Fetch My Flying Monkeys

Saturday morning Richelle picked me up to go to the psychic. On the way there she said it was an Indian Psychic that her cousin's second husband's sister goes to and that he's so good he told her she was going to have a baby and she did. Richelle's cousin's second husband's sister that is, not Richelle. And I was all, "He'd better not tell me I'm going to have a baby. I don't want to see some baby psychic." And Richelle was all, "No, girl. He's good. He'll know you're barren and hateful." And I told Richelle she could go ahead and pay me now because I could see her future and it involved me kicking her ass. This continued all the way there, and by "there" I mean down a dirt road to a mobile home right next to the Congaree Swamp. "Jesus Christ," I said to Richelle, "I think I saw the name 'Serial Killer' on his mailbox." She laughed, and I laughed back, but as soon as we entered his home I wished I had come strapped. I don't know what I was expecting. Maybe a room full of people waiting to go back behind a pair of beaded curtains. What I saw was a huge Indian dude with a long braid down his back sitting in a recliner eating Ramen noodles and watching the Disney channel with no one else around.

Richelle went first, going with Chief Ramen to the kitchen table. I sat there pretending I was watching Hannah Montana or some such Disney bullshit, but I was actually mentally planning my escape should the need arise. I slipped my cell phone out of my pocket and held it in my hand so that I could dial for help real fast and then maybe use it as a weapon. Yeah, I was sure an iPhone upside a 300 pound homicidal psychic Indian's head would do some real damage. Damn you Steve Jobs for not making a brick app.

All I kept thinking was, "Please don't kill us, please don't kill us" and then I told myself to stop thinking that in case he could read my mind and it would make him spring into action faster. Wait, I thought, he's a psychic not a mind-reader. Then I thought if I hear Richelle scream I'll run for the door real quick (Richelle would be on her own for making that barren and hateful remark) but he'd probably use his psychic powers to hold the doors shut and then have vases and shit fly across the room and slam into me. But then I thought "No, wait that was Carrie." "Burn me with fire?" No that was Drew Barrymore. I was sitting there thinking what a psychic serial killer's power would be when Richelle walked back in and Chief Ramen said it was my turn.

I sat across the kitchen table from him and he was just sitting there staring at me and I wanted to tell him I was born with this bulbous head, but he probably knew that being psychic and all. He kept staring and I was feeling uncomfortable and I wanted to open my shirt and show him my surgery scars and freckles so he wouldn't want to kill me and wear my skin because there were too many seams in it and the pattern was a bit off. But I sat there and looked back into his eyes thinking I'd use my own powers and I started mentally projecting my thoughts at him. "You do not want to murder this girl. I repeat, you do not want to murder this girl." Then he started talking about general psychic stuff, telling me things about my personality that really, could have been about anyone who is awesome, and then he told me I'd live a long time (long enough to get out of this trailer and down the road I thought) and that it would take a long time before I would be completely happy. Great. Then he asked me if I had any questions for him and I kind of went blank for a while. I finally asked him for lottery numbers and he frowned at me and said he didn't do that. I said "Oh, okay." He kept looking at me expecting another question and I was all "Fuck what do I ask him?" So I asked him "At what age will I die?" and again he said he didn't do that but that I would be old and he kept looking at me wanting more questions so I said "Will I ever be with George Clooney?" Then he looked at me like I was retarded and I thought "What the fuck Chief Ramen? I want to know. Maybe." I frowned and he started to get up and he told me I owed him $45 and I said "Oh, oh" because I had just thought of another question as I was handing him the money out of my pocket. He looked at me like "Wha?" after he took my cash and I held my left hand up and pulled the thumb back a little with my right hand and I said "My thumb hurts when I move it like that, do you know what's wrong with it?" I think at this point he really thought about murdering me, and he sighed and said "Go see a doctor." Fuck.

So basically I paid $45.00 to be told how awesome I was by an Indian. I still don't have any lottery numbers and I still don't know what the fuck is wrong with my thumb. But at least I'm alive and I ain't having any babies, so there's that at least.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (41) | TrackBacks (0)

You know how people will say "I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy"? Like they'll say "Oh my God, I had diarrhea so bad, I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy." Yeah, well I never understood that because I personally would wish everything bad on my worst enemy, especially explosively painful diarrhea. Does this make me a bad person? Probably. Do I care? No.

Last week I found something that I would not only wish on my worst enemy, but would gift wrap, slap a bow on top, and present it to them on bended knee:

Listen, every woman has unwanted facial hair, and any woman who says she doesn't is either a liar or a fucking reptile alien from some planet whose name we can't even pronounce. I'm not too proud to tell you that I was in my car last week, sitting at a red light and the sun hit my face just right as I had my face pushed up to my rear view mirror checking for clingers and I was all "JESUS H CHRIST, I'M A SASQUATCH!" So I was wondering what the hell I was going to do about it and during my investigation I found this video:

Just listen to that soothing music. A simple concept, a natural solution. And just look at that lady smiling in the video and on the package, all happy that her unwanted hair was gently removed. I wanted to be that lady! AND it was on sale at Amazon! I placed my order and got it two days later. When it arrived I could barely contain my excitement. Oh my God! I was about to become "normal" and not some hairy fucked-up freak! I ran to the bathroom to remove my make-up, wash my face, dry my face, and I practiced twisting it in the air just like the video. After I felt I had perfected my technique I held it against my face and began.

A few hours later I woke up to the feel of the cool, wet bathroom tile on the side of my face. I stood up wondering what the hell was wet and I looked down into what appeared to be a pool of my own tears. I was all "What the..." when I looked in the bathroom mirror and saw my twist-n-roll tweezers still attached to my swollen, mangled, HAIRY face.

Okay, it didn't really happen that way. But I will say I cried a little. Okay, a lot. And I swore a little. Okay, a lot. And I only made one swipe! There was hair, skin, blood, and broken dreams everywhere. Okay, not really (except for the broken dream part) but it hurt a lot. The pain was so bad I would definitely wish it on my worst enemy. And I know what you all are thinking "Dumbass, you should have known it was going to hurt, the hairs were going to be ripped out!" Yeah, BUT THE LADY WAS SMILING, YA'LL!

Anyway, I ordered a dozen more. We're exchanging gifts at work this year. I'll be all "Merry Christmas, motherfuckers!" as I laugh maniacally while twirling my mustache.

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I was walking Jack the other morning while the temps were only in the mid 90's. We were walking past one of the many "colorful" houses on the outskirts of my neighborhood. And by "colorful" I mean "total crack house." Anyway, we're walking along and I noticed a strange, wild haired, squinting man standing on the porch smoking a cigarette and staring. The porch was decorated with a dirty stained-by-God-only-knows-what living room sofa and a matching recliner with a wonky broken back that was leaning to the left. He nodded his head and said "Hey" and I nodded back and said "Hey" and then I had to stop momentarily to yank Jack off of an empty case of Sudafed sitting by the road. The man walked towards the edge of his porch and said "Evah thought bout breedin'?"

It could have been my over-sized Popsicle stained USC t-shirt with the sexy sweat stain that was forming a V at the neckline, or my ratty hair that I threw up into a scrunchie without the benefit of a brush that caught his one good eye. I was a vision to behold. My look screamed "I'm Britney-off-her-meds-crazy, bitch, and I need some lovin'."

"Umm no thanks, I'm kind of in a relationship and I..."

"Your dawg," he yelled. "Have you evah thought bout breedin' dat dawg? My sistah-in-lah has a gurl weinah dawg."

"Oh. No, he's neutered. Fixed. Uh, castrated." I sputtered back, relieved, yet oddly disappointed that he didn't mean what I first thought he meant.

"Damn shame. He's a nice lookin' weinah dawg." Then he turned and went back in his house because, I assume, his latest batch of meth was ready. I looked down and Jack was looking up at me. And I said "Dude, you totally got propositioned, and you're welcome."

P.S. OH MY GOD, ya'll! George Clooney nominated me for Best Humor Blog! I told you he was reading me! Ha! I was all "What the hell?" but then the Attention Whore in me kicked in and I am now going to pimp for votes! Soon I will be making outrageous campaign promises! You have to sign up once, then VOTE FOR ME because the more attention I get, the closer I get to Clooney happier I am! Click this thingie here:

A vote for me is a vote for FREEDOM! Thank you for your support and attention.

** You will not get spam for signing up at that site. Just uncheck the box that asks if you want updates when you create your account.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (30) | TrackBacks (0)

I drive past a hospital every day that has a medevac helicopter. There are several days where it either takes off or lands while I'm stopped at a light and it always makes me nervous. I never knew why, but then a memory came back to me.

It's kind of like a post traumatic stress thing actually. No, I wasn't in a war, but it did happen in the military. I was out of training and stationed at Ft. Jackson. We were out on bivouac, which we called "in the field", and we were playing war games. This particular time my unit was training with a Reserve medical unit and they were being trained in medical evacuation using helicopters. Me and about a dozen others in my unit "volunteered" to be patients. And by "volunteered" I mean we were given a command to do it. We were told we would receive tags to wear on our shirts stating what our injuries were. We stood there while one of the medics started handing them out. I flipped mine over and it said "abdominal wound." Damn. I didn't want an abdominal wound. I wanted something exotic. So I started asking others in my unit what they got and we were joking around about all our injuries. I started goofing that I may have been shot in the belly, but that was secondary to the raging VD I had. We laughed, and then I went looking for a pen to write in VD. As we were all having a good time, the other unit's commanding officer came over. I had my back turned to him while I was going through my pack looking for a pen when I heard someone ask me what I was looking for and I said "An ink pen. I want VD." Then I turned around and saw their colonel staring at me. I stood up quickly, and said "Sir. I want VD, Sir. Err, um." You don't salute in the field, it gives the enemy too much of a target. He shook his head and moved along.

When the exercise began I fell to the ground and rolled around screaming. "I"VE BEEN SHOT! OH MY GOD THE PAIN! I"M GOING TO DIE! DIE I TELL YOU!" Others were screaming and moaning too, but I tried to be the loudest. Gut wounds hurt, ya'll. The medics ran up to us. Mine was a dude who told me "Everything's going to okay, soldier" I screamed "LIAR! LIAR! I'VE BEEN GUT SHOT! HELP ME JESUS!" and proceeded to roll around. Poor guy was trying to apply a field dressing and I was rolling and all combative. "MORPHINE! I WANT MORPHINE!" I finally let him bandage me when I started to become overheated. Fuck it, I didn't want to sweat. They put most of us on stretchers and then started carrying us to a triage area. We were all moaning and trying to keep from laughing. They had helicopters parked beside us and I tried to rise up to see them but I had been strapped down. Then I felt them lifting my strecher and start carrying me towards the choppers. I started screaming "AND I HAVE VD! DON'T FORGET ABOUT MY VD! OH MY GOD, MY VD!" The two soldiers carrying me started laughing and before I knew it, one dropped me! Fuck, then the other one let go. "OUCH MOTHERFUCKERS!" I laid there all strapped in. They composed themselves and took me to the helicopter, where they strapped my strecher in like the top rack of a bunk bed. I was still moaning and screaming that not only was I shot and had VD, but "they broke my fucking arm dropping me!" Then some dude in their unit walked over and told me I was dead and tagged me. That's right, they pronounced me dead; I think to shut me the hell up. As they were unstrapping me, I looked over at their NCOIC and said all pitiful like, "Did the VD kill me, Sarge?" He told me to get my ass back to my unit.

My death that day remains a medical mystery.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (31) | TrackBacks (0)

When I was in basic training in the U.S. Army we went to the field for one week (bivouac) and lived in a pup tent, dug a foxhole, played war, peed in a trench, went to classes, got greasy helmet hair, and qualified with a hand grenade. There were two parts to qualifying with a grenade. The first part was a course you ran with another soldier using hand signals and taking cover while sneaking up on an enemy bunker, and ending with throwing a training grenade in. The second part of qualifying was throwing a live grenade at a target at a grenade range.

They prepped us from the first day when they handed us our first training grenades to THROW THE GRENADE OVER THE WALL at the range. The reason they did this was, of course, because you could not only kill yourself, but you could kill others around you, including the instructing sergeant in the bunker with you. You were drilled over and over and over, pull the pin in front of you, aim with one arm, release spoon, count to three and throw. Whatever the fuck you do, THROW IT OVER THE WALL.

The day we were to qualify, they marched us up to the range and had us stand in formation. They had first platoon, which was the platoon I was in, enter a large semi-underground building. Inside stood several sergeants who we didn't recognize. These were the instructors that were going to be with us as we qualified. The first thing you noticed about them was that they were "nice." There was no gruff monotone barking commands. No indeed, they were our friends. They even smiled at us. They told us they were going to take five out at a time after they put a flak jacket on us. Each soldier would have an instructor with them and we would wait for the tower to inform us when to begin. We were to go through our steps and then THROW THAT GRENADE as hard as we could at the target and duck down and take cover immediately in the cement bunker we would be standing in. Then they took the first five. We stood 'at ease' in the bunker and waited.

I wasn't particularly scared until I heard the tower tell Lane One to begin, then scream "YOU'RE SHORT! GET DOWN! GET DOWN!" and the bunker I was standing in shook. Goddamn, how short was she? Then I heard the tower tell Lane Two to begin and once again I heard a terrified male voice yelling "YOU'RE SHORT! YOU'RE SHORT! GET DOWN!" BOOM! *RUMBLE* "Fuck, I'm going to die" was all I could think. Then I just started telling myself "Laura, just throw it. Throw it as hard as you've ever thrown anything." Hell, I played baseball with my brothers all through childhood. I could do this. As I was concentrating, picturing myself throwing that motherfucker to the other side of the world if I had to, I kept hearing the tower telling another lane to begin, then screaming "YOU"RE SHORT! GET DOWN! GET DOWN!" more often than not. BOOM! RUMBLE. Fuck. Apparently most of us weren't good at throwing. And we were all going to die.

Every time the instructors came back into the bunker to get five more soldiers you could see this look of fear growing on their faces. Our drill sergeant made a remark to one of them and the guy just raised an eyebrow and shook his head. He was scared. I was scared. "YOU'RE SHORT!" was the tower's mantra that day.

Then it was my and four others turn. I walked up to one of the instructors as I was placing my ear plugs in and he placed a flak jacket on me, all the while reciting instructions. And then he looked into my eyes and he said "Whatever you do, no matter what, THROW IT OVER THAT BUNKER WALL, okay?" "YES SERGEANT!" and we walked out to the bunker. As we were walking he asked me where I was from and started chit-chatting. I could not believe a drill sergeant was chatting with me all friendly like. Then we arrived at Lane Five. We took a seat behind the cement wall and waited.

Lane one threw. BOOM! "YAY!" I thought, it wasn't short. Lane two, "YOU'RE SHORT! GET DOWN!" Fuck. Lane three, BOOM! Yay! Then lane four, "YOU'RE SHORT!" BOOM! and dirt was showering down upon me as I sat there reevaluating my decision to be a soldier. Hail Mary full of grace. Then my instructor was there in front of me, holding my flak jacket by the arm holes, staring straight into my eyes, his face right in mine. "Whatever you do THROW IT AS HARD AS YOU CAN OVER THE WALL. GET IT OVER THE WALL. Okay?" His voice was as smooth as Mister Rogers. I looked into his beautiful baby blue eyes, I smiled and said "A'ight, Sergeant." The tower bellowed "Lane Five!" and I stood and my sweet, sweet instructor handed me my live grenade.

I looked over the wall and saw my target way off in the distance. It was a skeleton of a tank. "That's weird" I thought. I looked over to the side of my bunker and saw my sweet blue eyed sergeant instructor squatting down against the wall mouthing "OVER THE WALL" and a big thumbs up. I smiled at him, he smiled back. What a sweet man. "Okay Laura," I thought,"THROW THIS MOTHERFUCKER!" I stood sideways to the target, pulled the grenade up to my chest in my right hand, holding down the spoon, and with my left hand I pulled the pin. Then while holding down the spoon with the same hand I'm holding it in, I drew that arm back, took aim with my left and I released the spoon. I counted "ONEandTWOandTHREE" and I threw that bastard so fucking hard. I stood there and saw it going straight for the tank. "OH WOW! COOL! WE'RE ALL GOING TO LIVE!!!" I think I said out loud. Then before I knew what the hell was going on I heard something in the distance say "GET DOWN!" and I was falling backwards. What the fuck? I felt my back hit the ground and my instructor was immediately on top of me. What the... BOOM! Then instantly it came to me. I stood to watch my grenade go off instead of taking cover and my instructor didn't have a clue how far it went because he was squatting behind the wall. He yanked me back and covered me to protect me. Ahhh, how sweet. I told you he cared. After the boom he raised up and looked at me, mere inches from my face. I smiled and then for some insane reason, I think because I was so happy to just be alive, and I like doing crazy ass things, I made a kissy face at him. Yes. I puckered up my face and did an air kiss and a wink. His face went instantly from concern, to disbelief, to horror. "Umm you were to take cover after throwing it, soldier!" he barked as he was getting up and pulling me up by my flak jacket. "Yeah, uh, I forgot." And I started dusting the dirt from my BDUs. "Well, forgetting in war can get you killed, soldier. Don't ever do an asinine thing like that again! Do you hear me?!" "Yes, Sergeant." Damn, our love affair was over.

