But I Love Nuts....

Once again, life on an airplane has brought me something to blog about.

First off, in order to get to my Mother's house I have to start flying at ass crack early, go to no less than half a dozen airports and change flights about five times. Damn good thing I really like going to the Caribbean because if she still lived in New Jersey and I had to do that crap... Faaaaaaa - getta-boudit.

Anyway, on the fifth and final leg of my day long venture, I had hit max-flight-saturation and had begun to hallucinate. I know this because as I was sitting in my (recently upgraded) first class seat and after watching the in-flight movie, a PSA came on for prostate cancer. Nothing unusal there. Men, get your prostate checked!! If we woman can endure having our girls pushed into pancakes by Nurse Ratchett with a machine that amounts to a medievil torture device, you can turn to the side and cough.
So the PSA starts and the bubbly young blonde starts telling the women in the audience to make a prostate check appointment for the men in their lives. OK, I get it. Men hate going to the doctor for any reason. (Case in point my Dad ~ who happened to almost slice his nose off and thought that super-gluing it back together would work just fine. Step-Mom had the good sense to yank his butt and nose into the ER.) So instead of riding your man's ass to get him to do it, make the appointment and he can't back out. Simple as that and I'm cool with that idea. Then the blonde babe tells the women to tell their men that by making this appointment she is showing him that she loves ALL of him...and not just his prostate. WWWWAAAAAHHHHH?????


Now there have been a gazillion books written about relationships between men and women, and how men and women talk to each other. And how men and women talk differently than each other. And how men feel about women and how we express our feelings differently. But NEVER in all my self-help/relationship-help reading days have I EVER seen it written that women express their love for their man by grabbing him by the balls and saying "THIS" is what I love about you. I mean, we may LOVE that part of you and we may even LOVE all the things you can make it do. But we do not LOVE ONLY THAT part of you. Unlike some men I have known...


Yes, this is that part that rags on men objectifying women through their body parts. (If I was really offended by it, do you think I would have paid so much for the Turbo Twin Upgrades I LOVE so much?) Women do NOT keep a man around long enough to make a Prostate Doctor appointment for him just because he has a great "package" in his jeans. We may put up with his baggage and crap for a while because of it, but we aren't going to make a "bend over" exam for that man.


Back to the plane and a dozen people in first class watching Ms. Perky Prostate PSA make her little announcement. I am scanning the seats to see if anyone else is having this nutty moment. Most were stifling their snarfing or rolling their eyes in a sort of we-don't-talk-about-nuts-and-bolts-in-public kind of way, when a hushed female voice from behind me asks her husband what a prostate is. (I am assuming it was her husband because she had Trophy Wife stamped all over her Prada wearing forehead and had the blank expression of someone who has problems putting 2+2 together and getting anything other than 22.) Thankfully, he had the sense to whisper his answer back to her because I didn't really want to hear how he was going to answer. He must have broken it down into elementary terms because she replied, "But honey, I love nuts...."


And I love traveling :-)

Out Of Service

Due to difficulties beyond our control, Ms. Tastrophie will not be posting for a while.
While she may visit blogs from time to time, she will not be attending to this site in the near future. Thank you to everyone who has posted, read and stalked this blog in the past.
Ms. Tastrophie hopes to one day return to her snarky ways and post again in the future.

What Did You Say??

This is a re-enactment of a conversation that I had with my younger sister (YS). The following is the conversation as I heard it in my mind and may or may not be how it really happened. But this version is funner:

Ring Ring

ME: Hello?

YS: (very loudly and in an exceited tone) I LOOOOOOOOOOVVVVVEEE COOOOAAAAWWWKKKKK!!!!!

ME: (Holy sweet mother of pearl, what did she say?) WHAT?!?!?!?

YS: (again in said loud excited voice) I LOOOVVVEEE CC-AA-WWW-KKK

ME: What the ever-loving hell are you talking about?
(I am now standing in the cat food isle of Wal-Mart and can no longer concentrate on the decision between Fancy Feast and Special Kitty brand cat foods. Somehow words that sound like porn movie lines tend to do that to me. Go figure.)

YS: (speaking at a rapid fire rate and in a loud voice) It’s great! And it comes in all sizes and colors. And I have been sticking it in every hole I could find. It's fixed everything. Dad says he uses his all the time...

ME: SSSHHHHUUUUUTTTT UUUUPPPPP!!!!! At this point I had to interrupt her because what I was hearing sounded like something that was going to send me into therapy for a very, very long time. Seriously, I do not need to know anything in the remotely porn-like-information department from any of my family members. It's bad enought that I have made secret agent trips to the Wall-O-Vibraters* for my friends. I don't even want to go there when it's family!

YS: I love this stuff. I spent the entire day playing with it and if I wasn’t so tired, I would play with all night, but I am just beat.

I am now covering the phone, hiding in the corner of the cat food isle and hoping like hell no one around me speaks English well enough to understand any of the conversation that is coming through the phone.

ME: Oh GAWD!! Please tell me your husband is not in the room while you are telling me this? And on second thought, WHY are you telling me this? I don't need to know about your sex life and SHUT UP about anything sex and Dad!!!

Silence on the phone as I can hear it sinking in that I am not understanding what she is saying.....

YS: WHAT??? Not COCK, you idiot. CAULK. C-A-U-L-K You know, the stuff you use to seal tubs and stuff?** You get it at Home Depot??? Really! Get your mind out of the gutter.


The conversation pretty much died out after that. Then I started thinking about how funny Home Depot could make Caulk. Just think about it:

LADIES NIGHT AT HOME DEPOT!!
All the Caulk you can handle!
Now Offering caulk-tales for all the single women.

Hammered and Nailed by the Caulk on Isle 4

Alright, I'll stop. I know. I am just amusing myself on this, but it really was kind of funny. At least in my mind.


