Thursday, January 31, 2008


Last night, while watching a credit card commercial with that Johnny Rivers’ song SECRET AGENT MAN playing in the background, Trevor confided in me that – until very recently (like sometime last week) – he thought the lyrics to the song’s chorus were SECRET ASIAN MAN. Until he figured out what the REAL lyrics were, the credit card commercial made no sense to him (because, really? What is a secret ASIAN man anyway? And WHY does he look like a Secret Agent? Oh, wait…).

See why I love him?

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

I've been put in my place (or something)...

If only...
Trevor just revoked my tickets to “the show”.

The gun show, that is.


Yeah. I've got nothing.

Ah, yes. Signage in the Texas Hill Country...

From PORK BUTT FRIDAYS in 2007 to BITE MY BUTT in 2008...

No Bull!
(does anyone else find this political ad to be as cheese-ball as I do?)

You know you live in a small town when:
The only directions you need are "IN HICO @ 'THE LIGHT'"...

Friday, January 25, 2008

The Return of the Lampshade (or why my dogs are slowly bankrupting me one injury at a time)...

Poor Whippy Woo!

We don’t know who, what, where, when, why, or how, but last night at about 10:15, I discovered that little Gypsy Kitty had seriously injured herself. Again.

Actually, Haskell was the one who first noticed the (gaping) wound on her left shoulder. At first, I thought he was giving his sister "kisses", but after a couple of minutes of constant licking, I decided to take a closer look. That was when I noticed the deep hole in her hide. Not ten minutes later, Trevor and I were on our way to the emergency vet.

So, yeah: Six stitches, $500 and one new lampshade later, Gypsy is (back) on the road to recovery.

We still have no idea how she hurt herself. Nothing is new or out of place. She had just come in from the backyard, but neither Trevor nor myself could find anything out there that could have caused this kind of injury. And I feel really guilty because this is the second time in the last nine months that I’ve had to rush Gypsy to the doggie ER because of an unexplained puncture wound! My poor baby!

I'm drugged.

I hurt.

I hate lampshades.

This sucks.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

Too Young To Feel This Damn Old...

“Sure, I’m for helping the elderly. I’m going to be old myself someday.”
-Lillian Carter, mother of President Jimmy Carter, at the age of 85

That was yesterday’s quote from my Wild Words From Wild Women quote of the day calendar. I felt like it was mocking me.

I'm a kick-ass manatee...Why?

Because, at the somewhat tender age of 27, I already have the veins of a 90 year old woman. And thanks to whatever they injected me with last Friday, half of my left leg is freakishly white – like the skin of a manatee or something. It just isn’t normal!

But the worst thing about being in my current position is wearing the stupid support hose! I mean, c’mon! These things are horrible! Granted, they are temporary, but still! They are support hose! I had to go to a geriatric pharmacy to purchase them! And the boxes they come in? Yeah, COVERED in pictures of smiling, happy SENIOR CITIZENS! Bah!

The doctor gave me my first pair after the surgery last Friday. Oh, joy. It was right up there with my first pair of roller skates, let me tell you. But having only ONE pair of support hose (which I previously thought was one pair too many) led to two very different (and unexpected) problems over the weekend:

  1. The pair he gave me only had one leg and a belt. At first I thought this was a good thing (my right leg got to be free!). However, I quickly discovered how horrible they really were (no second leg means the hose are constantly slipping down in the middle. “Uncomfortable” does nothing to describe how annoying this is).

  2. I needed a second pair so I could wash the ones they gave me after the surgery. I’m required to wear the compression hose all the time for the first two weeks, so I needed a second set so I could wash/dry one pair while wearing the other.

So, in an attempt to “seem” supportive, Trevor drove me to buy another pair last Saturday. We might as well have gone to an amusement park. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him laugh so hard. First, we pulled into the parking lot which was FULL of nothing but old people cars (Lincoln Town Cars, Buick Centuries, and late model Cadillacs, Oldsmobiles and Mercedes). Walkers are cool...Then, he got to look on and giggle as I was interrogated by an older woman who didn’t believe that someone MY AGE needed to be wearing support hose (Thanks, grandma!). Then, just when I thought I had the woman convinced that I was a legitimate wearer of support hose, I found myself being ushered into a small room where my ankles and thighs were measured (always pleasant). While this took place, Trevor was temporarily left unattended. So, when I FINALLY did emerge from the measuring room, I had to SEARCH for the boy. And where did I find him? Yeah, eyeing the canes, wheelchairs and other forms of assisted walking devices. Trevor had all but picked one out for me. He even offered to paint racing stripes on it. Jackhole. Finally, just to add insult to injury, I had to lay down almost $70 for my ONE PAIR of Jobst. I’m sorry, what?! After all that, I felt like they needed to pay me!

