Tag Archives: Petey’s Room

Oh F**k, Pilgrims

As promised, here is Part 2 of the latest issue of the Oriental Trading Company catalog (heathen version).  For Part One, click here.

Please, oh please, Oriental Trading Company, tell me:  In what ways will we be celebrating the rape and massacre of (some of) my ancestors by (the rest of) my ancestors THIS year?

Okay, Thanksgiving-themed rubber ducks… not TOO bad, but fuck you for making the “Indian Chief” duck look just like the turkey ducks!

Design your own Thanksgiving Sticker set… “Mama, mine’s broken.  They left out the guns and the smallpox.”  “It’s okay, Petey, we’ll draw them in with Sharpie.”

Indian corn pin kit — YOUR people can call it maize if you want… MY people call it crap.

Oh, only 2 pages and now we’re onto generic quote-unquote “prizes.”  Thanks for the discreet nod, you genocidal fuckers (and I’m not being racist, they’re based in NEBRASKA, FFS!).

“Break Your Own Geode!”  Hooligans, if I ever have a child and I give it a HAMMER… call the authorities.

Awww… little plastic coins that say “I was caught being good!”  The reverse side had better say “And now I’ve got this wicked wedgie!”

A globe full of tiny “around the world” people from different cultures.  I actually HAVE this — the goddamn ARMY gave these to all us “wives” and kids when my ex was in the Reserves… “Is THIS the bad man who killed Daddy?  No?  How about THIS one?”

There is, however, one thing we should get:  The “Dino-Mite!” 96 piece plastic dinosaur assortment that just MIGHT make Laura’s battles between her dinosaurs and her army men a leeetle more fair…

Tomorrow… the Christian Right’s take on the most Paganest of holidays!

PS — Big news, bitches!  Chuckweasel’s been BLOGGING!  Check him out!

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Filed under Chuckweasel, I'm Confused, Just Call Me Beavis, La Vida Loca, Random Thoughts, The Legend of Petey, Weep for Humanity, White Man's Medicine, WTF???

You’re So Jealous

I came home from work yesterday to find the most amazing thing…

CHUCKWEASEL

HAD DONE

THE DISHES.

And my dishes were BAAAAD, y’all.  I had let them get to the science project stage during the deep dark depression, and they had become my nemesis!  The whole rest of the house is clean (except Petey’s Room, gimme a break), but those dishes were the hill I could not climb (almost literally).  I couldn’t believe Chuckweasel would do such a nasty chore without ANY prompting — I was struck speechless for a minute!

I mean, Chuckweasel’s chores are usually outside-related chores — like, take out the trash, carry in the groceries, etc.  If we had a yard, he would have to mow it, if we had a dog, he would have to pick up its poops.  But dishes are INSIDE, and so under my domain… but he did it anyway, bless him!

And he did them WELL, too!  Number one, he didn’t even use the dishwasher (he claims he doesn’t know how, which proves I’m not getting rid of this chore for good!), and number two, THE DISHES WERE ACTUALLY CLEAN.  This is utterly shocking to me — I am EXTREMELY OCD about clean dishes, and if there’s so much as a SPECK of food or what-not left on a plate, that whole load’s getting washed again.  I once had a boyfriend who I SWEAR would deliberately fuck up chores so he wouldn’t have to do them anymore — needless to say, he did the dishes exactly once.

So, let’s line up, Sister Wives… it may be time to give Chuckweasel a however-many-of-us-there-are-some… a “menage’ a us”, if you will.  All you boy-types are excused… you can do more chores while we’re busy!

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Filed under Aw, Chuckweasel, La Vida Loca, My Secret Shame(s), SCIENCE!, The Legend of Petey, Twu Wuuv

Was This the Point?

Okay, so not only did the physical therapy beat me like Apollo Creed, it also seems to have given me a RAGING sinus infection.  All I know is, I was FINE before I went, then got a sore throat the next day, which I thought was just the changing weather crap.  But TODAY, oh TODAY!  I can’t hear.  I mean, I’m not exactly deaf, but everything I hear seems to be coming from INSIDE my head… including my own voice.  So it’s off to the Doc-in-a-Box instead of P/T… which reminds me!

They have a sign at the sports medicine place as you come in the door which says: “If you have <<massively long list of cold and flu-like symptoms>>, please call to reschedule your appointment.”  And I, being a good little Do-Bee, ACTUALLY STOPPED AND THOUGHT ABOUT IT before I went in.  Like it was a checklist.  (And before you ask, yes, I do the same thing with roller coasters).  But then I get IN there, and it’s chock full of cholera-spreading old people!  Lemme tell you soemthing, once I’m that old and fucked up, I won’t be doin’ this P/T shit no more.  I’ll be laying up in bed hollerin’ for Petey to bring Mama her reachin’ stick.  THAT’S MY RIGHT AS AN AMERICAN, DAMMIT. 

