Black Friday

I'm so excited!  I have been camping out at Best Buy for two weeks.  I know, it sounds crazy, but I LOVE camping.  It was really crowded.  I guess I'm not the only one who enjoys camping in a well-lit parking lot.  I think I missed something, because when I crawled out of my tent at 8:00 a.m., all the other campers were gone. 
Obviously I'm joking.  I am not a greedy, materialistic dick bag.  I still believe in the value of spending time with family and loved ones during the holidays and always.  I am embarassed by my fellow Americans.  Do you realize how stupid you look standing out in front of stores for weeks, waiting for Black Friday?  Just so you know, these stores are open the weeks prior to Black Friday, validating how ridiculous you look waiting outside for a store to open...when the store is already fucking open?
I've heard idiots defend their greedy behavior by claiming, "Black Friday is tradition in my family".  Bullshit. It is not.  A family tradition is game night, or Sunday dinner.  Not taking twelve people down with pepper spray so you can get an x-box for $199.00, you fucking moron.  You should be ashamed of yourselves.  Thanksgiving and Christmas are holidays devoted to being surrounded by friends and loved ones.  The holidays are a time for laughs, simplicity, sharing stories, and strengthening bonds.  At what point did you decide it was okay to throw all your morals out the window so you could get a snuggie with a built in toilet for $5.99?  What are you teaching your children, you selfish schmuck?  We have people standing in lines wrapping around the corner for a hot meal, and here you sit, waiting to spend your money on some worthless piece of shit gift that is going to be in a garage sale or pawn shop next month.  All because you have to prove how important you are.  You are shallow.  Obviously, you have such a disconnect, you have no idea how to express the most priceless gift-the gift of time.  Yeah, you know that time you wasted sitting on a curb for six months to save fifty cents on the new DVD player that cooks your food and wipes your ass?  You could have been doing something helpful, like contributing to society by raising your child, or just ceasing to exist.
I've seen footage of people being trampled and losing their weaves while busting down doors to be the first to get the 90 inch tv that injects pure gravy into your bloodstream. I've heard of an employee being crushed to death because the hoards of people just kept running over him.

So continue, America. Continue maintaining the image of stupid, materialistic baboons.  These are, after all, the things that matter most in life.

3-day

Let me start this rant by giving my disclaimer.  I am a huge advocate for paying it forward.  I believe that to see the good in this world, you must contribute to the good in this world.  When I say "contribute to the good", I don't just mean monetarily.  The best gifts in life are not material possessions.  Take a few hours out of your "busy" schedule to make a difference.  If you haven't tried it, you should start, asshole.  What the hell is wrong with you?  That being said....I'd now like to address the bone of contention I'm sure I'm about to cause. 

This weekend was our local Susan G. Komen For the Cure breast cancer three day.  If you're not familiar with this (what, are you under a God damned rock?), allow me to explain.  The breast cancer 3-day is an event in which each individual must flush a minimum of $2300.00 down the toilet to participate.  Once participants sign the contract agreeing to do so, they spend the next 9 months bragging and boring everyone around them about how they're making a difference.  About a month before the 3-day, and for the entire month of October, the Susan G. Komen For the Cure Fund shoves pink ribbons down two-thirds of Americans throats.  They do this by advertising on television, billboards, radio, newspapers, breaking into your house while you're asleep, and through hypnosis.  Other means are being researched (with all that "donation" money).  Never once in these ads do they educate the population on what this money actually goes to.  All the ads do say is, "make a difference.  Donate today".  The 3-day hoopla starts 3 months ahead, with a bunch of old, fat ladies wearing pink, getting together and walking in herds down the busiest streets in the city.  This always occurs during rush hour.  These are the ladies who are still a touch too young to join the red hat society, so they must don everything pink and parade their fat asses around letting everyone know how wonderful they are for wasting, er, spending their money on something everyone knows about.  Finally, the 3-day event arrives.  This "empowering" event is celebrated by all the village idiots.  Assholes put pink bras all over their cars, paint stupid ass sayings, such as "knead your knockers", or "Save the Tata's", on their windows, honk, block traffic, blast god-awful monster love ballads, and go, "WOOOO!"  This continues for three days, blocking all the major travel routes, causing multiple serious  (some fatal)accidents, and leaving one hell of a mess in it's wake.  When all is said and done, these fucking idiots wind up with blisters the size of  Mount Rushmore on their hammer toes.  That's all they have to show for walking (give or take) 60 miles.  Oh, and they're at least $2300 poorer. 

Seriously?  Breast cancer?  Yeah, I get it.  It sucks.  You know what else sucks?  When a six year old is dying of Leukemia.  When a soldier is injured, fighting for your freedom to blow your fucking money on a hokey "charity".  You're not out there raising awareness for them, now, are you?  No, instead, you hop on the bandwagon of "For the Cure" bullshit.  Here's some information for you, since Susan G. Komen is all about education....This organization is a joke.  The overhead cost is outrageous, and, according to Guidestar.org, Susan G Komen For the Cure took in $135 million last year.  Of that, used $74 million for "research", and only $10,000 for grants to those affected by breast cancer.  The rest of that cash was used to pay employees (most in the six figure range) and contractors. 

What makes breast cancer so much more important than Leukemia, or diabetes, or typhoid fever for that matter?  Not a fucking thing.  They are all potentially deadly. 

So to you, you fat, ugly, old bitches, I say this: You should be ashamed of yourselves.  It's embarrassing to think that nobody does their research before trying to "make a difference".  Come on, isn't it a dead giveaway that Susan G Komen won't even let you participate unless you raise at least $2300.00?  Also, you just wasted three beautiful days.  You could have spent those three days volunteering at your local library, or visiting the elderly at a nursing home.  You could have taken that $2300 and donated it anonymously to a college fund for an underprivileged child, or washed dogs at the SPCA.  I could go on, but I'm too pissed that so many people jump on the bandwagon of something so ridiculous. 

I'm tired.  In closing, I say, "Fuck you, Susan G. Komen, whoever the fuck you were.  You have ruined the color pink for me.  I am aware now.  Aware that your organization is a joke."  The three day walkers should be aware, too.  Aware that all that pink makes them look like fucking flamingos with thyroid problems.  I recommend they change their color to neon yellow.  Not only because many of the participants are the size of a school bus, but because it's only a matter of time before one or twenty of them get pegged on Gulf Blvd. 

Advice from your Neighborhood Health Inspector

I decided after almost seven years of working in the wonderful public sector, it was time to provide you with some insight into what to do when a health inspector comes into your facility.  Actually, these are things you should NEVER do in the presence of a health inspector. I only mention these items because these are all things I've encountered:

• It is not okay to keep a fish tank in your kitchen on a shelf with your bread.  Please do not tell me it was a gift from a patron.  I don't care if the pope bought you a jew fish, it does not belong in a kitchen. 
• When I enter your facility and ask for access to the kitchen, don't reply, "well, it's just a kitchen."  I know.  That's why I want to see it.  Stalling me while speaking loudly enough to notify your kitchen staff to put on hair nets, sweep the rats under the fridge, and  remove the fecal matter from the light switch is not going to make your inspection go any easier. 
• When you know your kitchen is infested with German roaches, don't flip on the kitchen lights upon my arrival and act appalled and disgusted by the greasy little fuckers scurrying across your stove, counter, and room temperature chicken salad. 
• I have no problem with you following me and asking questions.  It is my job to educate you on the importance of washing your hands after you poop.  However, please give me enough personal space to not feel and smell your hot garbage breath in my left ear.
• Also, if you're following me around, and actually involved in what I'm explaining or looking at, fine.  If you're following me around, making excuses for everything I look at (even when I don't find a violation), you're instantaneously guilty in my eyes.  I will nit pick you to death. 
• Do not tell me "Oh, well, I'm healthy" or start coughing, or tell me about all the rats and roaches you're hiding.  I've been an inspector for almost seven years.  I have heard those lines at least 5,731 times.  You're not funny.  Know what's funny?  Nothing you'd be familiar with, you humorless ass clown.  How about being original.
• NEVER, under ANY CIRCUMSTANCE, argue with me about whether a cockroach is dead or alive.  If you really want to fail your inspection, pick up the "dead" cockroach with your bare hands and try to bring it over to show me.  See what happens.  I promise you're leaving with one less testicle.  The last client who did this did not pass inspection.  Nor does he need that vasectomy.  Just sayin'. 
• Do not wait until after I enter an assisted living facility resident's room to tell me that she gets angry and throws shit.  No, literally, she shits herself and throws it. This may be humorous to you....Eh, actually, it's pretty fuckin' funny to me, too.  Especially since she had bad aim. 
• Do not wear your rubber gloves while picking your nose over the lasagna you're preparing. 
• While talking about rubber gloves, let's get something straight.  Don't complain to me about a kitchen employee not wearing gloves.  Gloves are fucking disgusting.  They give you a false sense of having clean hands.  You don't (see above bullet).  There is no substitute for washing your hands frequently.  If you don't feel like your hands are dirty, you're less likely to wash them.  Watch someone wearing gloves next time you're out to eat.  I promise you, they're touching their faces, texting, counting money, or grabbing their package.  All without changing their gloves.  
• It is never okay to serve chili in a bar not licensed to serve food.  Period.  Especially not chili with live maggots crawling through it.  Oh, also, when confronted about said chili, it is not okay to call me a little bitch.  Rice does not move, and nobody puts rice in chili, you stupid fuck. 
• It is never okay to remove your only sink-in the entire facility-while you're serving food.  Also, don't lie and say your staff is going to the neighboring building to wash their hands.   
• Do not mistake your health inspector for your 10:00AM interview.  Especially not when I show up with a badge and clipboard.  And you are interviewing for a stripper position.  I know you probably have candidates show up in costume, but this isn't mine.  I have a job to do, and today, that job just happens to be inspecting your fine tittie bar.  Besides, when I interview for that position, I like to wear my rubber cat woman suit. 
• Don't hide 25 pounds of raw, room temperature pork in the oven when you hear I'm in the building.  I'm an inspector.  They pay me the big bucks to look in every nook and cranny.  I'm going to find the 8 pigs you slaughtered. 
• While we're on the subject of pigs....When you have an unlicensed pig roast at your bar, be sure you immediately destroy the evidence.  I still have nightmares about that pig head inside the beer cooler, at eye level, staring back at me.  Sorry your bar is out of business now. 
• Don't offer to pierce your inspector's tongue for free.  You own a body piercing/tanning salon in one room.  And, you're a sex predator.  Good luck with that, douchebag.
• When a sewage line underneath your assisted living facility breaks, and that break is right under your kitchen, it is not alright if you continue to work around the two inches of turds sloshing around on the kitchen floor.  It's time to order Hungry Howie's. 
• It is not okay for you to leave the aforementioned kitchen floor in that condition for an extended period of time.  It is never going to be cool with your health inspector for you to just hang out, making fruit salad and what not. 
• Don't hug your health inspector.  It's really kind of gross, and extremely uncomfortable.  I'm obviously a germiphobe, and, well, you smell like dirty feet and unwashed hair. 
• Don't ask me out on a date.  The answer is no.  The answer will still be no at your next inspection. 
• Don't ask me to get you a beer.  I'm not the new bartender.  It's 9:00AM.  Why are you here and not working, anyways?
• Don't ask me if you can swim in a pool after I put up a large metal sign that says, "Pool Closed".  Sure.  Have at it.  Just try to swim around the turds floating in the deep end.  I like swimming in a giant toilet, too!
• Don't call in a complaint about pool water giving you a rash, have me investigate, and while I'm investigating, you're swimming in the implicated pool.  You're right.  My time isn't very valuable.  Keep swimming.  Enjoy your rash.
• Don't schedule me to come inspect your foster home two weeks in advance if you're not planning on cleaning. 
• Don't ask me to come inspect your foster home after 5:00PM, because that's when you get off work.  Guess what, those pukey little kids you're going to be caring for are not going to wait until 5:00PM to shit their pants at school.  You'd better learn a little flexibility, bitch. 

