Killing 2 Birdz

I'm finally going to go visit my grandparents this weekend. After I realized that they were going to hire movers to help them move last month, I suddenly felt no urgency to go visit. But of course my grandmother never forgot my promise to pay a visit and she has been hounding me about it ever since. In an ironic twist of fate, I have gotten out of it every weekend by proclaiming that I just can't make it this particular weekend because I'm swamped with work. Now, I've made a commitment for this weekend and I'm really swamped with work. But I guess that's what happens when you lie to your grandmother.

They moved to a gated community that is also home to a large, well-known resort. So I decided I would compromise with this visit and stay at the resort down the street. My grandmother is having a fit about it. This is a woman that reuses Ziploc bags...for years, so she thinks spending money on a hotel room is ludicrous when she has a perfectly good guest room. And I'm sure she's right, but since when have I ever spent money wisely? Exactly.

So Saturday I have plans to spend the day at the spa on the resort and get a massage and a mani/pedi and a soak in a mud bath. So while I soak in hot mud, I'll be trying to forget that just two miles away my 75-year-old grandmother is waiting to tell me that I should wake up at 4 in the morning to make Big Daddy biscuits from scratch, and if I don't, he'll leave me for someone who will.

Speaking of Big Daddy, I really shouldn't take his sorry ass, but I need a driver. He always misbehaves at my grandparents' house. He is like a mischievous child. My grandmother worships the ground he walks on and just fawns all over him every minute he's around. I pretty much spend the whole time rolling my eyes and trying not to vomit on myself.

Once my grandmother and I got into a heated debate as to whether or not Big Daddy is the perfect man. I'll give you one guess which side I was debating for. So as she's just gushing about how Big Daddy is the perfect man, I catch myself saying stuff like, Um, no, he really isn't all that, Grandma. But she continues insisting. And I'm getting more adamant that he's really not that special. She still wouldn't back down when I threw what I thought would be the argument ender at her. Grandma, really, he's not that great. He cums in like two seconds.

So yeah, Big Daddy uses this new found fame to his advantage, which usually results in the silent treatment for the next two weeks after we return, so you'd think he'd learn his lesson. If he were to ever ask me to make him a sandwich on a normal Saturday afternoon I would more than likely say, "Go fuck yourself. Your legs aren't broken, make your own damn sandwich. And while you are at it, make me one, too." Which is probably why he would never ask me to make him a sandwich on a normal Saturday afternoon.

But at my grandparents' house he gets something akin to beer muscles, or what I like to call granny balls. He'll always wait until my sweet little grandmother is in the room with us and then he'll make one of his zany requests like, "Hey babe, will you make me a sandwich?" And I'll just sit there glaring at him with the death stare as he just smirks at me. And after a few seconds of steam coming out of my ears and clinching my fists, I'll say, "Sure, hun," through clenched teeth and go make him a motherfucking sandwich. Because, trust me, that's way easier than fucking hearing about it for the rest of my life from my grandmother (who I'm quite sure will outlive me).

Then later I like to back him into a dark corner when we are alone and twist his testicles like I'm changing a light bulb.

Something Funny Happened On The Way To The Forum

Today I had a first. There is something to be said at this age and still having firsts.

Big Daddy sent me flowers today.

In the 3,000 years we've been together, never has he ever sent me flowers before. The man has kept me rolling in cars and cocaine for years, but nary a flower delivery. Oh sure, he's brought me plenty of flowers over the years. But from the grocery store, wrapped in cellophane doesn't count. And there was the time he had two dozen roses Fed Ex'd to my house on February 13th. Flowers shipped in a cardboard box the day before a holiday don't count either. But today, August 28, 2006, was the first time Big Daddy picked up the phone, called a local florist and put in an order for a man in a van to drive to my house and hand me a glass vase full of flowers.

This can only mean one thing.

