Monday, July 29, 2013

Stupidest, I mean, Most AMAZING Crap Ever Spoken at BlogHer 2013

PATTI ("Insane in the Mom-Brain"):  The first rule of hotel hallway bathrobe karate dance club is you don't talk about hotel hallway bathrobe karate dance club.

ME:  Seriously?  Is that restaurant really called 'Pizza DUI'?
ELIZABETH ("Flourish in Progress"):  What?  Where?
JOHI ("Confessions of a Cornfed Girl"):  Jen, that says 'Pizza Due'.
ME:  Oh.  That makes the drive-through window significantly less awkward.

ZAKARY ("Raising Colorado"):  God punishes crafters.  That's why that bitch Martha Stewart went to prison.

ANNOYING BLOGGER ON SHUTTLE BUS:  My family has soooooo many connections in Chicago.  We, like, built this city.  Do you see that building?  My grandfather designed that building.
JOHI:  My grandfather built that hand.
ME:  My grandfather created every brick in that building out of unicorn bones and the blood of the immigrants.
JOHI:  My grandfather would have done that, but he was busy being the King of Chicago.
ME:  My grandfather could beat up your grandfather.

WOMAN IN ELEVATOR:  What time zone is Chicago in?
HER FRIEND:  Central. Same as where we live.
WOMAN:  Oh.  So what time is it there?
FRIEND:  Girl, you done got your weave on too tight!

LESLIE ("The Bearded Iris"):  Is it weird that I'm taking pictures of my business card in people's cleavage?  

LAUREN ("Spill the Beans"):  Does anyone know how to hail a cab?
ME:  Absolutely.  ((hiking up my skirt and shoving my boobs out))
CAB DRIVER:  Where you headed?
LAUREN:  Your breasts have magical powers.
ME:  I've been told they can heal the blind.

ELIZABETH:  I just tell people, 'Look, if you're friends with my daughter, or play on her soccer team, or teach at her school then just don't follow me on Pinterest or Instagram 'cuz you ain't about that life'.

BLOGGER #1:  I need to find an ATM before we go to dinner.
BLOGGER #2:  Don't you have any cash?
BLOGGER #1:  Dude, it's Friday.  The only people who still have cash by Friday are bartenders and strippers.

WOMAN ON THE PHONE:  Hi, Honey, how are the kids?. . .Oh, no, I'm totally shitfaced from doing Jell-O shots off of some guy's ass.  What are you all up to?

GIRL DOING DEMONSTRATION AT EXPO:  Now, I'm going to perk up her lashes with what I call an "eyelash curler". . .
ME:  What she calls an eyelash curler?  Doesn't everybody call it that?
WOMAN NEXT TO ME:  I know I do.  I think it even says it on the package it came in.
ME:  I'll have to check when I get back to what I call a "house" and look in what I call a "bathroom".

SU ("The Su Niverse"):  I accidentally used the toilet stall in the men's bathroom. Which I only realized after I walked back past the urinal to wash my hands.  And then a man came in.  While I was still at the sink.  So, yeah. I'm making a great impressioneverywhere!

PHOTOGRAPHER:  Jen, turn a little to the right.  Wendi, step put one hand on her tilt your head to the left...
WENDI ("Reno 911" and "Bridesmaids"):  I feel like we're at prom.
ME:  Yeah, except neither one of is is getting bombed on wine coolers and getting laid behind the gym.
WENDI:  Well, I don't know about your night.
ME:  Touche.

FLIGHT ATTENDANT:  Welcome to Portland, Oregon, and thank you for flying American Airlines.  If you enjoyed your flight today, my name is Jessica and I'm happy to have served you.  If you did NOT enjoy your flight today, then my name is Angela and we will never speak of this unpleasantness again.

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

. . .And She Lived Happily Ever After

Many of you have been following my ongoing forays into the world of dating as a single mom.  Some of you may still be rooting for my success, but I'm quite sure that at this point the majority of you are echoing what my friend Misty suggested in a conversation we had the other day.

