You know how sometimes you want to do something because you think "how bad can it be?" and then your brain tries to talk you out of it by reminding you of that one time you shoplifted and your mom spanked you so hard the brand name of her shoe is still stenciled to your ass? Yeah, it's like that!

I am an intelligent person. I swear I am. But sometimes oh my lord can I make stupid decisions!

It all started a week ago when I was going to make cheesy salsa dip. It involves only 2 things. Salsa and cream cheese. In order to mix the two, the cream cheese needs to be softened so I took out a brick of Philly Cream Cheese, accept no substitutions,  and let it sit on the counter for a little while. The little while turned out to be a week because we ran out of chips for dipping then we forgot to buy more then I became sidetracked etc.

Well, on Sunday, I decided to make a fruit cocktail that is infamous in our house. One of the ingredients is cream cheese. We bought 2 fresh bricks, I mixed everything together, then tasted it. Bleh! Too sweet! I thought to myself "gee! I wish had one more thing of cream cheese! ... Wait a minute!"

Does anyone else see where this is going?

I opened the package that had sat on my counter for about 2 weeks (yes, it probably was 2 weeks) and did a sniff test. The smell of cream cheese isn't a pleasant one to begin with so that didn't work.

Okay, I'll just TASTE it. I licked it- just kidding! I'm not an animal! I take a little piece and put it in my mouth, not bad! I taste a bigger piece JUST TO BE SURE! Still tastes good. In my head, I'm thinking the warning to keep refrigerated is a gross exaggeration! This thing has been out for at least 3 weeks (yes, may have been about 21 days) and it's fine! It's probably because the kitchen was so cold- without thinking, I take another piece and eat it as I'm rummaging through the fridge for orange juice that's when I notice I do have another container of cream cheese so I decide to use that instead. Better safe than sorry, you know?

I threw out the old warm cream cheese that was still perfectly fine and used the refrigerated one. My desert came out great once I de-sweeten it and we lived happily ever after! Only not!

Currently, I'm sitting at my desk (okay, computer cart!) waiting for Freddy Krueger to rip his way out of my stomach so that I may finally be at peace! The pain is un-freakin-bearable! Seriously. If I'm ever taken hostage and the terrorists want to make me spill the recipe for my pulled pork sandwiches all they have to do is give me expired cream cheese and wait 20 minutes.

This will go on my "do not do ever again!" list. Along with 'rub eyes after cleaning red pepper shaker' 'stick hands in shark tank' 'walk out in 10 degree weather while rocking flip flops' 'tap dance on thin ice' Well, let's face it, the list goes on and on.

 

Bloggers! Don't forget to join the Secret Santa Can Suck It Year Deux!

Where we give someone we don't know pretend gifts that may make them laugh or cry (for bonus points!). Email me at beesmusings@gmail.com

If you need details go HERE if you want examples from last year go HERE if you think I need therapy go HERE.

Thanks to all those who have signed up so far. It's gonna be awesome!

Once upon a time there was a family of ugly globs living in my lungs...

 

It all started on Friday THE THIRTEENTH ooh spoooooky!

I came down with some bug. Last year I was rarely sick but it seems this year will be the year of the Funkyflus for me.

As you may or may not know, you simply cannot be sick while working at the Asylum. People immediately start shielding themselves from you and spraying every area you touch with bleachlike substances. While your hand is still touching the object! I don't know why they treat people like pariahs when they're ill. With the exception of OZ, it's not like we go out licking unsanitary hookers on purpose!

So, I decided to keep my illness (which I believe was passed on to me by that evil OZ!) on the down-low. Unfortunately for me, at the earliest sign of any illness, my voice is the first to go. Added to that, I have this creepy cough that I haven't been able to get rid of for over a month. That cough has irritated my throat and, I'm assuming because I am not a licensed professional, my vocal chords. So instead of my sweet HIGH PITCHED voice OF A NINE YEAR OLD, I sound like a 1920s hustler whose had too many cigarettes, booze and good times. The voice is a little less Mae West and a lot more Elmer Fudd-y. I will call this my alter ego and name her Lullibell. What the hell was I talking about? Oh right! I'm sick.

I went to work and as soon as I said something, everyone pounced on me.

"Are you sick?"
"Sounds like something's cookin'!"
"Your hair looks great!"

I told them I felt fine but I felt a little congested. Immediately Glynda told me to go home. Since I no longer have any more time off left in the season, I told her that I would go home if they paid me for the day. She stared at me blankly and said "No, but I don't want you to give it to us" and that's when I said "This is harassment!" no I actually told her that if she did not get it from kissing OZ's ass, then she wouldn't get it from me.

I struggled the whole day to appear healthy but once I got home that evening, my bravado evaporated. I sat on the sofa coughing and whimpering, waiting for Tom Cruise to come heal me. Bastard never showed.

I managed to run some errands on Saturday but on Sunday all I did was wallow in self pity, vowing to make the world a bitter place if I came out of this alive.

On Monday, I called in sick because I had trouble sleeping and I knew I would look like a zombie on meth and therefore be judged by the bats because even though looking like zombies on meth is their permanent look, it's unacceptable for me to come down with any illness. I decided to stay home and rest. I slept until 2pm. TWO PM! It was almost dinner time! I felt better, still a little cough-y but the headache and lightheadedness were gone.

Join me in the present day, Tuesday, where I'm driving to work and practicing my 'good mornings' because I don't want my voice to sound all scratchy when I greet Glynda.

