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.

Babies = great birth control

Little known fact:

The best birth control is actually seeing people you love, who for most of your life were sans kiddos, now with children. I went home this weekend to spend a little time with the fam. My brother and sister-in-law came too. So did there two adorable baby boys. I mean they really are the cutest-wootest babies you have ever seen. Much cuter than any niece or nephew you might have, so don't even try it.

Unfortunately, having these babies around can really get that ol' maternal clock a tickin'.

I spent most of the weekend flip flopping back and forth from wanting a kid to not wanting one. I know. I KNOW, chirrens ain't like a new pair of shoes, but c'mon I'm impulsive by nature. Would you expect any less from me?

For example:

Dressing the baby in teeny tiny little clothes from Baby Gap - Oh me want one
Some sort of diaper leak that was likened to a "play-doh machine" - Oh take it back.

Cute little baby button noses - Aaaaaaw!
Being the designated booger snatcher from said nose - Aaaaaaw, hell na!

Hearing baby's first new words - Yeah, sign me up.
Understanding baby's first new words - Huh? Oh lord kid, spit it out.

Watching the little baby work up to his first smile - Gimme gimme gimme.
Watching the little baby work up his 78,952,344,087th tantrum - Not so much.

Caring, nuturing, life-giving mother to all - Preach it sister!
Not a drop of alcohol in two years - Not. Gonna. Happen.

In short, it's family weekends like these that make me realize I am no where near ready for babies. I love my two nephews so much, but I love saying Cheerio off you go back to Mum and Dad, even more.

As for those maternal instincts kickin' in? Maybe I'll get a puppy. Or a goldfish. Okay a plant. Ah, heck I'll just go buy a new pair of shoes.

What's wrong?

Have you ever been knee deep in a situation that is so bizarre you swear you are being punk'd or something? Well, that was me a little over a week ago.

My friend, Nikki, and I were headed back from a wedding that took place in Norman, Oklahoma. The wedding was ever so elegant in that drunken debauchery kinda way, plus it answered the age old question of what it takes to have a truly "memorable" wedding.

Booze.

And booze hounds. Ah the good times, but I digress.

Anyway, as I was saying we were driving back to Dallas, when it occurred to us that we were hungry. And if there's one place to stop when driving thru Texas, it's a Dairy Queen. After all, it's the Texas stop sign.

So cutting three lanes of hyper-sonic-speed traffic, we pull up to the Dairy Queen in Valley View, TX. I looked and thought oh look it's an old fashioned one, how quaint. I'll now refer to this as flashing-neon-warning-sign #1, as this Dairy Queen wasn't so much old fashioned as a complete shit hole leading to the depths of hell that no man has ever known.

But again I digress.

This would be the first of many signs that I overlook because I was in need of some food. Food that would hopefully soak up some of the excess alcohol from this 48 hour drinking binge (sorry, Mr. Liver, please forgive me!) and cure this 17 hour hangover. I opened the door and the immediate smell of fried grease and stale fries told me that, oh yes, you will eat here and it will be good. The ol' white trash hick in me actually exclaimed out loud, "YES! They have steak fingers, I love steak fingers!" I can only assume that my mind was still in some leftover-alcohol induced haze because throughout our experience at the Dairy Queen these steak fingers will prove to be my achilies heal.

It's after I enthusiastically order my steak fingers that things begin to take a turn for the worse. First off, someone is one the phone so they can't process my debit card right now. I will have to wait. That's right they're still dialing in credit cards. I check my watch, yep, still 2005. Get a new process dumbasses, oh say one that doesn't use a phone line. It's now that I notice that there's not a single person over the age of, oh say I don't know, 16 working there. None. And there' s not one dude to be seen. This revelation is punctuated by my lovely cashier screaming, to no one in particular, "GET OFF THE PHOOOOOO - NUUH!" Yeah, get off the phone. I want to eat, dammit.

(Using our credit cards for a $6.58 meal will eventually pay off, but I would hate to get ahead of myself.)

Eventually the card gets scanned and now we wait. Waiting for our food turns out to be a bad thing. I begin to see all the not-so-subtle hints that should have had me running straight for the door. The kitchen floor was covered in old food. Smashed ice cream cones. Smushed french fries. And bits of gawd knows what. Well, they're busy I tell myself, as I grab my own cup from behind the counter and prepare my own drink. But then I turn and see the Blizzard machine. It's been defiled like a drunk girl in Cancun. Still I stay. Now at this point you're asking yourself, damn, girl are steak fingers that good? Oh yes. Yes they are.

Meanwhile, there are a few interesting situations occurring behind us. First, a young lady, let's call her Chrystal (because? I dunno, if you saw her you would have said yeah she looks like a Chrystal) receives her food on a tray. Chrystal kindly informs the employees that her food was to go. The lovely girls of Dairy Queen then proceed to answer the age old question, just what does it take to switch a dine-in order to a to go one? 17 minutes, several arguments, and one paper bag. We'll hear more from Chrystal later on. Next, a nice older woman, we'll call her Alice, returns to complain that her order was all messed up and that her fries were cold. All I can think is, Damn, hope they get that taken care of before they get to fixin' my meal. After 13 more mintues of waiting Alice finally gets fed up and demands a refund. OOOOOh, this just got interesting.

(Cue stand off music)

Alice: I would like my money back.
Petulant 16 year old brat: Um, yeah we don't like give refunds.
Alice: Well, start.
Petulant 16 year old brat: Um, no. (roll eyes, sigh heavily)
Alice: Just. Do. It.

Alice then gives her one of those looks that seemed to say that Alice was on the verge of doing something very unholy. The petulant 16 year old's friend folded before we could see what Alice was going to do and gave Alice the refund. You go Alice.

