our money. Money we have been waiting for so we can do silly things like, put up walls, replace the water heater and pay the people who are schedule to come on 12/22 to seal our fuckin foundation! Thank the lord Andy was able to fix the furnace because we would have been a couple of gross tasting popsicles right about now.

Andy and I walked out of the bank feeling homicidal. We talked it over but really what was there to talk about? We had to do what they said.

Since it was Saturday, we had to wait until Monday to get the ball rolling.

On Monday, when I called the first lame-nut bank, after being transferred here and there, I was told that the turdlaced bank we went to the first time had the authority to sign the fuckin check. They suggested I have them call the home office if they had any questions.

ANOTHER DAY WASTED BECAUSE THEY CLOSE AT 5.

Tuesday, I left work early and headed to the bank. We explained the whole dealio to the bank rep. She called their home office and was transferred to about 5 different people until she was told that yes, they could sign the freakin' check.

We went to our primary mortgage holder and gave the nice guy our check but we did ask him for something in writing stating we were giving him the insurance check and to write down the amount. Can you believe they weren't going to give us a receipt?? Hello Vegas!!

Bee to Nice Bank Guy:

Where will they mail the check? I do not want a fully endorsed check accidentally going to my neighbor Wilson because he's been wanting a new riding lawn mower.

Nice Bank Guy:

I'm going to overnight it to the mortgage department and I'll have them mail it to this branch. It should be back within 5-7 days.

Bee and Andy walk out of the bank with a queasy feeling in their stomachs. But that could be because of the Buffalo Wings they ate.

5-7 days later, I call my new friend Mr. Nice Bank Guy and say:

"Yo' dude, where's mah monee??"

He doesn't know so he makes some phone calls and calls me back:

"The check was mailed to your home address on December 5th"

It was now the 11^th, WTF? I kept an eye on my neighbors checking to see if they were walking around in new mink coats and what not but they were the same broke asses as before.

On the 13^th we got our check in the mail. That is 3 months after we filed the claim. THREE MONTHS.

Let's forget about the fact that they sent it regular mail where any Peeping Tom, Drunk Doug or Nosey Ned could reach into my mailbox and take it and buy a months worth of happy endings.

We were happy since we finally had all the hassles over and done with! Whoopie! High Fives all around!

But wait. It seems too good to be true. No more new ulcers making themselves at home in my already holey stomach?

Yeah right!

Monday (yesterday) after work, Andy and I headed to our bank to deposit the check and we were in unusually good spirits. The stress had lifted, the freezing temps were no match for this feeling of relief.

Do you guys remember the little Asian lady who gave me a hard time for not signing with my husband's name on my paycheck? Well, she found a new way to twist our balls.

"Oh no. We no longer cash check for insurance without medallions."

What?

"We got memo this weeken. Other banks must sign and then stamp with medallion"

What I want to know is- whose fuckin nightmare I'm starring in. I need out right now!

I told them to give us our damn check and this was going to be the last time they saw us and our $30 savings account! That'll show 'em!

We are going to open a new account with the bank that has our mortgage. I'm guessing they won't give us any more shit or I will introduce them to my right foot with a follow up of left foot!

We couldn't go today because Mother Nature, bitch that she is, decided to dump a billion inches of snow on us so we'll have to go Wednesday.

To recap, insurance companies suck ass, FEMA sucks nuts and banks are the biggest douche bags of the lot!

I would really love to name names and tell you what banks I'm talking about so that they can search themselves and find out how much they suck but I don't need you crazy hackers stealing our $30 before we can buy more booze.

Humor-Blogs

If you are walking down a dark alley and see a short woman running at you in high heels, step aside or she'll knock you over to get to her victim. Or she might be a hooker and if that's the case it's not me so no worries.

You know how sometimes you wish you could tell your boss to go give a rusty tailpipe a good suck ?? The reason you don't do it is usually because you need your job for crazy things like food, stuff to keep your body warm (this could be clothes or prostitutes because I don't judge… much), stuff for your kids (this could be medicine or Tequila, again, I don't judge), sparkly jewels and shoes.

Instead, you seethe quietly- or as quiet as yelling that you are sick and tired of this pompous asshole and one day you will bump into him in a dark alley and make him eat 4 day old shrimp that was marinated in mayonnaise and cooked on a car engine! can be.

So you sit at your desk, doodle hangmen, while at the same time typing a report you have verbally given him a million times but he insists on seeing it written up with the dates and periods and comas and yes, it will take you half a day but he does pay your salary so suck it up you whiny complainy little pissant (I have learned a new word since spell-check is telling me pissant is actually puissant: powerful; mighty; potent- which I would think would be an antonym of pissant… your thoughts) )and do as he says!!!

