Workie McWorkerson

Until the end of this week, you'll find me huddled under my desk weeping incoherently about copy decks and sweepstakes.

Boo.

Hoo.

And until my brain returns to normal function, I will leave you with this:

Murphy's Law can suck it.

So, on Sunday I found out my Dad broke both of his arms. I know, ouch. The poor guy is in two cast up past his elbows. And really, is this how old my parents are now? I don't mean that in a ha ha you're over the hill way, but in more of an Oh-My-GOD-My-Parents-Aren't-Going-To-Be-Here-Forever kind of way. I've been blessed with four parents (that's right count 'em. FOUR!) and so help me if any of you "go away" I will hunt you down in the afterlife and kick you square in the rear.

Side note: For all parties involved, a trip to the ER equals a phone call. And you must be truthful, no sugar coating. Yeah, I'm talking to you.

And my parents aren't even that old. They're all around their 50s. (Sorry, mom) And they're all still super active. Heck, my impression of people in their 50s is drinking martinis while watching the Lawrence Welk Show. But that ain't them. My Dad and Jen are runners and outdoor enthusiasts, like hiking up huge mountains outdoor enthusiasts. My Mom and Marvin are biking fools, like across the state of Missouri biking fools. (clearly their athletic prowess didn't rub off on me) So this came as quite a shock to me. And you know what? I'm Pissed.

Pissed because this is the poo poo-iest of timing. My Dad has been planning a trip to Yellowstone National Park for like a year. A YEAR. And I can't even pay my bills on time. (once again clearly did not inherit his organizational skills) He was so looking forward to it. I was looking forward to him going too. The whole fam was going to be there. And now it's all up in the air. This is the guy who taught me to love nature. he lives for this kind of stuff. When I was younger he literally dragged me up a mountain kicking and screaming. Literally. I can be such a brat sometimes. But it didn't phase him any, and with dried tears and snot caked to my face he snapped a picture. He said because eventually I would want to remember the first mountain I climbed. And of course he was right because parents can be like that sometimes. Now that picture is framed in his living room, and each time I look at it I silently say, thanks for everything Dad. (This mountain was 3000 feet taller than the first mountain Todd climbed. Take that, Tawd)

So, now we're waiting for news from the doctor. And it better be good news or I will kick him/her square in the rear.

I spit on you bad timing, pfft.

Seriously y'all,

does this look like the face of a puppy who was born to torture me?

Surely not.

Of course not, and stop calling me Shirley. (Days folks, I got 'em for days.)


Romeo is giving me a great insight into my life. For example, I now know how I will handle motherhood:
1) Scream
2) Pull out my hair
3) Assume fetal position
4) Cry. A lot.
5) Consult Dr. Pinot Grigio
7)What baby?

But seriously dog, pee OUT. SIDE. Or mommy will go crazy an begin to softly rock in the corner again.

Single Brindle Dog seeks fun times, but not in the park.

Hello my sweet, my name is Romeo. I'm a lover not a fighter, and I'm also an Aries. I'd really like to get to know you. Perhaps we can get together some time and sniff butts.

Quote: If there ain't pee on the floor, it ain't a party.

Likes: Hunting crickets; Eating rocks; Chasing leaves; Hunt for the Shit Game

Dislikes: Any toy my mom has ever bought me; the word NO!

My camera went capooey on me this weekend. Mark me down for two electronics that have just upped and failed me. So I am sans camera until Aug. 8th, and oh my gosh the first thing I thought about was that Romeo is going to grow so much and I won't have any pictures of it. (yes I am that woman) Thankfully, Charlie talked me out of this near hysteria panic fit cause he's all awesome like that. And not to worry I still have plenty of pictures of my dog to share, and if you are mean to me, I will bring back Romeo's butt.