MISTY:  Good God, Woman.  At this point you should seriously consider joining a convent.  Except, I don't think the nuns' wardrobe would be quite up to your standards.

ME:  And that whole "vow of chastity" thing?  Oh, HELL no.

MISTY:  And don't forget about their serviceable shoes.

ME:  Jesus, I forgot about the fugly nun kicks.  Of course. . .since I just used the Prince of Peace's name in vain, I'm pretty sure they wouldn't let me in.

MISTY:  True.  And then there's your prodigious use of the word "fuck", so...

I know, it sounds harsh; but the last few dates I've been on had me running for cover faster than Paula Deen at a Black panthers rally. *

*Too soon?  Nah, I didn't think so either.

There was the guy who proceeded to eat off of my plate with his hands, the one who stared at his reflection in the window throughout the meal and continually asked me which was his "best side", the plastic surgeon who told me I "could be gorgeous if I just had a little work done", and the one that simply fell under the Jeopardy category of "Things That Make Me Want To Drink Drain Cleaner".  Eventually all of these eligible bachelors have begun to blur together,  staggering awkwardly through the hallways of my mind like Amanda Bynes trying to find the bathroom at The Viper Room.*

*OK, that one may have been too soon.  Sue me.

I keep thinking I'll reach the point where my perpetual disappointment will push me to the point of declaring a vow of celibacy.  I almost got there the other night when I channel-surfed my way into a 'Teen Mom 2' marathon.  While I'm sure I was meant to feel the emotional plight of Leah and Kailyn and Chelsea. . .*

*But not Jenelle.  Because, seriously?  Fuck Jenelle.

. . .in truth, it angered me.  Not because I was particularly concerned with the rising epidemic of teen pregnancy in this country or because Chelsea was a self-entitled B-1-T-Charlie, but by the fact that these little twits are getting poked more than the Pillsbury Dough boy and I'm alone on my couch watching this puerile crap every night.  And therein lies the rub (or the lack of rub, as it were): I wish to God I could be over men, but I still really, REALLY enjoy being under them.  Sadly, it appears that my milkshake brings all of the narcissistic, abusive, immature boys with Mommy issues to the yard.*

*And the boys who are young enough to be my. . .much, MUCH younger brother.  Apparently there is something about me that screams 'Stifler's Mom'.  Disturbing, but true.

I can't tell you how many times I've heard my guy friends say  "Women LOVE it when we treat them like shit."  Dude, that's like saying your cat LOVES Friskies.  That's all they get.  Their options are somewhat limited, as are ours.  And unless a woman is willing to jump the fence for the all-you-can tuna taco buffet, we are pretty much forced to grit out teeth and wade through the crushing hordes of testosterone-infused assholes until we find that rare unicorn of a man who will treat us like a queen.  For those 24-year-old childless waifs with perky breasts and an ass you could bounce a quarter off, it generally doesn't take too long.  But for a 42-year-old woman with two kids and an rack that is sliding south faster than the California coastline, the odds are not ever in our favor.

I know, you're probably thinking it's time for me to pour a big glass of Haterade to wash down that peanut bitter and jealousy sandwich, but I'm really not bitter, per se.  I'm not a pessimist, I'm a realist.  A pessimist thinks everyone else is a douche; a realist is willing to give someone the benefit of the doubt but isn't exactly paralyzed by amazement when that person turns out to be an even bigger douche than previously suspected.  So, I'm cynical, but still willing to keep ramming my head against the wall harder than Stevie Wonder playing "Red Rover, Red Rover".

I thought I'd give the whole dating thing one last shot by going with everybody's favorite stalking dating site,  
Of course, the finite rules of Match dictate that all information be valid and not misleading in any way.*

*I'm relatively certain it dates back to the Code of Hammurabi.  Sadly, my knowledge of ancient Babylonian law is a tad rusty.