First, I sounded like Lurch  "Good morning!" nope try again "GOOD MORNING!" that sounded like Jack McFarland on helium. Bring it down a few notches "Good morning!" now I'm Oscar the freaking Grouch! Good, I'm getting closer! I would be able to fool people into thinking I was 100% better and they wouldn't irritate me with their obnoxious insinuations of me infecting the whole office thereby taking years off their lives. I high fived myself in the rear view mirror and that's when I realized . . .

My life? Pathetic.

How does a girl spend her 37th birthday? Glad you asked!

I woke up bleary eyed and stumbling, as per usual, and received my birthday hug from my Andy along with a beautiful card full of words of love and shmoopiness.

Who has 2 thumbs and is blessed to have a great man? [thumbs pointing at myself] This girl!

I then went to the mirror to yawn and admire my beauty before I showered and that's when I noticed— Have any of you experienced that eerie feeling of dread when you're brushing your teeth and you're afraid of looking in the mirror because it may not be your face looking back at you but that of a sinister being with shiny red eyes and sharp teeth? Well that's what happened to me on my birthday!

(why couldn't this have happened on Halloween?? I would have had a ton of fun scaring the little people!)

It seems I'm allergic to the new eyeliner I bought and neglected to remove before going to bed last night. I remember my thought was "meh. I'm all cozy in bed, what harm can it do?" well, it can make your eyes blood red and give the appearance of pink eye, that's what!

I had to go the whole day of my birthday responding to the "Oh, you have pink eye!" comment everybody was making.

"No, I do not have pink eye you sick bitches! I'm allergic to my new eyeliner" and then they would look at me out of the corner of their eye as they made
their way out of my *pink eye infested* space.

It is a serious insult to ask someone if they have pink eye. I'd rather people ask me if I know how to speak Mexican (you'd be surprised how many times I have
to respond with "do you know how to speak Unitedstatesofamerican?").

Terrifying eyes aside, I did enjoy the day. After I removed the sheet of ice from my car.

 

Which brings me to another question, how did Alex from Madagascar get in my car?

I haven't chauffeured a munchkin in years!

Thank you to all who wished me a happy birthday on the blogus, facebook, email, text message, phone call, via card and in person. You guys rock! Almost as much as I do.

 

Stay tuned on Friday for my interview with Robert Kroese, Author of Mercury Falls, dude behind Mattress Police and Humor Blogs.

I will ask hard hitting questions like, "If you were a chair, what kind of chair would you be... and why?" serious stuff right there!

Ahhhh 37! I liked you better when you were 10 years younger!

♪♫ Today is my birthday! thun thun thun thun thun!!

I still have to go to work! Bhun nunanunun!!

I had to buy my own cake to bring to the asylum! Ledadidadee!!

Everybody, including Andy, thought my birthday was on the wrong day!  Peepampeepapoo!!

I suck at rhyming! Fafeefufafoo!!

I'm dehydrated from all of the booze! Baneeneenanonoo!!
... ... ... ♪♫

I'm at a loss on how to end the song.

Anyway.

I know it's my birthday but I, being the giver that I am, have a gift for you. An embarrassing picture of me at age 7/8/9ish?

I know you have a lot of questions. "Where did you buy your cool guy shirt?" "Were those glasses as big as your head?" Why OH WHY did someone take a picture of you in the BATHROOM?"

I can answer your questions or I can dance instead!

Vogue with me people!! 

My mind? Gone!

Aliens, Julia Childs, Nemo*! Movies that are polar opposites!

**This post is brought to you from under my blankies while I'm valiantly fighting off what I'm hoping isn't the flu but it feels very flu-y to me which sucks and my beloved Nyquil seems to be too far for me to reach which only leaves me the option to call out for Andy but that just takes too much energy so instead I'm gonna try and devise a rope toss fashioned out of toilet paper and hope it's strong enough to pull it to my my side. Or maybe I'll just sleep. Anyway, I decided to raid my draft folder for post that didn't quite make the cut so if they suck you know why. Like always, I absolve myself of any actual blame for being mediocre. God! I feel like an alien is trying to claw his way out of my throat! If I survive, and I'm not amongst the 30-90,000 predicted victims of the swine flu (relax, I don't really think I have the swine flu just a plain old regular phlem producing flu but the flu is the flu no matter what fancy name you give it. kinda like a rose I guess), I'll see you guys next week.**

Last Monday, Labor Day, Andy and I went to a double feature. Let's step back for a second so we may discuss the meaning of a *double feature*. In the olden days, days of poodle skirts, sock hops, the ability to disguise hickies via a kicky polka dot scarf and girls who would go away to visit aunts in other states for about 8-9 months and come back all weepy and smoking cigarettes, a double feature was something you paid oh I don't know, a nickel, to see two movies.

It was usually at the drive-in (and you would really only see one because you were typically too involved doing other things, like knitting) and you had those metal box thingies you'd attach to your window (the last time I went to a drive-in, Before-Andy, we had to tune our radio to a certain station and what fun is that? I used to love forgetting to remove the metal speaker thing and then remember when I couldn't put my window up while driving on the highway!) (by the way, I know I went to see Wolf with Jack Nicholson but I can't remember what the second movie was. . .).

In the year 2009, we did not pay a nickel to see 2 movies and instead paid $14 to see one movie (matinee), went home and then came back to pay $18 for the second movie.

