Tag Archives: Chuckweasel

The Husbands of Hoody

Okey-dokey, so we all know Hoody is… shall we say, getting up in years… and still single.  So it stands to reason she has had at least SOME opportunities to change that status… but perhaps, MORE than y’all might think…

I’m really good at this, yo.  Or perhaps, really BAD at this…


1.  We’ll call him “Angel” (’cause he’d like that).

                    Hoody was 17 and so, so stupid innocent…ish.  And so when Angel asked Hoody to marry him, Hoody said yes without hesitation… without really thinking of what that REALLY meant.  So things were great for awhile, but the minute things got tough, Hoody bailed… and bailed FOR…

2.  The Evil Troll (because, like life, he is nasty, brutish and SHORT)

                    The ET seemed meant-to-be at first — our mothers grew up together, our parents were friends in college, etc.  BUT… turns out he was a complete and total bastard who broke up with Hoody by the simple expedient of BLOCKING HER NUMBER.  Which didn’t prevent quite a bit of stalking on Hoody’s part (including some involvement of firearms… ‘nother story) and furthermore didn’t prevent her from going back a couple years later for…


                    The ET tracked Hoody down through a friend and tricked convinced her to meet up with him again.  Long story short, all appeared well for long enough that she did indeed accept when he asked her to marry him… only to have him FLAKE COMPLETELY OUT while she was at work one night and DISAPPEAR.  Yes, disappear.  In that he did not come home until his daddy made him.  Oh, yeah, and he absconded with the ring.  So yeah.

But yes, she was stupid enough to go back to him YET again, many years later… but not before:

3.  Gilbert

                    Yes, that Gilbert.  And yes, I should have actually married this one.  Have we not already established that I’m retarded?  So I ran screaming from Gilbert to end up with:

4.  The Evil Ogre (sort of like the Evil Troll, but taller and fatter)

                    The EO was actually one of those “no-ring” fiances – you know, they say you’re going to get married but no bling is ever produced?  Shoulda fuckin’ known… (and that’s actually what led us back to Evil Troll Round 3)… and also:

5.  Chuckweasel

                    Yes, you all know Chuckweasel.  And yes, things were great, as evidenced by this blog… until they weren’t.  As the poem says, “And when she was good she was very very good, and when she was bad she was horrid.”  Suffice it to say, when Hoody got sick, shit got horrid, and things fell apart.  No harm, no foul… except the karmic version, of course.

There’ve been others in between, of course — Hoody is nothing if not a loving and generous soul, don’tcha know!  For instance, even before #1, there was the gal who left me for Jesus… and in between #2 and #3 there was an interesting group marriage possibility with a very dear friend (we’ll call him “Cannonball,” ’cause he’d probably like that better than “Coltrane,” or definitely “”Kenny G”) and… well, a very crazy bitch (there was ring shopping involved, it was at TIFFANY’S, but then the CB showed her crazy, so, uh… no.).

But suffice it to say, Hoody has been around the block as far as potential partners, so:

6.  NOW

                    NOW I know I’m worth more than the amount someone chooses to spend on a ring for me (which I mostly gave back, by the way).  NOW I recognize that I’M the point of the relationship — not what I can get/give/represent for someone else.  NOW I accept that MY happiness is at least as important as my partner’s, and is MUCH MORE important than anyone outside the relationship’s.

NOW  I realize what I’ve done wrong.  And what I’ve done right.



Filed under Gilbert, Twu Wuuv

Drink Your Juice and Tip Your Stylist

AAAAARGH, so I’m back from Hospital Part Deux, and I have to sincerely thank all of you for worrying about me so much!  Plus, I know you’re just dying to know what I did to my fool self this time.  So here ’tis:

Friday before last (May 4) , I went to get my hairs cut in preparation for going to a Kentucky Derby Party with the lovely and talented Cinema Sugar (who seems to have deleted her blog for some reason and can expect an ass-kicking).  Anyhoo, the little hair gal had just washed my hair and I was sitting in the chair chit-chatting… when I started to get that feeling… that feeling that I was gonna pass out…

Now, I am very familiar with that feeling, since as a child I would faint at the drop of a… well, a small child.  Everything got fuzzy and far away, there was a roaring in my ears, and when I tried to say something to the stylist, I couldn’t talk.  Next thing I remember, she and Chuckweasel were standing over me (still in the chair, thank goodness!) discussing whether or not they should call 911.