Children of Street Rodders

This rant isn’t going to make sense to many people, but to those of you who understand, I think you’ll get a kick out of this.  I am the member of an elite group.  We are known as the second-generation motor-heads, or rodders.  We were born, raised, and some of us conceived, in the back of a street rod.  We spent our childhood summers traveling in a convoy of pre-1949 built from scratch, jimmy rigged jalopies.  Okay, they weren’t jalopies by any means.  These cars were beautiful.  Every last shred of chrome, steel, and, in the case of my dad’s upholstery, crushed velour, was built by hand from scratch.  We spent our weekends in the summer touring the eastern US, hauling campers in tow, to different shows known to us as Rod Runs.  If one of the hot rods in the convoy broke down, the entire convoy would pull off and fix it.  We didn’t need AAA.  We were AAA.  We all had CB’s, and each street rodder had a CB handle.  Our campers were towed by our street rods.  We didn’t believe in towing a classic car.  What fun is it if you can’t drive something you put so much pride and effort into building?  We had no respect for someone who did haul their street rod.  If a street rod was on a flat bed, that bitch had better have been totaled out in a drag race.  Otherwise, you weren’t a member of our club.  We would set up our campers, weekend after weekend, build camp fires, have sock-hops, play games, raffle items off, host Chinese auctions, bring in 250 dozen ears of corn, and show our cars.  The second generation rodders would run off and play together, while our parents would get sloppy drunk, and in some instances, pass out underneath their motorhomes.  This was the norm for us.  We were the Street Rods of Northwest PA.  I didn’t know that other kids didn’t know what a street rod was.  I thought every kid’s dad had perpetually dirty hands and fingernails.  I didn’t know that other kid’s parents didn’t get together in convoys and camp every weekend, even if it was in a corn field during a tornado.  I thought that every kid’s dad could talk about cars endlessly.  I realize now that we were just the lucky chosen ones.  The second generation motor-heads are all adults now.  Although the Street Rods of Northwest PA has since disbanded, the bond of the members and their children is as strong as ever. 

On a recent visit home, I was reunited with many of the second generation rodders.  It is as though we never missed a beat.  We got together, and now, instead of just our fathers discussing carburetors, we all discussed them.  We have all done well for ourselves, and I would like to attribute it to the fact that we were brought up around such camaraderie.  We were taught that all hard work also needs to be enjoyed and appreciated.  Many of us have built street rods of our own.  I still have the dream of building one soon…I just need garage space.  Our dad’s garages are still bigger than any living space.  There are still at least two hot rods in the garage, and more street rodder magazines in our house than anyone could ever imagine.  Everytime I hear the deep rumble of a souped-up engine and smell exhaust, I smile.  I’m reminded of a wonderful childhood.

Random Thoughts

Someone asked me not too long ago, "What are you thinking about?"  Ha ha, buddy!  It's a good thing you're not a shrink.  I decided to write out some of my thoughts throughout a typical day in the life of Egg.  Enjoy.

• Man, I wish I wasn't obsessed with eating dates.  They're so fuckin' good.  I could eat a whole container.  Oh hell.  The last time I ate a whole container of dates, I pooped for 48 hours straight.  I think I'll just have one or two.  It's Sunday.  Maybe if this was a Friday, I'd sacrifice my weekend.
• I don't think "I've got the moves like Jagger" is a good thing, Maroon 5.  Isn't Mick Jagger like, 86 years old?  Perhaps you've got the bowel moves like Jagger...Wait, that's me when I eat an entire container of dates. 
• Ah.  "I didn't know I was Pregnant" is on TV.  God, this show creeps me out.  There's no possible way I could be prego, yet every time I see this, I panic.  Oh my god!  I'm craving pickled beets.  And lamb shanks.  Is it possible?  No way.  Ugh.  Oh my god!  Is that a contraction?  Oh, I just ate too many dates.  Phew. 
• My hands still stink from handling dead shrimp.  I'm glad I set all the live ones in my bait bucket free.  One even swam back around to thank me.  Right before the catfish got him.
• Who the hell sent me a subscription to "Good Housekeeping"?  This magazine sucks.  I don't need to look younger.  I don't need to organize my kitchen. I'm not incontinent. I don't care why Merideth Viera left whatever show she was on.   Who is Meredith Viera, anyway?  Oh, who cares?
• Being a trucker would be cool.  I wonder if I could do that part time?  I already have the mouth of a trucker.  I'm halfway there. 
• Why are my neighbors always soaking wet?  I've never seen them with dry hair.  I've lived next to them for over a year.  What gives? 
• I wonder how Kate's doing?
• I wish Kate lived closer.  I miss her.   
• Why is Moose so skinny?  Everytime he looks at me, it seems as though Sarah McLaughlin's "Arms of an Angel" should be playing in the background.  People probably think I starve him.
• Why does Oprah Winfrey have to have her face smeared on everything?  She's so vain.  I think she has good intentions.  I don't know.  I don't care. 
• Why is psoriasis preventing this woman on this commercial from hanging out with her friends?  Why is she taking this prescription for psoriasis that may cause tumors?  I'd much rather have dry skin than a 43 pound tumor hanging off my neck.  Is psoriasis that life-altering that you take a chance with a prescription?  I should google that. 
• Oh my god!  This girl on TV is changing her baby's diaper on the kitchen counter!  Why is she doing that?  Holy shigella, batman.  I need to wash my hands again.
• Ew.  I think I inhaled too much of the bug spray today.  I hope it wards off any parasites I have internally.  Maybe I should spray Moose with it.  Naa.  He already stinks. 
• Do midget hookers charge half price?
• Wow.  Why can't I paint my nails?  Now I have to tell everyone that my non-existent 4-year old niece gave me a manicure.  Really?  Maybe I can start a trend for finger tip painting.
• My roots are dark.  I look like I work at Mosley Motel.  Hmm.  Wonder how much those girls make?  I am looking for part time work.  I could always be a nanny.  Oh, wait...kids scare me.  That won't work. 
• How can my hair be greasy, but my face dry?  They're attached. 
• Does leg hair continue to grow like head hair?  It makes sense that it would, but I've never seen anyone with braided leg hair. 

...And if you needed confirmation that I need to be Baker Acted, here it is...

My Motivational Rant

Most people who have known me forever know that I had an issue with food in high school and college.  I feared it.  Actually, I loved food.  It was the fear of becoming a freaking fat ass I had the issue with.  Unlike most teens these days, who blame their dysfunctions on abusive parents or daddy being on the crack pipe, I had no one to blame but myself.  I'm pretty sure this fear came to me in the womb.  At the ripe old age of five, I was hospitalized (over Christmas, I might add) because I was scared to eat.  I was tiny.  So little, in fact, to this day, the parent Eggs call me "Bird".  Yes, that's correct, "Bird Egger".  Go ahead and laugh, Papa Egg's friends still call me "Hammond".   .....Anywho....The point is, I grew up in a tiny town, surrounded by, uh, frumpy, unkempt rednecks, for lack of a better description.  I was fortunate enough to be raised by a "normal" family.  Mama Egg was 100% Italian, spent all her time in the kitchen, and loved to cook for the masses.  Papa Egg was a health nut, work-out freak vegetarian.  So why the hell did I obsess over staying thin?  Who knows.  Probably because I'm a dumb-ass.  That's the only logic I can concoct. 