Plus I lost my check card. A word to the wise: don't EVER lose you check card. People at Wal-Mart are all like what the? A check? What are you ninety? And it was a blast to carry on this conversation every time I wrote one, Yeah, I lived in Minnesota for almost two years - that's why I have a MN driver's license - and then I recently moved to Chicago - which is why there's a Chicago address on my checks - oh and the Oklahoma cell phone number? Well, that's where I am from originally. No, I didn't know it was against the law to not have a TX license after you've lived here for 30 days. I know they were totally taking my picture and posting me on a wal in the break room as a suspicious check writer. Fo' reals. Think of all that I went through next time you use your credit card and A) no one asks for an ID and/or B) don't even bother to check the signature. (Manager approval's people, MANGER'S. APPROVAL.) Oh, and buy me something pretty.

GAH.

Random Notes from Hell

Otherwise known as Dallas, TX.

1. I have a confession to make. I, Tweets, am a illegal DART rider. I get on everyday without paying. I'm putting honor systems everywhere to shame. I'm the one bad apple that spoils the a whole lot. I would walk the seven blocks, but seriously, it's mad hot here. And I might sweat or something. I don't do humidity. Though riding the DART train illegally has turned me into a paranoid freak. First, as the train rolls into a station even before I've boarded, I have to survey the entire thing to make sure a fare inspector isn't on board. I bet if you took my blood pressure while I'm riding the train, it would be sky high. I fear any minute someone is going to yell at me to show them my ticket. And I'll just stand there going uuuuuuuuh, hey, look over there. But still I can't help getting on the train and not paying. It's $1.25, people. For seven blocks. It's too hot to resist. Plus it's right there when I come out of my office. And drops me off right at Charlie's office. What's a girl to do? Sweat? Surely you jest.

2. But I am loving this:

It's the best toothbrush in the whole wide world. Swear. I actually look forward to brushing my teeth. My teeth feel like I just got back from the dentist. Sans the novacaine shots, and lectures about flossing. IT. IS. AWESOME. Buy one now.

Oh, and I'm also loving the $1 bins at Target. Nothing like slapping a cheap price sticker on a cheap product. Measuring cups? A DOLLAR? Yes. Chip clips for only a dollar? CHIP CLIPS! Why, buy five of them. You can never have enough chip clips. Ever.

3. But I am so not impressed with this:


It's my new flat iron. It's ceramic (oh la la). But I ain't impressed. Well, at least not 70 bucks impressed. My hair should be straightening itself for that kinda bank, or at least stay straight for longer than twenty minutes. Curse you thick wavy hair! I hate you so bad.

4. And I'm hating this cold sneaking up on me. There's that lurking feeling in the back of my throat right now. But, hey, at least it's in time for the weekend. It's not like I had any plans, or anything. Because I totally did. I was planning to go to Wichita to see my nephew Joshua's baptism. (What? Real live babies? Romeo would have been so jealous.) Only now, to prevent being THE relative that got the wee defensless cherub sick, I won't be attending. I will certainly not be receiving Aunt O' the Year nods anytime soon.

5. Loathing: that damn Coke Zero song. Why must that song be stuck on repeat in my head? Gah! Oh, and G.Love? Way to sell out. And for Coke? Double Gah!

6. Deperately needing someone to talk me out of these:




Oh, but aren't they cute? And I bet if I got them, I might actually take up cross country. What? It could happen. Whatever. They're still cute as all get out.

7. And speaking of talking me out of something, go ahead and talk me out of bidding on these:

Because um, really. Used shoes? Used adorable boots? VINTAGE adorable 3 inch heeled cowboy boots? Okay, you're not doing a very good job.


And those directly link to these:

Which I am absolutely coveting. I wanna be all boho now. That's fancy Us Weekly talk for dressing bohemian. Which could totally be my style because I just scream fashionista, right? Whatever.

8. Reading: (like there's any time) The Power of Positive Dog Training by Pat Miller. It's helping me stop treating my dog gawd awful by telling him horrendously deviant things like, NO. Because if you tell your dog NO! you should be shot. On sight. "You should just ignore the dog's bad behavior and then reward him when he's doing something you like." Uh, Pat have you ever tried to ignore little razors, otherwise known as puppy teeth, clamping down on the back of your foot when you least expect it? Ignore it my ass, that crap huuuuuuurts.