Unfortunately, there appear to be a few loopholes in that law as 90% of the guys who "approached" me were either posting pictures downloaded from some modeling website or their profiles were blowing more smoke than a drum circle at Burning Man. I ask to be matched with someone who is college-educated, I am told my ideal life partner is a 85-year-old longshoreman with a G.E.D. I specifically request a non-smoker, I wind up sharing a latte with some dude who smells like the inside of Denis Leary's Range Rover. I request someone with an interest in health and fitness and receive a photo that I can only presume is of a manatee with hypothyroidism.  But my favorite had to be the one who claimed to be a part-time model. . .one that looked vaguely familiar. . .because I'd seen him a week prior on 'Vanderpump Rules'.  Sure enough, the mad skills I learned from Nev and Max after watching a truly ungodly amount of 'Catfish' came in handy.  I reverse Google image searched him, matched him up to Lisa Vanderpump's Facebook fan page, and BAM!  Oh, yeah I got all Gil Grissom up in that shizz.*

*Pfft!  And people said my extensive viewing of shitty reality TV wouldn't come in handy some day.  I believe the score now stands, Catfish: 0, Jen: 5.   Suck it.

So, OK, maybe I'm going about this with an excess of paranoia and angst, and I'm probably missing the whole point making myself tthe internet vigilante,but at least I was having fun with it as opposed to sitting through an evening that blows harder than a prisonyard narc in the shower stall. Because, let's face it:  I don't NEED a man.  Sure, it would be fun to have someone to hang out with, but overall, my life is pretty damned awesome.  I have a great family, crazy-ass friends, a job I love, and I live in the raddest city on the planet.  Besides, thinking that a man will provide you with security and self-worth is about as effective as slamming your head with a tire iron to get rid of a migraine.  You can't keep hanging your hair out of that tower waiting for the knight in shining armor to ride up and rescue you.  Sometimes, you just need to give yourself a sassy new haircut, use your steel-toed stilettos to kick down the tower, and ride off into the sunset on your own.

Am I lonely?  Sometimes.  But it's OK.  Because I've finally accepted that you have one of two choices: you keep flipping the pages and rereading the book, hoping for a different ending, or you put the fairy tale book back on the shelf and start writing your own autobiography.

Guess which one I chose.


Thursday, July 11, 2013

Conversations With Jess: My So-Called Life

ME: Are you guys staying cool down there?

JESS: Trying to.  We have the wading pool in the back for the kids, and Sean got one of those Sanford and Son window AC units, but it's not a lot of help.

ME: Do you at least get a good breeze at night?

JESS: I wouldn't know.  We can't leave our windows open at night.

ME: Why not?

JESS: Unfortunately we live in a crappy part of San Jose.

ME: Which part is that?

JESS: San Jose.

ME: Oh, come on!  Saint Josie’s not that bad.

JESS: It’s not that it’s bad, per se.  It’s just. . .erratic.  Even the more ‘upscale’ neighborhoods are good-block-bad-block.  Like in my ‘hood, we have an upscale organic market with a wine bar right next to what I’m relatively certain is a meth lab. 

ME: How do you know it’s a meth lab?  Bags of fertilizer and a pit bull on a chain outside the door?

JESS: No, I can just tell. Sure, the sign on the door says ‘Artisanal Cheese’ but the people hanging out there look like extras from a Tech N9ne video.

ME: You’re paranoid.

JESS: I am not!

ME: Are you or are you not the one who thought the building next to your old place was a meth lab?

JESS: It was!

ME: Dude, it was a ‘Babies ‘R Us’.

JESS: Well, that’s just the perfect cover now, isn’t it?

ME: I can’t believe that was just said to me in a room with air in it.

JESS: Seriously, though.  This city is going to shit.  Every other building is a free clinic or a ‘Cash 4 Gold’. 