Gonna make this a short one and get back to work, which today amounts to “Marlee Matlin Shouts the News”… really shoulda took a sick day, but there’s no one here to call in TO!

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Filed under La Vida Loca, WTF???

Taxing Times

Well, it’s that time of year again, and once again my OCD-ness is placing me atop the horns of a dilemma:  I have gotten my W-2, so should I do my taxes now or wait for the deadline?  The dilemma is, if I’m going to get money back I want it now, but if I’m gonna have to write them fuckers a check, I’ll be writing it on April 15th.  BUT THERE’S NO WAY TO KNOW OTHER THAN DOING THE TAXES!  And before any of you smartasses suggest that I do them and then just don’t send them in yet if it turns out I owe, I’m sorry, have we met?  That would require a level of mental organization I simply do not have, and I GAIR-ON-TEE come April I would think to myself “Did I do my taxes?” and then remember doing them and think all was well.  And then I’d be in jail, and they don’t let you blog from jail, so where would you bitches be then?

What they should do is put a sticker or something on your W-2 that would let you know whether you were getting money or owing money.  Like Publisher’s Clearinghouse used to put “special” stamps and shit on the envelope to make you think your entry would definitely have a better chance than regular people’s.  On a related note, I was actually very upset when I discovered that EVERYONE got those “special” stamps.  I lost a little faith in Ed McMahon that day.

Besides, if I’m gonna do my taxes I’m gonna need my computer, which was last seen gasping for air under massive piles of crap in Petey’s Room.  So I guess I’ll need to tackle THAT before I even ponder the tax question.

On a completely unrelated note, it has once again snowed in Wes’ BYGAWD Virginny (it was supposed to be a lot more than it was, but we got mostly freezing rain instead).  Point being, the damn parking lot at Ye Olde Apartment Complex is still slicker than snot.  I’m serious, I have been to Alaska and walked on GLACIERS that aren’t as slick as that damn parking lot.  It CRACKLES when you walk on it, for the love of Mike!  I’m gonna go out some morning and find all the Redneck Hillfolk kilt flat dead on the ice and being eaten by raccoons!

And on another unrelated note, Chuckweasel did not appear to find the drinking list as amusing as the rest of us did, which is probably because Chuckweasel does not find it as funny as I do when he gets hammered on free Jello shots without really meaning to.  But he redeemed himself by making me a very tasty 15 bean soup, which then got me to thinking that I can’t even NAME 15 beans and feeling bad about my culinary skills, but then he admitted they come in a bag all together.  (To clarify, the soup has 15 KINDS of beans, not 15 total beans, that would be silly and not very much soup).  Crisis averted.

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Filed under GENIUS!, I'm Confused, Random Thoughts, Ye Olde Apartment Complex

Dear Sweet Mama Causes a Mass Panic

In our latest installment of “Adventures with Dear Sweet Mama,” we discover that she is capable of causing a generalized state of shock and dismay among friends and family WITHOUT EVEN BEING AWARE OF IT…

So, I goes onto Ye Olde Interwebz at home yesterday (which I don’t normally do because the computer is currently buried in the massive pile o’shit that is Petey’s Room and it takes many contortions to get to it).  But I was gonna send a friend request to my very first ever best friend who Dear Sweet Mama had told me just friended her on the facebook, and I knew I’d forget if I didn’t do it right then.

So, I logs on, see, and the first update on my news feed is “Dear Sweet Mama is now single.”  And I Lose. My. Shit. ’cause DSM and The Concubine have been together since Jesus was in high school and one would think, if them bitches WAS to break up, at least one of them might CALL ME?  And all the comments are from my cousins and DSM’s friends going “Oh, I’m so sorry,” and “What happened?” and so forth, so I’m not the only one who’s hyper-fucking-ventilating.

So I break both ankles (not really, but they do hurt) trying to get out of Petey’s Room to get to the phone, only to call DSM and discover SHE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!  It seems DSM and The Concubine had decided they didn’t want their FB pages to be “attached” to each other anymore, so instead of, I dunno, just TAKING EACH OTHER OFF THE “RELATIONSHIP” PAGE??? Oh, no, DSM just switches her status to “single,” then logs off and goes on her merry little way.

It’s alright now and I made her fix it and post a big ol’ “I’m a dumbass” note to reassure everyone but FUCK, y’all!  There for a minute I thought I was gonna lose my “Buy 3 Mother’s Day cards, get free wrapping paper” bonus and I CAN’T HAVE THAT!

