You know you're a douche nozzle

You know, when you take a can of Diet Dr Pepper out of the break room refrigerator that is mine, you're a douche nozzle.

You know, when you take frozen food out of your cart and let it thaw out in the cleaning supplies, you're a douche nozzle.

You know, when you are making a left turn out of a parking lot and you don't leave enough room for anyone to make a quick right, you're a douche nozzle.

You know, when you spread your seed  all over town and then don't bother to pay child suppport, you're a douche nozzle.

You know, when you lean across someone filling their diet coke at the quicky mart to  grab a  straw, you're a douche nozzle.

You know, when you run over a pet in the road and don't stop to help, you're a douche nozzle

You know, when that cute confident lady you email and Im tells you to sod off and you chose to cyber stalk, you're being a douche nozzle.

You know, when you interrupt the DVR to catch a game, you're a douche nozzle.

You know, when you break up with someone and hold on for their stuff for three months, you're being a douche nozzle.

You know, when you bounce a check for a party lite party, you're being a douche nozzle.

 

You know, when you take the last beer and didn't bother to bring any, you're being a douche nozzle

You know, when you always end up being the designated passenger while one of your friends gets to stay sober, you're being a douche nozzle.

You know, when you "find" some more stuff your ex forgot and you pretend like you lost her address, you're being a douche nozzle.

You know, when you call anyone at 2 O'clock in the morning to cry about being a lonely drunk loser, you're being a douche nozzle.

You know, when a friend goes out on a limb and includes you on their family plan and you duck out on a $150 cell phone bill, you're being a douche nozzle.

And finally, you know, when you're the spewer of hate for a major political party, you are a douche nozzle.

Fat and Not Happy

I use to be a size 4.  I liked buying anorexic sizes.  I still had the trademark pouch on my belly, but I wasn't fat.  I was just starting to firm up my jiggly bits. 

There was a time when I worked out at least three days a week.  It wasn't particularly structured, but I did work up a sweat and stayed small.  There were times I would stray from my routine and I noticed a change in my body and mood.

After my last tragic romance, I fell into a funk.  I started to eat meat and just didn't feel up. Well, seven months later and thirty pounds later, I'm a sad Amy.

The hardest part is getting back into the rhythm.  I worked out a little Monday and plan to go back Friday. 

My One and Only Politcal Post this Election Season

I live in an area dominated by cornpone conservatives.  These are farmers, small business owners, and discount non-unionized factory workers.  Many still buy into the belief that the Republican Party is the party of small government, fiscal conservation, and family values. And the Democrats are all about big government, tax and spend, and killing babies.

The truth is, the Republicans are, in my opinion, taking us towards a fascist state in the Orwellian tradition.  They've expanded the government.  They've created a network of private armies and mercenaries that answer to the dollar and not the Constitution.  And they can spy without reason or warrant.  No, I haven't forgotten about 9/11.  And no, I don't feel any more or any less safe than I did on 9/10.  I don't associate with terrorists and don't personally know any Muslims. 

And the number of people I know that are honest to goodness convinced that Barrak Obama is the anti-Christ, a Muslim, or not really a natural born citizen is just insane.  Some of them even quote the chain emails that taut these "facts."  They are also convinced that Sarah Palin (who really isn't running for office by the way) is an intelligent, strong, and independent woman.  Again, their source is either Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, or another email.

I was convinced I was surrounded by idiots until I started to see the Obama signs springing up on lawns.  And a few people I work with started chiming about the Republican failures and that change has to come soon.  And then I saw this:

The truth is, most of the people I know supporting McCain are white males. I don't think that they are racists, I think they're scared. For centuries, white males have dominated American society. They've run the government and they've run the companies. Up until now, they've given token power and influence to a select few women and people of color. Usually they were selected for their ability to conform to the white male proto-type.

This year, we've seen a serious challenge to that power. These men are not scared that Obama is a Muslim or a black man or a friend of terrorist. No, he is an American that happens to be black. And the white male establishment is terrified that someone my want paybacks. Or, that the new America will no longer treat them as the chosen ones. They are scared that they now will honestly have to accept that women, blacks, Hispanics, and the other non white males are their equals.

So my sisters are on patrol to find me a man.  I think it's part of a greater conspiracy to convince me to move back north with the rest of the family.  

These crazy girls have found one candidate.  Apparently the sisters, Erin and Heather, were at the Black Cat (funny I have a black cat) listening to the 80's cover band Brother (I have brothers, too).  And they find him.

Of course it was too dark to take camera phone pictures.  I did get a blizzard of text messages attempting to describe him.  Since my sister is one of the short hand type of texter, it took a bit to decipher, but this is what I've got out of those messages:

He's tall (which is good)

He was wearing a kilt (also good)

A Harley kilt (even better)

He's not a item from aisle 23 (I always end up in aisle 23 or 24)

Erin claims he's nicely built and smokin' hot.  But we have different taste, so I'll have to judge for myself.  That is if she ever tracks him down and gets a picture.