This taught me one of the biggest lessons of my life. Everybody just LOVES your ass and wants to be your friend and chit-chat and be all nice and get all up in your Kool-Aid and shit as long as you have a live grenade in your hand. But once that grenade is gone, they're all back to being assholes. FACT.

Posted by Laura at 04:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (33) | TrackBacks (0)

When I was in the third grade I got hit by a car. My two older brothers and I were walking home from school. Danny, the oldest, was way out in front attempting, as always, to ditch me and my other brother Matt. Suddenly Danny decided to cross the street in yet another maneuver to get as far away as possible from his two siblings before getting to the designated corner with a crosswalk and lights. Well, I thought that was the reason, it was probably a set-up. Matt and I dashed out behind him into the street when we suddenly heard a horn, turned and felt the car strike. Matt was thrown back into the curb and I was thrown across the street, landing on the sidewalk. I remember seeing the sidewalk coming at me and thinking "FUCK this is going to hurt." But it didn't, much. I remember the whole thing in slo-mo and I momentarily blacked out when I hit. I didn't really get knocked out though, and I remember I bounced a little on my side, and as quickly as I could I stood up. People started coming out of their houses, screaming and all excited. "Oh Lawd Geezuz! The po' lil chillens!" Okay, they didn't say that. I totally made that up. We went to a Catholic school in a Jewish neighborhood. Anyway, I looked across the street and saw Matt all crumpled up on the curb. I looked up the street and saw my other brother Danny turned around to watch the action. Then I saw him turn and start home. No shit. I tried to follow, but the people who gathered were trying to throw blankets on me and kept me there. I started crying because they wouldn't let me go. I was in "stranger danger" mode.

We were living in Cincinnati at the time and it was common for police to take you to the hospital if the ambulances were busy and you were able to stand. Matt was sitting up and moaning and holding his wrist. He had a big ole' knot and a trickle of blood on his forehead. The cop picked up my brother and set him in the backseat. I followed behind and took a seat beside my brother. Suddenly the siren was going and we were off. Matt was propped up against the window moaning and I leaned forward and asked the cop if he had ever shot anyone. He told me no. I was disappointed.

Quickly we were at the hospital and they brought a gurney to take Matt back into a room. I was asked a lot of questions about Matt and then told to take a seat. I did. It seemed like forever before I looked down the hall and I saw my mom rushing towards me with a shocked look on her face. She asked me where Matt was and I pointed towards an ER room and she disappeared. Time passed and then my mom came back and told me that they were keeping Matt because he was knocked the fuck out by the curb (this was my medical science interpretation of a concussion) and they wanted to watch him and set his broken wrist. We said goodbye to Matt as he lay there moaning, and my mom took my hand and we headed for the car. Halfway home, at a stoplight, she turned to me and said "Wait. Weren't you hit by the car too?" I said "Yes. Look." And I pulled up my Catholic school uniform skirt to show her where the skin was ripped off of my thigh. Road Rash. She asked if a doctor had looked at me and I said "No. But I saw a policeman, but he never shot anyone." She did a u-turn and took me back to the hospital where they washed out my scrapes and then we went home.

It wasn't until years later that I was told that my older brother Danny had arrived home, went to get his afternoon snack and sat at the table eating when my mom asked him where we were. Danny finished his milk and looked at her and said "I don't know where they are. They got hit by a car. Can I watch Star Trek now?" Mom freaked the fuck out.

I got to stay home from school for a week. I wasn't really hurt, just sore. I "played" the pain up way worse than it was. Matt had a broken wrist and moaned a lot. Danny got his ass spanked for attempted murder ditching us. The very best part was the big manila evelope full of get well cards that my classmates made for me that were delivered by a teacher. Every one of them had the same theme going, me lying in a pool of blood under a car. They were awesome. Some had drawn angels flying in the sky, others had buzzards circling. "Get well soon." "Don't die." " Jesus lubs you." "Was there lots of blud?"

This is my rendering of my classmate's rendering of my accident. Very CSI-ey. Told you my head was bulbous.

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Posted by Laura at 08:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

When I was a little kid my mom tried her damnedest to make me her "little girly girl." She filled my room with dolls and dollhouses and bought me frilly little dresses. The dolls went untouched and the dresses got ruined as I climbed the monkey bars and wrestled my brothers. God, I hated dolls with a passion. Eventually my mother gave up and dressed me in jeans, braided my hair, stopped decorating my room like Cindy Brady lived there, took away the dolls and bought me what I truly wanted. Dinosaurs. She started buying me books on dinosaurs and bags and bags of those little plastic ones. I would sit and learn their proper names and play with them for hours. Then I asked my mom for bags of army men. By that time she never even questioned me and probably because they cost like a nickle for a hundred, I had gazillions of dinosaurs and little green army men in no time. This is when I started playing my Dino-Apocalypse Now. I would have my dinosaurs attack the army men. Their weapons were useless. The battles would go on for hours, sometimes they would continue the same battle the next day. My dinosaurs stomped and bit heads off of hundreds, nay, thousands of little army men as they screamed and got thrown across the room by my prehistoric warriors. The battles were epic and they all ended the same. The green army men would all be annihilated and buried in the backyard.

Many years later, I'm 22 and I'm in the U.S. Army at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri in basic training. We were at the armory and had just finished watching a film on the care of our weapon, the M-16, and were being issued the weapon we would have all through training. Now remember, a lot of the girls there were barely 18, had never touched a gun in their lives, and all of them had just watched a film about "Joe" mishandling his weapon and then it blowing up in his face when he went to fire it. Now imagine some of them being handed their M-16 and majorly freaking. Crying and shaking like it was going to just explode in their hands. Our drill sergeant, Sergeant Walters, which by the way, this was his first female platoon, was all "What. The. Fuck." and called us to attention. He started yelling and screaming that we were in the army now and we were soldiers first no matter what "job" we signed up for and we would kill when we are told to kill and if we were "afraid" tell him now and he would send our "fucking candy-loser-asses back to our mommies with a dishonorable discharge." I personally could not wait to get to the range. Yeah, baby. Get live rounds and sight my weapon. He was still screaming when I noticed he had started going down the line getting all up in some of the girl's faces screaming "YOU'RE A SOLDIER, ARE YOU AFRAID, PRIVATE BALDWIN?" "NO, DRILL SERGEANT!" He'd go up to another, "ARE YOU AFRAID, PRIVATE?" "NO, DRILL SERGEANT!" I stared straight ahead thinking, "Please, let's just get to shootin', shall we? Oh, I hope we get to fire it on automatic." "WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF, PRIVATE JONES?!" "NOTHING, DRILL SERGEANT!" All of a sudden he's inches from my face. I look at him for a split second before going back to focusing straight ahead like a good soldier. He bellows out "YOU'RE A SOLDIER AND WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF, PRIVATE?" Before I knew it I bellowed back "DINOSAURS, DRILL SERGEANT!" Oops. I looked at him, cracked a slight smile and stared straight ahead again, but not before seeing that he had cracked a smile too. THANK. GOD. He stepped back and yelled "WELL, IT'S A GOOD FUCKING THING NONE OF OUR ENEMIES HAVE FUCKING DINOSAURS THEN ISN'T IT, PRIVATE?" "YES, DRILL SERGEANT!"

Weeks later, Sergeant Walters placed a bet with the three other drill sergeants in the company that I could out shoot their guys. I won that bet for Sergeant Walters and he gave me an extra turn firing the LAW. Which was AWESOME. I fucking LOVE weapons and now that I'm not a soldier, I LOVE dinosaurs again.

Posted by Laura at 04:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (26) | TrackBacks (0)

Monday night I had a migraine. I have a migraine about once or twice a year. Which, if you have to have migraines, isn't that bad I suppose. This one was one of those nasty migraines where light hurts your eyes, sound hurts your ears, and you feel like you're going to puke but know if you do your head will explode like a watermelon at a Gallagher Show. The only thing to do is lie there with a cool, wet washcloth over your face, moaning softly and praying the pain will be over soon one way or another. The last time I had one, in November, I got a shot of Demerol from my doctor. Later at home my heart did a skippy jump and sprained itself (!!) and I ended up in the hospital hooked up to shit and getting all kinds of heart tests and scans. I didn't go for my Demerol shot this time because the doctors said it could happen again because my heart goes all wacky because I died once years ago. YES. I died in surgery all dramatical and the surgeons brought me back with paddles and shit (CLEAR!) like you see in those medical dramas, except none of my doctors were torn with the ethical dilemma of falling in love with me, their patient, which was okay because they were old and none of them were hot and I was all cranky on the morphine. They really pissed me off bringing me back from the other side too because now I have to live in a world where George Clooney shacks up with WHORES and I can't have a baby pygmy goat. Fuckers.

Now here's a picture of Shrimp Linguine I made.

Here's the ingredients.

Traxler did not lick the shrimp.

Posted by Laura at 05:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (22) | TrackBacks (0)

If you've been reading this blog any amount of time, or if you know me personally, you know that I fucking LOVE dinosaurs. As a kid I could name them all. No shit. As an adult I can name most of them- only "most" because I'm a lazy adult and I save my memory for things like which beer I like best, where did I last put the remote, who do I hate and want to stab the most this week, things like that. People have even been known to give me dinosaur books and DVDs as gifts. I will adjust my schedule to watch a new dinosaur special on television. I did, however, have to DVR the Valentine's Day special "Dinosaur Sex" on The Discovery Channel only because it was on too late and I had to go to work the next day. It really sucks to be an adult. I haven't watched it yet, I will watch it later, so don't spoil it for me. Anyway, the point I am trying to make is I HEART dinosaurs.

Now imagine my giddiness over the "Live" Dinosaur Exhibit that came to the South Carolina State Museum. I had always been out of town when it was here previously. I could not wait to see them! Could. Not. Wait. Oh, to see them move and roar! Shaking the building even!! It was all I could do to maintain the level of cool so many people expect out of me. Shut. Up.

I had seen videos and news stories about "live" dinosaur shows, not the South Carolina Museum one, but I knew they all had to be the same. And I just could not believe I was going to see them this year! Just to let you know how much I wanted to see them, I KNEW there would be children there and I still wanted to go! Now that's saying a lot. I generally avoid all activities where I think there will be groups of children. But this was different. Also I thought it might be entertaining to watch the kids get the shit scared out of them. I knew at these shows they have someone in cool ass puppet-like costumes walk around to scare them. Just watch this dude absolutely terrorize these kids-

Good times! Hell, I thought maybe I would slip the dude a twenty to toss one of the kids here up in the air and bat it with his tail into a wall. How fucking cool would that be?!

So we got to the museum and found out it's extra to see the dinosaurs. That's okay, right? It's "LIVE" FREAKIN' DINOSAURS! Of course it will cost more! We locate them on the second floor and outside we can hear the roar and jungle sounds! I'm thinking "OH MY GOD! I hope the T-Rex is walking around!" We show our stamped hands. "Yes, yes we paid EXTRA now let us in, fuckers!" We go through the curtains and this is the second we realized there's been a terrible mistake made. Instead of seeing the awesomeness like in the video above we saw something more like a horrible side-show display in this one I found on Youtube-

It was the Chuck E. Cheese of dinosaur exhibits. You could hear the hydraulics in all of them, even when they made the smallest movement. Stephen Hawking moves more than all of these dinosaurs combined. And did you see that "baby" T-Rex? It looked inbred. Most of their jaws didn't even meet properly. Hell, I was half expecting them to pick up banjos and start singing. Deliverance Dinosaurs. Christ. So this is my Stab List this week. I want to stab the ever livin' shit out of the South Carolina State Museum. Liars. Dinosaur dream destroyers. You sonofabitches. STAB!

Now if you'll excuse me I have some dinosaur porn to watch.

P.S. Just what the hell did I expect from a museum that recycles their Abraham Lincoln mannequins?

Posted by Laura at 05:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (21) | TrackBacks (0)

“My grandmother was not a highly educated woman, but she told me as a small child to quit feeding stray animals. You know why? Because they breed....You’re facilitating the problem if you give an animal or a person ample food supply...They will reproduce, especially ones that don’t think too much further than that. And so what you’ve got to do is you've got to curtail that type of behavior. They don’t know any better.”

Andre, Andre, Andre. You need to stop being so obvious. Your recklessness is blowing your cover. The Lord of Darkness will not be happy.

Lt. Gov. Andre Bauer has made a pact with Satan. That is the only answer that makes sense. He will get away with this idiocy. He will be the next governor of South Carolina. Then he will be President of the United States. He went from being a cheerleader at the University of South Carolina to selling sports gear, to being elected to the S.C. House of Representatives. Then he was elected to be the Lieutenant Governor of South Carolina. Now, I'm guessing the pact with Satan was made during cheerleading tryouts. Then probably after seeing his splits and spirit fingers, Satan had further plans for him.

During his political career he has had two car wrecks, four tickets (he was NOT ticketed when he was pulled over doing 100 mph in Chester County), and he has had his license suspended. All of these in SPITE of a law here that says that a representative may not be ticketed or stopped while he is travelling for official purposes, so who knows how many incidents there actually have been. Once he was pulled over downtown doing 60 mph in a 35 mph zone and running two red lights. He jumped out of his car and charged at the police screaming "Do you know who I am!?" The cop even had his gun drawn on him demanding he halt. Andre did not halt. Andre did not get shot. You or I, and almost everyone I know would have been shot. But you and I and the people I know don't have a pact with the devil. Andre does. And a pact with Satan is better than any body armor made. 

I know you're thinking, "But Laura, that's just a politician getting away with speeding violations." Yeah, well, Andre also survived a plane crash in 2006. A PLANE CRASH. A plane he was piloting. He limped away with a broken heel. This is what was said about him by his flight instructor- “He used very poor judgment. I hope he doesn’t fly anymore. He gives aviation a bad name.” I wonder if that instructor has ever been seen again? It was widely alleged at the time that Andre was drinking and flying. Why not party it up when Satan is your co-pilot? There is that whole pact/body armor thing after all.

Still not convinced? Here's a pic I took of him that almost nobody has seen. Ladies and gentlemen meet the future President of the United Sates-

*In case you're wondering, I believe able-bodied people who are down and out should have to earn government assistance. I hate that our safety net has been turned into a hammock by so many. I understand what he's saying, but I believe he said it coarsely and stupidly, and I also believe Andre Bauer is an asshole.

Posted by Laura at 05:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (20) | TrackBacks (0)

This past Saturday my friend, the one who wanted me to go to the plastic surgeon with her to help her pick out new boobs, had me go with her to pick out some "fake ones" at Victoria's Secret. Why in the hell I got nominated to help her in her quest for new boobs I'll never know. Anyway, she wanted to go to Victoria's Secret and get gel inserts so that she could try the size for a few weeks before the surgery. I told her what size to try and after an argument ending with me saying "Fine, look like a fucked-up Dolly Pardon, I don't care" she decided to try the size I suggested. The problem came when she turned the box of gel inserts over and saw that they were $68 FOR TWO GEL FILLED BAGS. She told me that she knew where a lingerie shop was and she bet that they'd have them there cheaper. Since basically she just wants them for a few weeks, she didn't want to spend the $68. So we headed out to the other side of town and when we pulled into the parking lot I turned to her and told her we weren't in Kansas anymore. I'm all "Umm, this is a porn shop." She said "No it's not, it's lingerie." "Have you ever been to a porn shop?" She shrugged her shoulders and said no, but this was a lingerie shop. I'm all "Whatever." I was tired of the "Boob Quest Tour 2010" and arguing with her. Anyway, we both went into the store and sure enough, it was a porn shop with hooker wear in the front and hardcore stuff in the back. I turned towards her and said with a smile "They're not going to have what you want here." At that exact second a guy from behind the counter asked my friend what she was looking for. He looked to be about 30-35 years old with dark circles under his eyes and was totally stoned out of his mind. He reminded me of John Denver if John Denver shot up heroin and sold dildos. My friend was caught by surprise and I knew the second she opened her mouth that she had forgotten the name of what she wanted. He stood there with his hands on his hips anxious to get back to fire up a spoon or whatever he was doing and asked her again "What do you need?" She opened her mouth and said "Umm do you have the gel..." and absentmindedly started making circles with her hands in the air around each boob. I stood back to watch the fun. Stoned Guy leaned forward, made a quizzical face and said "Gel?" My friend looked at me for help; I just leaned on a rack of hooker shoes and smiled. This was going to be fun. She turned back to Stoner Guy, nodded and was still making circles around each boob and said "Gel...ummm... thing... inside." Stoner Guy straightened up like he suddenly knew the answer to Final Jeopardy and said "Oh! You mean the gel you put on your nipples that makes the guy's tongue numb, right?"