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Filed under Adventures with Dear Sweet Mama, La Vida Loca, WTF???

The Legend of Petey

So, I’m gonna let “C’est Vrai, You Suck” marinate for a little while longer (and it’s KILLING me to stay out of the comments so I don’t taint my results!).  But I DID promise y’all I’d share with you “The Legend of Petey”, so here’s some of it:

THE LEGEND OF PETEY: ORIGINS

Almost 4 years ago, I was looking for a new place to live (for I had fallen madly in love with Chuckweasel and could not therefore continue to live with the Evil Troll — so called because, like life, he was nasty, brutish and short).  So I was looking about at places to rent and I made Chuckweasel come with me, so I would not be killed.

Anyhoo, we went to see this one house, which I must admit was quite odd from the get-go.  You entered the front door from the driveway into what I guess was supposed to be a storage-type area (tiled floors and whatnot), then you went UP A WHOLE FLIGHT OF STAIRS to reach the kitchen/living room and the rest of the house.  There were no other doors but the weird basement one.

So, I’m standing there trying to get over the weird, when dear Chuckweasel says, “We can’t take this house.  Poor Petey will die in a fire.”

I of course said, “What?” And Chuckweasel proceeded to explain that if we had a baby, who for some reason would be named Petey, he would be sitting in his bedroom reading (just like his mama!) and would therefore never be able to get to the front of the house and the weird steps in time to escape the fire.  For some reason, this struck us both hilariously, pants-peeingly funny, and now every time we consider a place to live (or just about any purchase, really), we consider its merits relative to “Petey Safety.”  And if either of us suggest anything even remotely dangerous, that person is “trying to kill Petey.”

There’s a reason we’re perfect for each other.


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Filed under The Legend of Petey, Twu Wuuv

We’re All In This Together

So Holly came out to all of us this weekend by sharing pictures of “The Room” — i.e.; the room in her house where she’s been storing-and-ignoring all her crap.  Then Laura and I showed our solidarity in the comments by admitting that we, too, have Rooms of Which We Do Not Speak.  I also postulated that perhaps all “Rooms” are one on some sort of quantum level (because I read way too much science fiction), but then later I stuck my head in my Room and yelled, “Hey, y’all!  I got box wine and fish tacos!” and none o’ you bitches answered, so I guess not.

But even if they’re not connect-ed,  I still say the Rooms connect us.  Because everybody has one, and people who say they don’t are either liars or OCD psychos (and probably also liars, because my dear sweet mama is as OCD as they come and even she has a Room).  My own personal Room is alternately known as “Petey’s Room” in honor of the imaginary-baby-I-do-not-have (stay tuned for more of the Legend of Petey!) or as “The Study” or “The Office” because it’s full of books and the computer is in there.  There’s also what we’ll call… uh… storage… yeah, that’s the ticket.

If I am completely honest, the books are mostly to blame for the state of The Room.  I spent much of my formative years in libraries, all of which had signs that said “Please Do Not Reshelve Books.”  So I don’t.  But I have 38 moving-boxes’-worth of books at last count, of which Second-Tier Fiction, Mysteries, Nonfiction and Reference are all in The Room (First-Tier Fiction is in the living room and Classics are in the hallway, if you must know).  So, when I fail to reshelve, it quickly becomes what I call “an issue” and Chuckweasel calls “a fire hazard” (psh, semantics).  And so far, the Magical Library Fairies have not shown up.  I think it’s because I don’t have one of those carts.

Moving on to the computer area, our heroine is confronted by notes and papers and other shit that will someday add up to the Great American Novel and make me feelthy steenkin’ rich.  There’s also bills in a wide variety of payment stages along with CDs that are mysteriously out of their cases and cases that are mysteriously empty of CDs.

That leaves the “storage” area, which would actually be quite nice if I followed through.  See, after a water leak in the apartment above me made it clear that storing boxes in the laundry area wasn’t gonna work, I went and got a whole bunch of those matching plastic tubs and created a space for them in The Room behind a bookcase (of course!).  There’s one for Christmas decorations, one for hardware/electrical-type stuff (hey, I’m butch!), one for totebags and backpacks (shut up), one for purses and hats (I said SHUT UP), and the other 2 are for out-of-season clothes and all the pictures that have never made it into the photo albums (yeah, those are in there, too).  See, all very organized… until I go looking for something in one of the tubs and throw stuff EVERYWHERE like I was trying to dig a prairie dog hole in my accumulated possessions.

And to make matters worse, whenever I clean the rest of the apartment I end up hucking MORE miscellaneous shit into The Room.  I’m gonna have to suck it up and go in there soon… If I don’t come back, send wine.

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Filed under Reality Bites, SCIENCE!, The Legend of Petey