Feb 28, 2005

Talking to myself

I think it is fricking hilarious that everyone here at work thinks I am so nice and sweet. (insert evil laugh here)

Death becomes her

My mom makes the best homemade chicken soup ever. She throws a carcass in a pot, and out comes this miraculous, and ever-so-tasty concoction. If I ever threw a carcass in a pot, I would end up with "carcass-in-a-pot." However, since boneless, skinless chicken breasts don't come with "carcass," I will never make my own soup. Whole chickens take too damn long to cook, so they're not allowed in my house.

So, mom's soup is delish. Which is surprising, since she's only 49. I thought you had to be at least 60 to make good, home-cooked food. Shocking. However, because she IS so young, she's also still bright up in the cranial region, so I can see how she would have thought of this...She's trying to kill me. Oh yes. My own mother. Trying to kill me. I realize I was sassy in highschool, but I'm not anymore. Maybe a little bit, but not much. Just sometimes. Okay, okay, so I'm a sarcastic bitch. Who cares?!

I'm sitting here at my desk, eating my chicken soup, thinking, "God of all gods, HOW did I end with with such a fantastic chicken-soup-making mother?" when something lodged itself in my throat. It was such a sharp pain, that I thought, finally, someone had heard me muttering, "Please, fucking kill me," while I was editing, and was granting my wish. But no. After hacking and clawing at my throat for what seemed like eternity, a chicken bone launched out of my throat and landed near my keyboard.

A chicken bone. In my soup. THAT MY MOTHER MADE ME.

I know you're reading this thinking, "Surely, stewbie, you jest?" And I tell you: NO. I do NOT jest with you, frail internet reader. My mother, my own flesh and blood, has poisoned me with the bone of a fowl. A support of a bird most revolting!(Okay...this is becoming a little too Shakespearian...).

I look into my tupperware bowl, and there are bones everywhere! Bones galore! So, to my mom, I say: Jeez, mother! Bones? I mean, Christ! Couldn't you have just put arsenic on my powdered donuts ala "Flowers in the Attic"? I know I'm not your favorite, but hasn't this gone a little too far?!

Just for the record, she told me there were bones in it, but she also told me THEY WERE SOFT ENOUGH TO CHEW! What a lying bitch.

xoxox

Freak-ass dream

I have the most f'ed-up dreams. I don't know if it's because I get, on average, maybe four hours of sleep a night, or what. Last night, my dream involved:

-A really cute guy, named Preston, that drove a restored Chevy Malibu
-Me wanting to initiate a threesome with Preston, and Scott
-Scott actually AGREEING to have this threesome
-Me, Scott, Preston, and Preston's girlfriend at a Greenday concert
-Scott being given a stage pass and getting so excited, he can't breathe
-Scott giving Preston's girlfriend another pass, and Preston trying to hit on me while Scott and his gf are gone
-Preston's gf sliding down the stair-rail, falling, and busting open the back of her head
-Calling 911, Scott holding her while she's dying, then she decides to get up and take a shower and change her panties before EMS gets there

No, I take no kind of recreational drugs. Can you imagine if I did?

Feb 25, 2005

Fo' Shizzle!

I "gizoogled" my website for all ma beotches! Here's my profile:

Evilpizzle
The pigs is here, baby. And they is evil.

`bout Me

Nizzy:
stewbie2
My nizzy is Stephanie E fo' sheezy Townsend. I wizzon't tell you what tha 'E' stands for. I like ta kizzy you ho-slappin' . Aint no killin' everybodys chillin'. I live in tha pimpin' metropizzles of Houston, Tx with the S-N-double-O-P. I'm married ta a hunk of a man, named Scott, n from mah loins hizzy sprang two beautiful baby bitchez--jenna n Claire. Coz I'm a miznom, I rap `bout poop, puke, blunt-rollin' n boobs quite a bit , ya feel me?. I work full-time as an editor, tizzy I git hizzle friznom W-to-tha-izzork n stizzay tha second-shift. I use serial commas n sometizzles I use tha semicizzle incorrectly. I received mah BA in English frizzom SFA in 1996. SFA stands fo` Stephen F. Austin, but it could possibly stand fo` Shizzay F-to-tha-izzart Ass. I received mah MLA from The University of St. Thomas in 2004. No crude jokes `bout UST--it's a Catholic school, n I dizzay W-to-tha-izzant ta go ta hizzay . Keep'n it gangsta dogg. There's lots of shiznit on here . They call me tha black folks president. Some of it may not makes a whole lotta sense, but hey, it doesn't have to. My rappa posts is untitled, but I tried ta gangsta tizzle just ta keep some semblance of crazy ass nigga around here fo all my homies in the pen. I like dizzy cherry coke, twinkies, n ballin' mah life wit otha coz, hizzy it gives me a bootylicious bitch'n audience n shit. I spend a lot of mah tizzle chillin' mah eyes n spitt'n out sarcastic comments.

