Lip Locking Grandma

Back story: Drizilla quit working because she was pregnant. The rampant speculation is that the Baby Daddy isn’t her husband, but Johnny Bravo, the best friend who filled the gap because her husband shoots blanks. Sadly, Drizilla quit working, but she didn’t quit chain smoking or drinking while she was pregnant, so when the baby was born last week she weighed under 6 pounds. /back story

Last night as I left work, one of the family members, I’ll call her K for now, said she had to walk to the motel and get Drizilla’s mom’s phone. I offered to give her a ride. She said she was very annoyed with the whole “babysit grandma” adventure because grandma kept trying to kiss her on the lips. “WTF?! My own kids don’t kiss me on the lips.”

She found the phone in the room by calling it, then she quickly locked the door and got back in the van. The conversation turned from Lip Locking Grandma to the parentage of the new baby. This went on for a full 3 minutes until we got back to the bar and parked. As we were getting out, we heard a beep. She looked at the phone and uttered a horrifying sentence:

“OH MY GOD! That all went to voice mail!”

I had plausible deniability. She did not.

Thankfully, Lip Locking Grandma is one of the tech-inept because she didn’t have a pass code set up to access her voice mail. We listened to the message and alternately howled with laughter while counting our blessings. Every now and then it is nice to stumble upon a dummy.

After that scare, I decided to go back in the bar and have a drink. K went to the restroom and I checked in on the Words with Friends game I’m playing with my daughter. I was sitting in the corner, minding my own business (while smelling that a lot of people in the bar need a good scrubbing-the sense of smell is killing me) when suddenly there was a huge ass in my face, all bent over and heading towards my lap.

WTF?! I am NOT a toucher/hugger/mauler, and oh hell no if someone thinks they are going to put their dirty ass on me. I stood up and politely asked Lip Locking Grandma to not sit on me. I mean, holy shit. There wasn’t a shortage of chairs, and I don’t know this woman at all.

That wasn’t good enough. She backed me up against the bar, hugging me while puckering up to kiss me on the lips. I wigged out and she went away mad.

What is wrong with people? When someone politely asks a person to respect their space, why must some people persist and get even more aggressive in their need to paw? I view it as extremely hostile, bordering on rape. It always seems to be women who do this to me. They just aren’t happy until I lose my shit, and then they are all hurt and I’m the mean girl.

I swear the next bitch who does this is in for a surprise. I’m going to dry hump her to the floor and ride her like a saddle bronc. I’m betting everyone will get the point after that.

Updates for The Cast of Characters

I updated the “Cast of Characters” and as you can see, a lot of people bit the dust while I was gone.

Cartman–he isn’t a bar/cafe employee, but he’s always underfoot.  He quit/got fired from the town for sleeping on the job and general laziness.  Bagheera warned me that I should be nicer to him because she thought he was going to go on a shooting rampage, most likely starting with me.  What gave her the clue?  He started selling all his guns for bargain basement prices, but said he was holding on to one AK-47.  Cartman gets free samples and compliments now.

Betty Booze–her days were always numbered, but even I didn’t imagine how complete her downfall would be.  She lost her full time job at the Visitor Center, broke up with her long time boyfriend, Shaggy,  and started living with Davey in a one room house. 

But wait!  There’s more. 

Her 15 year old daughter was arrested for minor in possession of alcohol, which put child protective services up Betty Booze’s ass.  She started popping Davey’s pills, went batshit insane, and just stopped showing up for work.  Davey’s Mormon landlady didn’t like him living in sin, so she evicted both of them.  They had their shit packed in a piece of shit row boat one day when Michele & I drove by their house, and I laughed so fucking hard I couldn’t get a picture.  They moved into a shed owned by a rodeo clown.

I am not making this up.

Everything was fine until one night Davey went on a pill and alcohol rage and threw all of Betty Booze’s stuff in the river.  He went to jail.

I’m sure their story isn’t over yet.    

Shaggy–cut his losses and moved away.  He’s one of the lucky ones.

Davey–if I didn’t think I would get in trouble I would post his mug shot from his most recent stay in jail.

Drizella–got knocked up and quit.

Doc–tried to drink himself to death, spent a week in an induced coma, currently looking for a new liver.  This one isn’t funny. 

Of course, we found replacements for the fallen.  Of course, they are dysFUNctional.

Here’s a teaser:

Special Board:  Hog Wings & Potatoe Salad

Me:  Who keeps putting an ‘e’ on the end of potato?

New Hire in Search of a Nickname:  I do.  That’s the correct way to spell it.

Me:  Ok, Dan Quayle.

New Hire:  Who’s Dan Quayle.

Me:  The former Vice President of the United States who chastised an elementary student for misspelling ‘potato’ only to find out he was wrong.

New Hire:  I have spell check on my phone, and it says it’s right.

Me:  The dictionary on my phone says you’re wrong.

Idiot.  I’m surrounded.

Dog Shaming of My Own–Sienna

 

ON AT LEAST FOUR (4) DIFFERENT OCCASIONS.

Millers

 

Filthy little bastard.

Jamie is fighting a losing battle against crickets in her garage.  I’m fighting a losing battle with millers in my bedroom.  Little bastards.

At the end of my day I like to get in bed and read.  This last week I’ve been swarmed by millers.  They land on my face and when I try to shriek, “KILL THE NASTY!”  they fly in my mouth.  Then they tangle in my hair, crawl on my arms and try to pluck out my eyes.  Last night I discovered they feel moist when they do the creep walk, which sent me into screaming heebie jeebie convulsions.