Yes, Hooligans.  I had my very own Steel Magnolias moment.

So, Shelby drank her juice and all was as well as one can expect.  I went home with my partial haircut and promised to eat something to steady out my blood sugar (no, I’m not diabetic, but I do drop like a rock if you let me get too hungry).  Next day, still feeling shitty, but less clammy and sweaty, so I continued to eat even though I wasn’t hungry because I didn’t want to faint again.


By Tuesday night, the pancreas was fucking KILLING me, so I made Chuckweasel take me to the ER Wednesday morning.  The pain wasn’t EXACTLY the same as before, and I didn’t want to be that asshole who ignores the symptoms of a heart attack until she just keels over flat dead.

Fun Fact:  excruciating chest pain gets you back to be seen at the ER in nothing flat!

So I spent Wednesday night, all of Thursday and Friday morning  in the hospital, having every test known to man to figure out what the fuck is wrong with me.  I didn’t care what they did, as long as the morphine kept a-comin’.

Final decision — heart and lungs are fine, brain is fine (HA!), but pancreas is very angry.  So I have yet another kind of pill I have to take when I eat, and the rest of it is pretty much a low-fat-low-salt-no-booze diet plus pain management (which is an important part that was MISSING from their previous plans, tyvm!).

So, in the words of the Great Sage Granny Weatherwax, “I aten’t dead.”  Get your filthy paws off my stuff.

PS:  Part 2 of this post tomorrow — in which I will reveal a little known facet of the haircutting industry!


Filed under Chuckweasel, Getchore LEARN on!, La Vida Loca, Reality Bites, White Man's Medicine, Youse Guys

Problem Solved

I am all crippled-up from my fit of house-cleaning yesterday (yeah, I let it get AWFUL and then basically murder myself in a big long marathon of cleaning — I feel better when I can see results, I guess!).  So anyhoo, I was commenting to Chuckweasel that I was glad my therapy appointment is on Thursday instead of Tuesday this week, since I don’t think I’d be able to hobble my busted ass around downtown.  Then it hit me:



I said to CW, “If I had to go today, I’d have to pay a hobo to roll me around in his cart.”  Then we fell to discussing how that’s probably okay, since hobos need money for booze and…. well, booze.  So, the benefits of my plan are as follows:

  • By paying a hobo $5 to push me around in a cart, I am providing gainful employment for hobos — job creation, bitches!
  • This of course will stimulate spending, especially in the Mad Dog and Baked Beans sectors
  • It will also keep hobos outta trouble, thereby freeing up police resources previously dedicated to breaking up Hobo Fights
  • If the hobos DO fight, they will be in better shape from pushing me around in the cart and will therefore be less likely to be injured
  • And best of all — IT’S GREEN.  A hobo pushing me in a shopping cart produces MUCH less greenhouse gas than a car… mostly the only gas is bean-related

I’m awaiting my call from the Democratic National Committee.  Hoody Hoo in 2012!


Filed under Chuckweasel, GENIUS!, I Rule You, La Vida Loca, SCIENCE!

The Plot Thickens

As we all know, Chuckweasel is constantly attempting to get me murdered (raccoons and hobos and zombies, oh my!), but that hasn’t worked, so now he has turned his attention to getting me arrested or perhaps just Tazed.  Allow me to illustrate:

Scene:  The Drive-Up Book Drop-Off and Pickup area behind the Creepy-Ass Library

Hoody is standing at the window, returning her old books and picking up the next batch, when she realizes she has an overdue fee.

Hoody Hoo:  Crap, my purse is in the car… Lemme get his attention.

Waving motions toward the car a few feet away ensue, but Chuckweasel is texting and therefore paying no attention.  Finally, he looks up and pulls forward.

HH:  Gimme a dime, I have to pay my fee.

CW (handing over the dime):  If you don’t pay it, are they gonna put you on “Fugitive Files?”

HH:  Yeah, I’mma be on “COPS” and the Library Police are gonna go all SWAT team and kick my door down.