My friend stopped mid-circle, turned to me and made the best 'What. The. Fuck. Face' I have ever seen in my entire life and whimpered "ewww." I lost it then. I started laughing so hard I could barely catch my breath. Tears were running down my face. I leaned hard into the hooker shoe display just to keep from falling on the floor. My friend just stood there. Frozen. Her hands still in front of her boobs, she stood silent with her face filled with shock, horror and disgust. This made me laugh harder. Stoner Guy just stood there and as soon as I was physically able, I managed to say through the tears, "She wants to know if you have gel inserts for a bra; for breast enhancement." He said no, they didn't carry anything like that. I thanked him and lead my shell-shocked friend out the door. Once in the car, I turned to her and said "Well now, $68 dollars doesn't seem so bad right about now does it?"

P.S. Maeve got her box of crap!

Posted by Laura at 07:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (22) | TrackBacks (0)

Friend: "Will you come to the plastic surgeon's office with me next week?"

Me: "Sure. Why am I going with you?

Friend: "I want you to help me pick out some boobs."

Me: "Umm. What?"

Friend: "Yes. I am getting breast implants. I need you to pick out the right size for me."

Me: "You want me to pick them out?"

Friend: "Yes. I want you to go with me because you're all artsy and everything."

Me: "Umm, okay. I'm not drawing them on am I?"

Posted by Laura at 06:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

I wasn't going to do an entry tonight, but I have decided that I am going to start documenting the insanity around my house with these animals. I know you all have read my bitching and complaining about living in a warped, fucked up Disney movie. Well, I'm going to start proving it.

I was taking a shower earlier and when I shower I like to listen to my radio and yes, sometimes I sing along. Okay, dammit I sing continually. But that's neither here nor there. I am just making a point that I cannot hear anything else when I am in there and I am generally in there a long time because concerts take time, people. Anyway, as I was turning off the water and the radio I heard a sorrowful whining and howling. What the fuck? I grabbed a robe and ran out into the living room where the sound was coming from. There sat my dog Jack on the couch with a hair clip stuck in his mouth. The handle thingy was lodged in his lower canine teeth. Thelma was sitting on the floor looking up at him. Smiling.

Here are a few pics to give you an idea of his predicament.

He was laying there whining and whimpering with drool running down the front of the sofa. He must have been there a long time. The front of the sofa was sopping wet. Thelma fled as I approached. Anyway, I quickly removed the hair clip and within three seconds Jack had already forgotten he had been traumatized. He is none too bright.

This dog is eight years old and will still chew anything that hits the ground. I don't leave things where he can get to them. This clip was in my bedroom where there is a child's safety gate up that is specifically for keeping him out. I know the clip was there for a fact because I saw it on my dresser just prior to getting in the shower. This means Thelma, who is notorious for carrying things, carried it over the gate to him. This is not the first time Thelma has tried to kill Jack by throwing down, or carrying things for him to chew on. I have vet bills to prove that. Seriously, I'm pretty certain she has taken a life insurance policy out on him. And if this is true, she better split it with me.

Posted by Laura at 08:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

I had this added to the notes on my iPhone because I kept forgetting it when I wrote my Stab Lists on Mondays, but this really needs its own post.

People that marinate themselves in perfume or cologne need to be STABBED. Stabbed, then hosed down with some kind of industrial solvent and placed in a giant Ziploc bag using giant spaghetti tongs and fucking buried 20 feet deep in an air-tight Tupperware container. What the fuck people? You can't cover up funk with a perfume. You just reek of funk AND perfume. It's disgusting. Your perfume lingers. Lingers. No one wants to keep smelling you. NO ONE. It is not sexy like the commercials say. It is not intoxicating. It's FOUL.

All you need is to be clean. Don't ruin it with your so called "signature scent." If people can smell you coming and going, you are wrong. Save that scent for your date. Nobody who is forced to be around you wants to smell you and all the others in the same vicinity. Yes, all the marinated scents make a fine brew. NOT.

Smokers. Yes, you smell like smoke. I used to smoke and say "Oh this is so disgusting. I bet I smell like smoke." knowing full well I did. Again, yes you smell like smoke. But you know what's worse? Dousing yourself with perfume/cologne after each cigarette. Goddamn. You become a walking cloud of chemical ewww PLUS smoke. Just smoke your cigarette and chew some gum or something before you have to get up close to people or just avoid getting up close to people. Simple. One of the prices you pay. Just know that coating yourself with perfume/cologne is NOT solving your problem and if that's what you are doing, you should be stabbed.

I am not anti-perfume. Just use it sparingly at your pulse points. NO ONE should be able to smell you unless they are up in your Kool-Aid. And if you're in an office, remember NO ONE wants to smell your scent, period. I don't care if someone compliments your scent. There's shitloads of other folks marinated in other scents and all those scents compete with each other. It's nasty and nauseating.

If this entry can make just ONE perfume/cologne addicted person stop doing what they are doing, then it served its purpose. Carry on.

P.S. Please note the purple button up top on the left, under my boo George Clooney button. The Animal Rescue Site. Please click it and go into their site and click their button there everyday to help feed and care for shelter animals. It is legit and won't cost you a thing. Thank you.

P.P.S. The giveaway ends tomorrow at midnight. The winner will be picked by a random generator and will be announced sometime Saturday. It all depends when I drag my ass out of bed. I'm going to have some drinks Friday, so there's no telling when that will be.

P.P.P.S. The last time I drank on a Friday I didn't get out of bed until Sunday night. Just saying.

P.P.P.P.S. I promise I'll get out of bed on Saturday to announce the winner. I was just telling you one of my drinking stories and about how old I am getting because I can't recover as quickly from drinking. Maybe it's because I really don't drink that often. Why am I telling you this? Like you care about my hangovers. You should though. Just saying.

Posted by Laura at 05:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (17) | TrackBacks (0)

Posted by Laura at 08:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

Actual conversation I had with an AMERICAN Customer Service Representative with a major AMERICAN company.

CSR: "And the address?"

Me: "Blah, blah, blah, Columbia, South Carolina, blah."

CSR: "Columbia what?"

Me: "South Carolina."

CSR: "Is that one word or two?"

Me: "Pardon me?"

CSR: "I SAID IS THAT ONE WORD OR TWO?!" (all bitchy like)

Me: "One."

Posted by Laura at 04:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (19) | TrackBacks (0)

Because a lady can never have too many weapons, and INSANITY came and introduced itself to me recently, J got me this:

Seriously I think he got me this because I was telling him what I would do to INSANITY if it came down to it, and he thought this would be way less messy and he knew I always wanted one. Hey, some girls like jewelry, I like weapons.

I was giddy when I opened it and immediately tore into the package, activated it, tested the laser aim and armed it like a pro. J suggested we sit and watch the operating/safety video that came with it. Always the adult that J. So I sat there while some chic from some cop show I didn't recognize talked about the arming and safety of the device. Blah, blah, check, okay. Then she demonstrated using it while being attacked. She was walking to a car when some dude in a weird, heavily padded suit came out and went towards her. The lady pulled out the taser and yelled "Stop! I have a taser!" The man kept going towards her and she fired. She also demonstrated what to do if more than one attacked. "Stop! I have a taser!" She popped the first guy. He dropped and then she used the device as a stun gun on the others. I turned to J and told him she was doing it wrong. He asked "How's that?" and I said "You don't say 'Stop! I have a taser!' you say 'Say hello to my little friend'."

And you say it just like that.

Posted by Laura at 03:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

J had to work Sunday. He's one of those lucky people who's self-employed and works from home. And since I felt like my rabies was coming out of remission, I stayed home. Sometime mid-afternoon he called me and I heard this loud crying that sounded like a baby (or beh-bey as Dogette calls them, and I'm going to steal it). I'm like, "Dude. What the hell is that noise?" because instantly I thought 'Oh hell to the no. He better not have gotten some whore pregnant and she dropped off the baby saying "Here. I don't want it anymore. It's yours." smacking her gum and flicking her acrylic whore nails.' I ain't playing Brad Pitt to his baby-collecting Angelina Jolie ass. (FYI: All whores smack gum and have acrylic whore nails. Fact.)

He told me that it was a pitiful cat that came up to him while he was BBQing. I'm like, "Umm sure okay. Well call child protection services and have them pick it up." He said, "No it's a cat that looks really starved and has a bad leg. It must have smelled my burger cooking." Then I heard it again and this time it did sound like a cat. He didn't know what to do. He didn't want another cat. He already has three outside cats. I said, "Well it's hungry. You have to feed it. Then take it to the vet on Monday." He was all, "When you thought it was a baby you wanted me to call child protection services to pick it up. Now that you know it's an animal you want me to take care of it?" I said, "Yeah. Of course."

So he fed it and took it the vet this morning and hundreds of dollars later he now has a new cat. So now if we were to combine our cats we would have SEVEN! SEVEN fucking cats. And neither of us particularly likes cats! Better than one beh-bey though.

Posted by Laura at 04:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

After being on Facebook for over a year, last week I got my very first message from someone that I went to high school with. He commented on my picture (which was of a monkey) and said that that was how he remembered me. I wrote back that I didn't remember him at all. Which I didn't. I went to a small, country high school and I don't remember three fourths of my graduating class. What can I say? I drank. Anyway, here's proof of how sexy and deadly my high school self was. I was like the Lara Croft of my school. Srsly.

Beautiful, redheaded goddess that beat the shit out of rude boyz. Told you, fuckers. I rocked.

Posted by Laura at 05:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

Crazy Betty has cut down all her shrubs. The same shrubs she likes to hang out in wearing her polyester sateen leopard print lingerie and pink hair rollers. I'm thinking she wants a better aim view of me. But maybe that's just my paranoia at work. She probably just wants to showcase her evening wear collection to the entire neighborhood instead of a limited few.

This Crazy Ass Neighbor Watch was sponsored by:

Protecting the crazy ass paranoid from reality for centuries.

Posted by Laura at 04:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

I've recently started going to a grocery store on the other side of town. They have better produce and their cashiers actually smile and make eye contact which is totally the opposite of the cashiers on my side of town who are all bitchy and bitter. This store also hires grown "mentally challenged" men as baggers. They do an exceptional job and I am always impressed that they bag my bread separately from my 10 pound box of kitty litter, which is something that never happened at my old grocery store with so-called "normal" baggers.

So, I took my weekly groceries (which consist mostly of Fruity Pebbles, peanut M&Ms and beer) up to the register and did something I almost never do; I got cash back from my debit card. The cashier handed me my receipt and cash, looked me in the eyes, smiled, and said "Have a nice day!" I stuttered back something like "Bye! Uh, you too! Bye!" just a little too loudly. I still can't get used to common courtesy, so my response and timing are always way off.

By the time I turned to my cart. The bag "man" had finished and was at the rear of the cart, ready to take it to my car. I told him I could get it and he stepped away. I started to hand him two folded dollars and said "Here you go", feeling all smug and happy with myself. That's when all hell broke loose. He shrieked and started yelling "NO! NO! NO! NO!" He did a little circle, stomping his feet. I stood there with my mouth open. Everyone had stopped what they were doing and were staring at us. For a split second I thought he was going to start screaming something about "stranger danger!" and point at me saying I touched him "down there." Just as I decided that I was going to abandon my Fruity Pebbles and run like an innocent daycare worker, the man ran up to the customer service counter and pointed at a sign that read "Please Do Not Tip the Baggers." Oh. I looked around and everyone was staring at me like I had touched his peen. Shit. I shrugged all apologetic like, smiled weakly and said "I didn't know. Sorry." Then I got the hell out of there. Quick.

I will miss being seen as a human being in a grocery store. Who needs square slices of bread anyway?

*I am almost at nine human followers on Twitter. Nine, people. This does not include celebs that basically ignore me. Sometimes I cry when I open my Twitter app. True story.

Posted by Laura at 09:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

 

Cooters are wonderful and if you're lucky enough to own one you should count yourself very fortunate. And even though they're terrific, you should never center your world around the cooter. And that's especially true for people that don't even own cooters.

When you encounter people without cooters and they want to take your cooter, or simply pet it, you should refrain from using your cooter as a bargaining tool. That's called manipulation. And that's bad. You should not take advantage of people just because they want your cooter. If you want to share your cooter, that's fine, just don't have any strings attached. That's called 'whoring your cooter out.' And that's kind of wrong. Wouldn't you want someone to like you for the person you are, not the cooter that you lucked out owning?

It has been argued that all human achievement is directly or indirectly motivated by the desire for the cooter. That is just silly. First, it grants that all of human achievement is accomplished by cooterless people while at the same time, it reduces those with cooters to some kind of manipulative parasite status. And that's just crazy talk.

So in conclusion, owning a cooter is great. But it's not the center of the universe. I am.

Posted by Laura at 04:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

I found this note stuck in my front door Saturday. Seriously. This is what it says:

neighbor

Is there any particaler reason that you are ?(illegible) my business, other than to be noisy. You will never see a man come out of my house. because I'm not married to any so I'm not keeping with any if someone is breaking in my house that's when you mind my business. Who you're trying to watch me for. the blood of Jesus is against them.
mind your own business
     Myors

 

I know, right? I'm like a crazy magnet. It's perplexing. I have never really met this woman. Sure there's been tell-tale signs that she's insane; overgrown yard, standing outside in her shrubs in a leopard print nightie, big pink rollers in her hair. But hey, who hasn't done that? (Right, Duane?)

Anyway, I thought I'd write her back. Crazy, meet Crazy.

Dear Myors (if that's REALLY your name. I don't like it, so I will call you Betty) Dear Betty,
It is nice to meet you, Betty. Well, not actually meet you, but to hear from you. You have been here for what? Two years? I guess better late than never. Anyway, to address your note, I would like to say that my sources (my dog) have told me that it is in fact YOU watching MY business. I have included a pic to prove this.

See. I believe him. He's never lied to me, except once when he stole my car and and that time he tried to sell the cat on Ebay. Okay, twice.

You can mind my business, Betty. I like the attention. As far as thinking I am noisy. My pets and I have dance-offs on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. I will try to keep the music down, though it is hard to get down to Barry Manilow without a little volume. Know what I mean? It is kind of difficult drowning out those voices. I'm sure you know what I mean about voices, Betty. What's that? You meant nosey? Oh then, nevermind.

I see that you are a single lady also and are concerned about someone spotting men leaving your house. Might I suggest rolling them in a rug first? Those large lawn garbage bags also work. I just find rugs more absorbent and less apt to rip, personally. And I am all for your idea of starting a neighborhood watch program. Fantastic idea! How about we discuss it over tea? I have tea with my pets every Wednesday night. Please feel free to join us, Betty, but bring your own feather boa and tin foil hat.

By the Power of Grayskull,
 neighbor 

P.S. I made you a bear as a late "Welcome to the Neighborhood" gift. You can pick it up at tea on Wednesday.

Posted by Laura at 04:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

You know how I'm always complaining about my pets; the cats barfing and shedding, the mentally challenged dog, the screaming parrot? Oh, I haven't mentioned the parrot? His name is Herman and he screams and throws food. Anyway, anyone who reads this blog knows that one of my fears (besides dying at home and having them eat my face off) is becoming a crazy cat lady. Seriously, I don't like cats all that much. I'm more of a dog person. But my two cats were rescued many years ago and are getting pretty old. Honestly, I don't mark the days off of the calendar, but when their times come I decided to never get another cat or any other pet for that matter.

Then up walked this stray.

I know. I'm disgusted with myself.

It was hungry and scared. She now lives on my porch outside. I won't have another indoor cat. Nope. Been there, done that. It's been to the vet and now gets gourmet cat food. She also does tricks. She'll walk on her hind legs. It's really cool and really creepy at the same time. Kind of Pet Semataryish. I should name her Church. You know, like the dead cat they buried and then it came back to life but was all weird and evil. What do they call that? Oh, yeah, a fucking ZOMBIE.