Satan's helper

The woman that teaches my kickboxing and step classes is incredible. Well, incredible in physical form. I know next to nothing about her personal life, so I can't really tell you if she's incredible in that nature. Physically though, she kicks major ass. Her thighs and stomach are absolutely cheeseless. With God and the readers of this blog as my witnesses, I now dub her "Cheeseless Wonder II" (the original Cheeseless Wonder is my friend Sarah, who I'm sure, although she is pregnant with her second child, still remains cheeseless). I spend the majority of step class tripping over my bench because of the utter amazement of the Cheeseless Wonder II. HOW did she get through three pregnancies without a scrap of cheese? Not even one frickin' dimple. The only plausible explanation is that she's the anti-Christ. Satan's helper in spandex.

I nearly die in her classes. When she says, "Okay, everyone, march in place and take your pulse," I keep my pulse to myself--according to the chart, I should be in the midst of cardiac arrest. I REFUSE to let myself die in the middle of step class. I know I have crotch sweat, and I would be horribly embarrassed, even in death, of the EMS guys viewing the sweat of my crotch. I mean, come on, NOBODY wants to see crotch sweat, not even the EMS guys. You KNOW they talk.

"Hey man, did you pick up that heart attack?"
"Yeah, but she was DOA; it was pretty bad--she went into cardiac arrest, fell on the treadmill and her ponytail got caught in the wheel--ripped her scalp clear off."
"Really? Man, that's pretty sick."
"It was a real scene, but that's not the gross part. Christ, you should've seen this woman's crotch-sweat! It was halfway down her thighs!"

Jeesh, it's horrible. So anyways, back to Satan in spandex: This past Tuesday, during step class, she had us holding 5-lb weights and doing squats off the bench. So, my right foot was up on the bench, and my left foot would move off the bench to squat. We were supposed to dip down low in the squat, butt out--perfect crotch-sweat viewing for anyone behind us--then "power" back up. After about ten of those son-of-a-bitches, my left leg just stopped working. In order to avoid falling on my face, I removed my right leg from the bench and just started doing normal squats--both feet on the floor. Lunging Lucifer lunges her cheeseless self over to me and asks, "Oh no! Are the bench-squats hurting your knees?" I just looked at her with my flushed cheeks and said (between gulps for air), "No...my...leg...has...just...stopped...working. Will...no...longer...raise...off...floor..." She just looked at me and smiled, bemused, because SHE, of course, hadn't even broken a sweat.

Come to think of it, I've never even noticed crotch-sweat on her. What a bitch.

Feb 24, 2005

Sibling stories

Back in the good 'ole days, when kids could play outside until dark without the fear of someone kidnapping them, me and my siblings were NEVER in the house. We'd be outside playing hide-and-seek, putting lawnchairs on skateboards and pushing each other 'round the cul-de-sack, or teaching the Polish kid next door bad words. By the way, hearing a 15 year old Polish kid, who speaks NO English, run around yelling, "Weinie" at the top of his lungs is, perhaps, the funniest thing ever. Unless he's saying "peachie." Yeah, that's pretty damn funny, too.

There was this large, electrical box-thingy down the road from us. It belonged to the county, I suppose, so it was fenced in, with barbed-wire around the top. Behind this thing, was a bike trail. Remember bike trails? I'm not talking the paved kind, I'm talking about the ones that the "bad" kids always made with their dirt bikes. So, there was this bike trail that went off into the woods. It was really steep--going nearly straight down--blackberry brambles to the left, and other thorny bushes to the right. We dubbed it DEVIL'S DROP. Pretty ingenious name for a couple of kids, eh? The drop used to scare the piss out of me, but I was 10, and didn't want to look like a pussy in front of my brother, so I'd hop on my red ten-speed, pull up to the top of the drop, close my eyes, and pray to God that I wouldn't fall off my bike and hit my taco on the crossbar.