Well, Erin has decided that finding Kilt Man is a worthy quest, so she's going to track him down.  

Since there is a oh hell no list of names, I asked if she knew Kilt Man's name.  She thought is was Matt or Mark, which is bad.

The Of Hell No List if you have one of the following names, you're shit out of luck

Mark, last guy I dated named Mark was a total piece of shit

Mark, Chrsity dated a mentally damaged guy named Matt

Steve, things ended badly

Todd,or Doug,they just sound gay

Rob, too many in the family as it is

So, fast foreword to Saturday night.  Sister Erin finishes bowling and off to find Kilt Man.  The night's hunting wasn't completely fruitless.  Erin talked to Auburn Ron and got a few more tidbits of information.  Kilt Man's name is Rick.  He lives in Auburn.  He rides a fat boy.  

That's it.  Still no last name.  How can I google him and search the sex offenders lists without a last name?  Still don't know if he has a job or wife or kids.  

Guess Erin will have to dog a little deeper if she thinks this is my next ex.

This is an actual factual Transcript

A little background:

On Saturday night, my sisters, my friend and I ended up at a karaoke bar, again.  And there was kilt boy.  He recognized my sister by her tattoos.  Apparently they were in the tattoo shop getting inked at the same time.  

So the ritual showing of the tats ensued.  Leg tats, tramp stamps, and a few other were bared.  I didn't have any to show, because I have commitment issues, and permanently stabbing ink under the dermis is pretty much more commitment than I can handle.  Hell, I don't like buying canned foods if the shelf life is too long.

Well, I talked to kilt boy and found out that he's a vet and fireman (and will be hence forth known as fire boy).  I knew I shopping in aisle 27 or 29, but that's better than aisle 22.  A few beers and several shots of vodka later, I decided to talk to fire boy in the parking lot, since it was quieter.  

Well, I shot him down.  Not because he wasn't cute.  He was plenty of that.  But I didn't know his last name.  I'm not on any type of birth control and I don't like kids much.  And, my sisters would have broke into random window rapping, setting off car alarms.  

So, I go back to the herd and we go home.  OK, back to Erin's place, but close enough.  Sunday morning bring demolishing the breakfast buffet at Azar's with the family and headed south and west for home.

On the return trip, I decided to stop at Chateau Thomas and pick up a few bottles of Indiana wine.  As I was getting back in the car, I had a text message.  What follows is a transcript of the three way text message conversation with my sister, fire boy, and myself.  Keep in mind I'm flying down Highway 70, so all this takes place between Indianapolis and Terre Haute.  Anything in italics is what I was thinking.

FireBoy: Id nail ur sister with the irish tats.  huh

Me: I'll let her know

FB: Tell her to text me double huh

ME:No problem this is going to be funny

ME:  forward slimy message to Erin

Sister: huh?

ME: I just got that from the fireman

SIS: that cuz men r pigs!

ME: See it was good that I left him hanging

SIS:that y i dont pick up men in bars. i just go out 4 the music & beer.. met will bowling.. met matt bowling.. met beerman bowling.  c the pattern!?!

ME: Yuo.  What's up with the ColtsD

Some random texts between Sister and I about football

ME: Fireman wants you to text him

SIS: no thanx he made out with my sister

ME: No glory pinch hitting

SIS:aint pinch hittin.. men r just pigs & that 1 of the rules  no sharing

ME: Sister said she's not a relief pitcher

FB: Ouch

ME: We never were much on sharing

FB: Haha she'd fuc me and the one in the black shirt prouby would toits the kilt and big cock haha What a tool

ME: The one in the black is terminally married 

FB: Yee whaa! Serious ur sis with tats doesn't like me? Nor wouldnt even make out

ME: Serious. She has someone.  She'll flirt, but that about all she does.  That and make sure I make it home

More random texts about football and the long drive home.

And yes, I actually spell thing out and punctuate my test messages. I'm a little anal about it, get over it.

 

My Sisters' Rules

I come from a large Catholic family.  A large, loud, possibly overbearing family.  I only get to visit a few times a year, which is all most people can take.  They have been known to chase off boyfriends, girlfriends, and a few spouses.  But all in all, anyone of us would bail the others out of jail.  Unless we're occupying adjoining cells.

There is no topic off limits at the dinner table.  Even when we are in public.  So, if you and your precious snowflake are seated anywhere near us be prepared for the following to be discussed:

Sex of all types.  Regular, oral, anal, masturbation.  