Of course, the stupid new pair of hose started to run the first time I wore them. And (surprise, surprise) you can’t return them once you’ve put them on. So, yesterday, I found myself in the staff bathroom with my coworker’s pink nail polish PAINTING the run in the hope that it wouldn’t get any worse. Because, quite frankly, I do not see the need to spend $70 more on something so inherently unattractive. Of course, smelling like nail polish for the rest of the day yesterday wasn’t so hot either, but whatever.

So, the moral of this story? That would be: Genetics suck. The end.

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Support Hose Blues...

A friend of mine who works at another museum in Dallas (I'll call her Val for the sake of this post) just sent me the following:

Don't let the support hose get ya down.

Stef and I are planning our blues music program and I was making up blues songs for her while ago. I’ll make one up for you:

Oh, I’ve got the support hose blues

And Alan just won’t go away.

Yes, I’ve got the support hose blues

And that Alan, he just won’t go away.

If I could find a way, you [this is drawn out, like “youuuuu”]

Know I’d put those hose on his head today.

It sounds better sung.

Too much water, itchy legs and torn support hose...

I often refer to my dogs as Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb A$$. “The Tweedles” for short. This is because it never ceases to amaze me how hilariously stupid they can be. Tweedle Dee (a.k.a. Gypsy Kitty) is currently afraid of the hallway between the two bedrooms. Why? No idea, but I think it may have something to do with the smoke detector that randomly chirps when I close the hall closet door.

Tweedle Dumb A$$ (a.k.a. Haskell) managed to fall over while peeing on a tree not too long ago. Yes, he is that kind of stupid. The best part was that he fell in slow motion – peeing the whole way down. I almost died laughing. If ONLY I could have had a video camera at that particular moment! It was amazing. Even better: Haskell actually barked at me for laughing at him.

So, yeah. Pub Quiz was kind of like that tonight. And by “that” I mean the “hilariously stupid” part - not because either of The Tweedles were present. It was incredible how bad we were! We almost made Haskell look like a genius. Mr. Pub Quiz thinks it is because we are out of practice.

For example:

  • We answered, “Rudy, The Celtics, 1729” for a football-related question regarding the player, team and year that a Superbowl MVP that was not a member of the winning team (sorry, Trev. Big Cowboys fans we are not).

  • When asked for John Wayne’s real name and birth place, Rachel responded with, “Some pu$$y, effeminate name somewhere in a square state” (instead of Marion Michael Morrison in Iowa).

  • And the Pilgrims? Yeah, apparently they had more than one boat, and “April Showers = May Flowers” does NOT qualify as the correct answer (The Speedwell does, however).

  • Even history questions were (tragically) a complete bust. After doing some sort of complicated mathematical equation, Melissa decided to go along with my thinking that Picasso died sometime in the year 1961 (try 1973).

In other words, The Sloshed Susies sucked. BIG time. I think I only contributed to correctly answering one question, and that was simply because I had done a blog entry recently about Chef Boyardee and (somehow) remembered reading that his real name was Hector. Who knew anything positive would ever come out of THAT STORY?!

Sigh. Maybe it is time to start studying?

Monday, January 21, 2008

I’m like a Darwin Award waiting to happen...

I had surgery on Friday. Not MAJOR surgery or anything like that, but surgery nevertheless.

Like most outpatient procedures, I needed someone to go with me so they could take me home. Thinking I had made a good decision, I chose my mom. I thought this was kind of a no brainer. It’s my mom, after all. She’d get me home okay, right?

Well, almost.

See her car ran out of gas on the drive home, and I found myself pushing her red SUV up a hill into a parking lot off of Greenville Avenue.