I don't think I ever made it down "Devil's Drop" without wiping out.

Hours later (and countless concussions, I'm sure), the three of us would be riding home, singing our song at the top of our lungs:

If...
there...
was...
a...
peanut-butter sandwich in the middle of the road,
I'd run over it and watch it explode!

uh-bee-bee-bahhhh!
uh-bee-bee-bahhhh!

If it didn't explode, I'd pick it up and throw it down Devil's Drop!

uh-bee-bee-bahhhh!
uh-bee-bee-bahhhh!


Hey, I never said it was Grammy worthy--we were kids for God's sake.

To this day, if one of the three of us starts off with "If...there...was...a..." the other two will chime in with the peanut-butter line.

Siblings. Man, they rock.

Picture pages, picture pages...

time to do some picture pages, time to get your pen and your pencil! (Anyone remember this? I'm dating myself, aren't I?) I'm feeling summery, so here are some pics from vacation last summer.

My and the dh


My gorgeous girl


My pretty baby

And the word of the day is...

DONGLE.

(Thank you, Dollywood, for introducing me to this lovely creation of the human language.)

Excerpts from "dongle" documentation:

--Dongles and dongle-like devices
--Item 2.4 discusses the dongle "set speed"
--Installation via dongle
--If you've installed the dongle incorrectly

A dongle is actually a physical device that attaches to your computer's parellell or USB port. My question is, how did the person that came up with this technology actually CALL it a 'dongle'?? Was this person serious? I have to admit, it's pretty damn funny, but a 'dongle'?

I'll bet, wherever that engineer is, he goes by "Mr. Dongle."

Feb 23, 2005

Talking to myself

Why is it that the majority of "salon specialists" are Asian? And how is it that they have bat-like hearing?

I don't know how many times I've been getting a pedicure and the little Vietnamese woman scrubbing my feet whispers something so inaudibly that I ask, "What?" And while she's giving me the "you dumb American girl" look, another Asian woman from the back of the spa whispers something back and the foot-scrubber HEARS it.

It irks me that they may be talking about my toes and I DON'T KNOW IT. TALK LOUDER OR YOU'RE NOT GETTING A TIP.

Feb 22, 2005

President's Day 2005!! Wooooo!

We had the most rockin' President's Day party EVER! There were beer bongs and weed bongs, and every other type of bong, and everybody was doing the Wang Chung. There were girls with awesome boobs running around semi-nude, slapping each other on the ass, and snapping their thongs while they giggled mischeiveously. There were fountains of Captain Morgan spiced rum, and a never-ending supply of those cute little umbrellas that you put into fruity drinks. We won the lottery, so we handed out $1000 bills to everybody who came, and then we just threw money up into the air and rolled on it while we bathed in chocolate pudding. The best part was when the male strippers arrived: They were all gorgeous, tanned, personal trainers, and every single one of them was straight!

Okay...so I'm kidding. However, you knew that as soon as I mentioned that the gorgeous guys were straight. Up until that point, it was all believeable.

We DID have a party, but it was really just me and Claire. The party started at 1am, and lasted until 7am. There was lots of crying, and whining, but Claire just ignored me and wanted to play with "Little People." I even attempted to teach her time: "Look, Clairey, it's TWO-THIRTY in the morning. No one in Texas is awake except for the little whores who have snuck out of their parents house, and the drunks down on Montrose. It's night-night time!"

Next time she wants to party, she's doing it alone.

I'm the next American Idol

I am addicted to "American Idol." I'm not sure exactly what draws me into that show, but when I hear that familiar tune, my eyes glaze over like a couple of Krispy Kreams and I'm all about "the NEW American Idol!" Maybe it's Ryan Seacrest's cheeky little puns, or maybe it's the raw talent exhibited on the stage. Ha! Who the hell am I kidding?! I watch it because I like to see people make total fools of themselves. On live tv. In front of bazillions of people. Jackasses.

There's nothing more fun than hearing a person say, "I'm the next American Idol because...uh...because I'm a nice person and would be a good influence on kids." Yeah, SURE. Micheal Jackson was a nice person, and although he influenced kids, I think he "influenced" them a little too much, if you know what I mean. Those judges have to be so sick of hearing that answer. It's like that crappy Miss USA standard: "I want world peace." Sure you do, you Barbie. If you got up there and said what you really wanted, people would pass out in the stands: "I want a rich boyfriend with a nice-sized peter." Oh, I'm sorry, you wouldn't say that because you're so virginal and sweet. You'd say "ninny" instead. Anyways, back to Idol.