The first movie we saw was District 9, totally Andy's pick. I liked it well enough but I wouldn't recommend it to everybody. For example, I'd tell my brothers Rick and Sergio to go see it but I'd discourage my brother Dan and sister Nancy from seeing it. Because of their delicate sensibilities.

The movie left me with more questions than I care to live with after seeing a movie but I don't want to voice those questions for 2 reasons. One, you wouldn't know what I'm talking about and two, I don't feel like ruining it for other people. Maybe tomorrow.

We left the theater and went home to feed the dogs, feed fish, and load clothes in the washer (BECAUSE I NOW HAVE THAT OPTION).

We went back to the movie theater to see Julie and Julia. I learned a few things about myself that day.

The first was that I can simultaneously make fun of old men who sit in yellow corvette convertibles while parked in a handicapped section and jamming to Barry White's "can't get enough of your love baby" all the while I'm dry heaving.

The second is that I hate watching people eat in movies. In real life too but I don't really have an option if I'm to socialize with others but in movies I want to throw things at the screen. But not my nachos. People in movies love to chew and talk. Chew, talk, then pick up their drinks and attempt to do all 3 things at once. Why? Do directors think that the entire population was raised by Brad Pitt's character in Kalifornia (he picked his feet on the kitchen table while eating, if I remember correctly).

The third is that I hate watching people kiss. In real life too but I usually just spray them with toilet water but in the movies I get all sorts of the ickies. Especially when those kissing are people in their senior years (because now they're also kissing to "can't get enough of your love baby" in my head). Sorry, I don't mean to sound like an age-ist but that's how I feel and the last I heard I had the right to feel icked out at whatever I wanted.

Also, if anybody has seen that movie, do you remember the part where that Julie chick is saying "Bon Appetite" over and over then her husband says it like 3 times and then starts mauling her and the last time he says it he practically throws his junk in her face? How boorish right? He was all "Bon Appetite, here's my crotch!" I whispered that to Andy and he sprayed the old ladies in front of us with soda.

True Story.

*If you're wondering where Nemo comes into the whole story because he was in the title, he doesn't. I think Nemo's dead. Tell your children.

**I just read this and now I know why I didn't hit publish but you know what? I'm sweating right now and cold at the same time so I'm going to hit publish anyway. Tazz keeps crying. Can dogs predict the future? Is he trying to tell me something?**

My reign of terror at the Laundromat? It comes to an end!! (Shoots off confetti at the audience!)(Hopes nobody gets it in the eye)(except maybe YOU right there!)

This past Saturday morning, Andy and I woke up extremely early SIX-THIRTY! He got up and put on his big boy pants so he may take the dogs out, go move our cars and open the back gate while I decided to stay in bed and send my support from there. With my eyes closed. And hugging my teddy bear.

I was all snuggly when I heard my car alarm go off. I jumped out of bed, because I know how over reactive my man can be, and ran to the front door. Meanwhile Andy ran the length of our long driveway and came into the house through the back door, which doesn't make sense because my car was parked in the front but whatever, yelling "BEE! WHERE IS YOUR KEY FOB???" (as my car alarm was going nuts waiting to be shut off) (as he was holding my car keys with my, ehm, KEY FOB that shuts off my car alarm). So I say "you are holding it" in English because that is the only language he understands and he bellows "NO I'M NOT! WHERE IS YOUR KEY FOOOOOOB??" so I take this thing that he's holding that he claims is NOT my key fob, walk to the front door, push the button on this imposter key fob and miraculously shut off my car alarm.

I slowly turn to look at him and he's just standing there, seething. Then he walks into the bedroom and I look at the time. 6:45 which triggers the rage within me. When he came out of the bedroom I let him have it boys and girls. I can't even remember what I said but I'm sure it was mean (because my voice was all snarly) and I ended it with "so you better apologize"

And he did.

I don't recall the last time Andy said 'I'm sorry'. Wait, I do. It was that one time he accidentally elbowed me in the head while he was sleeping. But that one shouldn't count because I smacked him on the stomach to wake him up and told him what he had done and he opened one eye and said 'oh sawrry' ::snore:: I'm sure that in the rule book (The Marriage Rule Book) there is an entry that clearly states that half conscious apologies are invalid in the states of Illinois, Wisconsin, California, Hawaii and maybe Alaska.

Anyway, the reason we were up so early and moving the cars around was because we needed to make room for the delivery truck that was dropping off our BRAND SPANKIN NEW WASHER!!

The delivery dudes (or "happy marriage makers" as I call them) arrived at 7:01 and, after they installed it and hauled away the old washer, were gone by 7:15.

I was so happy, I was doing dance moves I haven't been able to do since the late 80s.

I have to thank my mother and father-in-law (or "fairy godparents of smiling, happy couples" as I like to call them) for their awesome gift. They took pity on the people I have to interact with at the Laundromat and decided to intervene on their behalf. They knew I was down to my last nerve and the chains holding me back from doing serious damage to people hogging all the carts, dryers, tables, wouldn't keep me back for much longer.

Thank you Mom and Pop R.!

Here is a picture of my beautiful new washer. See how it spins for me??

Here is a picture of it standing nobly next to my dryer (which will hopefully be replaced in March).

My heart sings for you, my beautiful washer!

Later that morning, Andy cleaned out the garage (with some help from me) (but it was mostly me standing around saying stuff like "ewww! Look at all the spider eggs!" and Andy correcting me by saying "They're spider SACKS, Bee" and me saying "look, they can be spider eggs, sacks or balls for all I care because they are still EWWW!" and then him telling me to get out of the garage because he didn't need me jumping around every time I thought something was crawling on me and knocking over his elaborate balancing crap-o-stuff.).