Then.

Then your devious little mind concocts a great plan. A way for you to tell that overfed gasbag exactly how you feel and what he can do with his job.

You go back to that 6 page document you just labored over and make a few key letters bold. A few key letters that if you look at them intently might spell out a secret message.

Please see below example:

You left this chart next to my phone on my desk and I was wondering if you still needed it right away or if it could wait until tomorrow or Wednesday? As always, just leave a note on the chart with your instructions on my desk and I will get to it as soon as I come back to the office.

If this message were taken to a special lab, it may be decoded as follows:

You can kiss my ass jerk off!

How do you like me now oh powerful OZ!!??

I know some of you might be thinking I'm full of shit and I didn't do it but I so fuckin did. I did and he read it with no clue. But the best part?

After I spent hours on the report and he read the whole thing, he said:

"My mistake, I gave you the wrong patient name. I meant this guy." because he can find no fault in your work and now needs you to be distracted with yet another project!

And so touché you turd licking toe sniffer. You have won again and all that's left is for me to wait for you in a dark alley.

P.S.

My Christmas tree timbered (fell) because of that brand spankin' new tree stand. I told you guys about the Snowmen, right??? They. Are. Assholes.

Humor-Blogs

Just because I buy a jar of pickles does not mean I'm pregnant!

I know it was sitting in the middle of the lemon swirl sherbet and the pistachio ice cream but that doesn't mean I was going to use the pickles as my spoon to eat my most delicious treats.

 

 

 

There was no need, my beloved husband, to give me this look

Beeeeelieve me when I say that if we were to be expecting a bundle of chaos (because let's face it, me + Andy = HIDE THE KNIVES!), I wouldn't keep the news quietly next to my heart like a treasured item. No, not me. I would say something like "Yo! WTF!! You knocked me up!!!!!" as soon as I found out AND AFTER YOU CAME TO. Because that my love, is something for us to suffer through together.

♀♂♥♥♥♥♀♂♥♥♥♥♀♂♥♥♥♥♀♂♥♥♥♥♀♂♥♥♥♥♀♂♥♥♥♥♀♂♥♥♥♥♀♂♥♥♥♥♀♂♥♥♥♥♀♂♥♥♥♥♀♂♥♥♥♥

Andy quote of the night:

"Sometimes people have to get shot in order for them to know better!"

Luckily, he didn't mean me!

Humor-Blogs

P.S.

I mean, come on! It was just pickles! Granted I had forgotten how much I hate the texture of them when I bite through one. Grainy.

My body is trying to kill me! What a bitch!

You know how sometimes you're in bed and your house is cold so you're cuddled up to your George (a 21 year old teddy bear) and your blankies are up to your chin and your mouth is probably doing that sucking on a bottle OF TEQUILA thing?

There you are, warm, snuggling your teddy bear, probably dreaming of half naked Brad Pitts dancing around just for you when ALL OF A SUDDEN your leg decides it is tired of living and tries to commit harakiri 腹切り (only without the cutting of the stomach part)(don't get technical with me okay? I know that is the definition for harakiri but the last thing I need is for somebody else correcting me) in the most painful way imaginable by taking your calf muscles and twisting them until they look like this: 

This is what some call a Charley Horse and I call why-not-just-pull-my-heart-out-through-my-nose-you-rotten-bastard-that-way-I-will-die-faster. Both terms are acceptable.

Anyway, once you get the dreaded Charley Horse (I will use this term since the other one takes up too much space) you go from sound asleep to literally jumping straight out of bed and fighting the tentacles of your spouse/significant other/torturer frantically trying to straighten your leg and end the misery.

In the narrow space you have between your side of the bed and the wall, you start doing yoga poses, something you've never done while awake or sober, and you beg for the pain to go away. All this while your spouse/significant other/torturer/jerk laughs at the fact that you shot up 3ft in the air and did an amazing vault that deserved a 10 from the gymnast judges. He laughs and laughs and you swear at him that his pubic hair will be pulled out one by one without the benefits of anesthesia.

The pain is such that your mouth has an after taste unlike anything you've ever tasted. I mean, you'd remember if you had sucked on a tailpipe, right?

Then, just when you think the danger is over, you start to sit back on the bed and make the mistake of trying to get your leg to accompany the rest of your body. WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING??? This sends your spouse/significant other/torturer/jerk/jackass into uncontrollable laughter so you go looking for the tweezers to make good on your threat but then you notice walking is making it better.

You walk around for a little bit until you think the knot in your leg won't commit another act of treason. You go back to bed and your spouse/significant other/torturer/jerk/jackass/maggot offers to give you a (mocking)massage but you know any pressure will just make you cry blood so you politely tell him to go find a spoon and dig his eyeball out of his head.