I really need a hobby that doesn't involve collecting pets. To help choose one I checked this book out of the library.

Posted by Laura at 05:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

I called my dermatologist Monday as instructed for my lab results. I was told that the final results weren't in yet. Great. So I placed a call to the Make-A-Wish Foundation to once again see if they could arrange a hook-up between me and George Clooney. An unidentified rash that could or couldn't be rabies should make me eligible, right? Well apparently not. They hung up on me.

J called me to see what the doctor said. I told him that it was bad and the only cure was this:

Yeah, one of those fancy designer Dell laptops. He laughed, suggested I get a second opinion and then hung up on me.

So I called the doctor again today. I guess they must have had a lot of emergency acne cases and were too busy to call me themselves. I spoke to the nurse who informed me I didn't have MRSA but that I had a skin infection(!) that I could have picked up from anything after my super-duper razor rash (that's a fancy Latin medical term, by the way.) So the lotion he prescribed last week has just about wiped it out and I am to continue that. I asked if the rash was contagious because I'd like to use it as a biological weapon on some people and she hung up on me.

So it's not MRSA, or leprosy, or rabies. I called Make-A-Wish back and asked them if the new diagnosis of infected pits would qualify me for that hook-up with George. They got enough info from me to probably get a restraining order then they hung up on me too. Fuckers. All of them.

Posted by Laura at 04:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

There was a lot of screaming, tears, and blood. And that was just me filling out the paperwork and paying my co-pay. Then the nurse put me in a room. J called me and I was all "Why are you calling me at the doctor's office?" So I hung up on him. Then the doctor came in and wanted to see my armpits. I watched his face closely to see if he made an "oh shit" face and would suddenly put on a hazmat suit. He didn't. I asked him if it was MRSA, he said probably not. I asked him if it was infected razor burn, he said he didn't know (!!!) I said is it leprosy? He said no and to get out of his office. So he gave me a prescription and said to call him Monday for the lab results. Yes, I made him test it for MRSA and he did to shut me up. I said if it's not MRSA, could it be rabies? He said "I told you to leave."

So I went to my pharmacy to fill my prescription, which by the way, I was amazed wasn't prescribed in a suppository form because that's how much my dermatologist hates me now. So the pharmacist handed me my lotion and when he told me how much it was I was like "Dude, it's not leprosy medicine." He told me to pay and get out. I asked him if maybe it was cheaper in suppository form and he said "I told you to leave."

So all I know right now is that it isn't leprosy. He did not confirm or deny rabies though.

Posted by Laura at 02:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

Me: I have an appointment with my dermatologist on Thursday.

J: What's wrong NOW?

Me: Hey, don't say that like I'm a big ole faker!

J: Okay, let me rephrase that. Are you having a problem, Dear?

Me: Yes, I am going to have him check out that rash I have under my arm. I think it's MRSA.

J: It's not MRSA.

Me: You don't know that. It could be and I am going to have him test me for MRSA.

J: (attempting to change the subject) What are you going to cook for dinner?

Me: I don't know. Something from my diabetic cookbook.

J: (eye roll)

Me: I am watching my glycemic intake.

J: Laura, you don't have diabetes.

Me: You don't know that. I could have. I need to be tested for that one day soon too.

J: (pointing at the birthmark on my knee) You should get the dermatologist to look at that freckle. It's changed shape! OH MY GOD! *Laughs*

Me: Fuck you, J! That's a birthmark.

J: You know...you really should stop watching "House."

Me: Do you really think my birthmark has changed shape?

Posted by Laura at 10:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

I was watching "Cops" this weekend and it occured to me that I was witnessing gangsta Darwinism. I'm talking about the idiots with baggy pants. I can't believe they are still in style, by the way.

All the dudes the cops were chasing that wore these pants were caught immediately as they tried to speed waddle to freedom. They all ended up with two to three cops piled on top of them and the camera having to blurr out their bare asses. Hey dumbass, when the crotch of your pants is between your knees you simply cannot run.

Some places are trying to outlaw the gansta baggy pants. I think they should be encouraged to wear them. They've hobbled themselves. In fact I'd like to propose a new gansta fashion fad. It will consist of ankle bling with chain and a decorative 60 pound ball attached.

Posted by Laura at 06:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

From time to time I like to recommend things. This is one of those times.

LandShark Lager. I may not be a connoisseur of fine beverages, but I will say that this one is tasty. I think Jimmy Buffet owns the brewery or he whored his name out. I don't know. Just buy the beer and try it.

And ladies, try OPI Nail Polish- 'Sweet Heart'. It's a perfect neutral color for summer. It gives you rich girl nails. You may have noticed that in all my beauty product selections I strive for the rich girl look. I don't know if rich girls have the best hair, skin or nails. I imagine they do. What's the point of being rich if you don't, right? Too bad I go broke buying products attempting to look like them. But I do save money on my cheap hooch.

Please note: Though I recommend these two products I don't recommend drinking and beautifying at the same time. Once while I was drinking I thought it would be a good idea to wax my eyebrows. Once the scabs fell off I was known as "Surprised Clown Girl" for about two months. I looked like this, but with a little more lipstick and my nose wasn't as red since my alcoholism wasn't as advanced then.

*I fucking HATE clowns. Srsly.

Posted by Laura at 05:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (17) | TrackBacks (0)

• Hearing Alison's audio on Twitter. Girl, you talk all fancy! I love it!
• Getting my car serviced for way less than what was quoted. Woot!
• Emailing Gargs at his official job and putting some of the following things in the subject line:

• And when he tried to pathetically reciprocate, I responded back:

• Discovering a show on A&E called "Obsessed." This week's episode had a woman who kept her miscarriage in the freezer for seven years in a paper bag. Thanks A&E! Now I'm obsessed with watching your awesome show.
• Getting a totally cool new case cover for my iPhone.
• Having a guy belch the alphabet for me on Twitter!
• Seeing a picture of Perez Hilton getting punched in his head.

Posted by Laura at 04:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

I woke up this morning and turned on the news and the first thing I hear is "South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford has been missing for four days!" I'm thinking what the hell? Who's going to tax me to death and leave the state with substandard schools and potholed roads?! But then I remembered that we still had the rest of our state legislature. What a relief! By the time I get to work they broadcast that the governor was hiking the Appalachian Trail, which by the way, does not go through South Carolina. Now, I promised someone close to me that I wouldn't slam the governor because he's a buddy, so I'm just going to point out a few things others said.

This is from Lt. Governor Andre Bauer:

"I cannot take lightly that his staff has not had communication with him for more than four days, and that no one, including his own family, knows his whereabouts."

Andre was pissed because he wanted to be told he was in charge.

And from his wife Jenny who said she didn't know where he was and hadn't heard from him all weekend, including Father's Day (they have four young sons.):

"He was writing something and wanted some space to get away from the kids."

On Father's Day. She'll be told later to release a statement saying she knew, she just wasn't telling.

I'm thinkin' folks are starting early to try to quash his possible 2012 Presidential candidacy.

*UPDATE EDIT

He admits to having an affair. With a WOMAN, Gargs! He wanted to do something "exotic" like screw an Argentinean lady. I didn't realize the Appalachian Trail went through Argentina.

Posted by Laura at 04:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

I have admitted to a lot of embarrassing things this week. My fear of geese, my fear of giant insects in confined places, and making out with Barney Rubble in my dreams. You're probably thinking there's nothing else I can reveal to make you think any less of me. Well, you're wrong.

Two weeks ago I added Ice Ice Baby by Vanilla Ice to my iPod, and according to my iPod/iTunes I have played it 62 times. SIXTY TWO times in TWO WEEKS.

If there's a problem, yo I'll solve it
Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it

*NEWS ALERT

Looky, looky, the trailer to the new Zombieland movie came out today.

Posted by Laura at 06:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

After reading the comments on my previous entry about my encounter with the giant grasshopper in my car I'd like to clear a few things up. I am not a complete pansy ass about insects unless they are large and I am in a confined space with them, such as a car or a house. Then yes, I am a complete pansy ass. If I am outside, I understand that I am in their world and if I find them offensive I can evacuate the area. This does not mean that I can't be a zombie killing machine. Zombies do not have the intellect to know to throw huge bugs at me to render me comatose, because believe me, if enough giant bugs were thrown on me I would have a complete psychotic breakdown. Zombies do not have the coordination to gather large bugs either. Yes, I know I have made myself vulnerable by admitting my kryptonite. But zombie's reading and comprehending skills are zero.

I would also like to say that I believe that all these giant insect sightings are another sign of the apocalypse. Because yes folks, there's been another encounter. After coming home today from work what did I find in my sunroom? Yes a fucking HUGE insect. A Palmetto Bug to be exact. That is a fancy name for a HUGE flying cockroach. The ONLY good thing you can say about a Palmetto Bug is that they prefer to live outdoors. But this fucker was IN MY HOUSE. Here, I googled a picture for you.

Look at that sick bastard smiling at that monstrosity.

Anyway, I didn't stick around for this bug to whisper its name. I backed up slowly, shut the door and went for my weapon of choice.

I emptied a half can of Raid on this one's ass. This stuff must burn like a mutha because they don't even get a chance to spread their wings. He went belly up in a pool of poison and I ran out closing the door behind me in case he was faking it. I'll go back in tomorrow with BBQ tongs and a Hefty Garbage Bag. Of course, the tongs will be trashed.

I prefer chemical warfare on Palmetto Bugs. I once tried to crush one with a kitchen chair and it broke one of the legs off of said chair and chased me with it. True story. Well, kinda. Well, okay. I once fell over a kitchen chair, breaking one of it's legs, while running away from a Palmetto Bug. There. Satisfied?

Posted by Laura at 05:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

This morning started like any other morning. I got up, showered, dressed and headed for work. It's dark when I leave the house, so I'm always careful; locking my doors and being aware of everything around me. This morning I was driving and listening to the radio, Britney Spears' 'If U Seek Amy' was playing and I was singing along loudly. Suddenly I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked over to my right and there was nothing. I continued driving and singing out of key to Brit Brit when I saw it again, except this time it seemed closer. I slowed down a little and kept glancing over to the right, out the windshield. Suddenly it boldly appeared. I applied my brakes slightly as I gasped. I quickly prayed to God that by some miracle it was outside the car, but it wasn't. IT WAS INSIDE THE CAR! It stared at me. Sweet baby Jesus, IT STARED AT ME with it's cold dead eyes and I swear on all that is holy it whispered it's name to me. Beelzebub.

Here is a picture of Beelzebub I found on Google.

And I believe this is his baby picture.

I stopped singing and just kept glancing from the road to Beelzebub as he continued his journey towards me. The radio was loud, but I dared not make a sudden move towards it in case it would cause him to jump, and if he jumped, I was going to be the landing pad. Save me God, oh save me. I swear I'll stop cursing if you save me from this horror. All I could think of were those huge spiney legs grasping my hair and me screaming like a banshee beating my head against the window. Four Hail Mary's.

I noticed my speed had dropped and that I was in the "hood" where there was nowhere to pull over and run out of my car screaming, so I quickly made the decision to try to make it to work before Beelzebub made his move. I accelerated, keeping one eye on him and one on the road. He stopped midway on my dashboard and just stared. I scooted up against my door, further away from him. Three Hail Mary's. I quickly looked for some kind of weapon. A magazine, a newspaper, a machete. I had left them all at home. Two Our Fathers.

Beelzebub did a few 360's and always stopped while facing me. The Apostle's Creed. Please God, if you let me make it to work before he jumps I'll stop cussing. I'll be good. Oh no, a left hand turn. That would force his 12 pound body towards me even more. I took the turn slow keeping my hands on the underside of the steering wheel. Two more Hail Marys. Beelzebub pulled his legs under him once like he was going to make a jump. Oh God, I'll be good, I'll be good, I promise. I held my breath and punched the gas.

The two traffic lights before my work place were green! God loves me! He really loves me! I swear I pulled into the parking lot on two wheels and slid into my parking spot. Thank you sweet Lord! Praise be!. I threw it in park and opened my door quickly, nearly falling to the pavement. I got my balance and ran back to the trunk to look for a weapon. A tire iron, the spare tire, whatever. There was a huge Rand McNally road atlas and I picked that up. As I slowly crept up to the open door, there sat Beelzebub on my seat. A shiver ran down my spine and I vomited a little in my mouth. Then he took a big jump. I let out a little squeal of horror, moving to the side as he lept back into the night from whence he came. I turned and said "You fucker! Stay the hell out of my car you gross fucker! Shit." Oops, sorry God.

Posted by Laura at 05:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (17)

Yes, I know I've been missing for a few days. It's not because suddenly my life got all exciting and I couldn't tear myself away from it to type out an entry or two. It's just that things have been pretty blah here. Oh, I got an eye infection! But I didn't want to write about it because I would have felt compelled to take a picture and it was kinda gross. Yes, I am bringing sexy back. Anyway, the doc said it was an allergic thingy (don't you love my technical terms?) and prescribed only the world's most expensive eye drops to cure it but wouldn't give me a pirate patch! Arrgh! The bastard! J called me after my appointment and asked what the doctor said and I replied "He said I had three weeks to live. Can we go shopping?" J didn't buy it. I think I may have used that diagnosis way too many times.

Oh, speaking of J, I went over to his house this weekend, eye infection and all (sexy) and walked down to this little lake and this is what came running towards me.

Yeah, Canadian Geese. You may remember that waterfowl and I don't generally get along. So I'm not going to sit here and lie to you. I was kind of scared. The adults hissed at me a little and looked me over a bit.

But I wasn't too frightened. I have been practicing for my future career and knew if they attacked I'd grab their skinny necks and choke them with my bear hands. Grrr!

I didn't have to resort to violence though. They chilled out after I threw them the Subway sandwich J was eating.

J was all "Whoa! That's my sandwich!" I told him I needed it so that they wouldn't attack and so I could get some photos. He asked why HE had to suffer for my art. I threatened him with my bear hands, and he just laughed at me. Then I threatened him with my eye cooties and he said in that case he'd go make the geese each a panini. Hmmm, maybe I should stop my medication and take him car shopping.

Posted by Laura at 01:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

I LOVE the story about the gay penguins in Germany that hatched an orphaned egg and are raising it as a couple. And I love that anti-gay family people hate the story. Oh, and remember this one where the gay penguin couple tried to steal eggs from the straight couples, replacing them with rocks? Pure genius.

The only thing that confuses me is that I have had people ask me if it's true that animals can be gay. Okay, first thing, why ask ME? I guess I'm like the Steve Irwin (minus the whole stingray thingy) of the office because I picked up a renegade lizard one day that sent the ladies screaming and running for the elevators and then released it outside. Or maybe it's the layer of cat hair I'm usually covered in that identifies me as a lonely loser an animal person. Whatever. All I know is that I thought everyone knew that any mammal could be homosexual.

I remember back when I was a kid on the farm we (meaning my mother) purchased an Angus Bull and for some reason it wasn't breeding. We had the veterinarian check him out and the vet reported back to us that he and his lab work appeared fine, and that maybe he was homosexual. This is what the veterinarian said matter-of-factly. So we sent him to have semen collected every so often and the Angus cows were artificially inseminated. We also sold some of the semen. We were cattle pimps. But I digress.

Some people have asked me why we kept the bull since the only reason to have a bull is to breed with cows and produce calves. I told them we kept him because he had some kind of champion bloodline, had cost a pretty penny, and he could decorate a barn like nobody's business.

Posted by Laura at 06:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

It was June 1999. Our plane landed in Miami Florida. We caught a cab from the airport and headed to the Royal Caribbean port. For the next seven days we were hitting the high seas and heading for the Bahamas, Puerto Rico, and Haiti. We unloaded our stuff in our swanky cabin, and went outside to wave at strangers as our ship departed. We were up on the upper deck, looking out over Miami and a nice strong breeze was blowing. Then suddenly, the breeze ended and a smothering heat hit. I casually said something like "Goddamn it's hot" and he turned to me and said, "This is nothing. Wait until we get closer to the islands." D'OH!

I do not do the heat, let alone the humidity. South Carolina summers throw me into hibernation. I have to give myself a pep talk just to walk out to the mailbox. Now I was headed straight into the bowels of hell itself. THE TROPICS. For SEVEN DAYS. What the hell was I thinking? I didn't. I didn't even THINK about the heat. D'OH!