After the flood of 2008, we stored a bunch of stuff in the garage. Materials, tools, stuff I bought on ebay which years later has me wondering what kind of drugs I was on (must have been good ones):

I know I just became cooler in your eyes.

When I opened the box, I was stunned. Was I thinking about changing careers and trying to break into the clown industry? Holy crap!

To answer your unspoken question, no, I never wore them. Just opening the box now makes me want to disinfect my body. And to some extent, my mind.

We took a break in the middle of the day to have lunch at Costco. I know I've said I don't eat any of the samples because I'm afraid of contracting small pox, eating more than my daily recommended intake of other people's skin flakes AKA dust and being pressured into buying 80 lbs of crab salad (and I don't even like crabs, edible or otherwise) but my mom came with us and hit every sample table from the front to the back of the store.

She'd walk away with portions for herself, Andy and I. By the end of our stay, we had to be rolled out of there. The freakin place was packed but now I know why people go there at around 1 o'clock. Why pay $8 per person at Corner Bakery when you can eat for free?

After we were able to tear my mesmerized mother away from the Costco blender demonstrator (who thinks he's so cool because he has a Madonna microphone) (but I'm not impressed unless he sings Lucky Star and shines one me wherever I are), we made our way home and lived happily every after.

Well, until the free booze wore off.

Brian’s fear of spiders is justified plus stuffing my drawers.

So, did you miss me? Maybe you didn’t even notice I was gone? Niiiice thanks a lot people!

Anyway, more on my vacation later.

Andy holding Big Willy formerly known as The Sears Tower:

Today I’d like to say that I am now on the “Spiders-are-evil-emissaries-of-death!” bandwagon.

My Long Lost Friend and I were enjoying a nice little bonfire on Sunday night. There was a nice breeze, it wasn't too cold or too warm, the memories were flowing- minus the booze...

When the fire started dying down, I got up and went to get some homemade firewood (homemade firewood is wood you grow yourself and then mother nature comes along and decides to rip your wood plants in half) that we had stacked near our fence. It was dark, I couldn’t see very well so I blindly sifted through the wood pile looking for some nice thick pieces.

In that small amount of time, I was apparently being scaled like Mount Everest by ninja spiders because I have about 7 large spider bites on my legs, toes and feet.

Since things in my life can’t ever be of the normal variety, these spider bites are currently bubbling up and a resembling the alps.I get hotter and hotter every day.

I really wish I was exaggerating.

For all you know, these paragraphs may be the last thing I write before foaming at the mouth and going into seizures that will have me biting off my head, or worse, buying a jumpsuit.

It’s funny because, after all the gardening I’ve done over the years, I have never been attacked by the spider militia. Mosquitos, bees, squirrels, angry parents, those I'm used to but not spiders.

Then I went on Bad Spider Bites and talk about scaring the ever lovin crap out of myself! ::shiver!::

Okay I'm going to change the subject now.

I returned to the Asylum today and everybody seemed super happy to see me. That was such a weird feeling. Kind of a cross between drinking warm cider and vinegar. Anyway, later in the day, I got a little hungry. I opened my drawer to pull out the bag of Cheetos I keep in case of emergencies imagine my surprise when it wasn't there.

I asked around but nobody admitted to ransacking my snack drawer. I went to Glynda and asked her too, just in case. Her response "Let me ask OZ. He sometimes snoops in people's drawers" she came back later with $2.

OZ ATE MY CHEETOS!

What kind of mean MOFO does that? Seriously! I can't leave for 2 days without people taking my stuff. I'm gonna load my drawers with tampons and douches... not that I have a problem, okay? I'm just thinking that'll keep him outta my drawers.

Well that's about it- OH YEAH! For those of you who follow So You Think You Can Dance, if freakin Kayla/Shayla/Layla whatever the hell her name is doesn't get booted off this week I am going to have a fit! She should have been gone last week but nobody can seem to see her clumsy flopping around the floor when she does her solos. I need to hurry up and finish my mind control machine.

Out of context

“I think I just parked over a chicken bone”

“ Bee: I can smell through my mouth.

Andy: YOU should donate your body to science! ”

“Two-ply don’t bother me. Two-ply don’t bother me”

“The sun is blinding me so right now I'm just driving by memory of the road.”

“Nutter butter sounds like another name for Fromunda cheese”

“I wonder how big her hole is”

“I seriously doubt all the letters make an appearance in alphabet soup”

“My head isn’t a toy, Andy!”

“That lady looks like an orange”

“My need for crushing heads is equal to your need for correcting me.”

“Well then I guess I’ll have to type while dripping mango juice!”

“Bah! One potato won’t kill me! It would take at least 10 to take me down!”

“Yes. Yes. She is tall and skinny but wearing only a tank top and stripper shoes benefits nobody, right Andy? Andy? ANDY!!”

“When a wife beats up her husband because of *errant eyes* nobody wins. Except maybe the wife because she gets that nice afterglow.”

Okay, those last two were not so much out of context as they were telling a true tale of jealousy and mayhem.

be back tomorrow with a *real* post.

This weekend, I learned my family thinks I'm mentally incapable of doing things on my own and also, nuns can seem to sense the evil in me. Nuns and babies.