You get in bed, assume the fetal position and drift into sleep. No longer is Brad Pitt in your dreams. Now you are just having all kinds of nightmares because your subconscious is telling you not to straighten your leg. This manifest itself by showing you images of mannequin legs sticking out of a dumpster. You wake up sore and realize you will have to torture yourself a little more by wearing your 4 inch stilettos to work because it's Friday and therefore your meeting day with OZ, or whatever your boss' name is.

You slip your sad foot into your shoe and wait for the stabbing pain that will stem from your deformed leg... but... NOTHING! The shoes are as comfortable now as they have been the previous times you've worn them. This means you must go out and buy another 10 pairs of the same exact shoe!

Uhm, so yeah. Drink water and eat bananas. That's what my trainer Ovi said will keep Charley Horses at bay.

Also? This did NOT happen to me. Allegedly.

Aww what the fuck! I saw Moulin Rouge on the cable guide only to be denied because it's the 1952 version! I was tricked! Bastards. Did you know that Colette Marchand (the Nicole Kidman of the 50s) had (maybe she's still alive and I'm killing her?) a lazy eye? And what is with the brutal kisses in old movies?? Did the director think it would make a movie sexier if it looked like the guy was trying to eat his lover's mouth?? Did they not get the memo that ravishing and ravenous are two different things???

 

P.S.

Today, I added the word *fuck* to my Live Writer dictionary. Champagne for everyone! Except Andy.

P.P.S.

My dog Tazz has been playing my nieces piano and I think he's pissed that he sucks because he keeps growling while he does it. Or maybe he's singing? I tell ya that I live in a nuthouse!

 

Humor-Blogs

My "Andy the Electrician" trumps your "Joe the Plumber"!

Okay.

What the fuck??

Joe the plumber gets pulled over for going 15 miles over the speed limit and they let him go because he is JOE THE PLUMBER??

I typed "plumber" in google images and this came up. It did show her butt crack but since my blog is rated PG (WTF??) I decided to cover it up with a picture of Uranus. You're welcome.

I don't give a shit if you're Barney the purple dinosaur, if you get pulled over for speeding, you should get a ticket just like the rest of us!

When I got pulled over for going *cough20cough* miles over the speed limit, I didn't whip out the "I'm a Brown's Chicken worker and have access to tasty entrées and side dishes"!

I'm not saying I'm an angel and follow all the rules of the road (if you are a law enforcement officer in the state of Illinois, of course I follow all laws and rules! I'm just teasin', silly! We good, right? Would you like some tasty entrées or side dishes??) but if I get pulled over for breaking the law, I put on my big girl panties and take my lumps (uh, how about we leave this one alone and not make any overly suggestive remarks?). I personally don't think they should have let him go just because he's Joe the plumber.

If Andy ever gets pulled over (in the name of all good, evil and wishy-washy gray matter that can't make up its mind what side its on, may this never happen), I'm gonna tell him to pull the "But I'm Andy the Electrician!" if they don't let him go with a warning, so help me I'll raise the dead from all the screaming I'll be doing!

I encourage you all to do the same. If you get pulled over say "But I'm Brian the Mathematician!" or "But I'm jean knee the Fertile Queen!" or "But I'm Larissa the Musician Mommy!" or "But I'm Tracy the owner of Rambling Acres!"

If they don't let you guys go, give me a jingle and I'll come to your rescue.

***Disclaimer, only valid in the US since rules in the land of those who made us might be different. Also, Bee's Musings does not encourage you to break the law. Please drive with caution and on the defensive. But not like the Chicago Bear's defense because they suck.

P.S.
I love my new haircut. I really do. There is only one drawback. Or should I say six? Every single one of the bats had to touch my hair because I didn't straighten it, just left it curly to see how it looked (yup, my hair is naturally curly, I know you're jealous too but there's nothing I can do about your raging jealousy so let's not mention it again, okay?). They had to come over and touch it because it "looks so soft" HAVE WE NOT LEARNED ANYTHING FROM MY SPACE INVADERS POST???

P.P.S.
What do you guys think of me live blogging my birthday?? It's on Tuesday so I'll be at work but it might be interesting... maybe??

Humor-Blogs

Unlike Samson, cutting my hair makes me stronger, smarter, faster... colder.

*Other title for this post that was discarded due to a disagreement as to what it would actually mean was "The antonym for Samson is Bee. "

So... I went to get my haircut Saturday morning.Since Charlize Theron's hairdo won by 43% and was also given a big thumbs up by my 5 year old niece, I packed up my magazine, water, cellphone and Kleenex (in case I cried) and headed on over to my stylist guy.