Oh, and where's your chapter on What To Do When Your Dog Barks Incessantly At You, Gnaws Your Feet/Shoes/Hair/ $125 Pair of Jeans, and/or Pees Ten Minutes After You've Come In From (Yet) Another Unsuccessful Potty Trip?

Cause this bitch would like to know.

9. Why. WHY am I addicted to movies like this one? Maybe it's the drama. Maybe it's how they overcome so many obstacles. (Because people, you know there's going to be some serious obstacles to be gotten over. I'm thinking someone gets their feelings hurt.) Maybe it's that damn song.

10. Why did I choose list form for this post? No. Clue.

See you on the flip side.

Seven or eight borderline alcoholics walk into a bar

Hilarity ensues, yada yada yada.

So, Friday was Charlie's birthday. He turned 28. Yeah! Happy birthday you old fart. We celebrated like only we know how. Bar. Drinks. Good times. I started out the evening by stating that I was keepin' it ruuurl. Which apparently meant "real" drunk. Happy Birthday to who again?

Now some of you might be going Friday July 15th, that's Charlie's birthday? Oh. My. Goodness. That was the same day as when the sixth Harry Potter book was released - Harry Potter Day! And those some people would be nerds. I'm kidding. Sort of.

Anyway, Nikki and I had the same thought and smelled an opportunity right away. Chucky Potter Birthday Extravaganza. It had so much promise people. So much. Casting spells to get drinks. Warring Hogwart's houses. General debauchery. Unfortunately, the Chucky Potter Birthday Extravaganza lasted all of 6 minutes and 42 seconds. But Charlie went along with it for the whole time. What a good sport.


Oh and y'alls, we had the dumbest waitress on the planet. Not only would she disappear for-like-EVAH, but she hadn't quite mastered the concept of a tab. Tab, as in we give you a credit card, and you keep track of our drinks. I can't tell you how many times she would ask, okay, who's paying for this? Actually, I can tell you how many, EVERY. DAMN. TIME. By the end we were just screaming The TAAAAA-BUH. Even at the end of the night she still didn't get the concept. My mind? Boggled. Given this, Nikki and I get all worked up and feel like it's proper to complain. Because you know it worked so well for us before. So now it stands who's dumber? The waitress or the slightly more than tipsy girls who go to complain to the bartender at bar time? Don't answer that. Fueled mostly by Nikki's encouragement and libations we both proceed to the bar to complain. And I promise we had an argument, a real legitimate beef, but mind you, this is at the end of the night so it just kept coming out, she took my receipt and I want a Tab. Yeah, we'll never learn our lesson.

Photo essay? Why, yes.

"You're a wizard, Charlie." Was SO. FUN. While it lasted.

Tweets and crew. What keeps us so close? Booze. Take a gander at Nikki's rack, amazing! And doesn't Charlie have the cutest little Menudo-esque 'fro going on here?

If it's Charlie's birthday it's means we're doing lots of these. Lots.

Which lead to Charlie doing lots of this. Lots.

I told them to pose like they had just won their first Grande Prix at Cannes. And this is all they coud give me. Apparently Travis took it to mean "lose all my hair." I'm keeping this picture, you know just in case. That way I can say, I knew them back when they were just still ego-manicial hyper-competitive kick-you-in-the-bollocks fuck-you-over asshats who had nothing to show for it.

Aren't we cute when we're drunk? My hair is so in a second day without a flat iron pony tail. Fetching, don't you think?

What do you think Nikki I were doing here: Vehemently discussing the problems of depending on foreign oil and how it is impacting our government's role in world politics? Not hardly. Dishing the latest gossip about our friends Jen and Vince/the other Jen/Jessica/Brad & Angelina/J-Lo/Lindsey/Britney? You're getting warmer. Bitching about that damn waitress? Ding Ding Ding Jackpot!

And look, I even got to part-ay with some work peeps. Kat is all like look at the bewbies. And even though they were work people it never got awkward.

