My bitchy sister Penny once tricked me into attending a Nascar race in Bristol Tennessee. Her husband has season tickets to this stupid thing. I am not a race fan of any sort, but she swore that I’d feel differently after actually attending one live. I am pretty sure she knew better but, as they say, misery loves company. Whore.
We saved for a year and a half for this “vacation.” A real trip of a lifetime, for my husband anyway. For me it was pure hell. I’ll try my best to explain it to you in my customary non-dramatic style. There’s more, read the rest of this entry! »
Not too long ago while in my office talking through a problem I came up with an idea so profound, so freaking brilliant, that I made my little self proud of me. I asked my coworker (we’ll call her “Nichole”) if she felt the intensity in the air as I gave birth to that idea. She did not. She is not one to recognize my genius and thinks me a little dramatic. How dumb is that?
I’m not even sure what the thought was (sometimes I discard these brain babies as quickly as I birth them. I’m a horrible thought mother.).
My sister “Mary” and I once worked together at a store I’ll call “Wal*Mart.” I was the Personnel Manager and she worked in the cash office.
One fine day Mary needed a tampon, so she came into my office in search of one. I reached into my purse, grabbed the tampon, and in the middle of passing the damn thing to her like a relay race baton There’s more, read the rest of this entry! »
Yes, you read that word right. Ignorgant. My spell check isn’t crazy about it, but I’m hell bent on getting it added to the dictionary.
The word was born the other day as I made my way across town. The car ahead of me changed lanes without using their blinkers (sorry, but this is almost always a stunt pulled by men, no doubt with penile issues). I thought to myself that this is a very arrogant thing to do, and hot on the heels of that thought was that it was also ignorant. Those two words merged together in the blink of an eye inside the lovely soup of my brain. Ignorgant.
Ignorgant is an ugly word. Kind of sounds There’s more, read the rest of this entry! »
Excerpt from – ”Mimosas – Where, What and When”
What
My signature drink is the mimosa. Good old champagne and orange juice. I don’t remember “discovering” them, they just somehow eased into my existence sometime in my early 30s. I’ve never been one who could handle my hard liqueur, and I’m not much for beer. There is something refreshing and soothing about a mimosa that I just don’t get from any other form of alcohol.
If orange juice is not available one can substitute grape juice. I call this an “uvamosa” (“uva” is Spanish for grape). I’ve heard tell of other fruit juices being added for variety, but my first love is orange juice, lots of pulp.
The right combination? This varies by the person, and by the mood. Generally There’s more, read the rest of this entry! »
Small excerpt from I Am Not A Bigot (Damn It!)
At one point in my life I lived in a small studio apartment on the University of Oregon campus (Home of the Ducks!). As I waited one morning at the closest bus stop to get my little self to work, a rather large black man came ambling up saying something like “Excuse me. I just saw a pretty lady and thought I’d come sit down beside her.”
What in the world is one suppose to say to that? I sure as hell wasn’t impressed with his “come-on” so I just, literally, shrugged it off.
He said, “What? Don’t you think you’re beautiful?”
I replied something like “I don’t think it’s important whether I am beautiful or not.”
Well, that just pisses him right off. He immediately got defensive, and now I’ve treated him badly not because he’s a dumbass There’s more, read the rest of this entry! »
I like to have a relationship with my doctor. Not an inappropriate relationship, I just want him to know me well enough to give a damn about me (not that knowing me and giving a damn about me are synonymous by any stretch of the imagination). It’s nice to get the sense that perhaps he remembers who you are, would recognize you and say “hello” in the grocery store, which is why I find it better to have a separate gyno, with whom, ironically, I feel no need to bond. I don’t need a picture of my hoo-hoo in my doctor’s head as we both reach for a gallon of milk.
I mentioned something about my diabetes once to my doctor (we’ll call him “Dr. Barish”) and he began a frantic search of my file and finally came back to me and said “I don’t have you down as having diabetes.” Oh no, I told him, he hadn’t diagnosed me, it hadn’t even truly manifested as of yet.
His nurse (she’ll be “Tina”) is a doll, and very efficient. Once I was visiting with Dr. Barish about whatever it was that brought me in that day, and he asked if there was anything else. You may as well ask me if I want fries with that – There’s more, read the rest of this entry! »