Last Friday I went to the same stylist who gave me the red highlights last year and had him do them again. This time I went alone since Crazy Ez had gone the day before. I didn’t remember exactly where the place was but the directions didn’t look too complicated so I embarked on my voyage with a falalala in my heart and mapquest on my lap.

The day before my adventure, my mom had said she would come with me, when I told her the process took 3-4 hours she gulped and hesitated. I told her she didn’t have to come with and then she said she didn’t feel right letting me go by myself.

Me:
Uh, mom? I am 36 years old. In the eyes of the law, I can venture out without an adult.  

Mom:
I know but I’d feel guilty not knowing if you were okay.

Me:
You and Nancy travel all over the place by yourselves! Why is it a big deal for me to go somewhere on my own?

Mom:
I don’t know, it just is.

Then Andy.

Andy:
Your mom isn’t going with you? You are going alone? BY YOURSELF?

Bee:
Cheese n crackers people! I was walking home from work alone, late at night, in the mean streets of Chicago before any of you even knew what danger was! Driving to a suburb in broad freakin daylight should not be a problem!

Apparently my family gets nervous when I'm left to my own devices. They had me feeling like the mentally ill family member who can't be trusted with scissors because I would probably find a trampoline and jump around until I stabbed my neck. That is insulting beyond description. Sure it took me about ten loop-dee-loops to find the place and I kept passing it up but at least I got there! It was kinda funny because I had my sister and Big Tex on the phone looking up my location and I decided to pull into a strip mall to wait for further instructions when I noticed the big sign for the Beauty Shop. I stumbled upon the joint all accidental-like.

My hair looks awesome by the way.

That same day, over dinner, my mom shared another missing puzzle piece.

When I was 15 and UNRULY (according to my mom but I think she just needed to have a beer every once in a while to mellow out), my mom and godmother decided it would be a good idea to send me off to a boarding school convent thing (to exorcise the demons within I assume). My godmother, being an ex-nun (who SUPPOSEDLY married a Fitzgerald as in John Fitzgerald Kennedy Fitzgeralds -whatever, I didn’t believe it either), pulled some strings to get me an interview in this very prestigious boarding school in Guadalajara Mexico.

I don’t remember much of the interview with THE NUNS (other than they being all frowny faced) but after it was done, they sent me out of the room and spoke to my mom and godmother alone. That place gave me the heebie jeebies! It was dark and creepy and all I could think of was finding a way to escape.

We left shortly after and I never returned. I assumed my mom had been appalled by the prison-like facility and changed her mind but the reality was different. It seems the nuns said “No thank you!” to yours truly and I didn’t find out until this weekend. I asked my mom why she hadn’t shared this information earlier and she said she hadn’t wanted to upset me. I then asked her if she was aware I had a blog and that this juicy information was like gold!

It seems the nuns feared my American-nes and thought I might disrupt the rest of their students and maybe bring unholy ideas into their sanctuary. Some may look at this as a rejection but I think this just solidifies my badass status.

My mom still enrolled me in a regular catholic school though not that it helped much but that is a story for another day.

Yesterday, while gardening, I realized it was hard to be the creator.

I was digging up patches of grass yesterday and as I was pulling it up piece by piece, I found out why it had begun to brown. Our side yard is infested with grubs. I would post a picture but those damn things are the ugliest looking insects I have ever seen. They are the Benicio del Toro of bugs.

As I was throwing the diseased grass into a container for future storage (to throw at my enemies when they piss me off more than usual), I thought about how the rest of the insects were going to suffer because I was removing their habitat. The poor earth worms I was accidentally chopping in half due to my shovel. There was one in particular that made me think about the injustice that is nature (survival of the fittest- or in my case, survival of those with bigger digging apparatuses).

I had just lifted a big chunk of grass when I noticed the poor little worm trying to move the other half of its body. Unfortunately, I must have smashed it when I inserted the shovel to get better leverage because the other half was just not moving.

It kept lifting itself up and it almost seemed like it was looking back at its limp tail(?) and wondering what the hell was going on. So I stood with my shovel debating if I should put it out of its misery or just leave it be. What do I know about worm injuries? Will it live on to be 200 in worm years without the use of its full body?

Then I started wondering if it too was asking why this was happening. I was basically ending the world as it knew it and making it suffer because of some stupid grubs that spoiled it for the rest of them. The grass was no more and in its stead were barren pieces of dirt because a destructive species abused the natural resources and decided to suck the life out of the lawn which was home to so many creepy crawlies.

Creepy crawlies that love climbing up women who stand around pondering too much. Creepy Crawlies that are slimy and icky... BAM! I cut the sucker in half and good riddance!

As vengeance for my version of the apocalypse, when I went to bed, every time I closed my eyes I saw an army of worms, spiders and ants coming at me. It was scary-gross but a little awesome because they did look cute in their army hats.

P.S.

We have treated some of our lawn with grub killer but I'm removing chunks so that I may expand my garden. I'm telling you this so that I don't get a comment that says "Uh why are you removing your grass one blade at a time when you can just kill the little bastards, you dumbass??" and really that's uncalled for.

My vacation attire would get me banned from all 5 star, 4 star, 3 star, 2 star resorts.

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You know that question parents ask their kids "If your friends jumped off a bridge, would you do it too?" How many of you said yes? I jumped off a high mountain, does that count?

So the other day I went to say 'hi' to NCS on her blog and she was all bragging about her skiing abilities. I misquote "I'm awesome at skiing because I have awesome balancing skills and great hair, don't even try to be better at skiing than me because you will FAIL."