I stayed inside through most of the cruise. I tried to get drunk, but no matter how much I drank, I just couldn't get intoxicated. Weird. I even bought a few dozen bottles of booze in the duty free shop on the ship, thinking that perhaps they were watering down the drinks. Nada. Weird. So my days were filled with walking the deck in early morning, gambling in the ship's casino, participating in all the ship's inside activities, copious amounts of fornicating and drinking constantly. I hated every second on that ship except all the fornicating. You stood in line for everything except the fornicating. You stood in line to eat, to get off the ship, to get on the ship, and to get in the clubs. But I didn't complain. I may be a lot of things (like a DUMBASS) but I'm not a whiner. So I stood in line to exit the ship for the islands, stood and marveled at the crystal clear ocean, stood on the beaches and appreciated the sea breezes, then stood in line again to get back on the ship. Then came Puerto Rico; the only stop where the ship actually would port and we'd be able to walk around a bonafide city. The ship was going to leave Old San Juan at 2 in the morning, so we had all day to look around. I looked forward to shopping in some air-conditioned stores.

Sure they had stores; lots of stores. Only thing was, they had NO AIR CONDITIONING in them. Mother of God what the fuck is up in these freakin' so called paradise places? We had walked to about the middle of the city, further from the ocean, further from a breeze, when I actually did start whining; well, not so much whining, as crying like a baby. I was all "OH MY GOD! I'M GOING TO DIE! I'M GOING TO JUST BURST INTO FLAMES! SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION! I CAN'T STAND THIS ONE MORE SECOND! KILL ME! JUST KILL ME!" Tears would have ran down my cheeks, but I was completely dehydrated by then. That's when we spotted a club; a discotheque. We figured that at least they might have ice which is another luxury that "paradise" took a pass on by the way. We opened the door and heaven itself slapped me in the face full force. AIR CONDITIONING! Sweet refrigerated air! It felt like it was 60 degrees in there. I was going to live! We took a seat and started drinking.

Evidently once my feet were on solid land I had no problem getting sauced. We danced, we drank, we talked shit with foreigners, and we drank some more. We drank until I suddenly looked at my watch and saw that it was 1:45 a.m. Oh my fucking God! The ship was going to leave us! Leave us in this God forsaken inferno where I'm certain the disco would throw us out soon! Oh shit, the heat! We ran outside and there stood a lone taxi. We ran up to it and asked the driver if he spoke English. He shrugged. I said slowly and loudly (because EVERYONE knows that if you speak English slow enough and loud enough everyone should understand it) "ROYAL. CARIBBEAN. PORT. CRUISE. SHIP. LEAVING. SOON. HELP!" He nodded and said "'Si. Royal Caribbean Port. I take." See? Told you so.

We jumped in the back. I started yelling "Arriba! Arriba! Andale! Andale! YEEHAH!" and threw dollar bills at him. How Speedy Gonzales of me. All I knew was I was drunk and there was no way in hell I wanted to be stuck there. The driver apparently understood and he accelerated. I remember getting tossed around like a ragdoll in the back seat as we rounded corners on two wheels. There were no seat belts and no handles to hold. I was laughing and throwing money at him. "ARRIBA! ARRIBA! ANDALE! YEEHAH! He'd speed up more. He would start blowing his horn as he approached a stop sign, then speed through it. ALTO. BEEP! BEEP! VAROOOM! I'd laugh and throw more cash his way. YEEHAH! We were probably doing 80 mph or better on those downtown, narrow Old San Juan cobblestone streets. I was laughing so hard, screaming my cartoon mouse Spanish and throwing money over the front seat. The car was actually airborne a few times, with sparks flying out on the cobblestones as we landed. I hit my head a few times on the roof too, and would laugh harder. ARRIBA! ARRIBA! ANDALE! OUCH, SHIT! ANDALE! Honest to God, we slid in sideways in the parking lot of the port beside our ship. We untangled our limbs, threw more cash at the driver and ran for our ship just as crew members were beginning to have the gang plank removed. We made it. Barely. This cab ride is always referred to as my "Mr. Toad's Wild Cab Ride- Puerto Rican Style."

I learned three things from that cruise. I learned that sea travel is hazardous to your liver, that I'd make a sucky ass pirate because I could only do my pirate business in the Arctic, and Puerto Rican cab drivers are not offended by cartoon mouse Spanish as long as you keep throwing dollar bills at them.

I've been watching a lot of Pepe Le Pew on Nickelodeon lately, so I might book a trip to France next year. In the WINTER.

Posted by Laura at 12:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

I gave in and joined Facebook months ago. Hell, I don't remember when. I think I told you all that's how Nick found me after losing my contact info FOR OVER SIX YEARS. I joined Facebook with hopes of hearing from people back home in Kentucky where I went to school. Since joining, I of course was reconnected with my friend Nick, and have had a few people from my high school add me as a friend. It was a small school and I don't even really remember half of them. I smoked pot and drank really cheap wine back then so maybe that has something to do with it. But that's neither here nor there.

A few weeks ago I got an invitation in my email alerting me that I had a "Friend Add" from Laura ***** (my last name). I thought it was some kind of Facebook glitch so I went to delete it but decided to click the "View Profile" link. Well, there was Laura *****, early twenties with long red hair. The profile was legit and she had over 100 friends of other twenty somethings added. Well, I thought, at least this Laura is popular. So I looked around her profile, but then decided to get on with my life and closed it. A few days later there's another "Friend Add" from Laura *****; the same one. It got me to thinking. Maybe this is ME from the future trying to warn ME now. Sure that Laura is younger looking, but maybe in the future they've perfected plastic surgery and personalities and we all look twenty something and are popular. Hey, it could happen. What if she wants me to kill someone? You know, for the betterment of mankind, to change the future. (Fingers crossed for that one.) Or maybe she just wants me to use a better hair conditioner or stronger SPF sun protection. So I added Laura ***** and sent her back a message. It read "Please, please tell me we have killer robots to do our bidding there." I haven't heard back from her yet.

* Don't forget to enter THE ZOMBIE SURVIVAL GIVEAWAY EXTRAVAGANZA!

Posted by Laura at 09:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

I will probably post details and photos of the May Giveaway Extravaganza on Friday since it is going to be May and all. I know you all have been giddy with anticipation. Simmer down.

This week I have been doing my Q and A entries and I want to thank everyone who has sent in questions. If I don't get to yours this week, I will one day. Or maybe not. I'm wishy-washy that way. I was kind of hurt that I never received the question "Why are you such an awesome human being?" But I'll get over it. In time. Fuckers.

The closest I got to that was this question:

You seem like you probably laugh all the time. Are you ever depressed?

Am I ever! I think this video best expresses the way I feel a lot of the time.

Just substitute "Laura" for "Peter", writing blogs instead of writing songs, and an accordion and cowbell for the piano, and that's pretty much me.

Posted by Laura at 05:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

I asked, and you delivered. Here are a couple of questions pertaining to blogging that were emailed to me over the last few days that I will now attempt to answer.

When did you start blogging and why? How would you describe your blog?

I started blogging in April of 2006, if that's what you want to call it. It was on a free blogging site, Yahoo 360, and I mostly posted memes and forwards and such. I discovered I liked working with HTML and creating. The Yahoo site was crashing from non-support, so I got my own website so that I could learn some web-design and of course, blog. I never gave too much thought about "what" I would blog about really. Most of the blogs I read online then were tech blogs, celebrity gossip blogs, and god-forbid, mommy blogs. A few of those mommy bloggers were incredible writers, but I had absolutely nothing in common with them. I knew I was none of those, and I knew I didn't want to do a "journal-diary" type blog, divulging my daily routines (yawn), confessing my inner feelings (umm, no). I knew I didn't want to whine and complain, because who the hell wants to read that? And I'd rather write down and remember things that make me smile than things that make me sad, but I will sometimes, though rarely. I've had a pretty entertaining life from childhood to adulthood and occasionally fun things still happen to me. This isn't a humor blog though. I reject that completely. When I hear "humor blog" it makes me feel like I should be some kind of stand-up comedian on a Disney cruise ship, entertaining the general public. And let's face it, I'm not for general consumption and I'll never try to be. So when I describe my blog I mostly just say, it's a place for me to put my hidden-crazy on display for public viewing.

Posted by Laura at 05:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Good news! J can save my data on my desktop! Yay! My porn pictures and music and addresses are saved!

I'm here to tell you that a very special month is coming up. May is when special people are born. Special as in awesome special, not special as in helmet wearing, short bus riding, drooling special. Yes, next month is my birth month. And in honor of my birth, I am going to have a giveaway. I will give more details out when the time nears. It will be a fun prize. Just don't expect a car or washer/dryer or some shit like that. I'm not the millionaire Pioneer Woman. I'm more like the hundredaire Ghetto Girl. And I promise I won't shove one of my pets in a box. But don't think I didn't think about it.

Also, I have received some emails over the past few weeks and they have given me an idea. As anyone who blogs will attest, some days it's just hard to come up with an entry. I was emailed a few questions and thought that maybe it would be fun to do a Q and A blog sometime. You ask the questions, and I'll answer them to the best of my ability. My email addy is down there on the right. Now, don't go all smartass on me and ask like algebra and physics questions. I have a weiner dog and a box and I know how to use them. You can google that kind of stuff like the rest of us.

Oh, and here's a porn video J was able to save from my diseased computer. Enjoy.

Hilarious. Thanks Gargs!

Posted by Laura at 04:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

My desktop computer got a virus. Like a serious virus. If it was a person it wouldn't have herpes or gonorrhea, it would have an antibiotic resistant syphilis. Super Syphilis. The kind of syphilis that goes into your brain and leaves you dead in a gutter like Edgar Allen Poe, or say, Paris Hilton in a few years. So it's in the hospital (J's house) getting treated, which means wiped out and restored. I will lose my porn emails and addresses. I will lose music that I hadn't moved into iTunes. But most importantly I will lose hundreds of unedited pictures. Yes, I had the latest, greatest virus protector. No, I did not back my files up. Yes, I am an idiot. But stop making this about me! I swear to God, if I knew who created those computer viruses I would punch them in the throat. Repeatedly. I would show them no mercy. Assholes.

So, now I am on a laptop. One of J's to be exact. Isn't he sweet? He actually volunteered it without my asking. He knew my public (all three of you) wouldn't take my absence from the interwebs lightly. I'm sure my sobbing uncontrollably as I was explaining the problems of my computer and muttering "blogging", "my site", "life isn't worth living without the internet" in between the wailing had nothing to do with his offering. He's that intuitive.

Posted by Laura at 05:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

Daphne over at Jaded Haven asked the simple question "What was your version of baby making when you still wore short pants?" and here's my anything but simple answer-

I don't know what age a kid is suppose to learn about sex. I never had kids, and never bothered to do the research. All I know is I believe I was too young. No, I wasn't molested or anything like that. I didn't live on the farm until I was older, so it wasn't from watching the cows in the fields. We never had a litter of puppies or kittens, so I didn't watch that 'miracle' of birth. It's like I always knew boys had peepees and girls had hoohoos, and I never thought to think why they were different. I thought babies grew in a woman's stomach, though I didn't know how they got there. That is, until I watched an episode of Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. I must have been around five. The reason I can kind of pinpoint this is because it was close to when I attended kindergarten. Anyway, back to the episode of Wild Kingdom. I remember Marlin Perkins was in Australia and the featured animal was the kangaroo. As I sat there staring at these strange and wonderful animals, Marlin explained that the kangaroo was a marsupial (whatever the hell that was) and that the baby roo was so tiny it crawled out and into the mother roo's pouch to continue growing. The television proceeded to show this pink fetus thing crawling up the stomach of the kangaroo. Like this-

Seeing this made a light bulb of sorts go off in my head. Albeit a very low watt one. Ahhh, so that's where babies come from! A woman lays down in bed with a man and a pink worm looking thing crawls out of the boys peepee and into the girl's hoohoo (now mind you, I thought these things-peepee and hoohoos- were the same thing you pee out of, nothing more) then the pink thing somehow crawls up while inside into the woman's stomach and grows. Marlin wouldn't lie.

With my new found knowledge, I may have told a few close friends. They were awed by my intelligence and wisdom. I never told my mother. I think because when I had asked her before where babies may have come from, she may have replied that I was too young to know, or from God or some such silly thing. It was very condescending I thought.

Then came kindergarten. I remember my mom walking me in, she met my teacher and soon departed, leaving me in a room full of strange little boys and girls and a strange lady. I didn't cry. No, I was brave. That is, until after our milk and cookies.

The teacher put down mats on the floor and told us it was nap time. We were to lay down and sleep. All the little girls and boys ran for the mats. I stood there, confused, watching. I remember the horror seeping in. OH. MY. GOD. We're suppose to lay with BOYS! Pink things are going to start crawling and I didn't want a baby in my stomach! I stood there, not knowing where to run. The shock started wearing off, and as the teacher went to take my hand to lead me to the mats, I went into full meltdown mode. I screamed. I cried. I threw a fit. I started screaming " NO! NO BABY! I don't want a baby in my stomach! PINK THINGS! PINK THINGS!!!" Soylent Green is People! The teacher couldn't even drag me there because after the screaming and tears, I went into flight mode. I was sent to sit in a chair in a corner. Thankfully away from the pink things. Soon after my mom came to get me. They had called her to pick up her retarded child.

After we got home, I explained to my mother why I didn't want to lay on the mats with boys. She told me I was wrong, things didn't crawl out of boys. I told her yes they did. I saw it on TV, so it was so, and I wasn't going back there EVER. What happened next left me reeling. My mother proceeded to tell me the 'facts of life', 'the birds and bees' yes folks, about 'sexual intercourse'. I think I fell unconscious at the part about ejaculation. After I came to, I remember looking at her, my eyes bugged, a look of utter disgust on my face, and asking "And people like this?" Yes, adults do when they love each other she said. Wiping the vomit from my chin, I asked how the woman keeps from getting squashed. She laughed and said something about up on elbows, and different positions. I begged her to stop talking. I think I covered my ears and closed my eyes and tried to imagine a world where children never had to hear such things. A place filled with rainbows and unicorns.

About twelve years later a boy named Stevie proved that elbow/position theory, and how a simple latex barrier stops the crawly things.

Posted by Laura at 04:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

Anyone who knows me or has read this blog for any length of time knows of my aversion to children. Again, it's not like I kick them when I see them or anything. (That's like wrong, right?) I just prefer not to be around them. They just get on my nerves. I have little to no patience.

I've always known that I didn't have a maternal bone in my body and I took extreme measures to never have an "ooops" pregnancy. So when my face and personality stopped serving as sufficient birth control, (I refer to this period of time as "the drinking years") I made sure I used the latest greatest birth control of the time to be certain I remained barren and unfruitful and for the love of God never to multiply.

I know no one wants to discuss my reproductive organs. I usually have to pay a $20.00 co-pay for that. But what I want to discuss is a strange phenomenon that has been happening over the past few years. And that is that people, women mostly, will ask me for child rearing advice. I know, right?! I used to just look at them with a bewildered look on my face, point at myself and ask "Who, me? Hell if I know." But now I've started offering my advice in hopes I could help in some small way. My advice usually involves, but is not limited to, using duct-tape for babysitting problems, Nyquil or Benadryl for kids that won't sleep through the night, and "punch them in the head" for behavioral problems. Now, I understand that some people don't want to use corporal punishment, and for them I advise using psychology on the kid. One of the best I ever heard was telling them that the wooden spoon (that you use to stir spaghetti) is stained red because you used it to beat your first child to death for misbehaving. Yeah, I know, but that's just hysterical. Now do you have a better understanding of why it was for the best that I never had a child?

This is an old video, but if I could have a kid that spoke with an English accent I just might consider adoption....

NAH.

Wait. Robert Pattinson is English, right?

Come to momma, my lil bushka.

Posted by Laura at 04:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (13) | TrackBacks (0)

Today was weird to say the least. I can't get into details or anything, but someone died at work today. No, it wasn't me. I'm not a zombie. YET. And if I was, I wouldn't be here typing on my blog. Well, maybe I would type "brainzzzzz" and put up pics like this-

'Cause I know I'd be a really odd zombie. And I never use spell check.

Now that I got ya'll hungry, take a gander at yesterday's dinner-

Chicken Scallopine. Go here for the recipe. It was delish. Be sure to use wine instead of chicken broth. And lots of capers. And if you're a zombie, you could use brains instead of chicken.