ME: I don’t understand how those places make money.  Are there really that many people walking around with a surplus of gold on their person at any given point in time?  What is their target demographic?  Mister T?  Long John Silver back from a day of plunder?

JESS: One can only imagine.  So, how are things going with that guy you started dating?

ME: I thought it was going well.  But then I informed him that, no, I would not sleep with him after two dates so he informed me that this was obviously a “waste of his fucking time” and became yet another member of the Insane Clown Posse that makes up my dating history.

JESS: Well, what about that other guy, John?

ME: Oh, you mean the one that saw my picture, made a date with me and then called the day before the date and said he’d – and I quote – found someone he was a LOT more physically attracted to?  Let me tell you, the feeling of hearing that statement is the equivalent to being slapped in the face with a syphilitic badger.  That shit changes you.

JESS: Boo.  He’s obviously a total narcissist.  You lived with a textbook one for almost eleven years, do you really want a repeat of that Lifetime Movie of the Week?

ME: No, but it’s still a solid roundhouse kick to the ego.  Meh. . .whatev.  I’ll just stay single.  No biggie.  It has its upsides.

JESS: Such as?

ME: I can watch ‘Hoarders’ marathons without anyone saying shit, when the short people aren’t home I can have Wheat Thins and Slurpees for dinner with total impunity, and in the colder months I can go for DAYS without shaving my legs.  It’s really quite liberating.

JESS: And the downside?

ME: I die alone.

JESS: Oh. . .well, yeah. . .there's that.

ME: And unfortunately, now that we're out of the apartment, it'll take a lot longer for the smell of my decomposing corpse to waft over to the neighbors.  It could take weeks.

JESS: You've obviously put a great deal of thought into this.

ME: I watch a lot of CSI.

JESS: It shows.  Do you have the short people this weekend?

ME: No, they're going to Gil's.

JESS: So, what's the master plan?

ME: Going out with Curtis on Friday, then I thought I'd spend the duration of the weekend wallowing in self-pity.

JESS: Oh, fuck that noise.  You need to have a plan.  Schedule some activities.  Keep yourself busy. Write out a list of fun projects and outings that will jam-pack your weekend and keep you from going all Adele on me.

ME: Ease up there, Rainman; not everyone shares your pathological need for schedule and structure.  Sometimes I just want to lie on my couch with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s “He’s Just Not That Mint-o You”,  paddle the pink canoe, and watch ‘Duck Dynasty’ until I lose consciousness.  No shame.

JESS: That is so pathetic it’s sad. . .it’s ‘patheti-sad’.

ME: Hey, you have your coping mechanisms, I have mine.

JESS: Bitch, please.  How many coping mechanisms does it take to get over a bad date?  I’ve erased most of my first marriage with a couple of gin and tonics and a McFlurry.  Suck it up, Buttercup.

ME: Wow, thanks for the support, Dr. Phil.

JESS: Tough love, my friend.  And, not to be an asshole, but. . .

ME: Too late.

JESS: Bite me.  Anyway, I did tell you I thought it was a little soon for you to start dating after your last relationship.

ME: Relationship?  Is that what that was?

JESS: Relationship, class-4 hurricane. . .to-may-to, to-mah-to.  Anyhoo, you need some healing time, my dear.  Go shopping with Curtis.  Let Kelly take you on one of her Shackleford-esque hikes.  Stand outside Powell's Books with Gina and mock the hipsters.  THAT'S what you need right now, not another asshole who's going to take a dump on your self-esteem.

ME: You're right.  I know you're right.

JESS: Of course I'm right.  Was there ever any doubt?

ME: OK, let's not rub it in too much, Smug-dot-org.

JESS: Dot-org?

ME: Smug-dot-com was already taken by Kelly.

JESS: I knew I liked that girl.

ME: OK, peace out.  I'm gonna go lie in bed and cry myself to sleep.

JESS:  Well, at least you have a plan.  Love you, Freakshow.