Now that we're past the backstory (thank God)...I have been attending morning boot camp on the beach.  This was something I desparately needed following my disgusting weight gain of 26 pounds.  I'm not going to lie.  My biggest fear in life (besides cockroaches and Barbara Streisand), is getting fat.  If you read my other blogs, you know that I don't deal well with excuses and laziness.  Yeah, you can call me obsessive compulsive (or a few other things, I'm sure), but I was not going to let myself gain another ounce.  I didn't want my nickname changed from "Bird" to "Fatty McGee", or "Fatty McButterPants", or "Fatty Bo Batty", or "Stupid whore who stole my boyfriend".  I was going to get this weight off, and get my smokin' hot bod back, dammit!  I was also going to start teaching Zumba again, once I looked sexy enough to don my Zumba garb.

That was three months ago.  Today, I look fantastic.  Yeah, that's right.  I'm a narcissistic bitch.  I busted my ass every morning to get myself where I am.  I completed my 21 day clean eating program today, with no cheating. I'm teaching Zumba twice a week. I had to go buy smaller pants last week, because mine were like Hammer pants on me (80's reference, duh).  People tell me every day how great I look.  I have so much energy, I'm annoying. My stomach hasn't been upset (I always had a nervous stomach), My skin has cleared up, I sleep like a drunken bum (yeah, that good), I am as strong as a bitch on coke, and can probably fight like a ninja if given the opportunity.  I always knew I had it in me, but without the help of Total Body Results, LLC, I never would have looked this slammin'.  I'm not done yet.  I know I can look even better, and I plan on it.  I loved the results I saw from eating clean so much, I am doing it again.  As a matter of fact, it's a lifestyle now. 

And now...For my rant....As I've stated before, I do NOT tolerate excuses or laziness.  I know a lot of people who sit around, whining about their weight, as they stuff another bacon wrapped, sour cream stuffed, quadruple beef patty, six cheese layered, mayo injected, donut-for-a-bun sandwich down their gullet.  Here's a thought - let that cottage cheese in your thighs inspire you to eat more cottage cheese.  I have heard some "bigguns" cry that "I don't have time".  Really?  Listen up, tons-o-fun, you had time to devour a small village.  You have to make lifestyle changes.  I get up at 5:10AM now to go work out.  MAKE TIME.  Yeah, it may cut into your night at the buffet, but eventually you won't be craving that shit.  Buffet food sits around for two weeks at room temperature growing bacteria, anyways (tip from your friendly health inspector-you're welcome).  Another complaint, "When I get home from work, it's just easier to sit down, nosh on four Hungry Howie's butter crust loaded pizza, and watch Hoarders."  Know what else is easy?  Driving your car off the Sunshine Skyway, leaving your kid in the car with the windows up while you go to the bar, stealing a seat from a blind guy, giving a midget a noogie, going to work naked, arm wrestling Kate Moss, and pushing over a baby that's taking it's first steps.  You wouldn't do any of those things, right? SO WHY THE HELL AREN'T YOU WORKING OUT YET?  It's hard? God Damned right it's hard.  If it was easy, everyone would be walking around with a rock hard ass and a set of six-pack abs.  CHALLENGE YOURSELF.  "I can't afford it".  Yeah, you're right.  It's much cheaper to pay for someone to come in and wipe your ass because you can't, seeing as how you're on a ventilator, a pacemaker, blood thinners, insulin, and weigh 1,342 pounds.  Of course, I'm sure Medicare covers that.  Can you really put a price tag on good health?  Hell no, bitch. 

What are you waiting for?  Only you can prevent forest fires....er, I mean, only you can make these positive changes in yourself.  What have you got to lose, besides about 492 pounds? 

Wow.  I should have been a freakin' motivational speaker.

***I owe a special thank you to the trainers of Total Body Results, LLC

What You See is What You Get, Dude.

I had a request for this rant, and hopefully it helps some dear friends in their mission to find a great woman. 
In a recent discussion with some male counterparts, it was brought to my attention that men are fuck wads.  I should probably warn you now (after dropping the "f" bomb in my second sentence), this rant is going to be vulgar.  If you're a sensitive, panty waist bitch, quit reading and go back to petting your 57 cats. 
Evidently, there is a preconceived notion that girls are supposed to be frail, weak, dependent on their "better half", and polite.
Fuck that.  Girls don't roll like that.  I think I probably am speaking for about 90% of my ladies out there.  If not, well, you're probably unhappily married and miserable right now.
Let's clear a few things up for you, gentlemen:
 I don't shave my legs everyday.  That's bullshit.  Do you know how time consuming it is to stand in the shower (on one foot), lather up about six feet worth of leg, find a razor that's not dull, nick yourself in unmentionable parts, and then get blood spots all over your cute, pink, fluffy towel?  Of course not, you only shave that tiny portion on your pin head that takes about six strokes to cover.  Prickly legs don't bother me, and they're attached to me.  If you're disgusted by that, go take a look at that nasty ass patch of back hair located right around your tailbone, you fucking yedi.  What the fuck is that?  It looks like you're using a camel for a back brace.
If you're sharing a bed with me, you'd better be wearing a helmet, ear plugs, and a cup.  I am a very violent girl in my dreams.  If you're not careful, you will be donkey punched.  I also snore.  Like a chainsaw cutting a redwood.  Go ahead, try to roll me over.  You'd better be wearing a cup.  I throw a mean right uppercut to the loins during my peaceful slumber.  As a precaution, just go home.  My bed is for me and my dog only. 
My dog will always be the number one man in my life (second only to my daddy).  He is the perfect companion, which is more than I can say about you.  He doesn't tell me not to wear that shirt, because I look like a two bit whore in it.  He stares at me with loving eyes, whether he's dropping a deuce, or sharing my pillow.  He comforts me when I cry, instead of saying, "You need a backrub that will turn into something to benefit me.  What about my needs?  I know you're crying, but this is all about me.  I'm amazing. You shouldn't cry, because I'm fucking awesome. You'd be nothing without me.  ME ME ME ME ME."
I don't give a shit about your past supermodel girlfriends.  If I cared, I would have friended them on facebook and stalked them until they put out a restraining order on my ass. Shut the fuck up about them.  They obviously didn't work out for you, or you wouldn't be trying to get in my pants now. 
I burp and fart freely.  I will not step out of the room, or put myself in extreme discomfort so that you can believe in your tiny, pea-sized brain, that girls don't do these things.  We do.  A lot.  And it's hilarious.  It's usually hilarious, because when you do it, it's weak, and I know  I can do it louder and better.  If that grosses you out, well, you're probably a homosexual, and weren't looking to pursue anything more than a mall buddy.
I cuss like a sailor.  If you don't fucking like it, go fuck yourself, mother fucking piece of shit.  Words like, "Oh Dear", or "Goodness Gracious" only come out in the presence of clergy.  I don't feel the need to censor myself around someone I'm dating.  "Well, it's not lady-like", you say?  Well guess what?  I'm not trying to be a fucking lady, bitch, so I don't have to be lady-like.
I do shit girls aren't supposed to do.  I fix toilets, snake drains, fix cars, change tires, carry a gun, hook up tv's, catch lizards, poke snakes with sticks (just to see them lunge), get dirty, break a nail, clean pools, do yard work, and beat the shit out of a punching bag.  Know what this means?  I don't need you for ANYTHING.  I keep you around to use as a puppet, or arm candy (depending on how ugly you are).  Be grateful that you're lucky enough to be in my presence.
I don't wake up looking nearly as hot as I did the night before.  So what if I have crusted drool down the entire left side of my face?  My hair is perpendicular to my head? Perfect.  Take a picture.  My retainers bother you?  Sorry for having straight teeth.  My breath smells like road kill? No shit, I was snoring all night.  You don't like my glasses?  Neither do I.  When I put them on, all I see is your ugly mug.  Why are you seeing me this way in the morning, anyways?  I thought I told you to leave in a previous section of ths blog.
I don't work out to impress you or anyone else in this world.  I work out so I continue to look smokin' hot for myself, because let's be honest, I'm the only one who really matters, right?  I put on make up and dress in nice clothes because it makes me feel good, not because I'm whoring myself out.  I have, in the words of Ludacris, "big titties and a matching ass".  I worked hard for these things, you'd better believe I enjoy looking at them, why not wear clothes that enhance the fruits of my labor? 
However, I'm not always going to be wearing red-carpet-ready clothing.  I have days when I'm busting my ass around my house.  I can pull off the look of cut-offs, a Captain Tony's Saloon T-shirt, and Sperrys.  I don't always wear two pounds of make-up, either.  This doesn't mean I've given up, this simply means I'm working hard so I can play later.  Perhaps you should get used to this concept. 
Just because my job doesn't pay me $800,000 a month, doesn't mean I have to find a new job.  Quit trying to make me quit.  Sure, I'll whine about it now and again.  I'm a girl, I'm entitled to that.  If you don't want to hear it, leave.  Moose is more than willing to hear me out.  I love my line of work.  You couldn't handle doing what I do.  Not that it's hard, you're just a puss.  I was "wealthy" once, as you rich folk say.  I really didn't see the allure.  It didn't make me a better person because I could make it rain.  As a matter of fact, the more money and material things I had, the shittier I felt.  I'm perfectly happy having to scrape by on two jobs.  I have my pride.  You REALLY overpaid for that shirt, by the way.  I don't fly first class anymore.  First class = first to die in a crash.  Besides, I like the looks I get from those fucking idiots who paid four times what I paid to arrive at the same destination as me, at the same exact time as me.  Why don't you just go flush the rest of your Benjamins down that fancy, dancy airplane toilet?  I'm not impressed that you're rich.  If you're bragging about it and flaunting it, you're just proving to me that you're an even bigger douche than I had originally thought....And you're obviously overcompensating for something.
I am not meek or in distress.  I don't need you telling me that you are enriching my life with your presence.  No, you're not.  You're actually hindering me from fixing the toilet and going to the shooting range and drag strip.  I am very in touch with my emotions, and refuse to depend on anyone else for emotional support.  I don't need you to coddle me and try to fix me in any way.  That's what a psychiatrist is for.  Besides, I'm a fucking bad ass, and I don't need fixed.
So men, this is how women really work.  If you think you can really handle this, good luck.  We're all awesome, and I think it's time you just shut the fuck up and enjoy our company, bitches.  Peace.