That’s when our heroine looks to her right…




Yes, Hooligans, the Library Police are REAL.  We are ALL so fucked.

P.S.  And I know you saw that goddamn deputy, Chuckweasel, and you were trying to get me in trouble for mocking the Library Police!


Filed under Chuckweasel, Just Call Me Beavis, La Vida Loca, WTF???

This Is How We Do It

Had a wedding reception over the weekend — one of those where they got married already, then came home to have a party — love that idea, btw.  But anyhoo, we had a blast — the bride got so drunk she spilled 3 drinks on herself (luckily AFTER she had changed out of her dress!), broke a glass and fell twice, after which she pretty much just sat in the floor laughing like a loon.  And the groom was so shitfaced he couldn’t do anything about it, so for all I know they may have had to sleep there!

But the best part… was the food…

Heaping platters (yes, plural) of fried chicken, vegetable tray, chips and salsa, every kind of potato-salad-macaroni-salad-whatever-salad imaginable… and the piece de resistance:  TWO ENORMOUS MEAT AND CHEESE TRAYS WITH WHOLE LOAVES OF BREAD SITTING NEXT TO THEM FOR MAKE-YOUR-OWN-SAMMICHES!  Now that’s a motherfuckin’ party!

But there were also… little weenies.

And I LOOOOOOOOVE little weenies.  Little weenies soaking in a bubbling Crock-pot full of barbecue sauce is second only to little meatballs in the Hoody Hoo Food Pyramid.  Oh, and little quiches. And crabcakes.

But I digress.

The pancreas… does not approve of little weenies in BBQ sauce.

Even WITH the pig enzymes, I had to let Chuckweasel have most of them after my damn organs got uppity.  Now, I’m figuring it’s the sauce, since I’ve had both regular hot dogs and little meatballs in a similar sauce PP (Post-Pancreapocolyse) with no trouble.  So the difference between the weenie sauce and the meatball sauce is the bad part.

But still.  I will miss you, little weenies in BBQ sauce.  We had a good run.

And then, as we were packing up to leave, I saw this:


And I felt a little better.



Filed under Chuckweasel, He's the DJ I'm the Rapper, La Vida Loca, Only in Wes' BYGAWD Virginny, Reality Bites, WTF???

Talk This Way

Jayne has been increasing our edification and knowledge with selections from her “Achtionary” as part of the A to Z Challenge this month… Now, we all know I ain’t no team player and rules tend to make me recalcitrant, so I’m not doing the challenge… but I can still expand y’all’s vocabulary.  These are words in use around the Hoo Household, most of which do not exist, but should.

The most recent additions are actually both useful in the same situation.  The words are “POTE” <poht> and “PASSENGE” <pass-inj>.

POTE <poht> noun:  A drink of water.  Origin: the signs on water trucks that say “non-potable water.” Example: “I have this bottle of water, would you care for a pote?”

PASSENGE <pass-inj> verb:  the act of riding in a car.  Example:  “No, you go ahead and drive, I prefer to passenge.”

So if you are passenging and you have a bottle of water, it is only polite to offer the driver a pote.

Other Hoo-words include:

CLEATING <klee-ting> verb:  The eating that you do while cleaning out the refrigerator, which you excuse as “getting rid of leftovers” and which often results in meals like “Mashed Potatoes and a Tuna Salad Sandwich.”  Example:  “The fridge is full of Tupperware, so I’ll be doing a lot of cleating later.”  Past tense: CLATE <klayt> Example: “I’d love to go to dinner, but I already clate.”

WHAM!NESIA <wam-nee-jhuh> noun:  The belief that you have good taste in music despite all the evidence to the contrary in your record collection.  Example:  “Joe called me out on my Wham!nesia when he found out I know all the words to ‘Ice Ice Baby.'”

HAMNESIA <ham-nee-shuh> noun:  The mental state in which you go back to the fridge for “just one more bite,” even though you ate your weight in ham a few hours before. Example: “”You’re getting another plate already? You must have hamnesia!”  Most famous case study:  Calpurnia Jean

ELECTRONICAL <ee-lek-trahn-ick-ull> adjective:   Used to describe a device that is both electronic and technologically advanced (i.e. confusing).  Example:  “I’m sure there’s an electronical device that could do that for you.”  (Word Origin: Chuckweasel)

FBFP (acronym: FaceBook Faux Pas) : Any action taken on a social networking site that either A) offers too much information or is otherwise inappropriate; B) is just lame; or C) causes a panic (I’m lookin’ at you, DSM!). Example: “Dude, did you just post pics from your colonoscopy AND ‘Like’ your own status? Major FBFP.”