Until this. And then it got REAL. AWKWARD.

Then Nikki and I made out. Look at Taber, he's all up in hog heaven. Perv.

Whew, now that Charlie's birthday is over, we can finally focus on the birthday celebration of moi. What my birthday is about a month away? Your point?

A couple of FYI's

Dear Strangers,

Stop touching my dog! Seriously, I know he's cute. I know he's adorable. I know you want to take him home with you. But you can't. So HANDS. OFF. Also, I don't want to chit chat with you. I want my dog to pee and poop, so I can go back inside and watch reruns of Chaotic. I don't need to hear about how your dog got mange, and then you did. Because? Ew gross.

Thanks in advance,

Tweets




Dearest Romeo,

Stop giving love to strangers. Especially stop giving MORE love to strangers than you give to your mom. She's jealous. And when you return from outside, stop refusing to go into the apartment. With that scared pleading look on your face and me literally dragging you by your leash to go inside, people will assume you are headed straight for a boiling pot of water in a dungeon of torture.

And quit waking us up after you have pissed on the floor.

Love,
Mom



Letter to the Asshats in the Utility Truck at 7 am,

Thanks for scaring the shit (literally) out of my dog this morning. Your honk and subsequent shouts of DAMN, baby! while Romeo was mid-crap really worked. I am totally in love with you now.

But Romeo says -

- kiss it. Jerk offs.

Yours truly pissed off,

Tweets & Romeo

Good Morning Sunshine.

So this morning I woke up. Late. My dog has foul diarrhea. Doggie diarrhea is impossible to pick out of grass with a plastic bag. Especially when the plastic bag has a hole in it. Good morning to you too, warm gooeyness in my hand.

My boyfriend is still in bed. I am going to be late for work. To pass the time I put on my make up. The boyfriend is out of bed now, prancing around in his underwear like I care. He hops in the shower. Begin the hair straightening process. WHAT THE? Flat iron cold? But it's on? WHAT! It's broke. Ask/shout/hysterically hyena scream at boyfriend. Did you break my flat iron? He says no. But I have my suspicions. He tries to be cute. I think back away, or I will cut you. I want to run and get a new flat iron right then and there. But I am already twenty minutes late for work. Instead I cuss. A lot. Look at hair which was totally relying on flat iron to make look pretty. Cuss more.

I think hair care appliances are the only thing that completely just go capoot. They have no warning light to say hey, going dead here. No sputtering/squeaking/screeching to say hey I'm very unreliable right now. They just work and then they don't. Wednesday 8:30 pm - workie. A mere 12 hours later on Thursday morning 8:30 am - no workie.

But back to the fun. I went to put on my shoes. I find this strange bump/bug bite/boil/pustule on the side of my foot. That's right I said pustule. ON. MY. FOOT. Disgusted yet? Me too. I'm afraid to touch it. Afraid to squeeze it. Hell, I am afraid to even make eye contact, or mention it here for fear that it will suddenly sprout a head and start devouring my foot. The boyfriend mentions it's probably a zit. Zit? On my foot? Right, what the hell do you know. Flat iron breaker.

Once I finally get to work, with my frizzy unstraight hair in pony tail. My pustule on foot. I proceed to check my email. And I read this : Blah blah blah flubbity flub the project you haven't heard hide nor hair of for three weeks is due. Today. IN TWO HOURS.

Joy.

Oh and then my pen explodes on me. Ink. Everywhere.

So for those of you keeping score:

Thursday - 742
Tweets - 0

And it's only 9:15 am.

It's okay though, because it looks like I can just sign up for one of these.

Makin' an ass outta you and me.

Want to ruin my day? Well then send me this email:

Attention: Tweets, (what, no Dear?)