Normally, this wouldn’t have been a problem. I’m good in a crisis – especially one that requires a bit of muscle. Not that I’m Hercules or anything like that, but I do lift weights regularly. And as girls go, I think I’m pretty strong. However, I had just a procedure done (less than two hours before) that required me to…uhmmm…take it easy for awhile. And by “easy” I really mean that I had temporarily sworn off the following activities:

  1. Running

  2. Jumping

  3. Aerobics

  4. Weight Training or lifting of any kind

To be perfectly honest, it didn’t occur to me at the time that I shouldn’t be pushing the car up a hill. I was lost in the moment, and the only thing on my mind was getting my mother and her vehicle out of the busy intersection. That is until my left leg (which had been more or less numb up until that moment thanks to the local anesthetic) started to scream in agony hurt a lot.

(Sigh. I’m stupid, I know.)

Long story short, once my mother was able to refuel, we ended up having to go back to the doctor’s office to check and make sure I hadn’t done any permanent damage to my newly operated on left leg. Luckily, I hadn’t (thank goodness), and the doctor even had a good sense of humor about the situation. I think the conversation went something like this:

Doctor: “[On entering the examination room] What did you do?!”

Me: “Pushed a car up a hill. My mom ran out of gas.”

Doctor: “Wow. Never thought I need to put ‘do NOT push a car up a hill’ on the list of strenuous activities to avoid after surgery until I met you.”

Me: “Yeah. Sorry about that.”


Sunday, January 20, 2008

And the 'Cult of Fear' continues...

Anyone else see similarities between this...

...and this...

...or is it just me?

Monday, January 14, 2008

Is it possible I'm being just a little over-sensitive? No? That's what I thought.

I don’t know why, but I’ve been receiving a lot of email forwards that have really hit home recently. Take the one below, for example. I can definitely relate. Not that I am actually swearing at my coworkers, mind you (I can be surprisingly civil despite all odds), but that doesn’t stop me from thinking most of the “INSTEAD OF” quotes on a quasi-regular basis.

Speaking of my job, I feel like I need to get a couple of things off my chest. Out of context, most of the quotes listed below will (probably) not make a lot of sense. Trust me, though, it is really that kind of bad.

  1. I don’t care what you think, it is not normal to lose over 50% of your staff in less than two months.

  2. No. No, it isn’t possible to run this organization with a staff of four. Any other questions?

  3. Why, for the love of God and all things holy, is “the daddy” still employed by this organization?

  4. I’d love to do my job. However, it is increasingly difficult to accomplish things in a timely matter when starting certain tasks is contingent on other people finishing theirs first. Surprisingly, I am only able to work with what I have. I am not in the business of performing miracles.

  5. Will we, at any point in the near future, have ANYTHING resembling leadership at this institution?

Okay, I’m done now. Here is the forward. Enjoy:
Dear Employees:

It has been brought to management's attention that some individuals throughout the company have been using foul language during the course of normal conversation with their co-workers.

Due to complaints received from some employees who may be easily offended, this type of language will no longer be tolerated.

We do, however, realize the critical importance of being able to accurately express your feelings when communicating with co-workers.

Therefore, a list of 18 New and Innovative 'TRY SAYING' phrases have been provided so that proper exchange of ideas and information can continue in an effective manner.

Number 1
TRY SAYING: I think you could use more training.
INSTEAD OF: You don't know what the f___ you're doing.

Number 2
TRY SAYING: She's an aggressive go-getter.
INSTEAD OF: She's a f___ing bit__.

Number 3
TRY SAYING: Perhaps I can work late.
INSTEAD OF: And when the f___ do you expect me to do this?

Number 4
TRY SAYING: I'm certain that isn't feasible.
INSTEAD OF: No f___ing way.

Number 5
INSTEAD OF: You've got to be sh___ing me!

Number 6
TRY SAYING: Perhaps you should check with ...
INSTEAD OF: Tell someone who gives a sh__.

Number 7
TRY SAYING: I wasn't involved in the project.
INSTEAD OF: It's not my f___ing problem.

Number 8
TRY SAYING: That's interesting.
INSTEAD OF: What the f___?

Number 9
TRY SAYING: I'm not sure this can be implemented.
INSTEAD OF: This sh__ won't work.