Drinking.  We like a good beer often.  One sister is obsessed with tequila

More sex

Which ever sibling isn't present 

Lack of sex

What a turd our father was

Gambling

And profanity will fly.  Hanging with my family isn't for the faint of heart.  And don't try to impress us.  With six of us left and the accompanying nieces and nephews, one of us has probably been there, done that, and one of us witnessed it.

We all work and most of us have spawned a replacement.  There are even a few great grandchildren for my mother to spoil.  The amazing thing is how stable the men turned out and how absolutely rowdy my sisters and I are.  Even the women that married into the family fit in. (We gave a sister-in-law a sympathy card when she married our brother.)  The men, well, Erin, Heather and I figure they're interchangeable.

So when I drug my friend up to Fort Wayne for the big Vera Bradley purse sale, I figured fun was a foot.  She's kind of a stick in the mud at home and even though she says she doesn't regret anything (and no, she didn't do anything stupid, illegal, or immoral) she still doesn't want too many details released.  

Personally, I try not to do anything that I'll have to explain away.  If I have fun and flash someone, oh well.  If I drink and end up singing karaoke, oh well that will never happen again.  If I do something stupid, I own up to it.  Erin knows a good attorney and my brothers keep bail money handy, so illegal is pretty well covered.  And immoral, well,  that's a very personal issue and I've done well in that area.

My sisters have a few rules to cover some gray areas:

1.  If you don't remember, it didn't happen

2.  Drunk people make bad witnesses, sometimes stories are exaggerated so don't believe everything you hear

3.  Anything that happens in a different country, area code, or zip code gets a free pass

4.  You have to buy all three sisters a drink to talk to one of us

5.  The next person that gets between me and the game will earn a beat down 

6.  If you want someones number, pretend to lose your phone 

7.  Married men are someone else's problem and we are not the solution

8.  Sisters don't leave sisters behind

Thems the rules, I didn't make them (expect #5), I just try to live by them.

Wedding Shows

So I'm flipping back and forth between Say Yes to the Dress and My Big Fat Redneck Wedding tonight.  

The rednecks are having fun playing in the mud and making a general mockery of  the wedding industry.  Nothing wrong with that.  Most of these couples spend less on their entire wedding than the brides on Say Yes spend on their dresses.  So what if they tap a keg and serve drunken chicken, they're having fun and are in love.

Doesn't every happy couple want to go mudding in a limousine during the reception?  These unconventional couples will still be married in twenty years.    

While on TLC, this poor bride, Liz,  might want to take her dress money and run.  She obviously has self esteem and confidence issues.  She's tried on dress after dress and can't make up her mind.  And the future husband (why would anyone drag their fiance to pick out the wedding dress?) throws out  insulting comments, some of which border on down right mean. 

And it's not like he's a prize.  Sure he has a job, but he's not particularly attractive.  I might be able to look past the Lettermanesque tooth gap, but I really couldn't look past his ass.  Maybe she can't reach exit velocity to escape his gravitational pull.  But seriously Liz, honey, run.  Run fast and far.

 Guess this is an case of reality TV making drama where none exists.  Or, this guy is a total ass.  I still think she sould run.

Hooray, google has heard my cries

Google has heard the pleas of the scorned, angry, stupid, drunk, and horny.  They are adding a feature to give time to reconsider an email. http://gmailblog.blogspot.com/2008/10/new-in-labs-stop-sending-mail-you-later.html?foo In honor of google's recent announcement, I bring an oldie but a goodie Oopsie!! Accidental Email  Current mood:  ditzy Have you ever gotten an email that completely enraged you?  So much so, you put on your sarcastic biatch hat and draft a reply.  The reply is witty, poignant, and sure to enraged the receiving party.  It's intended to hurt, belittle, or out right offend.  This is the retort we all wish we could come up with on the spot.  It's the perfect reply.  It's so good you have to share it with friends, but not necessarily with the person that sent you the evil email. "Must not draft reply.  Must not draft reply." Of course, we normally save those as drafts and edit them into civility after a cooling down period.  Normally.  Occasionally, for some Freudian reason, we accidentally hit SEND.  Followed quickly and loudly by a string of four letter words reserved for rush hour traffic. "Must not draft reply.  Must not draft reply." That's probably happened to everyone a time or two.  We all want to send the scathing email that points to the short comings and inadequacies of the recipient, but we don't send them.  We revise them, you know, tone them down for public consumption. "Must not draft reply.  Must not draft reply." So, I think that google and all the other email providers should offer an "Are you sure prompt?" I know most people find that to be one of the most annoying aspects of Vista, but I think those of us prone to accidental email would like to have that option. At least I need that option. Or, I guess I could stick to old fashion paper and pen.  I have a journal, but rarely use it.  Or, perhaps, I could keep notepad open for such occasions.   "Must not draft reply.  Must not draft reply." The accidental email might even be worse than drunk dialing.  There is no enduring evidence with a drunk dial.  With email, google will store your words forever. Oppps!