What those judges are REALLY need, is someone to come in and say, "I'm the next American Idol because I can lip synch with the best of them. I know I have no talent, but I have an awesome ass and a tattoo above my butt crack that makes me feel mysterious. I believe that I can influence young girls around the world to want to be like the production-line-image you want me to be, and will give little boys boners. Pick me, and I will be yours to mold into the image you want." Bingo. There's our next American Idol.

Conversations with Jenna

At the park, watching daddy swing on the swings, hearing the raw metal from which the swing is suspended threatening to crumple at any moment:

"Daddy! You're making me nervous!"


One more:

Looking at a new outfit I bought her:

"Mommy, I love it! It's so adorable!"

Feb 18, 2005

Talking to myself

How many "Reduced-fat Lemon Pastry Cremes" can you eat before they are no longer "reduced fat"?

At 4.5 grams of fat at 22g of carbs per serving...ok...calculating...calculating...that would equal 31.5g of fat and 154g of carbs in the entire box.

Just because I figured that out doesn't mean that I actually ATE the entire box. In one sitting. Because I didn't.

I ate the entire box in TWO sittings. As two meals. Two REDUCED FAT meals.

Feb 17, 2005

Conversations with Jenna

As I was about to get into the shower:

Jenna: Mommy, your panties are up your butt.
Mommy: I know.
Jenna: Do you want me to pull them out?
Mommy: No. It's okay, they're supposed to be in my butt.
Jenna: Why?
Mommy: Because it's something called a 'thong.'
Jenna: Can I wear one?
Mommy: Not right now, but when you're a grown up you can.
Jenna: When I'm five?
Mommy: Um, NO. When you're old.
Jenna: When I'm 100?
Mommy: No, that's TOO old.

Feb 16, 2005

"The Tampon Show"

When you're in Scott's truck, you have two listening options: talk radio, or "Pooh's Top 40." Really, who knew Winnie-the-Pooh even HAD a "top 40"? As much as I hate talk radio, after listening to "Big Rock Candy Mountain" 50 times in a row, I gladly welcome it.

Scott always assumes the girls aren't paying attention to what he's listening to, but as parents, we know that's untrue. They hear everything. Case-in-point: Scott was listening to a lively debate regarding the corporate sponsorship of high-school football stadiums. A caller was arguing that by allowing corporate sponsorship, we're opening the door to naming issues. His point was that we could have high-schools with stadiums named such things as, "Trojan Stadium," or "Tampax Stadium." A far-fetched idea, but I suppose I see his point. Anyways, Jenna pipes up from the backseat, "Mommy uses tampons! Tampons are for mommy!" That's my girl--3 years old and already well-versed in period protection. I'm sure Scott nearly drove off the road with that one, but since the girls are still alive and well, he must have regained control.

About a week later, on the way home from the babysitter's, Jenna said, "Mommy, Daddy doesn't listen to this. Daddy listens to 'The Tampon Show'."

The joy of having kids.

Feb 15, 2005

Utensil-speak

I just went to the break-area to get a fork for my yogurt. Actually, it's a spork. Boob-looker was exiting the hallway as I was walking in, carrying my spork, and he says, "You wanna fork me?! Well, fork you!"
"What?" I asked, knowing very well what he said. I just wanted to know if he was idiot enough to repeat it. He was.
So he repeats, "Ha, ha, ha! I said, 'Fork ME?! Well, fork YOU!' Ha, ha, ha!"

HA. HA. HA. INDEED.

If this was one of my cool, co-worker friends, that would be acceptable; however, this is nasty boob-looker guy, and that's just disgusting. First off, any kind of sexual conotation spewing forth from his pie hole is just revolting; second, he's old enough to be my father. Sick. I can totally picture him pulling up to a kid and saying, "Hey little girl...wanna cookie?"

Even the mere thought of forking him is a forking nightmare. In retrospect, I should have turned around with a smile and said, "Fork off, asshole."