All We Need Is Love

I have absolutely nothing to say. I've spent the last two days trying to catch up on work I neglected last week and/or hiding in a dark corner feeling guilty about not catching up on work I neglected last week. I'm about to throw myself in the tub with a stack of magazines and force myself to forget about all the work I neglected last week. Do you see a pattern?
I'm working on a secret business deal that could potentially make us all quite a bit of money. It is so secret, I haven't even told Big Daddy about it yet. I better not say too much here quite yet because I don't want to jinx myself, and it is still in its very early stages. Just say a little prayer to the sealed-bid God.
My funny is gone people. Does anyone want to step in and help out?

The Hot Lips Yacht Club

Do any of you freaks know anything about boats? After spending the day at the boat show, I think that's going to be my next toy. I can't decide if I want a cabin or an open bow, but a head is a must. I'm looking at a 25-30 ft. sport cruiser. Anybody got any input on such a thing?

My Newest Pet

I'll probably end up sending this one to Pissy, too.

My New Hobby

So I finally have an answer to the age old question of what am I going to do every Thursday night at 6:00 p.m.

Two Monkeys Off Of My Back

Remember how relieved I was a couple of days ago? Well, take that relief and multiply it by 10, and that's how relieved I am today.

I went about the task of finding another boarding school. And Hot Lips got lucky. When I dreamt it up, I didn't even really know if such a thing existed. And boy am I happy to report that not only does it exist, but there are two different boarding schools in my sweet little town. One of which is significantly cheaper than the other.

Boarding school No. 1 was going to charge me $4,000 for a two-week stay. That's a grand a week per dog. Of course they would be staying in suites with a chandelier and a television, but fuck that, they don't behave, they don't get luxuries. Sweet little boarding school No. 2 is charging me a mere $1,000 for a two-week stay. That's a Hot Lips savings of $3,000.

So the two little terrors will be dropped off tomorrow morning, and I won't see them again until after Labor Day, which conveniently answers the question of What will I do with the puppies when I go out of town for Labor Day weekend.

I'm thinking I need to take this luck up to Atlantic City for a couple of days.

Cha Ching.

I've been on a vacation of sorts this week. And by vacation I mean going into the office for at least an hour every day, doing a shitload of work from home, exchanging 3,000 emails a day with Jo, and generally getting stressed out about all the work that's piling up without me. But in about five minutes I'm going to plop down in front of my great big TV and get caught up on all of my TiVo'd episodes of Entourage while eating a popsicle. And, well, that's got to count for something.

Please don't let this post in anyway create the illusion that I have figured out how to do a "return" on this blog. I'm still accpeting suggestions.

I love you guys.

Here Is The Thing

I pretty much refuse to update ever again until someone tells me how in the world to make blogger recognize that when I hit return, it means I want to create a new line. But for some reason, blogger isn't abiding by this universal command for new line/new paragraph. Instead, everything is looking like one big clumped together paragraph. And that doesn't look pretty. And you know how I feel about everything looking pretty. Please advise. Thank you.

Qualified Bidders Only

So I just got the call. Boarding school is astronomical. So astronomical that it took my breath away. I'm starting to realize that a one way ticket to Pissy's house is going to be much better for everyone. Especially Pissy. That is of course unless my rich friend Joe wants to break me off a little somethin somethin. Joe usually spares no expense when it comes to the best interest of the animals. So get your checkbook out, big papa.

Speaking of big papa...

I was jamming to my tunes today as I zipped around town running extremely important errands (mani/pedi, bitches) when I heard some lyrics to a song that was on the radio. They went something like this:

I'm going to put my bid in on you
Cause I want you just as bad as they do

And as I heard these lyrics I had a moment of clarity.

Men should be bidding on me.

Not like old skool Ebay style either. Fuck Paypal. I'm talking about bidding with sexual favors and compliments and trips and romance and lavish gifts and puppy boarding school tuition. I'm way too fabulous to be tied down to one man. I need to send Big Daddy on his way and put myself back on the market to be bid upon. It would be like a game show, like American Idol or Survivor, but instead of weekly challenges each guy would try to outdo the next spoiling me. And then at the end, instead of a recording contract or a million dollars, the prize is ME.