Posted by Laura at 05:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

I spent all last night killing zombies. I was a freakin' zombie killing machine. No, I wasn't dreaming. My dreams usually involve taking tests unprepared without any pants on, or running late for work and arriving without any pants on or meeting George Clooney, again, sans pants. But I digress. I got another application for my iPhone. It's called Zombieville USA. I love the screams and the splat of the brains. My favorite weapon is the uzi, but the chainsaw is kind of a hoot too. So if you have an iPhone, or an iPod Touch I highly recommend this game. I'm not really into video games that much but this one is a lot of fun and very addictive. Plus you get to practice killing the undead. So far I've made it to the sixth level and was able to purchase a flamethrower. Sure you can smirk now, but come the apocalypse you'll all want to be my best friend just like when I won those Burger King cards.

For you losers folks that don't have an iPhone or an iPod Touch there's a crappier zombie game for you to practice on after the jump. I think we all ought to have some anti-zombie skills. Everyone should be able to take care of themselves or at least not be a quick, easy brain-feast if, for no other reason, so you can slow the fuckers down while I run away.

Continue reading "Put your pants on, there's zombies to kill" »

Posted by Laura at 05:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

One of my co-workers was talking about her son the other day, saying he had a girlfriend and how she embarrassed him by asking him if he has kissed her yet. I asked her if he admitted he did, and she said, no, that he was too young to want to do that, kiss girls that is. I then asked her what grade he was in ('cause I'm kid ignorant and really don't know age development) and she told me he was in seventh grade. I told her in seventh grade a boy named Wayne showed me and my friend his penis and she pretty much stuck her fingers in her ears and lalala'ed and walked away after that. I guess she didn't want to think about her son getting his freak on.

Like I said, it was seventh grade and I had a friend named Teresa, and when we both got together we always found trouble. Well, word had gotten to both of us previously that Wayne was getting hard-ons and apparently he was perving in front of the shy quiet girls and scarring them for life by rubbing his pants and chasing them with his crotch rocket. He chose these shy girls because he was pretty sure they wouldn't rat on him. In those days we weren't really warned about stranger danger and about perverts that want to touch you or that you should tell an adult when you felt uncomfortable. We were just good guilt-ridden Catholic girls that knew sex was dirty and boys were sex perverts and you should just pray to the baby Jesus that you weren't a whore and that you'd wait until you were married and then pop out a baker's dozen for the Holy Ghost and the Pope. Or something like that.

So I'm sitting in math class and Wayne was in the seat beside me and Teresa in the seat on the other side of Wayne. I heard a "Psst, psst!" and leaned forward and looked at Teresa. She nodded her head towards Wayne, and there the fucker was all crouched down in his seat kneading his crotch for all he was worth. I started to giggle and he looked at me. I smiled and nodded towards Teresa who smiled at him too. Now, Teresa was crazy as hell and next thing I know she's puckering up her lips and has her eyelids all at half mast in an attempt to look sexy. It was all I could do not to laugh, so I tried to do my sexy look too, which looking back was just a mixed expression of constipation and sleepiness. Wayne was going to town kneading and yanking when the nun/teacher by chance stepped out of the room. Then Teresa and I looked at each other with a knowing nod. Teresa told Wayne to pull it out. We wanted to see it. Wayne looked at me to see if I wanted to see it too and with my constipated/sleepy face I said something like "Oh yeah, sexy yeah." So the fucker unzips his pants and pulls his wiener out. I remember thinking how ugly the thing was and again I was just trying not to laugh. Teresa on the other hand was whispering things like "Ohhh, now rub it for us." So of course the little perv started pulling his pud. I look up and see the nun/teacher had come back into the class and instantly I signaled Teresa and we both jump up and almost in unison say "Sister Jean Marie, Wayne has his penis out!" The whole class turned as Wayne frantically tried in vain to stash his pecker back in his pants. In a flash Sister Jean Marie was on him and had him yanked out of his seat by his ear. She pulled him out of the room with his pants still unzipped and his quickly softening peen flopping with each step. That was the last we saw of Wayne and his penis.

Teresa and I became heroes that day to all the girls in our class. The boys? That's a different story. They all kept their distance after that.

Posted by Laura at 04:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

One of my co-workers was talking about her son the other day, saying he had a girlfriend and how she embarrassed him by asking him if he has kissed her yet. I asked her if he admitted he did, and she said, no, that he was too young to want to do that, kiss girls that is. I then asked her what grade he was in ('cause I'm kid ignorant and really don't know age development) and she told me he was in seventh grade. I told her in seventh grade a boy named Wayne showed me and my friend his penis and she pretty much stuck her fingers in her ears and lalala'ed and walked away after that. I guess she didn't want to think about her son getting his freak on.

Like I said, it was seventh grade and I had a friend named Teresa, and when we both got together we always found trouble. Well, word had gotten to both of us previously that Wayne was getting hard-ons and apparently he was perving in front of the shy quiet girls and scarring them for life by rubbing his pants and chasing them with his crotch rocket. He chose these shy girls because he was pretty sure they wouldn't rat on him. In those days we weren't really warned about stranger danger and about perverts that want to touch you or that you should tell an adult when you felt uncomfortable. We were just good guilt-ridden Catholic girls that knew sex was dirty and boys were sex perverts and you should just pray to the baby Jesus that you weren't a whore and that you'd wait until you were married and then pop out a baker's dozen for the Holy Ghost and the Pope. Or something like that.

So I'm sitting in math class and Wayne was in the seat beside me and Teresa in the seat on the other side of Wayne. I heard a "Psst, psst!" and leaned forward and looked at Teresa. She nodded her head towards Wayne, and there the fucker was all crouched down in his seat kneading his crotch for all he was worth. I started to giggle and he looked at me. I smiled and nodded towards Teresa who smiled at him too. Now, Teresa was crazy as hell and next thing I know she's puckering up her lips and has her eyelids all at half mast in an attempt to look sexy. It was all I could do not to laugh, so I tried to do my sexy look too, which looking back was just a mixed expression of constipation and sleepiness. Wayne was going to town kneading and yanking when the nun/teacher by chance stepped out of the room. Then Teresa and I looked at each other with a knowing nod. Teresa told Wayne to pull it out. We wanted to see it. Wayne looked at me to see if I wanted to see it too and with my constipated/sleepy face I said something like "Oh yeah, sexy yeah." So the fucker unzips his pants and pulls his wiener out. I remember thinking how ugly the thing was and again I was just trying not to laugh. Teresa on the other hand was whispering things like "Ohhh, now rub it for us." So of course the little perv started pulling his pud. I look up and see the nun/teacher had come back into the class and instantly I signaled Teresa and we both jump up and almost in unison say "Sister Jean Marie, Wayne has his penis out!" The whole class turned as Wayne frantically tried in vain to stash his pecker back in his pants. In a flash Sister Jean Marie was on him and had him yanked out of his seat by his ear. She pulled him out of the room with his pants still unzipped and his quickly softening peen flopping with each step. That was the last we saw of Wayne and his penis.

Teresa and I became heroes that day to all the girls in our class. The boys? That's a different story. They all kept their distance after that.

Posted by Laura at 04:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

Doing my part to stimulate the economy, look at what I got!

So today we took it out for a test drive.

First we stopped at a friend's farm that has goats. Because what would a picture taking road-trip be without goats? Kind of sucky, that's what I think. So, let there be goats!

The little one above was named Cadillac Coupe de Ville. That's what I was going to name MY first born (if I had had one--God forbid). Don't you just hate it when the unique baby name you have chosen becomes popular?

Then it was on to another friend's horse farm. Because the only thing more awesomer than goats is horses.

These horses have seen cameras before because they were all vogueing harder than a Hollywood has-been fresh out of rehab.

I really love my new camera. The only thing that could make it more awesomer is if it came with a Mr. T application that screamed photography tips at you as you used it. "I pity da fool that don't take da lens cap off, sucka!"

The following is my favorite photo of the trip:

Then on the way home we stopped in Bishopville at the home of a local celebrity. This is topiary created by Pearl Fryer. He's the Edward Scissorhands of Bishopville.

He creates freeform topiary from geometric shapes and apparently forms from nature. Take this particular bit of shrubbery:

And since nothing could be more awesomer than penile boxwood, we decided to call it a day.

Posted by Laura at 06:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

It's no secret I'm one of those douchey people that own an iPhone. I love my iPhone. One of my favorite things about owning an iPhone (besides being able to show it off to my iPhoneless friends) is all the different applications you can download ranging from grocery list apps to games. See, this is how Apple gets you. In order to have the coolest device ever on the planet you have to keep buying cooler stuff to put in it. Genius really.

I've downloaded tons of different apps just to find out they bore me after a week or so and they are taking up valuable space that I could fill with songs like "Islands in the Stream" by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton or "Ice, Ice Baby" by Vanilla Ice. Shut up.

Anyway, so most of my apps meet the same fate. They're there for a few weeks, then deleted. But I'm here to tell you I have found one of the best apps ever put on iTunes and it's free! It's called iPity. And it rocks.

It’s a random Mr. T quote generator, and with the sound on, there’s Mr. T shouting at you: "There you go again talking about yo crazy made up friends!" or "Got no time fo da jibba jabba!" and one of my faves "Answer me before I knock yo head right off yo shoulders!" There's like 70 different quotes to choose from.

It's a life-changing app. In fact, I have pretty much stopped talking to most of my co-workers and just communicate through my Mr. T quote app. Those ole jibberin' jabbin' fools, I pity em.

Posted by Laura at 07:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

I had three aunts when I was a kid; Aunt Loda, who was mean as hell, Aunt Lola, who was crazy as hell, And Aunt Laura, whom I was named after, and who was suppose to be the normal one of the three. These aunts were actually my mother's aunts, so they were my great aunts.

They were all pretty old by the time I was old enough to know who the hell they were, and we didn't visit them much. I do know that each visit was memorable, especially when I went to see Aunt Loda. She had a huge house filled with antiques and a pack of about twenty Pomeranian dogs that she showed and bred. Her husband died years earlier and I believe she became the Crazy Pom Lady instead of the Crazy Cat Lady. She lived for these dogs and she hated children. I remember the first visits I made to her house. I remember wanting nothing more than to pet and play with all of the little fur balls only to be screamed at and told to sit on my hands on a couch. I was told to not touch anything, not to open my mouth, and for all that is holy DO NOT TOUCH THE SHOW DOGS. Man, I hated that woman. But being the youngest kid and not in school yet, I got dragged everywhere my mother went.

One day my mother told me we were going to visit Aunt Loda and I threw myself dramatically down on the floor and cried. "Please don't make me go to THAT WOMAN'S HOUSE!" My mother told me it was okay; Aunt Loda had gotten a new dog that I could play with in her yard. It would be fun. On the drive over I started to get excited that I was going to get to have fun at Aunt Loda's and play with a dog! I thought that maybe Aunt Loda was giving me a Pomeranian puppy for my very own! I don't know why I even entertained this thought. It was like I had never met the woman.

As we arrived, Aunt Loda met us at the door and welcomed my mother and immediately informed me that I should go outside and meet "Duchess" her new dog. I was also informed that I should stay outside so the adults could talk. I was fine with that. Hell, I got to play with a new puppy! Woohoo! With that being said, Aunt Loda opened the back door and literally shoved me out and I swear I heard the door being locked. I started whistling for "Duchess", who was going to be my new best friend, when I saw what appeared to be a bear peering at me from behind the tool shed. I stood there staring as it came galloping at a full run towards me. The ground trembled. I swear to God, I would have pissed my pants, but my fear was so great even my bladder froze up. What came running at me was "Duchess" my new best friend, a slobbering 200 pound plus Saint Bernard. Now remember, I was just a little pre-school kid. This dog was taller than me and just MASSIVE. There was no place to run and just as a scream was starting to form in my throat, the sun was completely blocked out and my new best friend hit me with the force of a Mack truck. I went flying in the air, hit the ground, and my new best friend was there drooling and wagging its tail over me. I tried to get up again and again only to be knocked down. I was either going to drown in dog saliva or die from being mauled like a rag doll. Just as the world was getting dark and I was heading toward a bright light, my hand somehow found a slobber soaked ball beside me and I threw it. Duchess went running after it and I took the opportunity to make a run for the back door. I opened the screen door and grabbed the door knob only to realize that my suspicions had been correct; locked. Before I could plot another escape, Duchess returned and trapped me between the screen and wooden doors. I was yelling out for my mother when I saw the curtains move on the door and saw my Aunt's face. She tapped the window and motioned for me to go out in the yard and play, and then she turned and left. I yelled for my mother some more, but I knew in that huge house she probably couldn't hear me. By this time Duchess started lunging at the screen door with the ball in her massive drooling mouth. I was being crushed and the screen door was being destroyed. I had one chance for survival; get the ball out of the beast's huge drooling mouth, throw it and make a run for the tool shed. It was my only chance.

I somehow got turned around between the doors and reached up into Duchess's mouth for the ball. I offered God my plastic dinosaur collection if he would just let me get the ball and keep my arm. Well, apparently God likes plastic dinosaur collections because after rummaging around inside the hell hound's mouth for a few minutes, I was able to get the ball and I threw it like my life depended on it (which it did.)

I'd like to sit here and tell you that I made it to the shed. I really would. But truth be told I was knocked down at least ten times, slobbered on, pranced on, licked and tossed around like the knuckle part of a rawhide chew. By the time I made it to the shed, I was completely soaked with dog drool from head to toe and had several scratches from dog claws. I somehow managed to get the shed door closed, and I sat there and held it shut with my body. Duchess barked outside the door in between prancing around with her ball. If she really wanted in, I knew she could get in. I told God this time that He could have my Mister Potato Head if he'd keep the dog out.

Apparently God not only likes plastic dinosaurs, but he likes Mister Potato Heads, because just as I was about to pass out from exhaustion, I heard my mother calling out for me. It was like hearing the voice of an angel! Mom! I'm here. I'm here! I slowly got up and peeked out the door. I saw Aunt Loda leading Duchess back to a pen. I slammed open the door and went running towards my mother. I jumped into her arms and I remember her telling me that I smelled like a dog and laughing. I was just grateful to be alive and I stayed in my mother's arms as she turned towards the car. As I lifted my head I saw Aunt Loda standing beside Duchess smiling at me. A chill ran up my spine. It was the first time I saw pure evil.

Posted by Laura at 07:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

7:00 A.M. I go to work before 7:00 every morning and walk around the parking lot for exercise. It's big and dark and we have security. Early morning walking in the dark is a good idea in the summer. But it's still chilly here and after I sat at my desk for a few minutes in 500 FUCKING DEGREE HEAT BECAUSE I WORK WITH FUCKING REPTILE PEOPLE** my nose started bleeding profusely. I grabbed a bunch of Kleenex and ran for the bathroom. As I went through a set of doors one of the security guards was getting off of the elevator and saw me. He opened his eyes wide and said, "Dang, I didn't know ya'll fight down here!" Through my huge wad of tissues I gave him a stern look and said "The first rule of Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club."

7:03 A.M. The bleeding stops. I turn down the thermostat from 500 degrees to 72. Fucking reptile people. I proceed to work.

1:00 P.M. Co-worker Will and I decide we must go to lunch at TGI Fridays. After we are seated we notice there is a baby in a highchair next to us staring. I make evil faces as I like to do when a child stares at me. I will fake coo though if I am caught by a parent, as I was in this case because the kid started laughing and offering me his gummed cookie. Damn. This went on until our entrees arrived and the child was soon forgotten as we started to devour our food. As the couple with the baby got up to leave, the man came over to our table with a two-for-one coupon and thanked me for entertaining his child while they ate. Score! Who says evil doesn't pay?

2:00 P.M. Return to work and turn the thermostat down from 500 degrees to 72. Fucking reptile people. I proceed to work.

3:30 P.M. While taking a break and cruising the celeb gossip sites, co-worker Tracy and I decide that what we want more than anything is to be adopted by the Pitt-Jolies.

See, little Tracy already has a blanket (because she's one of those fucking reptile people) and I have a rag for my bleeding nose. Tracy and I also decide that we would be very bad Pitt-Jolie children in hopes that Daddy would spank us. Hard.

3:40 P.M. Back to work after turning the thermostat back from 500 degrees to 72.

4:30 P.M. Leave work but not before turning the thermostat off just for shits and giggles.

5:30 P.M. Get another Pfaltzgraff package from Jesus J. I call him and he tells me he's on their email list now and these were a bargain with free shipping so he couldn't not get them.

5:40 P.M. Go to Lexus.com and sign J up for their email alerts.

**A fucking reptile person is an office worker who "FREEZES" if the temperature of the office goes below 90 degrees. They are near suicidal if they even feel the air moving. They spend most the day saying "It's so cold in here!" and/or "I'm freeeeezing!" and wearing coats and sweaters and sometimes gloves for effect.