The produce section has just become a fun place

I don't know anyone that calls the female reproductive organ the "vagina." Except for my college biology prof, that is. Everytime he said it---"as the sperm enters the VAGINA"---I would have to stifle my laughs. Not that I'm a prude, well kinda, but that word: VAGINA. It's hilarious. And you can't just say vagina, you have to stretch the i: Vuh-gEYE-nuh. Together now: Vuh-gEYE-nuh. Isn't that fun?

As I was saying, I don't hear the word vagina a lot. Not that it SHOULD come up a lot in normal office conversation, but in general. Kids definitely don't say it. Can you imagine hearing a 2-year old say, "Mommy! I'm done going pee-pee! Come wipe my vuh-gEYE-nuh!" It's just unpleasant to hear. That's why there is an array of different words to describe it.

I've heard just about everything: tee-tee, tushie, privates, boo-boo, bee-bee, pookie, pee-pee, and the list goes on. I have never heard anyone call it what I do: a peachie. That's right--a PEACHIE. I don't know where that term came from. I think my grandma came up with it. All I know, is that everyone in my family calls it that, and to us, it's just normal. I use it in regular conversations with my friends without even thinking about it. I don't even realize i've said something unfamiliar until I get the blank stare, then I just give them an explanation.

Peachie is such a non-assuming term, that several of my friends have adopted it and use it in their homes. Pretty soon, "peachie" is going to take the world by storm.

Everybody gimme a 'whoop, whoop!!' Peachies are in the hiz-ouse!!

Admittance

I just want to say, for the record, that the title heading "How to charm me" was not my original idea. I used to call those entries "How to melt me," but then I realized that not all the entries pertained to squeezing love out of my heart, but pertained to the happiness of my heart. As I was reading through other blogs, I came across a blogger that used the word "charm," and I instantly became, well, charmed with it. So, I used it. I stole a word. I don't think it's plagarizing, but look at me, I feel guilty about it because I stole a word.

I have now spilled my guts.

Feb 11, 2005

Call off the search

FAKE PENIS HAS BEEN RETURNED TO OWNER!
Feb. 11, 2005
stewbie2

New York City Police report that a Brooklyn resident's fake penis has been returned--unopened, and unharmed.

On February seventh, the "Rotating Venus Penis" was delivered by UPS to the correct person, or so they thought. When the package was not delivered to its rightful owner, she contacted UPS and was told that the package had been signed for...at the store downstairs.

It never crossed the UPS driver's mind that when the Puerto Rican chica working the counter downstairs signed for the package, that she used a false name. "I didn't know, I didn't know!" cried the UPS employee, when being asked why he let the girl sign for it. "It never crossed my mind that she would lie! I swear it on my brown knickers!"

After being contacted by UPS, Maria Escalante Guadalajara Chavez, 18, admitted to signing for the package. Her intent was to keep it, but the UPS' investigation scared her and without her greencard, she feared deportation. That evening, the box was returned to its owner.

All contents of the box were intact, with the exception of one DVD, which had been opened, and perhaps, viewed. Needless to say, the "Rotating Venus Penis" was still in its original casing.

The male mind

Last night, after watching the Food Channel's "Cake Bake-Off," Scott and I watched the news. We normally don't watch the late-night news because we watch the news every morning and if we watch the news at night then the news we see in the morning is just a repeat of the night-news so it's really not news. That's really not new news to you because you knew that, didn't you? While you ponder what you've just read, I'll move on.

The sports guy gave us the scoop on the Astros. Oswalt is going to make $17 million over the next two years. Upon hearing this, Scott jumps up off the couch and says, "Good! It's about time those bastards start paying him! That makes me wanna work my triceps!" He then proceeds to grab his weights off the floor and do tricep presses.

Huh? I'm not sure exactly what tipped him into doing arm exercises--maybe it's just the testosterone that was floating over the airwaves? I guess that would be akin to me seeing a tampon commercial and saying, "Yes! It's about time those bitches came up with a 'petal-soft' applicator! That makes me want to bake a cake!"

Feb 9, 2005

Pic 'o the day

This is the cutest baby you've ever seen. Argue with me, if you wish, but I will win. I WANT TO EAT THIS CHILD.


Of mice and men

A few nights ago, Scott and I actually got to watch a movie. The girls went to bed at normal hours, and because we were so thrilled to have time to ourselves, we kicked the My Little Ponies, Puss-in-Boots, and Mulan DVD off the couch, snuggled up close, and started "Alien Versus Predator." We're obviously not the type for romantic movies. In fact, when the Predator made good with the human, I teared up and thought that surely, this was the feel-good movie of the year.