Your account is 35 days past due. If you have overlooked your bill, please mail your total amount due at your earliest convenience to avoid possible negative credit reporting, or to make a payment online through our web-site. (this is officially where I blacked out from a giant ulcer erupting in my stomach, oh the pain)

If you are unable to pay your past due balance, you can complete and return a General Forbearance to clear up your delinquent status. (What the hell I thought I was in forbearance)

You can then resume your scheduled monthly payments. (Oh, of course I can)

Sincerely, (Sincerely my ass, why don't they just sign it "Send the Check you Dumb Bitch?")

Your Direct Loan Servicing Team

No, no thank YOU.

Notice how 35 is in red. That makes me want to cry. Apparently when I asked for a forbearance because I didn’t have a job and was moving to a new city and all, the lady I spoke with only put my account in forbearance for a month. I SWEAR she said that she was putting the loan on a general forbearance and that if I wanted I could fill out a deferment form that would put the loan in deferment so it wouldn't gain interest. Otherwise, it would stay in forbearance and gain interest, until I called them to take it off of forbearance. But according to Direct Loan, I am a big fat idiot because nothing of that sort took place. So much for assuming I knew what she was talking about. (Title. Post. All make sense now. That's called going full circle, folks.) I also remember getting off the phone thinking, gee she was nice. That bitch.

So now I owe them 305 buckaroos. Sweet.

But on the bright side (Department of Education's words, not mine) they didn't report this to my credit report, they only do that after sixty days. Good because, you know, I would hate to be turned down for a credit card.

I'd like to thank the Academy...

Oh my goodness, someone left a comment to my entry. Thanks Kix.

No. Freaking. Way. I feel like a million bucks.

Now all you other minions get to commenting.

Thanks in advance.

A few complaints

Work? Stop interfering with my trying to get home and let the dog out before he pees and poops all over the floor. Gah.

Dallas(s)? Stop being so friggin HAWT! Oh. My. God. I would love once to walk outside and my ass not immeadiately start sweating. Nothing makes the latter half of the work day fly by like having swamp ass. Thanks a bunch.

Pink blog? Yeah not so much. I don't do pink. What the hell was I thinking in the first place. Now green, green I like. For now.

Oh and if my loyal readers could please send me some quarters because I NEED to do some laundry. I scraping the bottom of the undies drawer right now. And all my sistahs know, there ain't exactly quality undergarments left at the bottom of the drawer. Compile that with the above condition and you get All Sorts Of Cranky Tweets.

Everybody's workin for the weekend.

Hey Everybody!

All four of you who are reading this.

Okay who am I kidding, Hi Todd! Hope the weekend was awesome because well, mine was.

Here's a little glimpse into how my ENTIRE weekend went:

No! NO! NOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Stop that. Stop that please.

No! That's not yours.

Where did you find that? Get that out of your mouth.

NO! AGH! AAAAAAGH!

Ouch, you little bastard.

Please STOP it. NO!

Not yours, dammit.

NO!

Was that you or the dog, damn, that's funky!

No. Uh-uh.

NO.

Just go to sleep please. Please.

No. Noooooo!

Good dog.

Rinse. Repeat.

It was good times really. I just love that shithead. I mean Romeo.

And you know what else Romeo did this weekend? He invented a new game, he sure did. Genius dog? Me thinks so. It's called Hunt For The Shit. It's kinda like a safari, but instead of exotic animals you're trying to find feces. Huge piles of them. Tons of fun. Especially at 4 am. It goes a little like this:

*Sniff*

*Sniff*

*SNIFF*

Where the hell is it, it has to be -

SQUISH

Ah, there it is.

The game definitely has the potential for multi-players. Give us a heads up if you want to play, and we'll get Romeo to work up a particularly juicy one for you.

Not to mention we have the only dog on the earth that doesn't like the park. We took Romeo to the park on Saturday and he was all like, so? What's big flippin' deal? And quit shoving those squeaky balls in my face.
I hate those.

I basically had to drag him on his leash through the luscious foiliage. Which began the Romeo hates me session number 412.