Soul Daughter

Sometimes, I am simply bitten by a bug to write.  I suppose this is better than being bitten by a bed bug, or the HIV bug, for that matter.  It kills me when I get this way, but have no subject to rant about.  I decided to try rambling through my thoughts.  This will prove to my psychiatrist that I truly am crazy.  In turn, I'll be able to quit my day job, collect disability, collect cats, take up a meth habit, wear moo-moos, and eat Popeye's Chicken everyday.  I think I'm on to something here.  Good life, here I come!

I was asked to take care of my "soul daughter" next Saturday.  My soul daughter is, in my eyes, the most beautiful and amazing soul ever.  She is in the fifth grade.  Because I have no knowledge of what children are into, I decided to think this through to plan out the best day EVER.

The first thing we're going to do when I pick her up, is run to the convenience store.  We are going to buy cigarettes.  I figure, if she's going to fit in with the cool kids, she needs to start smoking early.  I wanted to start her on this habit when she was four, but she threw tantrums anytime I'd try to take her near a 7-11.  Afterwards, I have to drop off my resumes to Pandora's Box and Mons Venus.  I hear strip clubs are more likely to hire you if you drag a child in with you.  But before I do that, I'm going to push her down into a pile of dirt, because if she looks clean, I'm sure as hell not going to look poor enough to need a job at a titty bar.  When we leave there, we're going to head to the red light district of downtown.  The pool at the Mosley Motel is really nice, and you can pay by the hour.  I'm going to take her swimming.  There's a liquor store right next door, so I'll leave her unattended in the pool with a bunch of Johns and their ladies while I retrieve some refreshing 40's for us.  When I come back with the 40's we'll have a chugging contest.  I will bet her a new Littlest Pet Shop animal that I can beat her.  Hopefully she can hold her alcohol, because I'm going to be too damned drunk to drive.  I'll have the address to the closest shooting range programmed into the GPS so she can drive us there.  She is going to learn quickly that real girls shoot M16's.  If she gets injured from the recoil, I'll just crush up some roxies for her to snort.  By then, she'll probably be ready for a nap.  I'll run her through the line at Taco Bell, fill her up with nutritious items, and then give her bus fare to get home-hey, I have shit to do.

Okay, not really.  Actually, we're hanging out at the mall, then going to the beach, where I'm packing us a picnic lunch.  C'mon, people, I'm not that sick. 

Another Day, Another Peanut

This is a topic to which I'm pretty sure about 90% of us can relate.  There have been movies, books, and sitcoms based upon it. It is the butt of many jokes.  I am referring to the oh, so different personalities of those intermingled in our everyday places of employment.  In layman's terms, I am talking about the dumbasses we work with.

I am so lucky that my co-workers are hilarious and, just like me, do not take things personally.  Otherwise, I would never have been able to write this rant.   It is because of your awesomeness that our shit gets done (although not always in a timely or correct manner). 

I came from a high stress position as a chemist in a pharmaceutical laboratory, where every move I made was scrutinized, analyzed, triple checked, run through the computer 46 times, shaken, stirred, and spit back out, only to re-process five more samples.  That, combined with the fact that I liked seeing the outdoors every now and again, made me decide to return to where my passion was.  Seriously, the only time we saw daylight was when a fellow chemist dropped and shattered a bottle of Hydrochlric Acid, causing us to evacuate while the fire department decontaminated the area.  Naturally, I was in the crapper when this went down, and was the last to know the lab had been evacuated.  Don't worry, though.  I finished.

Anywho, life at the uh, agency for which  I work, is the exact opposite of my "smart occupation", as I like to call it.  I will say, it is a government agency.  Actually, that should say it all.  Perhaps I shall end my rant here.  Na, I won't do that...

I joined this government agency in 2005.  I held a similar position in a previous state in which I resided briefly.  The line of work is very fulfilling, and I sometimes even-maybe just a bit-feel like I may make a difference.  I love my job, and I absolutely love what I do. Unfortunately, there are about twenty two too many people working there.

It is amazing to me how someone in upper management can resemble a sloth dead-on.  We all know this guy.  He's the old guy who should have retired fifteen years ago, but hangs on just to drag everyone else's work day to a grinding halt.  He wears gigantic expensive watches and brags about his 3D television, and his cruises, and his faggy black New Balance tennis shoes (even though we all know damned well his fat ass has never seen a tennis court-unless they were serving a buffet on it).  This is the old fuck who makes eight times what anyone else in the office makes, yet whines about having to contribute to his own retirement fund.  Nobody knows what the hell he does, because all he does is shuffle around (at an astonishingly slow pace), from office to office, like an orangutan swinging from the canopy of trees.  If a pressing issue arises, he swiftly steps back, and is gone.  This is the fastest you will ever see this creature move, so look closely, as it is rare. 

As a direct report to aforementioned individual, the supervisor takes similar strides to be like her mentor.  You know this type; this was her first job out of college. She's the newlywed, and a new mother.  She finds it necessary to stop you in the middle of a critical mission (like having to poop), to show you the 956 page album of her baby's first bowel movement. You instantaneously become jealous of the baby, as it feels as though you're about to give birth yourself.  Don't worry, though, because when you finish staring blankly at those pictures, she has a twenty minute video on her phone for you to watch of her baby eating strained peas.  At this point, I usually just say, "gotta poop", and run away.  Actually,that's my excuse for a lot of things. 

Every office has at least one gossip monger.  My office has approximately 42.  I learned the hard way that, even if you keep your mouth shut, you will end up somehow falling victim to these clucking chickens.  They are always women, usually completely unhappy with their own lives. They pretend to be nice and leech on to you until you give them even a shred of something they can completely distort into lies.  According to them, I have been pregnant, banged my co-workers, banged the boss, sold children on the black market, beat a homeless man with a flute, stole candy from a baby, pushed an elderly woman out of her hoveround, and destroyed a marriage.

There is the lingerer.  There are variations of lingerers.  There's the, "How was your weekend?" lingerer.  He's the one who really doesn't give a shit how your weekend was, he's just looking for a lead-in to tell you all about his weekend.  His weekend-which consisted of moving a second-hand dryer into his rental property, then having to go to the hardware store four times because it didn't come with a power cord- is much  more important and exciting than anything you could possibly contribute to this conversation.  Don't try to compete.  Just shut the fuck up and pretend to work until he staggers away.  This starvation for attention and need to just hang out stems from neglect on behalf of their wives.  Nobody's sure if their wives were crazy before they married these idiots, or if these idiots drove their wives insane.  Either way, the lingerer demands the attention of all that surround them. 
The other lingerer is the one who just talks about pointless shit, like how his dog scratches twice to go out, and how she can only be bathed on Tuesdays.  This is the jerk-off whose wife dresses him, as evidenced by his pink pants and rhinestone bedazzled belt clip cell phone holster.  He wears WAY too much cologne, and insists on everyone addressing him as Mr. (insert name here).  Everyday at 9:30, he tucks the newspaper soduku page on a clipboard under his arm, and heads off to take his morning dump.  He will not silence his phone, which rings off the hook the entire 47 minutes he's on the shitter.  By the time he comes back, it's time for his second cup of coffee, which he savors by slurping like a tongueless ape.

Last, but certainly not least, is the office cat lady.  She has 18 cats, and her desk is covered in cat decorations.  On casual Fridays, she wears cat t-shirts and usually reeks of cat piss.  She's really nice, though. 

So there you have it.  I'm tired.  I'm going to bed. 

Deep in Thought (Not Really)

I'm sure that everyone is tired of my "I hates", so I gave it a different title.  Kind of like false advertising, but not.  I didn't even realize I had quite enough material for another rant, but as I'm sitting here, staring at the water, my mind started going. 

I hate parents who don't teach their children to NEVER run up to a dog and start petting it.  I am a responsible pet owner, and my dog is always on a short leash, as well as under my voice command.  My dog not only looks mean, he IS mean.  He tried to eat my face.  So, go ahead, let your kid run up to him.  Just don't get pissed at me when I yell at your child to back off.  Perhaps a leash should be in your kid's future as well.