ME: Love you too, Beeyotch.



Monday, July 8, 2013

There's No Place Like Home (Depot)

“Thank you both for coming with me,”  I smiled at my friends, “I’m sure a trip to Home Depot is not exactly the pinnacle of your week.”

“Are you kidding?”  Gina laughed incredulously.  “I would go to a tractor pull if it would get my ass out of the house today.  We have my aunt, uncle, and three people I’m not even sure are relatives staying with us for Joe’s wedding this weekend.”

“Wait a minute,” Kelly said with a shake of her head.  “Is your brother getting married AGAIN?”  Gina arched her perfectly sculpted brows.

“Yes. . .yes, he is.”  She sighed.  “Apparently he’s hoping that the third time will indeed be the charm.”

Kelly mused in silence for a moment.  “You know,” she said, “It’s interesting.  If you screw up as a parent, they take your kids away; if you’re a shitty driver, they revoke your license, but they’ll let you get married as many times as you want.  Personally, I call bullshit.”

“Agreed!” I cried, high-fiving Kelly for emphasis as we wandered toward the paint center. “I think that at some point the licensing offices should intervene before every woman in the greater metro area is walking around with your last name.  For example, if you’re 40 or under and already on your THIRD marriage, that should be the point where the government just needs to step in and say ‘Dude, seriously…we’re cutting you off.  CLEARLY you suck at this.’”*

*Not that I’m thinking of anyone in particular ((*cough*)) Gil ((*cough)).

“Whatever,” Gina groaned, “I’m just ready for all of the goddamned relatives to leave town.  Between his fiancee’s North Dakota relatives and the Asian Contagion from our side of the family, it’s like a Coen Brothers remake of ‘The Joy Luck Club’; only. . .you know, with less ‘joy’.”

Kelly tilted her head analytically.  “Aren’t you Japanese?  I thought ‘The Joy Luck Club’ was Chinese.”

“Fine, White Girl.”  Gina said with a toss of her hair.  “How about ‘Coen Brothers meets Hello Kitty’.  Is THAT racial epithet more to your liking?”

“Much.”  Kelly grinned.  “OK, Jen, so what are looking for today?”

“Paint for my garden shed.” I said, poring over the wall of paint samples.  “Oh!  And did I tell you why my mom thinks I should put a lock on it?”
“On your shed?” replied Kelly, “Well, other than the obvious ‘so no one steals your shit’ answer, I’m stumped.”

I snorted with laughter, pulling paint swatches from the rack.  “Mom fears that since I live so close to the high school, the local teens will feel compelled to walk the 1.3 miles from campus, scale the poison oak infested hill to the back of my house, and use my stank-ass rickety shed as…and I quote: ‘A Fucking Shack’.”

Kelly choked on her Chai tea in astonishment.  “Are you SERIOUS!?!?”

“What?”  Gina asked, looking up from the stack of countertop brochures, “That could happen, right?  I mean, if they don’t want to get caught having sex.”

“Dude, are you kidding me?”  I said with a roll of my eyes. “This is Lake Oswego; the median income is over $80,000.  Trust me, if any of these kids want to get their freak on they’ll use their parents’ pool house or pay for a hotel.”

Gina chuckled. “Well, how did YOU get away with it in high school?”

I stared at her incredulously.  “Obviously you haven’t seen pictures of me in high school.  My cankled, frizzy-haired, neon-clad milkshake wasn’t bringing ANYONE to the yard.  For me it wasn’t a question of venue, it was more a case of looking like Screech from ‘Saved By The Bell’.”

Kelly snorted with laughter and held up a paint sample.  “How about this one?”  she suggested, “It’s pretty close to your house color.”

I tilted my head judiciously.  “I like it, but I want to give the shed a little ‘bling’.  I mean, it’s not like I’m going to be using it for actual TOOLS and lawnmowers or anything.”

