Tag Archives: I’m Too Sexy

Bar Lessons – Stone Pony Edition

Last Friday, Dear Sweet Mama and I ventured to the legendary Stone Pony to see one of her favorite bands, Black 47.  And Bar Lessons ensued.

STONE. PONY. BITCHES.

STONE. PONY. BITCHES.

1.  These kids today, they don’t dance, they don’t even sway… they just stand.

2.  Drunk white chickies don’t know from an Irish jig.

3.  When you do a jig in their general direction, they become frightened.

4.  The lead singer of Black 47 may in fact be a leprechaun (he’s SO WEE!)

5.  Whoever it was that reviewed the Pony online and raved about the food was VERY. FUCKING. DRUNK.

6.  DSM is hilarious when hammered (of course, this is not news).

7.  There are jobs out there worse than mine – one of them is Bathroom Attendant at the Pony.

8.  Even while asleep in the car on the way home, Hoody will still keep her finger on the station scan button and play DJ.

9.  3 hours of sleep looks like PLENTY from the front side.  From the back side, not so much.

10.  Last night’s eyeliner looks like hammered fuck at work the next day.

 

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Filed under Adventures with Dear Sweet Mama, Getchore LEARN on!, I Rule You, La Vida Loca, Weep for Humanity

The Wonderful World of Broadcasting, Episode II

As promised, here is “the rest of the story,” when it comes to the truth behind my ostensibly-glamorous career path.  Let’s see, where were we…

5.  I am essentially slave labor.

Yes, I do get paid (the aforementioned no money)… for my regular job.  But as anyone who has ever been referred to as “talent” can tell you, it don’t stop there.  For example, when I was a TV producer (NOT an on-air job, mind you), I was frequently dragooned into “voicing” in-house commercials and PSAs… for no additional money.  Which translates into “fo’ free.”

All the ads you hear on the radio?  The DJs did them… fo’ free.  Voiceover work is a PAYING job, yo.  But once The Man owns you, sure ain’t he gonna use you.  FO’ FREE.

6.  I have almost no goddamned privacy.

Like it or not, once strangers know your name (even if it’s fake, as mine is and most are), you’re at least a quasi-public figure.  This means your every move – even in your so-called “real” life – can be subject to public scrutiny.  Case in point, I myself have been arrested.  For a nonviolent, victimless misdemeanor that, while infinitely stupid, most of YOU could chalk up as a lesson learned.  But MY mugshot was on the motherfucking teevee… because I was a “public figure.”

Further point, the infamous Chuckweasel and I were once at a baseball game in another fucking state, when someone recognized him by voice alone.  My day-to-day “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” quotient is ABNORMALLY high, mostly just from my voice.  Of course, it gets much worse for my brothers and sisters who are actually on TV – I’ve had friends harassed and even stalked, one to the point where the cops had to come walk her to her car every night.  And you wonder why my avi is a fucking cartoon???

7.  I am consistently undateable.

Yes, yes, part of that is my charming personality.  Bite me.  But a fairly large part of it is the horrible hours I work – part of the appeal of goddamned Chuckweasel was that we had the same butt-crack of dawn shift.

Another part is what the job – the news part – does to you.  I’m fairly callous and unfeeling about just about everything now, and apparently potential partners like someone who at least PRETENDS to have human emotions (huh.  Pussies.).  Fine, Sonny Jim, you watch live Ground Zero feeds all by yourself in the middle of the night for over a week straight and tell me you have fuck one left to give about people’s petty fucking problems.

But I do have some, emotions, that is – which generally come pouring out in an awful cathartic flood when some major can’t-take-this disaster becomes the lead story.  The only way I’ve found to deal with this is to date people who are also in the industry (See Gilbert, the Evil Ogre, and CW).  But this produces its own problems, in that A) You both work ridiculous hours and never see each other; B) You end up in competition for the same jobs and/or C) Your general self-protective disdain for all of humanity extends to each other.

Or you’re just a total bastard who bolts when shit gets real, like someone this blog used to know very well… but I digress.

So, E-Harmony, Match.com… um… J-Date? (note: not Jewish but fascinated by the whole Orthodox thing).  Huddle up, you guys.

I’m a 37 year old news professional who will never work normal hours, make any goddamned money, or give more than half a fuck about #FirstWorldProblems.

A life with me will mean an endless cavalcade of “real” FB pages versus “professional” ones, and even so, strangers will masturbate to the sound of my voice.

Get used to being alone (again) at important family gatherings, and embrace the fact that, while I will seldom shed a tear in relation to our own crises, I am extremely likely to start hysterically bawling over a mine disaster or similar.

I will know the names of our state and local lawmakers better than your family’s.  And I’ll have their cell phone numbers.