Number 10
TRY SAYING: I'll try to schedule that.
INSTEAD OF: Why the f___ didn't you tell me sooner?

Number 11
TRY SAYING: He's not familiar with the issues.
INSTEAD OF: He's got his head up his a__.

Number 12
TRY SAYING: Excuse me, sir?
INSTEAD OF: Eat sh__ and die.

Number 13
TRY SAYING: So you weren't happy with it?
INSTEAD OF: Kiss my a__.

Number 14
TRY SAYING: I'm a bit overloaded at the moment.
INSTEAD OF: F__ it, I'm on salary.

Number 15
TRY SAYING: I don't think you understand.
INSTEAD OF: Shove it up your a__.

Number 16
TRY SAYING: I love a challenge.
INSTEAD OF: This f___ing job sucks.

Number 17
TRY SAYING: You want me to take care of that?
INSTEAD OF: Who the f___ died and made you boss?

Number 18
TRY SAYING: He's somewhat insensitive.
INSTEAD OF: He's a pr_ck.

Thank You,
Human Resources

Friday, January 11, 2008

Overheard at Pub Quiz on Tuesday Night...

  • “Wait. Was John Denver ‘Gilligan’?”

  • “How old do you have to be to be considered a cougar? Is there a minimum age requirement? Like if you are 30 and the guy is 20, does that count? You know, like a young cougar? Wonder what a young cougar is called? A panther? A black cat?”

  • “I wanted to write down the names of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles instead, but I couldn’t spell them.”

  • “No, no! The Beatles. Not the Pope!”

Also, incase you are interested, here are links to other Pub Quiz related stories on Melissa's LiveJournal: HERE and HERE. Enjoy (and don't believe anything she says about some poor girl named "D")!

Tuesday, January 08, 2008


SMOOTH is my middle name...
THE REAL STORY: Trevor crashed at my place on Christmas Eve. The next morning, he sat up and the bed broke (a slat underneath the mattress fell out).

WHAT I TOLD MY DAD: Trevor came over to my place on Christmas morning. When he sat down on the corner of the bed, the bed broke.

Now, I’m not in the habit of lying to my father. It’s just that – to him – I’m still his little girl, and I figured he’d rather not know that my boyfriend stays over at my place on occasion. I’m sure he is under no illusions – Trevor and I have been together for almost six years. It’s just that, well, you know.

Plus, I had GOOD reasons for wanting to tell my dad about the broken bed:

  1. Trevor and I had tried to fix the problem, and had been unsuccessful (another slat fell out during our initial attempt to fix the bed. Just when we fixed that one, down came another one – it was becoming ridiculous). We were obviously doing something wrong.

  2. My dad has a knack for fixing things.

  3. My dad is wicked strong (VERY important considering I have a king size Tempur-Pedic mattress, and it takes a small army to move the thing).

  4. My dad had already requested that Trevor and I help him elevate the head of his bed six inches (in an effort to calm his acid reflux). So having dad help with my bed seemed like a fair trade.

  5. We were all talking about beds at that particular moment on Christmas Day.

Anyway, I had just finished telling my dad the "father-friendly" version of the story, when Trevor pipes up and says, “Yeah, I broke her bed. You know, with all the movement the night before, I can’t say I’m surprised.”


Horrified! I was horrified!

Even worse: the thick silence that followed Trevor’s statement!

Turning bright red with embarrassment, I blurted out, “No! He was just sitting on the bed. Really! We don’t…we never…there was no…I have to go to the bathroom now.”

I then proceeded to SPRINT out of the room.

It was the first time my father has ever been speechless. Seriously. Speechless! For those of you out there who have met my father, you’ll understand why this was such a big deal.

Now that I’m thinking about this, I guess I should have told my dad that I broke MY own d*mn bed Christmas morning. Sadly, that never occurred to me until just a moment ago.


Stupid Trevor...

Monday, January 07, 2008


The following are forwards about pets that I have received recently. Stupid or not, they completely crack me up, so I’m posting them here. That way I can view them when I need a pick-me-up (which nowadays is every five minutes or so).

FORWARD NUMBER 1: Dog and Cat Diaries

(NOTE: Think Gypsy Kitty)

  • 8:00 AM - Dog food! My favorite thing!