“You ARE turning it into a Fucking Shed, aren’t you!”  Kelly cried. “I KNEW it. . .Whore.”

“Ease up there, Pat Robertson.”  I drawled, “I’m making it into a clubhouse for the shorties.”

“That is so cool!”  Gina smiled. “Ooh!  How about this one!”  She held up a color swatch and waved it happily.  “It’s blue and has glitter in it!”

My eyes widened in horror.  “It looks like Ke$ha got gangbanged by the Smurfs.  Maybe something a little more Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and a little less Studio 54.”

Gina pouted and flicked the paint swatch at my head before turning to peruse the cans stacked against the opposite wall.  “Oh my GOD!”  she cried, pointing at the display before her.  “Valspar!?!?  Isn’t that a herpes medication?”

“Valspar?”  I asked, crinkling my brow. “That’s a paint brand.  What are you. . .wait, do you mean ‘Valtrex’?”

She narrowed her eyes at me quizzically.  “Are you sure it’s not Valspar?”

“Oh, sure,” I nodded, “because nothing cleans up a case of the herp like a layer of high-gloss interior latex.”

Kelly shrugged.  “Well, actually, if you have some latex up in your interior it might keep you from getting the herp in the first place.”

“Nice.”  I acknowledged, bumping fists with Kelly over the counter.  “But for the purposes of my shed, a latex wouldn’t work.  Since it gets partial Southern exposure, I’m much better off using a heat-resistant oil-based paint over a water-based primer to season the wood.”

Kelly gaped at me in shock.  “Well!  Check out the big brain on Brad!”*

*In order to hang with my posse, you must be able to effectively quote ‘Pulp Fiction’. . .and ‘Mean Girls’.  Oh, and on Wednesday’s?  We wear pink.

“Yeah,”  Gina agreed with no small amount of awe. “Look at you bein’ all HGTV up in heah!”

I grinned smugly.  "Six months ago I couldn't tell a flat-head screwdriver from a Phillips and now I'm just a bullhorn and a Red Bull away from being Ty Pennington."

"OK, OK,"  Kelly conceded, raising her hands in mock surrender.  "Let's not start yelling 'Move that bus' quite yet.  You still have the upstairs bathroom to contend with."*

*My upstairs bathroom is like the ugly bridesmaid you crop out of the wedding photos or your deformed Cousin Eddie that lives under the stairs.  It's supreme hideousness makes me profoundly sad so I simply close the door and attempt to deny its existence.

I nodded morosely.  "I know.  Dad and I are going to paint and replace the vanity, but. . .ultimately I know I'll have to replace the linoleum, and recaulk the shower. . ."   I paused, listening to my friends chuckling softly.  "What?"

Gina snorted softly.  "Nothing. . .it's just. . ."

I rolled my eyes dramatically.  "Seriously?  You lose your shit when I say 'recaulk'?  What are you?  Twelve?"

"Ha!"  Gina cried.  "Were you or were you not the one who practically wet her pants and had a seizure when the door guy discussed digging his caulk out of the glass?"*

*Worst part about having a friend who's an attorney?  She will call you on your shit.  Every.  Damned.  Time."

I smirked wickedly.  "Tell you what, Geen,  I will give you twenty bucks if you'll walk up to the next guy you see in an orange vest and ask him where you can find a good, stiff caulk."

Gina's brown eyes widened in horror.  "Twenty bucks?  I think not."

Kelly burrowed through her woven handbag. . .*

*I love Kelly mad hard and fully embrace her vegan lifestyle, but the accessories that look like they were made by a Manson youth on peyote?  Oh,

. . .and pulled out a five dollar bill.  "OK, twenty five dollars in cash, AND I'll buy you a Depot Dog."

Gina squinted, her legal mind whirring furiously.  "With sauerkraut?"  

"And onions."  Kelly wheedled, waving the fiver in front of Gina's face.