I hate people who haul a truck load of shit to the beach.  It's the beach.  It is a place of simplistic beauty.  How relaxed can you possibly be knowing you have to haul six coolers, two shovels, eight beach chairs of varying heights, a canopy, an umbrella, a rebel flag, a 6-cd Sony stereo, a pack of smokes, twenty two bags of arm floaties, rafts, sunscreen, deep tanning oil, lip balm, ass balm, sunglasses, towels, buckets, nets, fishing poles, bait, cameras, phones, condoms (just in case), books, magazines, sand castle making gear, a caribou, four life jackets, grandma, and thirteen kids?  Sounds like a blast.  Shit.  You forgot your beach blanket.  I know of these people because they flock to set up camp four feet from my measly towel and shorts. 

I hate people who ask me why I don't have children.  My response to you is, "It's because I'm selfish.  I don't feel like coming home to deal with whining and tantrums.  I don't feel like cleaning a shitty diaper.  I don't feel like being responsible for the rest of my life when my kid turns out to be a crack head.  I don't feel like having to take family vacations to Disney, or Smurfs on Ice.  I don't feel like sitting up all night worrying about why my 11-year old daughter isn't home from her date with the 16 year-old.  I love my life.  I come and go as I please.  I don't have to be responsible for how someone else turns out.  That's why I don't have kids.  Oh, and mind your own God Damned business."

I hate people who ask me if I'm married, then reply, "I'm sorry" when I say I'm divorced.  Why are you sorry?  I'm not a widow ( I would have been if I stuck around long enough to kill him-that's a joke, people.  I'd never harm anyone.)  I didn't cry when you asked me that question.  Why not say, "Congratulations"?  I'm free to come and go as I please, and I'm fine with that.  I'm sorry for you.  You're obviously stuck in a time where divorce was unacceptable and a woman could never make it without her husband. 

I hate people who compliment me, and then feel the need to ask how much the item they're complimenting cost.  Again, this is none of your business.  I will answer you, but not truthfully.  "Oh, this old thing?  I picked this up at the flea market.  Paid $900 for it.  The vendor told me it was the real deal.  He said Louis Vuitton changed the spelling of his name to Louie Vitton.  It's a collector edition."

I hate people that think their children are the cutest thing in the world.  Let's just be honest here.  Every single kid looks exactly alike to me.  Throw me in a room with 100 babies (actually, don't), and I won't be able to tell any of them apart.  This is probably why I don't work in the nursery at the hospital.  There would be all kinds of baby mix-ups going on.  I never know what to say when someone shows me a picture of their baby.  I fake enthusiasm, and usually say something like, "Oh my gosh, she looks just like you!"  When in all actuality, I'm thinking, "Oh my gosh, that baby looks just like every other baby I've ever seen!"

I hate people who feel the need to comment on my eating patterns.  I work out.  A lot.  I don't believe in depriving my body of whatever it craves.  Moderation is the key.  So the next time you see me eating a caramel, banana, hot fudge, marshmallow walnut, peanut butter, ice cream waffle sandwich, turn and look the other way.  Life is too short to not indulge every now and again.  I don't care how much sodium is in my turkey.  If it tastes good, I'll eat it.  I will never criticize your reasons for not eating meat.  I respect that decision.  I also, however, respect my decision to order the 14oz. T-bone steak, instead of the 22oz. 

I hate people who Facebook fight.  This is when they talk shit in their status about a friend or family member, said person comments back angrily, and an all-out virtual battle begins.  As much as I enjoy the laugh, how lame are you?  There's a tv show for that.  It's called Ricki Lake (you thought I was going to say Springer, huh?)  I'm pretty sure social networking sites aren't meant for social feuding.  There's a time for family fights.  It's called Thanksgiving.  Or weddings.  Hell, sometimes even funerals.  How about growing a pair and actually confronting the person face-to-face?  Maybe that's not quite dramatic enough. 

I hate skin tags. 

I hate that Activia yogurt doesn't do what the commercial says.  I don't feel the need to move my hand in a downward motion over my belly when I eat it.  How does moving your hand in a downward motion over your belly aide in digestion, anyways?  Is it a magical power? 

Eh, Why not? I Hate, take 4 (I think)

I hate that my snot nose has turned into what appears to be bronchitis, judging by the color of the mung I've been hacking up over the last few hours.  This is also why I am laying here, whining (which I also hate).  Since I'm laying here, I thought I'd gripe.  I need to humor myself, and hopefully you, too.  Enjoy...or not.

I hate that every stereotype I hear about crappy trailer park residents is true.  Guys-where do all your shirts go?  There must be some mechanism in the aluminum threshold entering the trailer that either removes your t-shirt completely, or just rips off the sleeves.  I guess it depends on which model Airstream you rent. Most parks must include the (un)dress code in the lease.  I'm pretty sure it reads something like this:  "Tenant shall obey dress code at all times.  Denim shorts, no longer that 3 inches above the knee, must be worn.  Shirts are prohibited.  In the event that a shirt must be worn, i.e., to go on a beer run, the sleeves shall be removed.  Noncompliance may be grounds for eviction".  I'm pretty sure it's also mandatory that these men not shower for a week prior to removing their Dale Earnhardt shirt.  Women-why is it okay for you to wear a bikini top when you're 500 pounds and 8 months pregnant?  Is it to divert attention from your three teeth and mustache?  Also, why can't you save the money you're spending on your Virginia Slims and put a down payment on a newer (1983) Camaro?  It would save your bare feet from being permanently stained black if you actually drove to Wal-Mart.
With enough Marlboro miles, I'm pretty sure you're eligible to upgrade to the mobile home with the gym included (aka the weight bench under the car port).  This always amazes me, because the occupants of these upgraded models are always the twig-armed meth-heads that weigh all of 71 pounds.  These are the units that always smell like the combination of ammonia, cat shit, and greasy hair when you walk by them.  If you look under the unit, you will always see insulation and the subfloor caving in.  When talking to these occupants, as I frequently do (again, everyone has a story), they almost always ask me for a handout of some sort.  You are capable enough to walk out here (barefoot), holding two slimy kids (which you were physically able to produce).  You are also capable enough to get a job.  I will listen to your story and converse with you; however, I am a civil servant, not a money-bags philanthropist.  I am not going to give you a hand-out...Unless you are a veteran who has served our country, then I will do whatever I can to assist you.

I hate cockroaches.  I deal with them on a daily basis, as I have for the last six years.  I should be desensitized to them by now.  Nope.  Still hate 'em.  Makes me shiver just writing this.  Ew.

I hate wet paper.  Of any kind.  It makes me gag.

I hate close talkers.  You're creepy.  Nobody should be in my bubble.  I may have a terrible reflex and punch you in the throat.  Just sayin'.  I have been accused by co-workers of having personal space issues.  It's no issue.  I just don't want you close to me. 

I hate people who creep up on me and try to scare me.  Reminder:  I am trained to defend myself.  Legally.  You're not funny or original.  You'll be less funny with a .38 shell lodged in your jaw.

I hate cars with bass.  Hey, if you didn't have that shitty stereo, you could probably afford four matching rims for your 1988 Caprice with fake Louis Vuitton tuck-and-roll upholstery.

I hate hair on a wet bar of soap.

I hate hair on the bathroom counter that sticks to my wet hands while I'm trying to clean.

I hate stale ice cubes that make your glass of water garlic flavored, even though you have never kept garlic anywhere near your ice, let alone in your freezer. 

I hate that I know what the inside of most ice machines in food service establishments look like.  It's not pretty. 

I hate tartar on teeth of a person I'm conversing with.  Really?  I see 413 floss picks on the ground a day...None of them are yours, obviously. 

I hate tartar. Period.

I hate finding stray eyelashes on table surfaces.

I hate finding holes in the plastic bags I use to pick up Moose's poop.  Usually because I discover the holes a few seconds too late. 

I hate too many lawn decorations.  One Virgin Mary is plenty.  I get it.  You're Catholic. 

I hate fake flowers planted in window boxes.  Really?  Who are you fooling?  Do you also pretend to water them?  They look tacky.

I hate owners of Assisted Living Facilities (ALFs) who drive brand new Mercedes-Benz and dress in Armani suits, yet the residents of the ALF are living in filth and squalor because the owner won't pay for quality staff, or to have anything fixed or cleaned. 

I hate that I form a bond with many of the residents in these ALFs, because it breaks my heart when I go in to see them, and they have passed away. 

I hate that so many people were so pissed off about the NFL lockout.  Who cares?  It's a sport, not the end of the God Damned world.  Those assholes make way too much money anyways.  Suspend the season and give their salaries to those who need it, like our teachers and those serving our country.  Better yet, bring our troops home and send the NFL players to Afghanistan and Iraq.  They can run fast, and most of them carry guns anyway.  Let them do something helpful for once.

I hate monkeys. 

Moose

Moose is a subject I could write chapters about.  For those of you who may not know, Moose is the apple of my eye, my favorite thing in the whole world.  He is my dog.

I have been facing a lot of judgement regarding my recent decisions with Moose.  Most of this judgement has come from the last place I expected, but I won't get into that.  Rather, I will get into Moose's story, and maybe then my decisions will be better understood. 

Moose found me on March 11th, 2003 at the SPCA.  This was exactly two days after I made my courageous move to the Sunshine State.  Upon discovering that my newly rented apartment was NOTHING like the brochure presented, I decided I was going to need some protection (and a companion-seeing as how I knew no one here).