Posted by Laura at 05:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBacks (0)

You know what pisses me off? People breeding like fucking mutant rabbits. I know I'm a non-breeder, but I do get why some people want kids (well okay, not really but I've seen movies and read articles that say people want them.) And I always thought that if you can't afford them, don't have them. And why in the hell would a woman want to have a shitload of babies (EIGHT!) popping out of her at one time?

So here's a woman that I am certain took fertility drugs, got hospitalized like five months into the pregnancy, had a team of doctors and nurses (OVER 40!) deliver the litter and SURPRISE! the babies are premature and need to remain hospitalized. First, couldn't some of this medical staff be working, say, in that crowded emergency room where the usual wait is over six hours? Second, can you even fucking imagine the cost? Do you think for one second her insurance covered all of this? This of course is assuming she even had insurance. And can you even begin to imagine the burden to the insurance company? These losses are passed to the other policy holders. And if she had what's called group insurance from an employer- well, that insurance company is now ready to bail on the other insured, the other employees whose premiums are now going to skyrocket. That's right, higher premiums with less coverage. That is IF an insurance company is ever willing to insure that group again. And let's say the hospital eats some of the cost and does what we call "write-offs." Those losses are added to other patient's bills. Charges are raised on paying patients. And unless she's Bill Gates' woman I am certain she can't afford to feed and clothe them, let alone send them all through college without those "donations." Yeah, donations of a new home, mini-vans, clothes, interviews on Oprah. Uggh.

While others around me were acting all amazed and awed about this news, all I could do was show my disgust. Seriously. People like that should be prosecuted or something, not celebrated.

Having Feline Leukemia makes me cranky. But seriously, the vagina is not a clown car.

*UPDATE*

Read this shit. Bitch had invitro for all 14 of her kids, is unmarried and unemployed. Her kids should be taken from her and her hoo ha sewn up. The fertility doctor should be prosecuted, or at the very least have his license taken. I hope the crazy bitch doesn't get a dime.

Posted by Laura at 06:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

When I was about ten years old I begged my mother to let me get my ears pierced. For whatever reason she told me I couldn't get them pierced until I was thirteen. I don't know what made thirteen magical, all I knew was all my friends had their ears pierced and I was just a FREAK to have holeless lobes.

A few weeks later I bought some unicorn pierced earrings and hid them, biding my time. When I felt the time was right (I think my mom was visiting a neighbor or something) I grabbed some ice cubes and an upholstery needle and locked myself in the bathroom. Don't even ask me how I was going to hide the fact that I had PIERCED EARS after my self-surgery. I alcoholed the needle and my left lobe and took an ice cube and held it against the lobe in a washcloth. Soon it was pretty numb and with all the force I could, I started pushing that huge needle in. I remember hearing tissue tearing and crunching then the next thing I heard was my mother's voice, "UNLOCK THE DOOR LAURA!" then I felt the door hitting me on the back and I realized I was laying on the floor. I had passed out. Before my mom could get all the way in the room I jumped to my feet. "I'm Okay" I said. She stood there and looked at me. She asked me "What was that bang?" and I told her I dropped something. She told me to look at myself, so I turned to look in the mirror and there was that huge upholstery needle sticking out of my ear. It was more than halfway in and a little trickle of blood was dripping onto my blouse. I turned to my mother and started to deny its existence when she calmly reached over and yanked the needle out of my ear. It hurt like hell but I held back my tears. She put a Band-aid on my ear and told me to clean up the bathroom. I was horribly humiliated and never mentioned getting my ears pierced again.

Then on my thirteenth birthday my mom took me shopping and without saying anything took me to the cosmetic counter and had my ears pierced professionally. By professionally I mean that some overly-made-up-middle-aged-smothered-in-perfume-sales-clerk-woman shot a puffy heart earring in each lobe. After following the after care to a T, my ears became infected and I had to take the earrings out and let my ears heal. A few months later I AGAIN pierced them myself (with a darning needle this time) and placed real shark's teeth wire earrings in. How badass was that? There was no passing out and they healed fine. I really don't think the wires or the size of the needle made the difference. I'm sure my body just rejected the "cutesie." My body knew to pass out before I could place the unicorn earrings in and my ears filled with pus when the puffy hearts were in. To this day everything cutesie (ESPECIALLY puffy hearts and unicorns) causes adverse reactions ranging from mild irritation to projectile vomiting. You really need to listen when your body is trying to tell you things. Cutesie is my kryptonite.

Posted by Laura at 07:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

It was brought to my attention that folks have made comments that weren't published. I wasn't seeing them here. Some said they were in Firefox at the time. I have tested this and I think the problem is fixed. So if you commented and didn't see it published, I apologize. If you cussed me out and didn't see it published, I especially apologize. They say you haven't really made it big until you have people hating you. If that was true I would have been pretty famous a long time ago. So keep on commenting, and if you don't see it, try again or email me.

Now, an update on Nibbles the rabbit.

While I was feeding the rabbit tonight a little girl came up and asked me if I could catch her rabbit Nibbles. Seems Nibbles escaped on her watch and apparently the parents were kind of happy about it and won't help her catch him. So to make a long story short, I will be borrowing a humane trap from my friend's vet clinic and Nibbles will be back home by the weekend. I'm sure the kid's parents will be overjoyed. More fans for me!

Hey, it could be worse. I could paint spots on this one and hand it over.

Posted by Laura at 06:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

When I was a little kid in Cincinnati I remember going to the Cincinnati Zoo a lot. My brothers and I were bona fide animal lovers and it was one of our favorite places to go. My mom used to basically turn us loose there. My brothers were all older than me and were always given strict instructions to watch me, which translated to them as dumping my ass as soon as we were out of her sight. Back in those days I don't think parents worried much about child abductions and such. Hell, in the neighborhood I was from, which was full of Irish Catholic families, it wasn't unheard of for the adults to do head counts at the end of the day and end up with extra kids. My point is, no one exactly wanted to steal us.

At the zoo I would always head straight to the children's petting zoo section, because well, I wanted to pet the animals and they had a train that went out over a small man-made lake. The lake was probably two feet deep and was full of water fowl.

This particular day I got to sit in the last car of the train all by myself. Jackpot! I smiled about my good luck as the train pulled out of the station. Since I had the seat all to myself I made myself comfortable stretching out on the seat with my feet up on the bench and slightly sticking out the side.

As we went over the lake the train came to a halt. Apparently our train had mechanical problems. I thought this was really cool. This meant the ride would be longer! Yay! I was all giggly inside until I spotted it. Satan with feathers. A swan. It was bigger than a German Shepard (and this was no child's memory). It was HUGE. It reached me just as I brought my feet in. At first it started biting my shoes. Then instantly it was IN THE TRAIN on top of me; honking, pecking, giant wings flapping, blocking out the sun. It wanted me dead.

I didn't even have a chance to scream. Something like primal instinct (or flash-backs from the horror movies I'd sneaked to watch) kicked in and I knew I had to protect my eyes and throat (like the swan had teeth or carried a blade, right?) Early in the attack I did manage to see that the people (ADULTS!) in the seat in front of me were crawling over the seat in front of them to escape the swan rampage and leave me to fend for myself.

Between the beating from the wings and the beak inflicting pain all over my head and hands I managed to get both my feet up and with all the power I had I started kicking. That managed to get the demon beast off of me a tad and I started kicking and punching and cussing with all my might. I remember screaming words my brothers had taught me."YOU FUCKER, YOU FUCKER! BITCH!! I'LL KILL YOU FUCKER! BASTARD! over and over. Then suddenly the train started moving and soon the swan was in the distance honking fustratedly. Fucker.

I sat there with feathers floating all around me, my clothes and hair all disheveled. All the other people in the train were turned around staring at me. I saw mothers with their hands over their crying kid's ears. And I saw fear in their eyes. Not of the swan, but of me. I stared back. I started straightening my clothes, picking feathers out of my hair and smoothing it back into my pig tails. I had red bite marks all over the backs of my hands and arms. The train stopped at the station and I exited the area with a little bounce in my step.

I learned a few things that day. I learned nature is cruel; that not all animals are sweet and cuddly. I learned that basically it's you against the world. No one is going to save your ass so you better be ready to save it yourself. But most importantly I learned how to curse correctly.

Posted by Laura at 06:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

Daphne over at Jaded Haven tagged me with a meme. Normally I don't play these 'cause I'm a rebel and shit, but since it's Christmastime and it was Daphne that tagged me and once I get up from this computer I have to start wrapping gifts and stuff, I'll give it a whirl.

"It's simple. Just list all the jobs you've had in your life, in order. Don't bust your brain: no durations or details are necessary, and feel free to omit anything that you feel might tend to incriminate you. I'm just curious. And when you're done, tag another five bloggers you're curious about."

There were multitudes of jobs. I started working when I was like 14. I'll just mention the jobs that helped form the fine upstanding citizen you see before you today. I will also omit my present job. Though if you see the progression of my career choices I am sure you can figure it out. Cough *NINJA* Cough.

Homeland Security Farm Hand

Surveillance Specialist Aerial Mapper

Secret Agent Sheriff Office Deputy

Assassin for the government U.S. Army Soldier

Attack Dog Trainer Veterinarian Technician

Torture Specialist Phlebotomist

Advanced Torture Specialist Dental Technician

Super Advanced Torture Specialist Insurance Adjudicator

I invite anyone who reads this to play also. Just let me know and I'll come read your blog. Right now I have to go bake a pie. A ninja's woman's work is never done.

Merry Christmas Eve everyone!

Posted by Laura at 11:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

When you have more than one pet with fur and claws in a house you can pretty much give up the hope of having decent furniture for long. My shabby chic couch is now more shabby than chic. It actually goes beyond shabby and looks more like a couch that would be in one of those underground compounds inhabited by homeless mole people sitting around shooting heroin with a fire burning in large barrel nearby. As I was vacuuming it the other day, I looked closely and it appears that cat hair is now woven into the fabric fibers. As a matter of fact, I can honestly say that the cat hair is probably what is holding most of the fabric together. Yeah. I need a new couch.

I know some people may say "Wow, you should really train your animals not to get on the furniture." And to them I say "HA! Good one!" (and also "Kiss my ass.") Listen, I've tried everything. Repellent sprays that are suppose to smell like cat farts to them, spraying them with water, even covering the cushions with sheets and afghans. First off, there isn't a spray stinky enough that an animal that licks his own ass would find offensive. My cats laugh in my face at being sprayed with water. And I'm sick and tired of straightening and changing the covers every time I want to flop my ass down (which is ALL THE TIME).

So I'm researching fabrics. Should I go leather or a microsuede? The cats have their back claws and can still fuck a fabric/wood/human lap up. And of course my retarded dog has his claws. They all shed of course. Should I just say to hell with it and encase everything in thick plastic like my batshit crazy Aunt Loda who raised and bred Pomeranians did? Nah. I think I'll get fabric swatches and lay them in a grid on a couch cushion and after they lay on them a while test them all for fur magnetism, ease of fur removal and fur distribution.

This is all getting way too scientific for me. I have to go lay down now.

Oh crap.

Posted by Laura at 05:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

A while back I wrote about the Miracle Fruit from Africa. I know you don't remember this because no one pays any attention to me. It's a berry that you eat and it turns all sour foods into sweet. J ordered a couple of plants months ago and being the guy who has the nurturing instinct of, well, a GUY, one died almost immediately and the other is on life support. So we ordered the Miracle Fruit Tablets from ThinkGeek and decided to go ahead and have a Scurvy Party before we got too old and still had our own teeth. Yes, this is a dig on J's agricultural skills.

We started with lots of citrus fruit; key limes, oranges, lemons, limes, grapefruit.

Then we took one Miracle Fruit tablet and let it desolve completely on our tongues.

Then we tore into the fruit like runaway slaves on a pirate ship. I first bit into a lemon and found it to be one of the most sickeningly sweet things I have ever tasted. It was so shocking at first that I instantly didn't like it. J thought the lemon was sweet but not too sweet and was just moderately impressed. Next were the key limes. I again thought it was sickeningly sweet. J thought it was tasty. Same with the regular limes.

Then we tried the grapefruit.

Oh. My. God. We both thought the grapefruit was the nectar of the Gods. It was sweet without being overpowering. Like the best grapefruit you have ever eaten in your life. Hell, I'm even thinking about going on a grapefruit diet on these tablets. Words cannot describe completely how good that grapefruit was.

Next was the orange. It was delicious. It wasn't exactly on the nectar of the Gods level, but more like turning a winter orange into a scrumptious in-season off-the-tree orange.

So all in all we recommend these tablets. I know I'll use them again, especially for eating grapefruit. Next time I want to eat some strawberries you find in the grocery stores in the winter. It really is amazing how sweet stuff tastes. The effects wore off in less than an hour. And there were no side-effects after I got my vision back unless you count the complete numbness I still have on my left side. But I think that was caused by the key limes. Well, at least I wont get scurvy.

NOTE: There were no side effects. I sometimes take creative license with my blog. That's fancy lawyer talk for lying like a dog without legal consequences.

Posted by Laura at 05:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I just got out of the shower. Sorry for the mental imagery, but I feel like confessing to some kind of disorder I may be suffering from. No, I'm not talking about my usual kind of crazy that often shows up here that's not so "between the lines." I'm talking about some kind of addiction I have with beauty products. More specifically, bathing products.

Right this moment there are eight bottles of hair conditioner (most no more than half empty), six bottles of shampoo (again, most no more than half empty) four bottles of assorted fruit and food scented body wash, two bottles of girly shaving lotion, and a large bottle of Neutrogena Sesame Body Oil. Now these are just what's around the edge of the tub. On the over the shower caddy is two more bottles of shampoo, one conditioner, apricot facial scrub, another girly shaving lotion, an olive oil body wash, two Lady something or other four bladed razors (I guess I need backup), a bar of soap, two of those puffy mesh body sponges, a large tooth comb, and a wash cloth. Please note- I NEVER use an entire bottle of any bath product. Also, I will not list what products are in the linen closet. I'm not ready to reveal too much of this particular crazy yet. I would have taken a picture of my shower for ya'll but I knew my shower soap scum and the hair I had cleaned from the drain and threw up on the ledge would just disgust you and I don't have time to clean first. I'm on my way to Target to get some Bumble and Bumble hair conditioner. It's da bomb.

I know you guys that can wash your entire body from head to toe with a half used bar of Cashmere Bouquet soap from the Sheraton won't understand. But I'm ready to take some baby steps. I need to send all my half used products to some stinky third world, combination skinned, hairy appendaged, normal to dry haired country. Perhaps France?

Posted by Laura at 10:57 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

Today I went to the South Carolina State Museum at lunch time. A few co-workers and I like to do a monthly field trip to some point of interest in this capital city. Today it was the museum. This was my first time to this particular museum. And I don't know what I expected, but I don't think this was it. I knew it wouldn't be anything like the Smithsonian, but I wasn't expecting an outhouse exhibit. No shit, an outhouse.

I liked how they recycled their Abraham Lincoln mannequins though.

They also had cute woodland creatures dead and stuffed and posed in ways to delight the little kiddies.

Some exhibits were a little confusing.

But they explained the important ones.

Now here's a picture I took just for J. He has some kind of major man love for lasers and astronauts. Here's your birthday present. Hey, there's a recession going on.

Update: There are more pics in my Flickr if you're interested. They're not all of outhouses either.

Posted by Laura at 07:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Yesterday I cut my right thumb so badly that blood was pouring everywhere. By the time I ran into the bathroom and grabbed the bandaging material, the towel I had wrapped around it was soaked in blood and was dripping onto the floor to form a puddle. All the time I was frantically opening the bandaging material boxes with my mouth I was crying and sniveling, and I can't remember but I think I was saying, "Oh God, oh God, oh God" over and over. When I had finally wrapped a huge amount of 'Hurt Free' wrap a hundred times tightly around it, I was crying like a little school girl. I was holding my wrapped thumb tightly and rocking myself back and forth sobbing hysterically. I WAS FREAKED THE FUCK OUT.

When the hell did this happen to me? I was always THE PERSON. THE ROCK. The one you wanted around in an emergency, the one you wanted in a foxhole with you. The one you wanted fighting beside you in case of zombie warfare. I've been through some nasty emergencies with friends and family. I sat and held pressure to wounds and waited for the ambulance with my brother that had taken a spill on the tractor and the mower ran over him! By the way, what kept him from being total ground meat was he luckily fell mostly in a ditch. Hell, I always knew I could easily pull a Rambo and suture up myself, or anyone else for that matter, with a tad of extra thread or a horse's tail hair and an upholstery needle if I had to. Many times I've taken my own sutures out just so I wouldn't have to go back to the doctors. I've held a mirror and watched the oral surgeon extract my wisdom teeth for crapsake.