I've said before how the place I go to isn't a fancy salon. It's usually me and about 20 guys, which would be a nice fantasy but I think the majority of the characters there are of the dangerous variety.

Even so, I go there because A) I'm not afraid of anybody B) My hairstylist, Freddy, does an awesome job and C) If I stopped going he would hunt me down, shave my head and then slice and dice my scalp. (I know I just said I'm not afraid of anybody but Freddy is not just anybody! He has sharp scissors that are usually inches from my carotid artery and my eyeballs)

Anyway, I arrived and Freddy was styling some chicks hair with a blow dryer. When I told him what I was going to do with my hair, he shut the dryer off and asked "Que tu estas loca m'ija??"
Which is the same exact thing the other stylist guy said to me earlier this year when I told him I wanted blood red streaks.

I showed Freddy the picture of Charliez, he said okay.
A few minutes later, he showed me a picture of some random chick and asked what I thought. I said "oh, that looks pretty" but I didn't think twice about it after that.

I think some of you might already know what's coming. Even though I was giving him specific instructions on how I wanted my hair throughout the whole process, he did what he usually does. He did whatever the fuck he wanted!

This could have turned into a tragic story ladies and gents but it just so happened I loved the style, Freddy the Omnipotent, gave me.

So, in one year I've gone from:

To:

And:


To the most recent and final:

No more pony tails for me, they are definitely more like pig tails.

I've had long hair for years so it took a hefty dose of balls to say "Cut it all".

Even knowing my hair grows fast, I still felt a little faint when the scissors made their little kweek noise after he removed the first few inches. Then.... the experience became cathartic (and not in the icky, emptying of bowels sort of way, well maybe a little).

I don't know what it is about a great haircut that makes us feel like we have the power to remove obstacles from our path or crush those that are stupid enough to not move on their own.

I had a blow out fuckin fight with OZ (my boss, the orthopaedic surgeon) and I basically told him, TO HIS FACE, that I wasn't going to take his shit any more.

And I did that before the haircut so I'm thinking that we're in for some fun shit now that I've discovered the power of invincibility.

One of my favorite exchanges from my Friday meeting with OZ:

OZ:
Wow! Is this how you are with the attorneys? I'm glad you're on my side!

SICK OF ALL THE BULLSHIT BEE:
Beware because I'm not always on your side.

BURN ASSHOLE BURN!

The look on his face was priceless and I wish I had my trusty Scarlett to snap a picture for future bulls-eye and dartboard backgrounds.

Right after my venom exploded all over his shirt, we continued our meeting the way it should always be.

He listened when I spoke, didn't interrupt me and just sat there with his tail between his legs.
I still say he looks like Phillip Seymour Hoffman so here is what he kind of looked like:

ΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘΘ
Moving on, the winner of my Pass It Forward thingie is..........

I promise you I didn't cheat, you might not believe me but the name Andy pulled was.......

TRACY'S!!

I debated whether Andy should pick another name but then I thought "Hey! I'm the boss of me!"

So Tracy, I already have your address so I will be sending you a little something something later in the week.

P.S.
If you're thinking I should fire my hairstylist because he always does whatever the fuck he wants, I was thinking the same thing too. I might have to go into witness protection though so please look for my blog under the new name of "Mee's Busings".

P.P.S.
As I type this, my in-laws and Andy are watching the sucky Bears play what some call football but I call torture to the eyes, ears, nose and VAGINA!

The current score is Lions: 23 Bears: 20

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Tighty Whities Should Be Outlawed Under Penalty of No More Fun For Your Goody Bits!

Hey!

Quick reminder.


I, Bee Lastname, am NOT a doctor, nurse, physician's assistant, physical therapist, radiologist, candy striper (or Candy the Stripper who moonlights as a hooker) or any other titled profession you can think of that needs to see you without pants.



I am simply an overworked business office chick who demands money from insurance companies and lawyers. Just because I have the dual language thing going for me that gives me the extreme pleasure of translating for my non English speaking paisanos, this little skill does not -DOES NOT- give you the right to flash your saggy tighty whities in my face while showing off your chicken legs. No!

Grab the back of the gown and be ashamed of your body like the rest of us!

Now I need to go bleach out my eyes.






Unless... you're a really hot guy (same rule applies as the boob grabbing)(remember the boob grabber??) and let's be real here people! When, oh when, would I ever be that lucky?

Here's something else I found out yesterday. People like squirrels!!! Don't you know how vicious they are? Sure, they can look all cute and cuddly but I can tell you with certainty because I live in a forest-like area, they are horrible little creatures that would snack on your eyes if you fall asleep on a hammock.




If that doesn't scare you, how about if they took your BEER???


It's for the good of humanity!

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