My friend "Ruff" and I made our way through the shelter.  After about an hour, I decided I couldn't find the right match.  I thought I'd make one more run-through.  At that very moment, a big, brown, floppy eared dog walked through the outside doggy door, sat down, and gave me his paw.  "Found him!", I yelled.  Ruff and I took him to the interaction area, where he immediately commenced kissing me.  I signed the papers, paid my $35.00, and left with my new best friend, Moose. 

The next few days were a learning experience, just getting to know one another.  He was very intelligent, and thought to be about a year and a half old.  He chewed some shoes, gnawed on a hair brush, but didn't get much more destructive.  We went to the beach, where I learned he LOVED to swim.  On several occasions, he continued to swim out into the Gulf, not obeying my command to come back.  I would swim out, get him, and together, we'd doggy paddle back, both out of breath.  He ate a rock once, which blocked his lower intestine, resulting in surgical removal of the rock. 

Had I listened to Moose the first time he met Ken (my asshole ex-husband), I would have ended it right there.  Moose hated Ken, but eventually, they grew to like each other.  A few years later, Moose started having seizures.  He would get aggressive following the seizure.  This resulted in him biting part of my lower lip off in 2005.  It left a cool scar, and we both recovered (with the aide of a plastic surgeon on my behalf).  I was criticized for not giving Moose up then.  Why?  So he can be euthanized for a condition that's beyond his control?  No.  Parents don't give up on their children when they do stupid shit, why would I give up on my dog? 

He has always loved road trips.  He loves his belly rubbed.  He loves doing tricks.  Moose has seen me through some of the darkest moments of my life-things that shall not be discussed on public forum.  If it wasn't for him, I am certain I would not have survived these ordeals.  He gave me reason to get out of bed in the morning.  He made me smile.  He didn't judge me for crying.  He gave good hugs (yes, that's one of Moose's many tricks).  He didn't care if I was having a bad hair day, or if my jeans made me look fat.  Moose is the only one who has been with me the entire time I've lived in Florida. 

Most people have family nearby.  If not family, friends.  Since all of my family and true friends are far away, I count on Moose.  He counts on me.  We need each other. 

Moose was diagnosed with Cushing's Disease two years ago.  Cushing's has no cure, but can be treated.  He must be monitored by a vet for 8 hours every six months, and takes two pills a day to maintain cortisol levels in his body.  This disorder affects his immune system.  Over the past couple of months, Moose's health has deteriorated.  He has had inner ear infections and urinary tract infections.  He has lost 34 pounds.  I have had him examined by two very reputable vets, both of which have assured me that he is not suffering by any means. 

I know that Moose's days with me are numbered.  I will never see him suffer.  The day he starts suffering with no remedy, will be his last.  I will not keep him here on earth for my own selfish reasons.  With that being said, I will do whatever it takes to keep him happy and healthy for the remainder of his life.  He eats what I eat.  I give him a bath, he runs out and rolls in the grass.  I mop the floor, he drags sand in.  He lays across the width of the bed, I sleep in the one square foot left.  I owe him this.  Words will never express what this dog has done for me.  It is because of him that I have meaning here.  Without him, I am completely alone. 

So, feel free to ridicule me for spending my last dime to get him well.  That's fine.  It's not his time yet.  He will let me know when it is. 

I Hate, Take 3

As with all my other rants, I am pretty sure I'm fixin' to piss some people off.  This blog is based off of my personal experiences, not scientific fact (although I'd like to think I'm right all the time).

I hate when I have to pee really bad, and the fat woman (who looks as though she just devoured four other women) in line ahead of me at Target backs up her fat mobile (aka electric wheelchair) over my foot.  Adding insult to injury, fatty bo-batty, you're really going to pay with a check?  I didn't even know banks still made checks.  Oh, but wait, you changed your mind and decided to apply for a Target credit card?  Right now, in line?  Perfect.  And you don't remember your own phone number and have to fish your address book out of your saddle bag? Take your time, Bertha.  I'm in no rush...May I please borrow one of those Depends you just bought with your coupons? 

I hate people who are too lazy to return their shopping cart to the store. Really?  Pushing it that extra twenty feet back (because I know damned well you were too lazy to park farther away than that) is going to devastate you physically?  Hey, stupid, I can see you trying to stealthily shove that cart in front of that Chevy Impala.  It always rolls.  Usually into my front quarter panel.  I hate you. Walk the cart back, you worthless piece of fecal matter.

I hate the woman I watched for five minutes trying to get the front end of her cart over the grassy curb in the parking lot to prevent it from rolling.  She was sweating.  Profusely.  She could have just pushed it the twenty feet back to the store (see above), and not messed up her clown make up. 

I hate that I had to explain to my mom what FUBU meant after she bought a pair of FUBU tennis shoes.  FYI-it means, For Us By Us (it's an African-American company).  My mom is white.

I hate when nurses think it's okay to keep a plastic ice cream tub overflowing with used syringes in their kitchen.  Sure, go ahead and continue to serve food.  Who cares if Gertie gets poked in the tongue with a dirty needle?  What's a little Hep C between friends?

I hate when we're doing crunches at boot camp and I have to fart.  Have you ever tried holding in a fart while your sphincter is being pushed to it's limit?  Mmm Hmm.  That's what I thought.

I hate crafts.  I associate crafts with hoarding.  Really, you're going to save 327,052 bread ties so you can make all your friends (and 47 cats) necklaces?  Also, lets stop with the beaded necklaces you're trying to sell at art shows.  You're stringing beads onto wire.  I did that when I was 6.  You didn't see me charging $75 a pop for one of those awesome necklaces.  Hey, why not make some friendship bracelets and pot holders while you're at it?   Don't get me wrong, I do have a friend who is VERY talented, and I love her knitted goods:).  This takes talent.  Stringing beads is done by retarded kids daily...Not that retarded kids aren't talented.  They give good hugs.

I hate that my phone auto-corrects the word "hon" to the name "Jon".  The person to whom I am texting this term of endearment is not named Jon.  Thanks, auto correct. 

I hate that I had to mention to someone today that chicken wing bones do not belong in a swimming pool.  Nor does the gallon (glass) bottle of Seagram's.  I understand that you're a slum hotel that is filled with pedophiles, so (hopefully) no children are present, but you still have to play by the rules.  I mean, I'd really hate to see one of your pedophile renters slice their dick off on that broken bottle....  On second thought, leave that bottle there. 

I hate that one of my clients won't host a gay pride night at his bar because his Caribbean crowd said they'd boycott.  If they're that uptight, maybe they should go back to the Carribean.  I'm sure there are no homosexuals there, you closed-minded idiots.

I hate that one of my licensed mobile home parks lied and told about half of their occupants that I was requiring them to remove all the plants from their lots, or I was going to fine them.  I also hate that after lying about this, the manager proceeded to give all the residents (456, to be exact) my phone number.  They're 84.  They have nothing better to do than call and yell at me for harassing the elderly.  They can't hear, so I have to yell to explain to them that I didn't write that.

I hate that my next door neighbors always look wet.  No matter what time of the day it is.  I'm pretty sure they have a perpetual shower.

I hate that my across-the-street neighbors are just the opposite.  A two year old should not have dread locks.  Give that greasy, sticky kid with no pants a shower, please...And while you're at it, shave your legs and armpits, mom.

I hate that people use obesity as a disability and a reason not to exercise.  There are amputees that still work out.  Hell, I know one that does triathalons.  Put down the quadruple bacon stacked, fried chicken -for-a-bun-cheeseburger and go swimming.  No joint impact, you won't sweat, and it's fun.  What's your excuse now, crybaby?  Not enough time?  How much time does it take you to savor the taste of that chocolate dipped, sugar wrapped, butter filled, breaded, deep fried twinkie?  Boom!  Five laps.

I hate when people push vitamins on me.  I eat a balanced diet.  If you're so into purity, why are you popping these microcrystalline cellulose filled capsules? I was a chemist at a pharmaceutical company before making it big.  I know a thing or two about this subject.  Just because your product was reviewed by the FDA, it does not mean it was APPROVED by the FDA.  FDA neither regulates nor approves vitamins.  Keep that in mind when you decide to flush your money down the toilet on a bottle of pills made of nothing more than filler.  If you want to get your vitamins, learn to eat right.

Get A Life

I swore I wasn't going to even acknowledge the Casey Anthony ordeal.  After reading so many Facebook posts, I can't take it anymore.  Get a life, people.  On July 4th, we celebrated this country's independence and everyone was so proud to be an American.  On July 5th, verdict in the trial was reached.  All of a sudden, people were distraught over the unfairness of the outcome.  This country, which you claim to be so proud of, was founded on the basis of theUnited States Constitution.  Perhaps all of you throwing tantrums should actually educate yourselves on the Sixth Amendment to the United States Bill of Rights.  The jury did exactly as they were told, providing an impartial judgment in the case based on the evidence presented.  So, for all of you proud-to-be-Americans-when-things-go-my-way-bandwagoners, suck it.  Try reading.  Be proud of America and all it stands for all the time, not just when it's convenient.  If you don't like it, leave.  I hear France is looking for a few good people.