I told her my goal was to be the worst, laziest skier on the planet so the joke was on her. Then I told her I'd tell my skiing story after I ate my spider pie.

Here it is ladies and gents, the sordid, embarrassingly sad, details:

Back when I was a cool and happenin' disco (as Brian and jean knee say)(that's what they call clubs) chick, my friend Brenda thought it was a good idea to introduce me to the magical wonderland that is Skiing or as I refer to it "why in the hell would you want to freeze your ass off when there is a perfectly good lodge with hot guys and booze right over there?"

Being from California, skiing was just not something I ever thought about doing. She encouraged me by saying "you'll be fine, it's just a matter of balance!" uh I'd like to state for the record that, yes, my balance was good enough to keep me upright and helped in my learning to walk days but I never attempted to walk on slippery surfaces with butter-knives attached to my tootsies.

But hey! I was about 21-22 so I thought I was immortal why not try skiing?? Sonny Bono hadn't died yet so I had no idea how dangerous it could be.

We went to the local sports store and loaded up on cute outfits, warm socks, a ski jacket (just made sense to buy an expensive jacket for a first time adventure) and a polar bear. How did I pay for all that on my Chicken Joint salary? I had just gotten a new credit card in the mail and I had to pay for all that crap in the years to come. Bastards.

My dear friend Brenda and her friend Leslutty decided to teach me on the "bunny slope". Listen, if that fuckin thing was a bunny slope, my butt is really the same size it was in high school. That was an Elephant slope as far as I was concerned.

These were their instructions to me. AND I AM NOT KIDDING.

Brenda:

If you want to go left, you go like this [moves body to the left] if you want to go right you go like this [moves body to the right] and if you want to stop you go like this [extends arms, digs weird pole things into snow and crosses her skis].

Leslutty:

Yeah. Totally. [exhales a cloud of toxic smoke in my direction. Bitch.]

Me:

Oh, okay. What can go wrong with those easy instructions?

Lets stop right there and examine that statement m'mkay?

Just because instructions are easy, doesn't mean:

A) they are right

B) they should be followed

C) you won't need hip/face/back replacement surgery when you're done

and the hidden

D) you shouldn't have your fuckin head examined for having friends who want to kill you. In public! In front of children!

So I peer down the Elephant slope and Brenda says "ready? Go!" and because I always do as I'm told… down I went.

Now you will hear my inner thoughts because I remember exactly what I was thinking as if it were yesterday.

"Cool! Man, I must be doing about 30 miles an hour! Yeah! I am so balanced and look how straight I'm going with the proper knee bendyness! Wow looks like I'm headed for those pine trees! Uh, what did she say if I wanted to stop? Oh yeah. Cross skis. … How do I cross my skis they are just not cooperating. Where's the brake lever?? Ummm danger Will Robinson?? Danger. DANGER!!! OH HOLY FUCKIN SHIT! HOW DO I STOP??"

My friend Brenda, who is an excellent skier and I hate her, appeared alongside of me yelling stuff which I interpreted as "keep going you're doing great!" but in reality was "why the fuck aren't you stopping?".

So, I did the thing that I do best. I took matters into my own hands and threw my body backwards. So that I may fall and therefore stopping me from hurting the beautiful pine trees.

Now, I'm not sure if you are familiar with physics and I have to admit to only learning what I needed to to graduate and then replacing those things with images of Brad Pitt, but when you are going at a high velocity and you decide to throw your body on the slippery ground, this means you will be dragged around like a rag doll until:

A) You hit a big boulder

B) Hit a big tree

C) Hit another skier

D) run out of ground and just plummet off the face of the earth

but really it was

E) My ass was just too heavy to be dragged any further.

When I finally came to a stop, and was able to detach my legs from my ears, I dusted myself off. Stared at the long way I had gone and said to my friend Brenda "yeah, that was fun but you know what's more fun? Shooting rockets out of nose! How about I wait for you guys in the BAR WHILE TAKING SHOTS OF TEQUILA TO MAKE ME FORGET lodge?"

Now, you'd think the story would end there, right?

People, you would be so wrong.

Brenda:

Okay but why don't you go up the ski lift with us and then just come back down the lift?

Well hell! What a great idea!! I can have a nice view of the tops of the pine trees and watch people going down the mountain!!! Brilliant!

So we get on the ski lift, "ooh, pretty" "ahh peaceful" the next thing I know, I feel the chair jerk, see my "friends" on the slopes and then the lift completely stops.

In case you hadn't caught on by now, a person that goes up the ski lift must EXIT the ski lift at the TOP. There are no "ifs ands or buts" about it. Those are the rules. Would you like to know where my skis were? Why sitting right next to me of course! Why would they be on my feet if I'm not going to ski anymore! Silly rabbit!

To my horror, amidst cries of "what the hell are you doing? jump!" from the people in the chairs behind me, out of the little control shed comes this gorgeous, and do I mean drop-dead-knock-out-we-should-give-his-mother-a-standing-ovation-for-producing-such-a-mouth-watering-man, muscular guy in just a sweater and jeans who asks me to throw my skis on the ground and jump into his arms. Because I'm about 7 feet off the ground.

I hesitate since I don't want to be the one responsible for squishing the life out of this magnificent creature. He extends his arms and says "I'll catch you" ::dreamy sigh:: so I jump. Talk about trusting someone with your life. Talk about being a modern day Hercules. Talk about how red my face must have been!