 

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Filed under Getchore LEARN on!, Gilbert, I Rule You, La Vida Loca, Reality Bites

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…

THE (POTENTIAL) HUSBANDS OF HOODY

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…

ET:  ROUND 2:

                    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.

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Filed under Gilbert, Twu Wuuv

Spacing Is Important

Okay, so it’s always struck my inner Beavis as inappropriately hilarious that “therapist” and “the rapist” are just a misplaced space away from a Monty Python sketch.  But now I’m paying the price (as usual):

I may have inadvertently hit on my counselor.

See, the time before last, she had her hair down and I complimented her on it.  I hadn’t seen it down before and I was raised to say nice things to people (to their face).  Then this LAST time, she had her hair down AGAIN… and SHE complimented ME on my shirt.

Now, I’m fairly sure one should not date one’s mental health professionals, plus I’m REALLY sure no one who’s seen into the cobwebby corners of my psyche should be even remotely interested in the enormous inevitable train wreck that is a relationship with me.  We should also probably mention that I think EVERYONE is hitting on me — self-image was never my problem!

Maybe it’s like Poor Ol’ Dad always says:  The hotter a woman is, the crazier she is.  So I suppose the reverse is also true:  the crazier a woman is, the hotter she is.  Plus this foil hat really brings out my eyes.

And by the way, when asked if the Poor Ol’ Dad Corollary of Hotness vs. Craziness applies to Dear Sweet Mama, POD had only this to say:

“Your mother has always been very hot.”

I rest my case.

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Filed under Adventures with Dear Sweet Mama, I'm Confused, Just Call Me Beavis, La Vida Loca, Poor Ol' Dad, White Man's Medicine

Just a Little Off the Ends…

… of your fingers.  Yep, before I Shelby’d out at the hair salon, I learned something I never would have thought:  hairdressing is a dangerous damn job!

The gal cutting my hair had a big ol’ bandaid on one of her fingers and was considering going to get stitches… because she’d gashed her own hand open cutting somebody’s hair!  Apparently their professional-haircutting-scissors are sharper than Duncan McLeod’s katana, and they’ll cut right through your ass.  One of the other stylists came over and showed me all her little white scars all over her fingers, and then they got to talking about other Hideous Injuries in Hairdressing.

The WORST one was a girl my stylist went to beauty school with… who cut the EN-tire tip of her own damn finger off!  WTF?  How is it that I never knew this??? AND WHY THE FUCK DO THOSE SCISSORS HAVE TO BE SO SHARP???

Dear Sweet Mama used to cut my hair with the scissors from her sewing basket, and I don’t recall her having to press the handles down especially hard to cut through the hairs.  Seriously?  It’s just HAIR, how can it possibly necessitate scissors you could perform surgery with?

So next time you get your hairs cut, be sure you tip generously.  Not only is your hairdresser taking her life in her own hands every time she comes to work, but she’s also immune to pain and armed with some serious weapons!

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Filed under Getchore LEARN on!, I Rule You, La Vida Loca, Things I Don't Know, WTF???

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.

AND WE ALL KNOW WHAT HAPPENS WHEN I EAT.

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!

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

Problem Solved Part II

I can’t believe I spent yesterday’s post outlining my marvelous plan for saving the economy AND the planet by employing hobos to push me around in their shopping carts, yet somehow FORGOT this happened:

Scene:  Hoody is on the phone to Dear Sweet Mama

DSM:  Hello?

HH:  I’mma go down the hill and round me up a passel o’ ho’s.

DSM:  Ummmm… why?

HH:  I’mma make them bitches clean this house.

DSM: Oh, okay then. (see where I get it???)

HH:  See I figure the ho’s would prolly rather not ho, but they ain’t got no other skills.  So, I can pay them to clean the house, so I won’t have to clean and they won’t have to ho.  Win-win.

DSM:  You’d probably have to train ’em…

HH:  I figure ho’s are pretty good at learning new things.

DSM:  And they’d probably try to steal your stuff…

HH:  I ain’t really got all that much worth stealing.  Them ho’s prolly ALREADY got a better TV than I got.

DSM:  Sounds like a plan, then.

(Editor’s note:  Yes, my accent did get that bad… I had been cleaning house all day with a kerchief on my head and I was channeling Prissy from Gone with the Wind.)

Then, just when I thought the plan was perfect, Jana suggested we get the tweakers and other assorted speed freaks to clean the windows since they’re all jumping around anyway (for which she has earned a promotion to the Royal Court as Official Tweaker Wrangler).  I am also going to train them to get the dust bunnies out of the corners of the ceiling, because the ho’s probably can’t do that.

Ho’s tend to have back problems, you know.

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Filed under Adventures with Dear Sweet Mama, GENIUS!, Getchore LEARN on!, I Rule You, La Vida Loca, SCIENCE!, The Royal Court