While on the subject of bandwagons and Caylee Anthony...Let's stop the nonsense of petitions to stop moms from killing their kids.  Let's stop leaving on our porch lights in honor of Caylee.  If it really means that much to you, why don't you actually volunteer time to children in need, try mentoring, or look into a Guardian Ad Litem program in your community.  Do something that makes a difference to a living child.  Do something that actually doesn't make you look like a stereotypical "stupid American" (in the words of my former French teacher).  If as many people cared about the living children being bounced from foster family to foster family as cared about this media-bloated Anthony case, fewer children would be dying.  Believe me, there are living children in your community that need a voice, not the dead ones.  Get real and get your priorities straight.

And on a totally unrelated subject-I am proud to be an American.  I, however, am so happy that tomorrow is the last freakin' shuttle launch into space.  Maybe we can use those funds from NASA to build a 9/11-Caylee Anthony-Oklahoma City-Katrina-flood-tornado memorial on the former grounds of the World Trade Center.  We have no business in space. 

Smokers

As if you couldn't tell by now, I have one or two pet peeves.  I don't let them get to me, I simply write about them in a blog that nobody reads....Okay, not "nobody"- cool people read it, that's all that really matters. 

Today, as I was driving to do some field work as an Environmental Specialist, I observed a haggard bitch in an SUV next to me take a puff of her Virginia Slim and drop the butt out the window.  Now, if you live in this area, you know that Pinellas County is surrounded by water.  Everything dumped into the streets goes directly into the Gulf of Mexico.  Every single stormwater runoff drain along the street has a placard on it clearly stating, "Only rain down the drain".  I know this because I was a volunteer that worked hard on my weekends to affix those signs to the drains.  Anyways, this did not make me happy.  I didn't work my ass off in the sun, for a volunteer agency that no longer exists, to have some bitch throw her butt on MY sign.  Being the professional I am, though, I just grumbled about it under my breath and decided to blog about it tonight. 

I look at it this way: You throwing that cigarette butt from your window is tantamount to me taking a bag of garbage and dumping it in your front yard.  Does that piss you off?  Well then, quit throwing your fucking cigarette butts on the ground, you pig!  The world is not your ashtray.  Nor does the world owe you any favors.  Cigarette filters are made of plastic fibers that can take up to ten years to decompose.  I know that doesn't mean anything to you, since you obviously don't care about yourself, or anyone around you, but have some accountability for your actions, you smelly dirtbag. 

And since I'm on the subject of you not caring about anything else around you...Let's talk about the smokers who take twenty five smoke breaks a day at the office.  You don't see me going outside every fifteen minutes for a fresh-air break, so what gives you that sense of entitlement?  Maybe if you'd concentrate on your work as hard as you concentrate on performing fellatio on that cancer stick, you would be caught up on your work instead of whining about it over a cigarette. 
Why do you smokers find it necessary to congregate at the entry/exit of every public building?  We voted to put you outside because we couldn't stand the smell of that shit.  What makes you think we enjoy walking through a haze of it whenever we enter or exit a building.  How would you smokers like it if, every time someone had to fart, they ran to the entrance of the building to do it?  Sucks, right?  Well, get used to it, because the next time I walk by a group of hacking, wrinkly old broads, I'm gonna let it rip. 

It's also great that you care so much about your children.....Oh, that's right, you don't.  I love seeing pregnant women smoking.  You're not selfish at all, and you totally deserve to be a mother.  After all, you are setting great examples of self control and concern for your (and other people's) well being already.  You're also proving your intelligence.  Babies LOVE the smell of second-hand smoke.  So go ahead, pop out another low-birth-weight baby.  Why not drink some Jack Daniel's and snort a few lines, while you're at it?  The foster care system loves babies with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. 

If you're a smoker, you really piss me off.  Bad.  I mean, seriously?  Are you that dumb to not utilize the free resources out there to help you quit?  I have seen the homeless panhandling cash on the side of the road, yet they always have a pack of cigarettes with them.  Here's a thought....quit smoking and use that cash you're saving to buy a bar of soap and a razor and go to the day labor place.  They do hire more than just "undocumented citizens", you know.

Who are you fooling by rolling your car windows down an inch so the smoke blows out the window?Good thinking.  Nobody will EVER know you smoke in your car.

I had best not hear another smoker bitch about being broke. I'm getting tired of my bills going up because it has to cover your nasty ass.  I saw a guy in a bar I was inspecting.  He had a hole in his trachea, yet he was still smoking.  Good thing medicare paid a gazillion dollars for that trach tube so you could blow cool smoke rings out of it.

Smokers, you smell putrid.  All the time.  Just because your sense of smell stopped working after you had the tumors removed from your sinuses, doesn't mean you don't stink.  So when you light up your next cig, just remember, you are awesome.

Storm

Okay, okay.  I know my post content is continually riddled with facetiousness.  It will be once again.  I just had to take a moment to remember a special friend. 

Storm Fox had a heart of gold and a smile that could light up a room.  His loving nature made him hard to dislike.  Storm never met a person that wasn't his friend.  He always offered a reassuring word when times got tough, and gave the best bear hugs known to mankind.  His loyalty to his friends is evidenced by the longevity of his relationships with them, and his family was always priority. 

Storm's wittiness and sense of humor, even in the darkest moments, put everything into perspective.  Nothing got by Storm, and a laugh from the soul was always guaranteed when he was present. 

Storm never judged, and always made everyone feel as though they'd known him for lifetimes before.  My life is better because I was lucky enough to have known him.

Storm passed away on Saturday, June 18th.  Just as he was an angel here on earth, he is now an angel smiling upon us.  Until we meet again, my friend, you will be missed. 

Did I mention I hate.....

I hate small talk.  Riding in an elevator with a stranger is akward enough.  Discussing the painfully obvious with that stranger is absurd.  Yeah, I know the weather is hot.  It's Florida.  In May.  Where'd you obtain your meteorolgy degree?
I know the gas prices are high.  Discussing the outrageous prices is not going to cause them to go down. If it bothers you enough to discuss it with me, perhaps you should look into alternative means of transportation.  And shut the fuck up.
"Is it Friday yet?", "I can't believe it's Monday", or "Hump day...We're almost there", are unacceptable to me.  I even see people post these as their Facebook status.  I am perfectly coherent.  I do not suffer from dementia or Alzheimer's, I am not in a coma, and I am not Terri Schaivo.  I know damned well what day of the week it is.   What can I possibly contribute to those statements to make this a riveting conversation?  NOTHING.

I hate going into a public restroom and someone starts a conversation with me as I'm entering a stall.  It takes every ounce of concentration I have to overcome "stage fright" and start peeing. I can't start until I am able to stop answering your questions about what I'm doing this weekend.  Because of this, the person who started the conversation must assume I have to poop, as I'm just sitting there, quietly.  In turn, I spend too much time in the public restroom, and come out afterward hoping nobody else thinks I pooped. 

While on the subject, I hate people who poop in public.  Come on, man.  Your life is that busy that you can't squeeze a quick crap into your time at home?  Nobody else wants to smell that.  Also, spraying air freshener does not eliminate the fecal odor.  It simply highlights the fact that you just took a dump and stunk up the bathroom.  This is why you should do this at home. 

I hate walking through a stranger's fart residual. 

I hate that I only ever see fat, sloppy people wearing scrubs.  Do scrubs only come in size XXXXL?  And as nurses, shouldn't these people be represented better?  How can you take care of someone ill if you can't even brush your hair.  How can you tell someone to eat healthier when you obviously don't  know the meaning of diet and exercise?  I can't take you seriously. 

I hate tight shirts on men.  Especially Affliction, Tap Out, Ed Hardy, and shirts with skulls on them.  Unless you are a famous MMA fighter (even that is questionable), don't wear them.  If you do, I thank you for giving me a head's up that you're a douchebag.  The big, tacky logos give me ample time to turn and run in the other direction.

I hate those little white chunks of solid matter that mysteriously appear out of nowhere in my mouth.  What are you, and where did you come from?  

I hate people who feel the need to come to a complete stop before making a right turn.  It's alright, I'll just slam on my brakes so you don't have to counter-balance yourselves.  Anything to make you comfortable. 

I hate finding fingernails on the floor/ground. 

I hate that everywhere I walk, I see dental floss picks laying on the ground.  I'm convinced they bounce off the rim of the trash can.  I don't understand.  For as many of the picks I see littering the ground, I see an awful lot of people with extremely poor dental hygiene.  Where are these people that are throwing these things?  And why don't they throw them in the trash?

I hate trying to talk to someone who has eye boogers.

I hate people trying to talk to me while I'm obviously working.  I especially hate people that don't say, "good morning" and don't give me a chance to sit down and grab my coffee before approaching me with some trivial work issue.

I hate bunchy elastic waist pants.  What happens when you turn 65 that you can no longer wear regular button-up slacks?  Why, at around the same time, does it become necessary to slide your waist to just under your armpit?  Do old people find long butts sexy?  Is this a trend I am not aware of in the retirement community?  Also, why do all old ladies get the same hair cut?  Is this a rite of passage into retirement?  "Well Ethel, I'm turning 70 tomorrow.  You know what that means?  I made my appointment at Fantastic Sam's to get my hair chopped off and permed.  I can't wait."

I hate those shoes that nurses and old ladies wear.  They're either tan or black, have velcro involved somewhere, and are hideous.  This shows me that you have completely given up.  Congratulations.

I hate that most Irish people are only proud to be Irish around St. Patrick's Day.  But really, what else do you have going for you?  Lucky Charms? You can drink a lot?  Awesome.  I'm really impressed.