He caught me, gently put me down, grabbed my skis, asked me if I was okay, left me with the mountain police (2 guys about my age) and then went back into his sparkly castle. ::dreamy sigh #2::

The mountain police were okay to look at but they were no match for the guy who held me in his arms. No match.

Anyway, there were only 3 ways off that mountain. You skied down it, out of the fuckin question. You rolled down it, I obviously didn't have a good rolling chance, maybe now but not back then. You WALKED down it. In ginormous ski boots. With drifts up to my waist.

Oh yeah, I forgot to talk about the ski boots. I am 5'2 and at that time was a way smaller size than I am now. Not telling you what size I am now since it's really none of your business and has no relevance to this story. The boots were up to my knees (rented thank god because I would have beat myself if I had bought a pair) and I felt like I was hauling around giant iron beams.

As I was being escorted down the side of the mountain, my two body guards were telling me I should get new friends. That was the best idea I'd heard all day. They also asked me where I lived, did I have a boyfriend and all that other stuff but you don't need to hear about that.

I waited for my "friends" in the lodge and had already made quick friends with the bartender and a few other people by the time they came inside, I also had a lot less brain cells IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. Did I mention it was night skiing?

There you have it NCS. Next time you are swooshing down the mountain, think of me having a Kahlua and cream mmmmm while sitting in front of a nice warm fireplace. Minus the hot guys. Now I only have one hot guy. You know, in my memories. ;o) (kidding babe, you know I meant you)

P.S.

Don't forget about coming over for our Sunday Comics "Bee n' Andy: Married and sometimes, still in love..." completely illustrated by Andy.

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What? An intruder in my house on Christmas Eve? Don’t make me go all holiday ninja on your sorry ass!

So…

As some of you may know, my momma is in Mexico at the moment and will not be returning until I’m 107.

This means that I’m all alone in my big house once Andy leaves for work.

This means that I’m washing my hair with my eyes open when I’m in the shower because I ain’t no Janet Leigh (in more ways than one, she was hawt!) and refuse to let some psycho with a knife make button holes on my body. Just seems like something I would want to avoid at all costs, you know?

Anyway. I usually leave the attack dogs on the loose so they may alert me of any intruders. This works as follows, Mocha barks her head off letting Tazz know that he has a tasty morsel on his turf. Tazz then goes and digs out his bib so he may dig in and savor any ruffians that happen to make the wrong decision by coming into his home. Burglar butt is his absolute favorite!

Christmas Eve, however, Andy had put Tazz in his kennel before he left and I was making banana pudding (not slang for anything, I was ACTUALLY making banana pudding) and then hurrying up to take a shower, I was too busy to let him back out of his kennel. Sooooo my only line of defense was that nutty airhead who would rather be petted than attack anybody.

I’m in the shower, singing my FALALALALAs with the radio blasting, when I hear Mocha go nuts. Odd, but she will also bark at dust bunnies, not that I have any ::wink::, so I’m not too worried until I hear Tazz’s malevolent growling and him throwing himself against his kennel making it rattle furiously.

I turn off the radio and listen intently.

I HEAR FOOTSTEPS!

CURSES!

The one day I kennel Tazz the Carnivorous is the one day intruders decide to steal my cool stuff!

Now I have to hurry up and rinse off so I may get dressed before I go investigate. I really don’t want to die naked, just don’t want that on my tombstone “here lies Bee, died in the shower with her white butt face up”.

Once I dried myself, I decided to put on lotion. The cold is making my skin too dry. Okay, clothes on… I should really brush my hair too. If I survive, I don’t want it to get all weird and frizzy.

Uh… since I’m brushing my hair, I might as well put makeup on. You know, in case I have to talk my way out of being reunited with Elvis, I want to look my best.

Then I notice Tazz isn’t growling anymore. He’s more like muttering. Mocha isn’t barking either but that could be because they distracted her with a cookie. Bitch!

I call out to Mocha BEFORE unlocking the door and NOTHING.

Okay, I have to make my way out there but I should call my sister and have her on the line in case she needs to call nine-one-one. This isn’t the first time she will be my lifeline in case of death. I once went to open The Chicken place and found the back door wide open. I called my sister and told her to listen while I walked around the joint with a machete looking for intruders. True story.

I grab my phone, yes I take it into the bathroom with me TRACY, notice I have a text message, decide to read it (kicking thievery ass can wait 2 minutes) and almost pass out with relief because it reads “I got the box ;) Nancy.”

I know that message means nothing to you guys but to me it means my sister drove to my house at the buttcrackofdawn to pick up a package her MIL had sent from the great big Texas. The package I promised my sister I’d take to work so she may only drive 3 blocks to pick it up. SHE was the noisy intruder.

She obviously didn’t trust me so she decided to make me die of fright instead!

I won’t lie to you, I am a little pissed but ultimately happy that it was her instead of a burglar. Especially because the only things I could have used to defend myself would have been my hairbrush and bleach spray. Bleach spray is way too expensive.

Nancy, your key privileges are REVOKED!!

Oh yeah and Merry Christmas to all!!! I’ll catch you guys next week.

P.S.

If there are any lowlife thieves reading this, I also have nunchucks and a machete so don’t try to come rob this chick.

I just don’t keep them in the bathroom.

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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.

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The official "Day after my birthday" post.

So, back when I was a wee little Bee, I used to hate the fact that my birthday landed on Veteran's Day. No offense to the Veterans but I was a little girl and all I wanted was a cupcake and to wear the "today is my birthday" crown just like the rest of the little brats in my class.