Anyways...we're watching slimy little alien babies rip out of peoples' chests, and all of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, I see something haul-ass across the tile. Because I was watching a "jump-out-and-scare-you" movie, I second-guessed myself, but I still sat up straight and focused on the area where I saw it. Not ten seconds later, I see it again. It was big people. BIG. Not cat big, but squirrel big. I freaked out. The movie was paused, the lights were turned on, and my brave husband went looking for the beast.

After moving the entertainment center, and vacuuming the dust bunnies, he found the culprit:

"It's a lizard."
"A lizard? How do you know?"
"I can see its tail. See? Right there, next to the dvd player. It's underneath."
"Are you sure that's a lizard tail?"
"Yeah." (looking closer)"Um...well..." (shining the flashlight under the dvd player)
"Well?"
"You are NOT going to believe this. It's a mouse. A little brown mouse."

COMMENCE WITH FREAK OUT.

A mouse was in my house! A MOUSE IN MY HOUSE!! Do you understand?! A. MOUSE. A filthy, disease-carrying, plague-causing, nasty little vermin. In my house. Where my babies roll on the floor. So, I did what any self-respecting woman would do. I got my husband a wooden spoon so he could beat the fuck out of that little thing.

The first contestant of "Get the Mouse Out of My House," was Scott. His brilliant idea was to tape a trash bag opening to the front of the entertainment center, then walk around back, and poke the mouse out with the spoon--where as the mouse would dutifully run into the gleaming-white trashbag, we could tie it off, and throw him in the trash. I won't even go into the details of WHY this won't work, but I'll quickly mention that it went horribly wrong, in that Scott ended up screaming like a little girl, and the mouse ended up under the entertainment center. But I digress.

The second contestant was the cat. I mean, isn't that her job? It's about time that lazy bitch did something to earn her keep around here. We found her lounging in the chair, so Scott picked her up, threw her behind the entertainment center, and we silently waited for her to coax out the mouse, kill it, and present us with its bloodied corpse. The cat sniffed around the dvd electric cords, turned around, and ran back to the chair. That fucker's not eating for a week. "Mouse catcher" my ass.

The best was saved for last--me. I needed a board that was the height of the under-opening of the entertainment center, and a box--we had both. I put the board underneath (it was a perfect fit), and slowly slid the board over, until the mouse was trapped in a "hallway" of sorts, with an open box at the end. Scott then shoved a magazine under the frontside, scaring the little critter into the open box. Voila! Trapped mouse. Scott took over from there.

We decided to keep the varmint until the next day, so we could show the girls--therefore, they would be able to share with all the kids at the sitter's, and the kids' parents how we had a mouse in the house. So all the parents would think we live in some back-woods, single-wide trailer with a semi-buried tractor in the front and a #3 NASCAR flag flying. You know, because we do.

Anyways, Scott is out in the garage with the box-o-mouse, and I'm inside getting the critter some water. I walk out just in time to hear him say, "Oh Shit!!" and see a flying mouse-body leap from the box and go scurrying under the toolbench.

I don't know what else to say, except, "Throw a 'possum on that thar grill, and turn on the Willie Nelson," because we've got a mouse in the house!!

Feb 8, 2005

Pic 'o the day

If this doesn't just warm your heart, then you're a cold bastard.

Conversations with Jenna

Mom: I love you, honey.
Jenna: I love you too, my little munchkin.

Feb 4, 2005

I'm your Venus, I'm your fire...

There's a point in every woman's life when she must ask herself, "Where, oh where, is my fake penis?" Yes, you read correctly: FAKE PENIS. Read it again if you must. FA-HAAAAKE PEEEE-NIIIIIS. Got it? Good.

A certain sister of mine ordered some "adult novelties," if you will, from a sordid website. The complete order entailed 2 DVDs, and the aforementioned fake penis, which, if we go by its technical name, is the "Rotating Venus Penis." From here on out, it shall be refered to as The Penis.

The Penis was ordered, along with the DVDs, and was shipped 2-day. When my sister didn't receive her "package" (no pun intended), she looked up the tracking number and saw that it had been delivered. She called UPS, and they said that it was delivered to the store below her apartment, and was signed for by someone there. Swiftly, she picked up the phone and instructed her boyfriend to go down to the store to pick up The Penis package. He did so, and to his chagrin, they said that there was no package.