PEGGY’D: <peh-geed> adverb : The process by which a call to any customer service center takes twice as long as it should due to the representative’s incomprehensibly bad English.  Example:  “I was on the phone to the bank for 3 hours!”  “Man, you got Peggy’d.”

APOCOLIST <uh-pock-oh-list> noun:  The shopping list you make of things you need to stock up on before the End Times.  Example:  “I don’t want to get scurvy, so make sure to put fruit salad on the Apocolist.”

PHOBE: <fohb> verb transitive : To suffer irrational fear of something.  Example:  “Dude, it’s just a spider, you don’t need to phobe about it!”  Word Origin:  Chuckweasel

FLEAZERS <flee-zurz>noun : The old pair of tweezers that are no good for plucking eyebrows anymore and have been retired to picking fleas off the kitten.  Example:  “Ti-Jacques!  Hold Still or Mommy’s gonna get the fleazers!”

Got any words I missed?



Filed under Adventures with Dear Sweet Mama, Calpurnia Jean, Chuckweasel, GENIUS!, Getchore LEARN on!, I Rule You, La Vida Loca, Youse Guys

Do I LOOK Like a Terrorist?

So, Dear Sweet Mama and Chuckweasel both have a somewhat “creative” approach to bills… in that they pay the bills when the bills are due, whether they have money in their account or not.  I prefer to wait to pay the bills until I actually HAVE money, even though that means some bills will be paid “never.”

But I digress.  The Weasel had gotten himself in a pickle by paying his electric bill with the money that needed to stay in his account to cover his rent check… so being the Most Amazing Woman in the World, I offered to put my check into his account just in case it hit before he gets paid on Friday.  At that point he would give me back MY money, so Bob’s your uncle.

So I thought.

Then this happened.  Things said only in my head are in italics.

Bank Teller:  Are you on this account?

Hoody Hoo:  No, it’s his account (and I had HIS drivers’ license and account number, as well as my own drivers’ license and a legitimate PAYROLL check made out to me).

BT:  You can’t put your check in his account.

HH:  Uh, okay, just send it back then (what the hell?).

BT:  You could take it to the bank it came from and cash it and put the cash in his account…

HH:  Oooookaaaay… (so… confused…)

BT:  Or I could cash it and put the cash in his account, but there’s a fee.

HH:  (do what now?) Yeah, just do that then.

There followed an interminable (we’re talking upwards of 10 minutes in the motherfucking DRIVE THRU) wait while the teller conducted some arcane banking ceremony to mysteriously transform my evil check into acceptable money.  Then when I got home, I texted the Weasel to let him know how it all went down… and to tell him I must look like a terrorist or a drug dealer ’cause his bank thinks I’m trying to launder money.

Once he gets off work, he calls me back with a very salient point:  If that whole rigamarole about not letting me put a CHECK in his account is really supposed to stop nefarious banking by unsavory folk, why would they then accept CASH?  It’s still not my account, and I’m fairly sure terrorists and/or drug dealers don’t generally have printed payroll checks… I’m given to understand it’s a fairly cash-based economy.  So I can basically show up with a bucket of cash money to put in someone else’s account… untraceable, likely cocaine-infused cash… but NOT an easily-traced business CHECK?  I’m fairly sure that defeats the purpose of all this trying-to-prevent-crime-stuff.

So, I want to let all banks everywhere know:  If I ever have an account with you, and someone else wants to put their money in it, THAT’S FINE.  I don’t care where it came from, just take it.  This also goes for bills — a similar thing happened to me with the electric company once before, and I’m telling you, Hitler can pay my phone bill if he wants — I TRULY DO NOT CARE WHERE THE MONEY COMES FROM.  I just wantses it.


Filed under Chuckweasel, I'm Confused, La Vida Loca, Reality Bites, Things I Don't Know, WTF???