I know there must have been other kids with bigger birthday problems, like the ones who were born in July or August but frankly that thought never crossed my 5/6/7 year old mind or if it did I'm sure I probably said something along the lines of "well they can suck it, I'm all about me!".

Every year, around my birthday, my little town (I was born and raised in California) had a parade to mark the beginning of the 3 day Rodeo. That was always exciting because we got to walk all the way to Main street (we lived on B st. –SERIOUSLY- ) I remember most of my little girl birthdays fondly up until the year I turned 9. That was the year my dad had promised to take us to the Rodeo but instead decided to disappear for 2 weeks. To this day, I have no clue where he went or what he was doing but I do remember my mom being crazy with worry. Understandable since she had 4 children to take care of at that time.

I remember policemen coming and taking reports, our next door neighbor Benny calling people to help him scout the last places my dad had worked, our phone constantly ringing and people coming and going from our house. He finally showed up one day acting like he had done no wrong.

Until I typed that, I hadn't realized why I have always been indifferent to my birthdays. It's weird being the oldest kid. My brother Dan is constantly saying 'things weren't that bad' but I bet him 1 million dollars he has no recollection of those two frantic weeks since he was only about 5.

Anyway, let's pull ourselves out of that depressing shithole!

As the years have started to accumulate and begun doing major damage to my bones, I've become aware of them again. I try not to make a big fuss about my birthdays. I don't need a party, cake and presents (hello? I'm not a little kid anymore!). A nice Happy Birthday phone call will do just fine.

This year, my birthday started like any other day. Alarms blaring and being a damn nuisance like always. Andy stealing my pillow. Mocha barking. Me regretting the fact that I missed ONE number when I almost won the lottery. Meh. But then I might never have met Andy so I guess I won anyway [pukey with the saaappy! :o)]

Andy left, forgot to wish me a happy birthday, called me right before I got in the shower (see Tracy, that's why I need to bring my phone inside with me) weirdly, I'd forgotten it was my birthday too so I wasn't upset.

My mom came downstairs to give me my birthday hug right before I left for work. She was so cute, hadn't even opened her eyes all the way.

I got to work and BOOM! a little munchkin and her momma (my 5 year old niece Natalia and my sister) rounded the copy machine and yelled "Surprise Happy Birthday!". They came in early (like way way way early) and decorated my little corner of the asylum. That made my day!




I normally like taking my birthday off, not because I want to do anything special but because I hate the constant attention of people asking me what I'm going to do or what I think I'm gonna get for my birthday. They always look at me weird when I say we are just having dinner and I'm not expecting gifts.

The office manager, Omarossa (formerly Glynda the good witch), who for some reason is back from her I-hate-Bianca-more-than-I-hate-wedgies tour, was all chipper telling the whole fuckin world it was my birthday.

Now, if I weren't the self proclaimed Queen of the Anti-Socialites, I might have squeezed out a smile but instead I would stand in the middle of the hallway, while anonymous patients gave me their bland happy birthday wish, and shrug. Yup, I shrugged. I don't know why I responded in shrugs but I'm sure I meant them.

Then I enjoyed some time with my nutty family. But they didn't come for my sake, they for my mom's delicious cooking and as sort of a Bon Voyage party. Why? BECAUSE MY MOTHER LEAVES FOR MEXICO ON FRIDAY AND WON'T BE BACK UNTIL JANUARY 26TH!

I know you're sad now because you're worried about who will cook for me and Andy. I am now accepting care packages!

Speaking of care packages, in my mail I got some goodies from my dear friend Tracy and insulter Brian.

Brian sent me a card that says I'm an old hag. For reals he did.

But! I forgive him because he did a birthday post just for me.
Tracy sent me replacement teeth after she read my twitter that I had uh, swallowed my vampire teeth (oopsie!). She also wrote me a cool poem!

Isn't it weird that I felt all warm and fuzzy inside when you, faceless people (well, I'm sure you HAVE faces… I hope you have faces.) I've come to like, wished me happy birthday? No doubt we are living in an odd time.

I am one lucky chick!

Now, I'm off to go buy ANOTHER birthday cake to take in to work. Go figure! It's my week to bring office treats AND I ALSO HAVE TO BUY MY OWN CAKE!

P.S.
As I got older, I learned to appreciate not having to go to school on my birthday. I would go around school telling the other kids "Don't come to school tomorrow, it's my birthday."

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I'll be back tomorrow with a proper *day after* post but...

I just wanted to thank everybody for the birthday wishes and also all the new people that stopped by and called me old without even knowing me very well. That is what I want Bee's Musings to be, a place where you feel free to come over and mock me without fear. :o)

I had a great birthday surrounded by lots of people who love me, weird I know, sharing with me the joy of hitting the big THREE SIX!

I leave this quick Andy & Bee in love phone convo:

Andy:
How's your day going, buttnut?

Bee:
Ummm great! Nancy and Natalia surprised me! [more on that later]

Andy:
Good good. What kind of cake do you want?

Bee:
You don't need to get a cake.

Andy:
WHAT KIND OF CAKE DO YOU WANT??

Bee:
WHATEVER IS FINE!!

Andy:
Tell me what kind! YOU ARE SUCH A PAIN IN THE ASS!

Bee:
No, you're a pain in the ass!!

Andy:
NO, YOU ARE!

And so ends another lovey dovey phone conversation.

He wound up bringing me Strawberry shortcake and Tiramisu, how much does my husband rock even though he's a pain in the ass??



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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??

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