Shannon--I mean, my sister--calls UPS back and asks "What do I do now?"

*And this, my friends, is where it gets good.*

The kind lady on the other end (who is probably a sweet, little, church-going lady) begins to type, and then asks Shannon, "What were the contents of the package?" Shannon nearly has cardiac arrest, but thinks she can cover it: "Two DVDs and...well, two DVDs." She hears the lady begin typing again. Then that sweet lady asks, "And the titles?" OH. THE. HORROR. So my sister says the names of the DVDs, omitting the fun parts, like "pussy," "wet," and "with explosive, clit-throbbing cum shots." (Mom--I said "pussy," "clit," and "cum"--sorry.)

She gets through this horrible questioning, then the UPS lady asks, "What's the name of the company you ordered it from, and what's their phone number?" So, Shannon sighs and gives her the requested information, not too embarrassed, because the hooker-site has an unassuming acronym that it uses so wives don't know their husbands are buying cheap porn when they see the credit card. She thinks this trauma is over, when the UPS lady says, "Okay Miss Stewart, I'm going to put you on hold while I contact the company to let them know the order was lost." At this point, Shannon knows she's screwed (again, no pun intended). She's put on Hold, while the UPS lady calls the company. After a few minutes, the UPS lady gets back on the phone. By now, Miss UPS knows EXACTLY what was in the package, and WHERE Shannon bought it from.

"Um...Miss Stewart?"
"Yes?"
"Uh, we'll do everything we can to find your package. Just keep in contact with us."
"Thank you."


After hanging up with this lady, Shannon should have gone to the window, opened it wide, and yelled,

"Hey New York City! Whoever has my fake penis, bring it back to me!"

So someone, somewhere in New York, is using my sister's fake penis and watching her dirty DVDs. Some bum, in some dark alleyway, is happy because he finally has the "Rotating Venus Penis."

I wonder if they could do a CSI episode about this?

Talking to myself

Why does the water from the fountain in the hall taste like bacon? I remember when it tasted like potting soil.

Man, I miss the days of "potting soil" water.

Some days are better than others

Working with people like this makes my job worthwhile. It's an email string--start at the bottom:

From:
Sent: Friday, February 04, 2005 7:41 AM
To: Townsend, Stephanie
Subject: Favor


Your so fucking nice.

name removed to protect the innocent


-----Original Message-----
From: Townsend, Stephanie
Sent: Friday, February 04, 2005 8:21 AM
To:
Subject: RE: Favor

of course, fucker.


-----Original Message-----
From:
Sent: Friday, February 04, 2005 7:41 AM
To: Townsend, Stephanie
Subject: Favor

Can you remove the sign off of my door please?

Thanks,
name removed to protect the innocent

Feb 3, 2005

In need of an exorcism

Jenna, this post is for you, and let me just say this: Your Gamma put me up to it. "She can read it when she's older!" she said. Well, we all know that by the time you're "older" the internet as we know it will be archaic, as will this form of blogging, but let's humor Gamma, shall we?

I'm writing this entry under the influence of many cups of caffeine. "Why?" you may wonder--well, let me tell you: YOU, my dear, are a PAIN. IN. THE. ASS. Oh, yes...YOU. My beautiful, jade-eyed, long-lashed, drop-dead gorgeous, precious girl--I'm beginning to think that you're the spawn of satan. Let me give you a quick replay of last night:

Dinner: you were bad
Bathtime: you were bad
Early bedtime: you were bad
3 hours past your bedtime: Care to guess? YES. You were bad.
One o'clock in the morning: ding! ding! You were bad.
630am this morning: you were bad.

Need I say more? Probably not, but indeed, I shall go on.

The fake crying. Oh, sweet baby Jesus! I cannot stand it. I swear, last night, I was toying with the thought of shoving a My Little Pony down my esophagus just to take my mind off the incessant whining. OH. THE. WHINING. What I find to be perfectly amazing, is that you can whine for hours on end. HOURS. (Sorry about all the caps, but it's necessary.) Why, like any normal person, do you not get hoarse?! At least that would take down the tone a notch.

Let me just say this: So help me God, you WILL sleep tonight.

I digress.