"Done."  Gina said, snatching the proferred cash and shoving it unceremoniously down her bra while walking off in quest of an employee. "Oh!"  she stated, turning back to address us.  "For the record?  I would have done it for ten."

Best.  Friends.  Ever.



Monday, July 1, 2013

Stupidest Crap Ever Spoken: Abandon Hope All Ye Who Are Easily Offended

MAN INSTALLING MY FRENCH DOORS: It was hard to dig out the old caulk; you see, once caulk has been in for a while it gets really stiff. In fact, we had to push pretty hard to get the new caulk in. . .ma'am? Are you OK?
ME: ((snicker! chortle!)) Umm. . . ((heh! heh!)) What was that part about the stiff caulk again?

GINA (at Home Depot):  Valspar?  Oh my God, isn't that herpes medication?!?
ME:  Valspar's a paint brand...what are you talking about?  Wait.  Do you mean Valtrex?
GINA:  Are you sure it's not Valspar?
ME:  Oh, sure.  Because nothing treats an outbreak of the herp like a layer of high gloss latex house paint.

MY SON, J(holding up a balloon): Mommy! Uncle Curtis! I came up with an inflating spell! "Abra Cadabra! Expecto In-FELLATIO!!!"
ME: Umm, Babe? You might not to yell that in the middle of the store.
J: Why?
ME: Weeeeeelllll, it contains a word that. . .umm. . .it's a bad word, Honey.
CURTIS: Don't listen to your mother, J.  It's a good word. . .it's a very, very good word.
ME: You're paying for his therapy.

KELLY:  Ooh!  Turn it up!  I LOVE Chris Brown!

GINA:  Umm, excuse me, but he beats women.
ME: Meh...just Rihanna.
GINA:  Seriously, Jen?
KELLY:  Oh, please.  If smacking that crazy chick around helps him lay out those sick beats then I'll hold the bitch down myself.
GINA:  Oh my God...
ME:  Did someone say "extended dance mix"?  Get the bat!
GINA:  Pull over...I'm walking.

MY SON, M:  Mommy, why do you always tell people about my autism?

ME:  Well, it helps them be more understanding when you do or say things that they might think are weird or rude.
M:  What about J?
ME:  There's no excuse for J.

BRANDON:  Here.  I brought you an Egg McMuffin.  I know you don't eat when you're all depressed and shit.
ME:  Thanks, B.
BRANDON:  You know what else is good when you're feeling bad?  A nice, spicy Mexican sausage.
ME:  Seriously, Martinez?  Does that ever work on women?
BRANDON:  You'd be surprised.
ME:  I weep for my gender.

GUY WITH CLIPBOARD ON CAMPUS:  Excuse me!  Do you have time to hear about some crucial global issues?

COWORKER (holding up the 7-11 Slurpee and hotdog in his hands):  Obviously I don't give a shit about myself, so what makes you think I care about whatever YOU'RE gonna tell me?

ME:  It just sucks.  Every time I think of him with his girlfriend I feel like crying.

KELLY:  Buck up, my Brave Little Toaster.  Remember the old saying:  "Don't cry because it's over. . .smile because his girlfriend has a fat ass and bad hair".

BRANDON:  What the hell are you doing with my GPS?

ME:  Trying to see if it'll help take me down to the Paradise City.
BRANDON:  Seriously?
ME:  Oh, come on!  Like you've never tried it!
BRANDON:  My ride only goes to Rack City, Rack, Rack, Rack City, Bitch.
ME:  Well played, my friend.

ME (reading the bottle of Tylenol):  If I could "keep away from children" I wouldn't have a fucking headache in the first place.

GIRL AT RESTAURANT:  I like my men like I like my weekends: long, full of booze, and gone in two days.

Happy Monday, y'all.  And if you have a moment, please give a shout out to the most amazing short people ever to grace the planet Earth.  11 years ago today, my boys J and M were born and turned my world from black and white to brilliant technicolor.  I love you boys with all my heart and soul.  xoxo