  • 9:30 AM - A car ride! My favorite thing!

  • 9:40 AM - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!

  • 10:30 AM - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!

  • 12:00 PM - Lunch! My favorite thing!

  • 1:00 PM - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!

  • 3:00 PM - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!

  • 5:00 PM - Milk bones! My favorite thing!

  • 7:00 PM - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!

  • 8:00 PM - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite

  • 11:00 PM - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

(NOTE: Think Tinkerbell)

Day 983 of my captivity.

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects.

They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape.

In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.

Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am.

B *& @#$@ !

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow - but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches.

The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.

The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicate with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe.

For now.


FORWARD NUMBER 2: Cats and Dogs

To be posted VERY LOW on the refrigerator door - nose height.

Dear Dogs and Cats,

The dishes with the paw prints are yours and contain your food. The other dishes are mine and contain my food. Please note, placing a paw print in the middle of my plate and food (Haskell) does not stake a claim for it becoming your food and dish, nor do I find that aesthetically pleasing in the slightest.

The stairway was not designed by NASCAR and is not a racetrack (Alley Cat). Beating me to the bottom is not the object. Tripping me doesn't help because I fall faster than you can run.

I cannot buy anything bigger than a king sized bed. I am very sorry about this. Do not think I will continue sleeping on the couch to ensure your comfort. Dogs and cats can actually curl up in a ball when they sleep. It is not necessary to sleep perpendicular to each other stretched out to the fullest extent possible. I also know that sticking tails straight out and having tongues hanging out the other end to maximize space is nothing but sarcasm.

For the last time, there is not a secret exit from the bathroom (Gypsy Kitty). If by some miracle I beat you there and manage to get the door shut, it is not necessary to claw, whine, meow, try to turn the knob, or get your paw under the edge and try to pull the door open. I must exit through the same door I entered. Also, I have been using the bathroom for years - canine or feline attendance is not required.

The proper order is kiss me, then go smell the other dog or cat's butt. I cannot stress this enough!

To pacify you, my dear pets, I have posted the following message on our front door:

To All Non-Pet Owners Who Visit & Like to Complain About Our Pets:

  1. They live here. You don't.

  2. If you don't want their hair on your clothes, stay off the furniture. That's why they call it 'fur’-niture.

  3. I like my pets a lot better than I like most people. To you, it's an animal. To me, he/she is an adopted son/daughter who is hairy, walks on all fours and doesn't speak clearly.

Remember: Dogs and cats are better than kids because they:

  1. Eat less

  2. Don't ask for money all the time

  3. Are easier to train

  4. Normally come when called

  5. Never ask to drive the car

  6. Don't hang out with drug-using friends

  7. Don't smoke or drink

  8. Don't have to buy the latest fashions

  9. Don't want to wear your clothes

  10. Don't need a gazillion dollars for college, and...

  11. If they get pregnant, you can sell their children

Sunday, January 06, 2008


This is SO stupid, but here is a video I just put together of people (i.e. my dad and Harrison) dancing at a recent debutante ball. Enjoy!

Wednesday, January 02, 2008

Susie's Bow...

With all the various parties I've been going to recently, I have fallen a little behind updating my Blog with videos and images from my sister's deb season. Here is one of my (absolute) favorites so far. It was shot after Amy's ball on December 21st, and stars fellow pub-quizzer Susie. Enjoy!

P.S. I acknowledge the fact that I probably didn't get all the quotations in the video 100% correct. I tried, but (to be fair) there was A LOT of mumbling...

Tuesday, January 01, 2008

HAPPY 2008...

How did I ring in the New Year, you ask?

The answer: A VERY low key PJ party at my house. Complete with good friends, good booze, and good dogs (see photos below). I'd say "good games" but Melissa's idea of fun somehow involves a calculator. I can barely add when sober, much less “estimate”, “count cards” or “shut-the-box”. I’m just saying is all…

The BOY TOY at midnight...
(and, YES, I did get my kiss)

Lil Miss Rainbow Brite herself...

The ever-so photo shy Bert...

(wondering what all the excitement is about)

The AMAZING Gypsy Kitty...
(irritated that she's been "decorated" yet again)