In between all that, I also managed to scrub the bath tub to a sparkling spit shine! Nesting? No it's just that the tub had moved from slightly discolored to off color green and then on to a horrific blackness. Ew gross, I know. Either Charlie and I are out-of-control funky, or his tub is sensitive. But most likely it's due to the fact that it had been like a month and a half since we cleaned it. Whatever. I srubbed, and it's now pristine. I also cleaned the shower curtain liner because it was about 8 times worse than the tub. Now, I could hide behind my blog here and say that I have no idea how Charlie could have let the liner thingy get so disgusting. And that I would never let something I owned get that disgusting, but we all know that would be A. LIE. Well, anyways I got the bathroom totally cleaned, which in my schedule book means I am off the hook cleaning wise for about another month and a half. Sweet. (And yes, this is why our relationship succeeds. I love you, honey!) Oh and babe, I didn't scrub the toiliet, you understand right? Hop-Singy was tired.

Leave it to me to do half ass work and still expect to be treated as a princess.

Oh, and I'm loving the fact that Charlie bought From the Earth to the Moon on DVD. Cue my inner outer space geek. Heh. They put a man on the moon and I can't even my dog to play with his toys.

Oh the irony.

More Romeo pictures? I thought you would never ask.

Thanks Mom, the park is awesome. Not.
PS. It's hawt.This is shortly after Romeo completely gave up on the park. Just plopped down and said suck it. In the background is one of the squeaky balls he detests.

Slendor in the grass? Cue the porno music.

Please someone drop some of that ice cream. I can't stay this cute much longer.
Y'all being this cute is hard work. Sigh.

Yes. I stilll hate that ball. Nice. Try.


My favorite toy. An old cottage cheese container. A FREE cottage cheese container. Ha. Suckas.

Attack!
A fun weekend. Done in by a cute dog.

Romeo? Where for art thou Romeo?

Guess what we did on Tuesday?

Meet Romeo. He's part pit bull and part boxer, all cutie pie. Now shower him with love and affection.

Okay, I know in the last post I said I wanted a puppy, but I knew that I was being implusive and should just buy a pair of shoes instead. Well, after careful deliberation we decided we were ready for a dog. Don't worry I got shoes too. Duh. But whilst at the mall buying said shoes we ran into the SPCA. And the most adorable puppy, Fernando. But we would have to wait until the next day to adopt him at the shelter.

Now, here comes the cruelest thing Chuck has ever done.

We went to the SPCA the next day determined to get Fernando. I was a wee bit excited at the prospect of getting a puppy, I mean the only thing I was missing was a Mom-to-Be shirt. In my mind I had me a puppy. Well, Chuck didn't read all the rules and we couldn't adopt until the shelter talked to Chuck's landlord. And the apartment complex was closed. Now, a little background on me, I am a spolied brat. If I don't get something I want I get very upset and pouty. (Past the age five it isn't cute anymore, but what the hell it suits me.) Here I'll demonstate:

Me: How do you know the apartment place is closed?

Chuck: Because I got the voicemail sweetie.

Me: Well, what did it say?

Chuck: Darling - the love of my life, it's saying "For maintenance emergencies....

Me: What do you mean this isn't a maintenance emergency?

Chuck: Baby, it's okay, we can come back another day and get him.

Me: (minor tantrum)

Me: (silence.) (for like nine hours)

So, we had to wait until Tuesday because everything was closed on Monday. Thanks so much Founding Fathers. We got to the SPCA and found out that Fernando was gone. Oh well, look at all the other cute puppies. In the process of picking one I believe I knocked over several small children looking for their family's first pet, but tough shit. Mommy wants a puppy. And shoes.

Now get ready for more puppy pictures than are completely necessary.

This is the first thing he did when got home. It's okay to be jealous. Really it is.

Oh, mommy loves you so much she's going to choke you. And then cry for an hour because maybe you really thought she wanted to and now you are never going to like her. Ever.

Look at the new toys my new parents got me. They make me crrrrraaaaaazy.

This is my first night in my new apartment. I'm so quiet, so peaceful, so lovable. I'm so not like this for the rest of the night.

Check out my big feet. You know what they say about big feet don't you?

I love my boys! Except when they pee on my stuff. Heh.