But now I completely doubt myself.

This morning I changed the bandages. It was horrible because the gauze had stuck to the wound and I cried like the weak pansy ass I have become. I even had to lay down afterwards and try to find my happy place, stifling the cries into my pillow. I'm so disgusted with myself.

I would take a picture of it and post it, but I can't even bear to look at it. My previous self would have snapped pics from all angles just in hopes of grossing just one of you out. Now, I would probably pass out just looking at it through the lens. I'm such a candy ass girl. Blech.

Remember, you are on your own in the event we are attacked by zombies. I'll be the blubbering, freaked out bitch laying on the ground with a broken high heel screaming hysterically until my brain gets eaten out of my head.

Posted by Laura at 11:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

Work was happy and painful. A lot of us celebrated the win of our new overlord, but I stayed up too late watching the election returns last night and could barely stay awake. When I got home I had a package of chicken in the fridge that I knew I HAD to cook tonight. I was planning on making chicken salad but I sat down and watched that damn Food Network. The Barefoot Contessa (the lady that looks like Natalie from Facts of Life) was making Parmesan Chicken and I just happened to have all the ingredients. So voila. I'm so gullible.

I swear this isn't a food blog, well, not completely. But it's all I got right now. J thinks I should write more stories about my time in Catholic elementary school, my teen years on a farm in Kentucky, and my years in the military, but not tonight. I shall have to gather my thoughts, change names to protect the guilty, and recall facts from a haze of booze and drugs- and that's just up to first grade.

Now, on to gloating.

President-elect Barack Obama. FUCK YEAH!

Posted by Laura at 07:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

I left a little early from work to go vote today. It was a clusterfuck. The line was an hour and a half long. I would have left to go home except I had to stay to make sure I cast my vote so that it would cancel out J's. I was kind of hoping something eventful would happen while I waited in line so that I could blog about it, like getting harrassed by some conservative Republicans or molested by some punk Libertarians. But nothing happened. I just boringly voted and drove home to wait for the results to see which overlord will rule for the next four years.

So onto this week's photo challenge; "Water." J and I were actually heading to Myrtle Beach on Saturday and I thought I'd wow everyone with some fantastic ocean photos. But alas, we were sidetracked by 50% off Halloween candy sales and never made it. Yeah. We're like twelve sometimes.

So without further ado, here's my "Water" Photo Challenge entry. I think it's kind of Andy Warhol-ish. Yeah, that's it. It's artistic.

Posted by Laura at 07:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Almost a year ago I broke down and joined Facebook. I made a profile with my full name and the town in Kentucky from whence I came and I waited to see if anyone from my past would contact me. Well, needless to say months passed and no contacts were made. Either no one ever got a computer in that podunk town or I'm just not the kind of person someone wants to get in touch with EVER. I went with the no computer thing, because, well, I live in denial.

Anyway, a couple of days ago a long lost close friend sent me a Facebook message. Not from back home, but a friend I hadn't talked to in years, but had thought of often. I was shocked to hear from him and immediately emailed and gave him a bare basics catch up ('cause let's face it, I'm pretty boring). I told him about this blog and gave him my phone number. He called me last night and we had a long conversation. Mostly him filling me in on his life, because if we were action figures he'd be Captain Adventure World Traveler spreading coolness from the lens of his camera and I'd be Miss Couch Cushion in the Shape of my Ass eating fallen Cheetos off of my chest. That is a super power, right?

He told me he checked out this site. He liked it and he liked my photos which was super cool since he's a professional photographer and I'm so not. Then he said the best thing ever that reminded me why I missed him so. He said I had the refrigerator of a serial killer.

It's true. Your real friends will always know you best.

Posted by Laura at 06:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Some friends and I were talking about the big business of religion the other day. Well, actually we were discussing tithing. I explained to them that I went to a Catholic elementary school and that at the beginning of every year the school would give us a big box of tithing envelopes to take home to our parents so that they could put money into these envelopes and we could put them in the collection plate in church. We had church EVERY DAY and there were 365 envelopes in that box. No joke. And this was on top of tuition. When we were wee little kids our parents would pin the envelope to our uniforms and the nuns would line us up and take them off as we entered the church. I remember one time I had either gotten into a fight with one of my brothers on the way to school or wrestled a bear or something and when the nun went to get my envelope all she found was a safety pin and a piece of torn envelope. She pulled me from the line with my classmates, told me God didn't like thieves, and had me stand there until she finished. Then she took me to the principal's office and called my mother. I got on the phone with my mom and through tears and sobs explained to her that I hadn't a clue where the envelope went and that I would never steal from Jesus because Jesus would kill me dead. (By the way, as a child, the fear of God's and my mother's wrath were the only things keeping me from complete barbarism.) After I handed the phone back to the nun I stood there and started visualizing the paddling I was about to get because I saw that nun's face get beet red with anger. Then to my amazement the next thing I heard was the nun stuttering,"But...but...yes ma'am. Sorry ma'am. Sorry to bother you." Then the nun walked me back to church to join my classmates.

To this day I like to believe my mother called her a fucking bitch and threatened to come down to the school and kick her ass or punch her in the throat for calling her kid a thief, or something to that effect. All I know is that that was the last time an envelope was pinned to my uniform, and the last time they even looked for one. At the beginning of every school year since, I'd bring home that big box of envelopes, then later see it in the trash. I don't think it mattered to Jesus or His Daddy.

Posted by Laura at 04:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

I will readily admit that I am a huge tad of a hypochrondriac. I wasn't always. About eight years ago I lost all sense of immortality completely. I went to work with what I thought were gas pains and by afternoon woke up in ICU after emergency surgery. I was told my heart even stopped at one point. Ever since that event every pain is a warning that something is about to explode internally.

A few months ago J asked me what I had on the back of my leg. I twisted around and saw what appeared to be a stain from a black magic marker. After licking my finger and rubbing it (don't judge, I know everyone does this) and seeing it didn't come off, let alone smear, I took a closer look. Oh shit. Now remember I'm a very light skinned redhead reared before anyone ever heard of SPF. I also used to slather oil (OIL!) on myself and lay out in the sun for hours as a teenager wanting that "healthy" look that is so elusive to us redheads. So, of course, I suspected the worse.

I tried to block it from my mind the rest of the day. Yeah, tried. It was the weekend. The following day I was in my pharmacy and because I know my pharmacist I showed it to him. He raised his eyebrows. Shit. Then he said "I think you need to see your doctor immediately." Whatthefuck. He said he had had melonoma last year and that's what it looked like. FuckityfuckImfuckingdead. I thanked him (for giving me leg cancer) and left the pharmacy (to die).

I called my dermatologist's office the following day to make an appointment to have the doctor give me an estimate on how much time I had left. The receptionist told me the earliest he could see me was in like two weeks. Umm, no. Lady, I needed to start chemo YESTERDAY. She finally agreed to work me in. I started planning my funeral as I was hanging up.

The doctor was of no use whatsoever except to cut it out with a punch, sew it up, and send it to a lab. He wouldn't give any opinion about what it was except just saying "We'll wait for the lab results." I went back to funeral arranging. I thought about contacting the Make a Wish Foundation and perhaps have them arrange for me to meet George Clooney. I didn't know if they would arrange a sexual encounter for an adult. A dying adult. That would make them pimps of sorts. But so what? I was dying. The theme to "Love Story" was playing in my head.

The lab work came back fine. It was a freckle that went wonky the doctor said. Well, not in those exact words, but something like a sun damaged freckle. A FUCKING FRECKLE! A freckle that made me lose sleep, made me debate rather I would go through chemo or not, made me decide that I wanted to be cremated and my ashes thrown over George Clooney's naked body in a field. A freckle that made me decide that I would max out all my credit cards, quit my job, and just do whatever the hell I wanted until it got too painful.

What did I come away from this experience having learned you may ask? I learned that the Make a Wish Foundation won't do shit for an adult. And that just sucks. Oh, and also, sometimes it is just gas. Or a wonky freckle.

Posted by Laura at 05:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

I learned early on in this election year to keep my opinions of the candidates to myself. I do this because a vast number of my friends are Republicans. Just like I was raised (NOTE: raised NOT practicing) Catholic and have a large number of Jewish friends, all my friends seem to be complete opposites of me. Republican, Jewish, gay, or sane; all opposites.

Just to be a bitch (because I like being one sometimes), a few times I have stated my political opinions to J and once we stopped talking for four days! I didn't worry. I knew he couldn't stay away from my awesomeness for long over a silly disagreement about who should run our country even though I pretty much yelled something infantile like "Oh yeah, well you're stupid and so is your candidate!" I think that answers the question "Were you ever on the debate team in school?"

With that being said, I do have one Republican friend that I can and did talk politics with the other day. And I have to say that it was probably the best conversation I have had this election year. He actually didn't get angry, didn't try to convince me of the error of my ways, and there was no mention of the word anti-Christ from either of our lips. Here's a snippet of my favorite part:

"So I guess you're voting for your man McCain?"

"Yes. And when I get home after voting for him I'm going to lock myself in my room and masturbate into a puddle of my own tears."

"So, it will be like your swan song?"

"Yeah, cause I don't imagine it will get stiff for the next four years no matter how it goes."

UPDATE:

I commented on Midtown Miscreant's blog that I would love to see Obama and McCain in a knife fight. Also Cindy and Michelle because you just know they want that First Lady title REALLY, REALLY BADLY. I think this would be a spectacular event and if it went pay-per-view globally, profits would probably pay off the bailout and national debt. I stand by this opinion and it will be my only political opinion on this blog. I may even photoshop a few pics later just because I can SO picture them all going at it.

Posted by Laura at 05:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

No one bothered to tell me that today was a holiday when I decided to go to the South Carolina State Fair for lunch. School was out. This meant they were all at the fair; children by the thousands. I was oblivious when we passed the two thousand school buses parked in the lot. 

I took the above picture as we were leaving just to show what I didn't see as I passed by. I walk around lost in thought most of the time, mostly thinking about world domination or George Clooney in different stages of undress or about carmel apples, vinegar fries, coronary angioplasty and fried foods from the fair.

I was determined to get some of that greasy fair food and perhaps get some pictures of our famous inbred open mouthbreathers. The State Fair is their mecca. But not today. No, it was mostly breeders and their spawn. And apparently even the inbred mouthbreathers are smarter than me and stayed away.

As the temperature rose swiftly to something simular to that of the suface of the sun, we retreated to the air conditioned exhibition buildings and looked at canned fruit and such. I can honestly say that that activity was a tiny step up from watching paint dry.

To sum it up, we never got to eat any fair food. The lines were too long with all the children when we decided what we wanted to eat and we had to get back to work. I did manage to snap quite a few pictures that will be in my Flickr if you want to see them. If not that's okay too. I'm going to go now and watch "Deliverance" and think of happier times at the State Fair.

Posted by Laura at 06:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

This is one of the cutest things I saw all week. A little old man went in the grocery store and his little dog waited patiently (and unleashed I must add) for him outside. How freakin' cute is that? I can't even imagine bringing my little demon dog to the grocery store. *Shudder*  First off, there's no way in hell he would wait outside, tethered or not. And I'm certain it would be complete mayhem once he got inside. Like a Stephen King film, except with lots more screaming and blood. 

This is something I see a lot down here in the south. Memorial vehicles. On the back of this one is a "Remembering You With Love" and a Sears portrait of two young people and what I suppose is their date of birth (or death?) Do people do this in other parts of the country? I find it totally odd. Odder than those plastic crosses along the side of the highway. Besides, it must be hell selling or trading them in. I mean cause of ghosts and all.

And these I just find irritating. School zones. You're traveling down the road at a good pace and BOOM! School zone. This one got me thinking that this is what's wrong with today's youth. They are pampered little candy asses. Back when I was a kid there was no school zone slow down signs. We had to basically just make a run for it. It made you stronger. And hey, I only remember getting hit a couple of times. And mom said grandma didn't mean it.

And finally, here's a pic of my dog taking a piss. He's five years old and pees like a girl. I guess when your legs are only like 1 1/2 inches long, it's safer to squat. And why you ask did I take a picture of my dog peeing? Because he didn't have to go number 2 at the time that's why.

Posted by Laura at 06:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

While the country was going to hell in a handbasket this weekend I decided to make my corner of the world a better place by making some crab soup. It freakin' rocked. And I had a shit load left over so my freezer's full. Now I won't have to wait in any soup line once the next depression hits.

By the way, that's me being all dramatical.

I got accosted by some Mormans of all things as I was entering the grocery store this weekend. They started out by asking me what religion I practiced. Now usually me saying I'm Catholic down south is enough to cause most door-to-door religious types to immediately start backstepping and apologizing for interrupting me. But this day I just felt like fucking with them so I told them I was a Pastafarian. They looked confused so I told them my god was a blob of flying spaghetti and I was going into the store to purchase some noodles since it was a day of worship. Honest to God Chef Boyardee, that's what I told them. They just looked at me weird and continued to hand me some literature (note to self: worshipping pasta in not as shocking in the south as being a Catholic). I took it, dumped it in my grocery cart, did my shopping and checked out. As I was pushing my cart out the door the two that had previously talked to me turned around expecting a new victim person and saw it was me. I quickly grabbed my box of spaghetti (that I purposely bought for 88 cents ON SALE ), held it up and said "Praise God!" and smiled. They weren't amused. But I was. And that's all that matters.

Posted by Laura at 05:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

I haven't really been watching the Olympics. I find most of it boring. Oh, and I hate China. Yeah, I guess that makes me a racist, and definately not PC, but so be it. And although I find the games boring, I love me some scandals. Here's a picture of a few of the "WOMEN" that are on China's Women's Gymnastic Team.

Yeah, they're 16 years old. NOT. I know China probably has a shortage of girls since they like to kill them as infants or sell them and all, but give me a fucking break. If we can make up ages during this Olympic season, I'm personally going to go with 25. It's just about as believable. This isn't sore loser stuff. The USA Women's Team kind of fell and stumbled around out there, but Jesus Christ on balance beam, there's a reason there's an age limit. Little kids have the flexibility of monkeys, and the energy of the same simians on speed. Cheaters.

Oh, another China Olympic scandal was the Milli Vanilli little girl that sang at the opening ceremonies. I personally did not watch the opening ceremonies. I started to, but their music made me a nervous wreck. It reminded me too much of me trying to pull a sauce pan out of my cluttered cabinets. Anyway, they had some smiling zombie Disney anime "cute" kid lipsyncing a song because the actual child that could sing was considered unattractive. Yeah, that's real nice.

How much you want to bet lil smiling Egg Foo Young ends up a concubine to some rich rice baron in a few years and poor lil fugly Chop Suey will be in a factory next week assembling some lead paint based toy bound for WalMart during the day and prostituting at night wishing her momma had taken a coat hanger to her when she was a fetus?

Posted by Laura at 05:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

It's been a pissy week and I haven't blogged much because I didn't want to regurgitate the bile on here. The arrival of my iPhone didn't change my mood much.  Granted it made it better for a while, but sometimes life just feels like it's kicking your ass and you either have to fight back or run away. I chose the later.

I was talking to J today and we were discussing the matter of a company we are dealing with at the moment that appears to have some serious customer service issues. I asked him to deal with it because I would totally go off on them. I told him to just think WWLD (What Would Laura Do) but to take out a lot of the cursing and death threats.  I told him basically to tell them to kiss off, we'll go to the competition. I said that it's a good thing I never got that super power I always wanted (the capibility to make people's heads explode with a thought), because right about now tumbleweeds would be rolling down Columbia's streets. He said it was a good thing that my world domination plans haven't occured and that he felt like he had been instrumental in keeping my evil plans thwarted. I laughed.

Then I thought real hard about his head exploding.

Posted by Laura at 04:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

This is what happens when you slam on the brakes and go into the grassy median here in hell South Carolina. The grass catches on fire. These are from last weekend. I've just been too lazy to upload them. We called 911 as we passed it. We didn't stop because we had no fire extinguisher and there were already a lot of people there. So we went on down the highway. When we got into the next town which was our destination J immediately turned into the nearest Target and bought a fire extinguisher for his car. I didn't think this was too odd until several days later he told me he had bought a shovel for his car. I asked him why a shovel (because one has to wonder when it comes to serial killer supplies in a guy's car) and he told me that it would have come in handy for such a fire as we had seen.

He's such a boy scout.

Posted by Laura at 03:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)