I hate lot stalkers.  Lot stalkers are those that sit in a parking lot lane with fourteen cars behind them, with their blinker on, waiting for the guy in a close spot to back out.  There are 25,000 empty spots around the corner, but this jerk off sees the need to inconvenience everyone around him. 

I hate it when people ask me where they should eat and what restaurants to avoid.  If I gave you an honest answer, you'd simply say, "No way", and continue to eat there anyway.  For this reason, if you have asked me this question, or plan on asking me this question, expect to get a bull shit answer.  I'm a health inspector, not your personal restaurant critic. 

Kate

I've said it before, and I'll say it again.  Not everyone is as fortunate as I to have Kate as a best friend.  A friendship like ours is unique, to say the least.  We've been friends for as long as I can remember (ok, since Junior High, at least).  Unlike most catty girl/girl friendships, Kate and I have never fought.  Not even a squabble.  We have always respected each other's difference of opinion.  In fact, I'm pretty sure this is what keeps us balanced.  Although time and distance (add shielding to that, and you have the trifecta for protecting yourself in the event of a radiological disaster-you're welcome) have prevented us from seeing each other face to face as often as we'd like, our friendship has only grown stronger. 

Kate and I were certainly not the most popular girls in junior high.  Just like every other kid we went to school with and every kid who has passed through the doors of Meadville Area Junior/Senior High since, we were simply smelly, gross teenagers.  Freshman year was when we really became inseparable.  This was also the time grunge and Beavis and Butt-head were popular.  We had a lot of classes together, so naturally, we talked through them all.  When one would get detention for talking, the other one would go to detention too, not because we had to, but because we were bored. 

Kate's family was, um, eclectic.  Her kitchen cabinets were covered in pictures of Bill Clinton and Joan Baez.  There was an italian dressing bottle filled with holy water in the fridge, and gargoyles stared down at you from pretty much every corner in the house.  Kate and her sisters pretty much did as they pleased. 

This, by no means, is a cut on Kate's mom. As a single mother, she busted her ass to make sure the kids had everything they needed.  "Burke" is a beautiful, amazing, intelligent woman, whose heart and soul is devoted to improve the lives of those around her.  I remember Kate coming over to my house, sitting on the couch, saying, "I miss this."  My dad, confused by her statement, asked her nicely what the hell she was talking about.  She replied, "my mom gave away all our furniture to a family who needed it at the church."  Kate came home from school one day, and thought they had been robbed.  She wasn't bull shitting.  Burke donated it ALL.  I'm pretty sure to this day, there's still no furniture in that house. 

Kate has no known enemies...well, maybe a few.  Norman, an over-weight uh, not-so-intelligent (okay, he was in special classes) student continually harassed Kate.  She and Norman had a hate-hate relationship that was deeply seeded from early years.  Kate weighed maybe 80 pounds, soaking wet.  Norman weighed about 280, bone dry (but very greasy).    Norman was one mean dummy.  While riding her bike home from school, she told Norman to get away from her.  She made the mistake of throwing a snowball at him, to no avail (her arms were like twigs).  Norman turned into an angry gorilla, packed a snowball the diameter of a volleyball with the hardness of a baseball, and with all his retard strength, wailed it.  Kate flew off her bike like a gladiator impaled in a jousting match (did that shit really happen?).  Unlike the panty-waist crybabies of today, we didn't believe in wearing helmets. She rolled about 20 feet, into a snow drift. Kate's knees were torn up, her head bleeding.  She jumped on her bike and ran away.  She found a different route home after that.  She called me as soon as she got home (yeah, it was long before cell phones),  "That mother fucker is going down!", she said through her tears. I wonder where old Norman is today.  He could probably still kick our asses.  

Kate and I used to go to restaurants, request a booth, then sit next to each other.  Nobody else was with us.

We went to the rest stop in Edinboro (25 miles from our house) and took a bunch of pictures with the rest area attendant, holding up brochures.  We told her we were traveling the US, documenting all the rest area attendants we met along the way. 

One night in the dead of winter, we decided to go throw snowballs at Kate's neighbors's house.  Our intention was to locate the bedroom window of the boy I liked, and try to get his attention (I was a loser and he hated me).  We dressed in all black, including ski masks, and headed out.  We were dressed in all black. In four feet of pure, white snow.  Enough said. 

There are so many more stories.  Stories I can't tell on here.  We'd probably be thrown in jail.  That's okay.  You can find the whole story in our book.  It'll be coming to a bookstore near you soon.

On a Serious Note

I often joke about, well, pretty much everything.  I believe that life is much too fun to be taken seriously.  However, I do have a serious side. 

I have a friend (several, actually) who is going through a trying time in her life.  She confided in me that her world feels like it's falling apart due to the dissolution of her marriage.  As I listened to her story, I just wanted to hug her and tell her, "Your feelings are completely normal.  You're going to be okay.  I promise, just be strong".  These words of advice I would not have been able to provide her a little over a year ago. 

Let me preface this by explaining that I went into my marriage like most do, confident that we, together, could withstand anything. I faced a lot of judgement throughout the course of my divorce, all from outsiders whose opinion truly meant nothing to me.  They have no idea what we went through.  Nor will they ever.

It takes more than one person to ruin a marriage.  Neither one of us was perfect.  I decided in May of 2009 that I could no longer pretend to love the stranger Ken turned out to be.  It took a lot of sleepless nights before I mustered the courage to tell him that things had to change.  This was the hardest thing I've ever faced.  This was the man I was supposed to devote my life to.  I took vows to love him through thick and thin.  What was wrong with me?  He treated me like a princess, sending me flowers for no reason, leaving me notes, providing me with a beautiful home.  I could never want or need for anything.  I was an awful person.  Why would I want to walk away from the only life I've known since moving to Florida?  I packed up a small bag of belongings, and went to a co-worker's house.  After sitting awake in her living room all night, I got in my car and drove down Gulf Boulevard.  I pulled into the parking lot of Gull Harbor, a 55+  condominium community, and parked.  There I sat. 6:15 a.m., facing a generic white three story building , wondering what I had done.  I had no place to go, and I had no one to call.  Nobody knew I wanted out.  We appeared so happy.  What would anybody say when I told them I left?  I wasn't ready to face the judgement yet.  All I wanted was someone to hold me while I cried.  I sat at Gull Harbor until about 8:30.  I grabbed the Sunday paper and started looking for rentals.  By 5:00 that night, I was a train wreck.  I hadn't found a rental, and I had no place to go.  I ended up back at my co-worker's house.  Her parents' winter home had been vacated for the season, so she handed over the key. 

I battled with the guilt of leaving Ken day and night.  I went for days without sleep.  My personal life was affecting my professional life.  I talked to Ken daily. Everyday, he'd cry and beg me to come home. How could I walk away from this man, whom I had given my all for just a year prior?  I moved back home after about a month.  He promised he'd change, and I promised myself I'd make myself fall back in love with him.  It felt so good to be home.  I was back with Moose, and my creature comforts.  Ken surprised me with a weekend escape to St.Augustine.  He reserved us the honeymoon suite at Casa Monica, took me for a horse-drawn carriage ride, and bought me jewelry.  This did nothing to make me fall in love with him again.  His obsession with material things was actually a major contributor to the demise of our marriage.  He never wanted to hear that when I'd try to communicate that.  A week before my 30th birthday, another one of his lies unraveled.  That was the end.  I told him this wasn't going to work.  I tried everything I could to make myself love him, but his promises of change were empty.  I found a fully furnished condo on the beach to rent.  

The following year, the guilt and the doubt haunted me.  I had regular contact with Ken, since he kept Moose, and we had cars, boats, and jet skis to sell.  The nights were so lonely, there in bed with my thoughts.  "What if I tried harder?"  I gave up EVERYTHING when I walked out on my family.  To me, that's exactly what I felt I did, was walk out on my family.  There were days I couldn't get out of bed. There were nights I'd fall to the floor sobbing uncontrollably, praying for the pain to go away.  I tried to function at work, but my performance was slipping.  I stopped teaching Zumba.  I stopped running.  I was alone now.  Nobody has ever felt like I felt.  Or so I thought.

I have been blessed with some of the most amazing parents in the world.  When I did get the courage to tell them I left, my dad drove down here from Pennsylvania and stayed with me until the divorce was well underway.  They were the only ones who never questioned why I left.  Finally, my shoulders to lean (and cry on) were here. 

A divorce isn't just a separation of a married couple.  A divorce is the separation of an individual from everything that grounded them and kept them whole.  For some, that's children.  For others, it's the life and home you created together.  As I mentioned earlier, a lot of people were quick to judge.  Without getting into the details of the divorce, nobody knows the whole story except the two people involved.  I refuse to get into the details of the divorce.  It's water under the bridge now, and as part of the healing process, I refuse to rehash that.

On June 20th, it will be one year since my divorce was granted.  I moved from that furnished condo into an unfurnished house.  I took this as an opportunity to move forward.  Ken relocated to parts unknown, and we have not been in contact.  He left me with nothing but a closet full of my clothing, Moose, and the world at my fingertips.  That's all I needed. 

It still hurts to dig up some of the wounds. They are still pretty fresh.  I'm not going to lie.  I cried writing this.  It's the first time I've cried over this in a long time, though.  That's how I know I am healing.

So I say to you, my friend, please know you are not alone.  Unfortunately, things may get worse before they get better.  You are so strong.  You can do this.  Please know that you have a non-judgemental shoulder to cry on.  Remember, we have predetermined this path for ourselves for a reason.