I would rather scoop my eyes out with a spoon, than listen to this con-call

I don't know, for sure, how old this woman is. I do know, that she NEEDS TO RETIRE. Scheduling a huge training sesssion in a conference room without first ensuring that there is a working LAN line is just pure Alzeimers. And, how is it possible to ramble on for 30+ minutes without making a single point?! HOW?!

It's times like these, that I'm glad I'm on anti-depressants because if I weren't, listening to this woman would drive me to suicide.

Feb 2, 2005

Go to sleep, already!

You know, I just don't feel the sarcasm today.

I've been sleeping like total ass lately. I keep waking up, and not being able to fall back asleep. Last night, I had a dream that Claire fell off the toilet, banged her head on the floor, and passed out. I called the doctor and the nurse kept telling me that she was okay--even though the back of her head was flat. Claire was also walking all crooked. Weird dream, I know. In that same dream, I also attended a middle-school and a gymnastics competition. Oh, and I got my laptop fixed, too. I multi-task, even in my dreams. At least I'm not dreaming of Claire laying eggs and dopplegangers popping out of them. Not that I know anyone who dreams of that. Not even my sister Shannon.

Apparently, Jenna has some pretty vivid dreams too. She cries out a lot in her sleep. I normally wouldn't hear her, but since she's STILL SLEEPING ON MY FLOOR, I hear every damn peep she makes. She spent a good portion of last night crying and whining in her sleep. Guess she dreamed we were out of Dora fruit snacks or that her sock was on wrong. Both of which, are deemed as tragedies in her book.

Feb 1, 2005

Welcome to a new era

6:00am-the alarm goes off. Instead of emitting a high-pitched, resonating beep, it plays the sound of a trickling brook, with the intermittent tweets of birds. This sound is MUCH more alarming than the beep because the sound of the trickling makes you think you're about to pee the bed, and the birds, well, they're BIRDS for God's sake. I saw the Hitchcock film when I was five and it scared the fuck out of me. For years, my mom would pretend that birds were attacking her and plucking her eyeballs out. Gee...THANKS mom. Now I'm on anti-psychotic drugs. Wonder why. Anyways, at this same time, Claire starts crying from the front bedroom. Our house is small, and with the baby monitor in our room, we get the crying in stereo. It's a nice touch.

6:03am: As I step out into the living room, I notice that it's ice-frickin cold. Making my way to the front of the house, I realize that it's because the door to the garage has been opened, thereby chilling the front of the house--including the girls' bedrooms--to a lovely 65 degrees. I can't wait to get the gas bill. Seeing that the thermostat resides right next to the garage door, the damn heater's been running all night, I'm sure. Claire's standing up in her crib, jumping up and down, trying to keep warm. I grab something for her to wear, a clean diaper and wipe, and bring her back to our room, passing the kitchen, where the cat's holding a meat-cleaver, trying to break the ice in her water bowl.

6:15am: Claire's dressed, albeit screaming, because she wants to play "You're-a-mommy-gorilla-and-I'm-the-baby-so-I-want-you-to-carry-me-around-on-your-back-and-never-set-me-down-not-even-when-you-have-to-pee." It's a fun game. But, because I DO have to pee, I have to set her down, which elicits mind-numbing screaming and floodwaters of tears. All because I'm 10 feet away from her. In the bathroom. Peeing. I'm a horrible mother, I know.

6:25am: Claire has calmed down, mom's bladder is empty, so it's time to wake up Jenna. Not far to go, because she's sleeping on the floor next to my side of the bed. Her usual spot. Scott goes in first, and I'm covering him at right flank. He pokes her on the butt with his finger. "GO AWAY!!" It's alive! He takes off the covers. A primal scream ensues, with yet another "GO AWAY!!" He continues poking her under the covers, which in turn, continues to elicit screams/growls/hisses/"Go Away!"

6:30am: I go in for the kill. I take off the blanket and pick her up--feigning snuggle time. She falls for it, but quickly catches on to my plan, as she feels me trying to slide a pair of pants on her. This results in a kicking, screaming tantrum. I start to get her dressed, while dodging kicks, scratches, and flying plush Simbas.

6:45am: Pissed, grumpy, and sullen, Jenna is finally dressed, combed, and ready to go. Claire has been taking all of this in. The entertainment is all here.

650am: Kids and husband are gone, now it's my turn to get ready for work.

See? I start the day just like everyone else!