Of course I'm fairly certain that when all is said and done, the winner wouldn't end up being 1/10th the man that Big Daddy is. But sometimes it is about the journey and not the destination, you know?

Pure fucking genius, again.

I'm on a roll.

Monkey Off My Back

I feel so relieved.

I'm not quite sure why I didn't think of this before, but today while chasing around two horribly mannered puppies the perfect solution came to me like divine intervention.

Boarding school!

Pure fucking genius.

It took me a while, there was quite a bit of investigation and research involved, but by god, if there is a service out there to make my life easier, you know damn well I'll hunt it down. And I did. And yes, there is a doggie boarding school not too far from my house. I am a little bit concerned that they wouldn't tell me the price, that's never a good sign. But the way I see it, whatever the price is, it has got to be cheaper than all new floors for my house.

The girls will be shipped off to boarding school next week. And it has been claimed that two weeks later, they will be returned to me perfect little angels. And if for some reason they don't come back perfect angels, I'll just send them back for another semester until they get it right.

Halle-fuckin-lujah

Yo Hotties

Stacey is furiously working on a new blog design for us so we don't have to suffer the mediocrity of this standard blog template much longer. We deserve so much better than this.

I decided to mourn the end of the summer by cramming in as many summertime activities as possible between now and Labor Day.

Yesterdays' summertime activity: a water park.

For reals. Nothing says summer like long lines, water slides, concession stands and soggy-diapered babies running amuck.

It might surprise you to learn that although I am a water lover, water parks don't rate high on my list of loved water.

But yesterday I had fun. I frolicked among the common folk and got a colonic from the water slides. It was all gravy baby until I saw a dirty, used band aid floating around in the water. That was all she wrote. Hot Lips hightailed it on out of there. I've never quite felt so dirty. Then on the way out I saw a rather obese woman in a Corona bikini and I knew I had made the right decision.

Then on the way home as I was zooming down the interstate and 34307 miles an hour, I passed a Maxima with a cell phone on the roof. How in the world that thing was still just casually hanging out on the roof of the car going for a leisurely Sunday drive at 70 miles an hour I do not know. But I'm sure Arcturus will give us the scientific formula for the air stream of Nissans vs. centrifugal resistance of interstate wind volume.

So I slow down and roll down my window and start waving my arm like a mad woman and shouting YOUR.CELL.PHONE.IS.ON.THE.ROOF!!! YOUR.CELL.PHONE.IS.ON.THE.ROOF!!! Everyone in the car, and I swear, I'm pretty sure they had just left church and were on their way to a church picnic or something, just turns and looks at me with the biggest, blankest, wide-eyed stare. Then I realize that they can't hear a word I'm saying. Even if he were to roll his window down, he still wouldn't be able to make out what the crazed loo loo in the Jeep was trying to yell out to him while racking up all sorts of speed limit infractions. So the little light bulb goes off over my head and I start doing sign language. I bet you didn't know I knew sign language, did ya?

Well, I do.

So I'm steering my SUV with my knee while holding up the universal sign for "call me" with my thumb and pinkie stretching from my ear to my mouth, while my left hand is simultaneously beating on the roof of my own car and mouthing YOUR.CELL.PHONE.IS.ON.THE.ROOF!

Everyone in the car was still giving me that dumbfounded blank stare, but eventually Mr. Maxima pulled off onto the shoulder. Although I'm pretty sure it was just to get away from me than it was because he finally deciphered what I was saying and was going to retrieve his phone.

Nobody does crazed lunatic zipping down the highway quite like me!

Brand New Baby

Let's try this again.

Blogger killed me.

So we'll start anew.

What a pain in the ass to give birth to a new blog.

Stacey will make us all pretty again this week.

Or else.