Otis and Maggie used to be Miller Killers.  I would shriek, “KILL THE NASTY!” and they would leap to the head of the bed and snap them out of the air.  This summer Halo and Arlo have decided to pitch a bitch fit if anyone moves on the bed, so when I shriek, “KILL THE NASTY!” Maggie and Otis look at me like I’ve ordered their execution.  Otis still tries.  He worms (fat ass in the air, front legs by his sides, top of his head on the bed, back legs pushing) his way up me, lays on my chest and tries to catch millers, but to be frank, he sucks.  He snaps, drools, decides he wants to be a baby, and rolls onto his back while millers pummel both of us. 

Otis looking for Nasties.

This has turned my relaxing time into an hour of screaming, flailing and name calling.  When I turn the light out I fall into a terrorized exhausted sleep.  It’s helped my insomnia, but at what cost?  I’m supposed to be the boss, but I’m reduced to giving orders no one follows.  What’s next?  Will intruders be given a cup of coffee and a donut? 

You just can’t find good help these days.

About:Blank

Years ago when I was a teenager, my mom, my brother and I went to Cody for groceries.  I think I was 16 or 17, so my brother would have been 10 or 11 at the time, and he was just beginning what would be a freakish growth spurt.  We were in our 1968 VW Beetle, it was summer, we had the wind in our hair, and life was good.

When we got to Cody a bee (or a wasp) flew in the car and after much flailing and shrieking, my brother killed it on the floor in the back seat.  We got our groceries, ran some errands, got a snack and headed back to Meeteetse.  For some reason, my brother decided to take off his shoes and socks.

At some point on the way home, I heard an ear splitting shriek from the back seat and then my brother started screaming, “GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT!”  He crammed his abnormally large foot in my mom’s face, which caused her to almost roll the car. 

“I’m driving,” she said, swatting his foot out of her face.

So he floundered around, still screaming, “GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT!” and stuck his foot in my face.

“I’m not touching it.  Mom’s the EMT.  Make her get it out,” I said, hardly taking my nose out of the Tiger Beat magazine I was reading.

We pulled over, my mom scrapped the bee (or wasp) out of his foot, chastised him for taking his shoes and socks off AFTER he killed a bee (or wasp) on the floor, and we went on our merry way.  Yeah, my brother sobbed in the back for a while, but I turned up the 8-Track tape player and we couldn’t hear him.

What does this story have to do with About: Blank?  Apparently, my computer has this browser hijacking crap on it and I have tried everything to get rid of it.  I’m to the point of sticking it in someone’s face and shrieking, “GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT!” 

Any suggestions on getting rid of it, or is it time for a new computer?

Good Morning Starshine

This is how I woke up this morning.

Dog feet hovering over my face.

I guess it could have been worse, it could have been dog ass in my face.

Yeah, like that’s never happened.

Halo is part hound dog so she sleeps flat on her back with her feet in the air.

 

She usually sleeps down by my knees so it isn’t an issue, but when she creeps up by my waist I have huge, nasty dog feet in my face.

  

Sleeping with 5 dogs is a delicate balance.  Everyone has their place:  Sienna & Otis at the foot of the bed, Maggie on one side, Halo on the other and Arlo by my head.  Arlo tends to use my face as a pillow and that’s almost as annoying as dog feet in my face, but not quite.  Most of them sleep on the floor in the summer, and I don’t know what to do with all the room in my bed.  It’s a little slice of heaven.  But in the winter when it’s freezing outside and I’m between two bitches with head and foot warmers, it’s a slice of heaven too.  With all that warmth and love I guess I can’t complain about the occasional feet in my face.

I had to look carefully to make sure my kids didn’t take the picture on the right..

 

 

The Crying Game

Wrong game.

This isn’t a story about a woman who’s actually a man, and Boy George isn’t going to sing.  It’s a story about a game I play with Eeyore

It all started several years ago when I made polite conversation with her.  After I asked how her day was going, she launched into everything that was wrong with her world and after a 5 minute pity party, she started crying.  I felt really bad for starting the conversation (you know, the one that starts with “How are you today?”) and I left her weeping in the bar.

Then it happened again and I felt bad.

One night we had a huge group of bikers.  They made reservations, had a set menu and an auto-grat of around $200.  Eeyore and Ursula, who were responsible for ONLY getting their drinks, decided the $200 was theirs.  Meanwhile, there were 4 of us in the kitchen, cooking, cleaning and restocking, and I doubled as the server.  When I got wind that those two thought they were getting all the money, I had a small cow.

Before long it got back to Eeyore and Ursula that they got the tips off the drinks ONLY and the cooks would split the auto-grat.  Eeyore ended up in the kitchen, in a puddle, sobbing her eyes out.  WTF?!  Get out there and make some money!  See, she and Ursula didn’t want to actually work for the money, they wanted the kitchen staff and me to run our asses off while they sat at the bar and got drunk.  Fuck that shit.

Game on!

After that day I made it my mission to make Eeyore cry every chance I can.  She’s such an easy target sometimes all it takes is, “Hi Eeyore, how are you today?”  I don’t count those times because it’s way too easy, and I don’t get to hone my mean girl skills.

Sunday she was in the kitchen ranting about a National Geographic photographer who was taking pictures in the bar.  Apparently he took pictures of Tinkerbell braiding Eeyore’s hair and that was terribly upsetting.  Unfortunately, we were busy and I didn’t have time to mess with her and tip her over the edge, but I owe her one.  

Yesterday I had lunch with Sunni and several other girlfriends.  I told them the story of Betty Boop Booze parking behind me.  Sunni said, “Holy shit.  You are the last person I would mess with because you are the most vindictive person I know.”  All my other girlfriends agreed. 

If Eeyore was smart enough to realize I’m playing a game with her, she’d agree, too.

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