Now here's how the next five minutes at the Dairy Queen in Valley View, TX go:

Kitchen: Order up.

Nikki and I: Oh good maybe that's our food.

Kitchen: Order UP!

Nikki and I: Christ just give us our food and let us go.

Kitchen: ORDER UP!

Nikki goes to investigate. I remain seated. This is when our friend Chrystal returns. "You call this a chili cheese dog?" she says as she shoves her food in my face. Folks, I have seen dirty diapers that were more appetizing than what was presented before me. I choke back vomit.

I get up to find Nikki. We must get out of here. Now.

She's at the counter trying to conversate with the employees:

Nikki: What the hell is going on here? Where's our food? The cook has been yelling order up for five minutes. Who's in charge? Everything is so very, very discombobulated.

Triple word score for Nikki. The employees respond with blank stares.

One of the girls has gone back to retreive the food orders. Oh, all will be forgiven if I could just get my steak fingers. They hand me a box of goodness. Poor Nikki, still no popcorn chicken.

Slowly my brain begins to return to normal function:

Oh boy can't wait to eat my yummy steak fingers.

Common Sense brain: You should check the order, as Nikki said, things are very discombobulated here.

OH NO! These are chicken fingers instead of steak! Grrr. Oh well, I'm super hungry I'll eat them anyways.

Common Sense brain: The hell you will, get up there and get your steak fingers, WOMAN!

I proceed to the cash register. I'm fired up now. You fucked up my steak fingers. I feel betrayed. There I join a woman, we'll call her Carole, she was mistakenly given a box of steak fingers, and just like me she is now lodging her formal complaint. I listen to Carole explain that she ordered chicken finger meal and she would like to get a chicken finger mealin return. It's then that I hear this doozy from one of the staff, how should I know what you wanted I didn't take your order.

You gotta be kidding me. I then calmly look up from the sad box of chicken fingers and say I would like my money back. It's then when I am confronted with this:

Lucky to alive 16 year old brat: Why? What's wrong?

What's WRONG? WHAT'S WRONG? (I am Jack's rage) Have you gotten an order right YET! Do you see your kitchen floor? Your dining room covered in trash? That dirty diaper passed off as a chili cheese dog? What's wrong is that I'm hungover and my wits aren't quite about me, so I stayed here for thirty minutes whilst you just pissed on my glorious steak fries. What's wrong is that I broke my thumb and can't grip things too well, things like your neck when I chokeslam you.

During all of this a "woman" emerges from the back room. We'll call her Tonya. Or maybe Misty Jo. Why? Because imagine the most white trash woman you have ever seen. Now multiply that by twenty, and you're roughly about to Misty Jo's level. Hair so bleached it's straw. One inch black as night roots. Eyeliner done in the shade of Sharpie marker. Braces. And that fresh from a five day meth bender glaze to her eyes. She is no help. She says nothing. She offers no reprieve. My guess is she'll be looked over for Manager of the Year, again.

Lucky to alive 16 year old brat: Um yeah, we don't give refunds without a receipt.

Carole doesn't have a receipt. Poor Carole.

Nikki and I do though.

"$6.58 is your refund."

God Bless Credit.

And I'm still hungry for some steak fingers.

The Party Bus of Lame Asses

Open Letter to the Fuckwits who wanted to throw down at the bar last night,

Here's a couple things to remember before you try to start a fight:

1. We do not wear our shirts on our shoulders. Even before the fight starts you've already lost. You derserve to have you ass kicked on these grounds ALONE. Oh, and tell your friends to put their collars down. Dorks.

2. "How much do you bench press?" has never and will never be a respected comeback, threat, or witty retort. By using it you have clearly pointed out to me just how small your penis really is. On a side note, I presume the only proper way to use this is as an ice breaker at a gym. Between homosexuals.

3. Don't act all big and tough, and then when the cops arrive completely change you tune. If you're Billy McBad Ass touting that you could kill anyone of us whilst asking the bar patrons if they would like a piece of you, then don't become William from Accounting the second the cops show up. Pansy. Street credibility? Gone.

4. Futhermore, as was duly noted by a member of my party, why are you having a bachelor's party on a Thursday? Dweebs.

5. Yes, as a matter of fact your teeth are too white.


Yours Truly,

Tweets and crew


PS Your face looks like a penis.

Take that, ha.

I'm only cynical when I have to be.

And to prove it here are a few things that make me all warm and fuzzy inside:


Ice cream
Puppies with short tails
One syllable names
The color red
The word piddle
Shoes
Peppermint tea
Vintage postcards
Science museums
Bodø, Norway
Pagosa Springs, Colorado (Or Ouray, Colorado…kind of a tie)
Ely, Minnesota
Sausalito, California
Any Journey song, especially when there's a road trip involved
Guys that hold the door open
Opening my own damn door
The sound of high heels on sidewalks
Guys dressed for winter (for reals though, like with a long woolen coat, scarf, and leather gloves)
Childlike innocence
Bluegrass
Line dancing (don’t laugh)
Sappy singer/songwriters
Reality TV (almost to a fault)
US Weekly/Glamour/InStyle – my magazine trifecta
The smell of a fireplace going on a cold night
Cheesy pop music (Kelly Clarkson RAWKS)
Dancing to said cheesy pop music
Playing quarters
Hot days and cold beer
OU football – the stadium, the cheers, tailgating... yada yada yada
Duvet covers
Log rides
Roller coasters
Crushes
Midnight movies
Watching 24 ‘til my eyes bleed

Ah crap.

I can't be witty on demand.

I'm off to a good start. Great.