*See previous post "Secret Agent (Wo)Man"

**OK, now why she thought that moi of all people would know anything about the Caulk is beyond me? I have ZERO Home Depot gene and my Dad restricted me from using anything fix-it-yourself after I managed to send a 16 penny nail straight out of a nail gun and dead center into a freshly finished tiled wall. My tool belt privileges were revoked forever after we spent four hours fixing that mess.

***P.s. the bloody spell check isn't working for some reason and I am too darn lazy to go get the dictionary. Sorry.

So Help Me GOD!!

 Atheists want God stricken from inaugural oath 

Lord Almighty what the F*CK has this country come to?  Sooooo, let me get this straight.  I am not supposed to offend YOUR delicate civil liberties by discussing, praying about, mentioning, and/or otherwise acknowledging in an oath that I believe that there is SOME form of a higher being other than Homo sapiens?  BUT you can sue me and infringe upon my right to swear to, believe in, pray for, or otherwise publicly acknowledge that I believe someone else is watching over and helping me?  Tell me again why MY beliefs are wrong but YOUR beliefs are right?  Oh I guess you forgot that whole Rodney King plea: "Can't we all just get a long?"  Or that part about not judging lest you be judged your self.  Or that I'm rubber and your glue ~ whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you!!  For Jimminy Cricket's sake, who really gives a shit if the man says "so help me God" or if he says "so help me Jimmy Buffet" as long as he says he is going to faithfully serve and defend our country!?!?!

Because if I didn't believe in a higher power, I would have to slit my wrists right now over the thought that F*cktards like this asshat are not part of Satan's big plan and the world really is just going to sh*t in a hand basket all on it's own.  Because, REALLY?!? Who gives a crap which God Obama is going to ask help from as long as he is asking for help for our country, it's people, servicewomen and men, ending THAT war!  And while, yes, I would prefer that he be asking the same God I use when praying for these things, I'm not going to sue him in hope of him not being able to take the OATH of office.

So here's some free advice about dealing with the "so help me God" issue....... JUST DON"T LISTEN TO THAT PART OF THE OATH!!!  Holy rat-f*ck, I solved the entire problem.  If you don't like it you can move to a country where they tell you which temple/church you will worship at and with which idol/God/deity and how many times a day you must worship and if you don't they will whip/beat/crucify you to within an inch of your sorry life "SO HELP ME GAWD/ALLAH/BUDDA/XENA WARRIOR PRINCESS"!!

P.s. this post was brought to you by the makers of Ambein and xanax and their friends at Smernoff.

That's My Story... And I Am Sticking To It

When the school board pulls me in and asks me why my kids didn't learn a damn thing all year long, I am going to man up and put the full weight of the responsibility right where it belongs....

On the computer screen shoulders of my fellow bloggers.  Thanks to the following people for helping me to get absolutely nothing accomplished in the way of lesson plans, papers read or test graded:

Dr. Zibbs

MJenks

Cappydoodles

DG

IHoB (who has gone away, but I still give him some of the blame)

Chemgeek

Random Ramblings

Evil Genius and his gal-pal Evil Red

MelO

And oh so many more I found from clicking links on these blogs.  

It's because of you funny people that I have nothing to show in the way of inspiring lessons that will motivate juvenile delinquents in training to cast off their bad-willy-wanna-be behaviors and become highly educated, fully employed, tax paying citizens in their adult years. 

And I thank you, each and every one of you.  Because with out you to take the full responsibility for my perfecting of procrastination, I would be forced to admit that I spent the weekend watching re-runs of David Caruso and Emily Procter battle it out for the WORST ACTING Emmy in the Seriously-Not-Needed-Spin-Off Category.*  Not that I did that or anything, I'm just saying it's really all your fault.  You and those meddling blogs you insist on writing.  Except, you IHoB.  You left me crying and broken hearted. Forced to read old posts.... oh Fernando, I will forever dream about what might have been (insert cheesy love song that I can't remember the name of).

Anyway, I have to go watch the entire season of 24 in hopes of redeeming myself with the people at Netflix.  They are beginning to question my taste in DVD rentals.  I think it had something to do with the post-it note I attached to the copy of Starship Troopers II stating something about this being the BEST MOVIE EVER!!  Yeah, drinking and Netflixing = not always a proud moment.  But just so you know bloggers, I will be watching you.  And you had better keep up your end of the responsibility bargain here.  I ain't going down alone on this one. 

*(I was going to attach the best video of Caruso one liners, but I can't figure out how to do that, so follow the link ~ you'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll realize that my cat has more acting skills than Caruso.)

P.s. If anyone can help me with Blogger's crappy formating please leave me help in the comments section.  Also, how do I get videos on here? Damn.

Holy Crap!

The other day I was deep in thought. As luck had it, I was deep in thought in my favorite deep in thought place: sitting on the loo.   As I was conducting my business and thinking all manner of very important things, when my eyes wandered around the ceramic surroundings and spied a book. 

Given that my life has become a performance art of multi-tasking, I have to squeeze in things where ever I can... even in the can.

One of the books I noticed sitting in the book bin was a Bible Daily Devotional.  It was then that I had the most insidious thought.  One I think could be worthy of debate amongst the best religious scholars or Notre Dame graduates. (OK, not really, but it would be an interesting to get the Vatican's insight into this ~ Anyone have the number of Dial-a-Pope?)  

I wondered: Do you think God is offended when people read the Bible/Biblical Literature /

Devotionals while performing the bases of human functions sitting on the loo?  I mean, really?  You are in there eliminating the waste from your life when you are struck by the need to get closer to the Almighty?  

Da-da-da-da- just sitting here and oh yeah, "Hi God, I'd like to spend a few minutes in deep meaningful thought with you.  Yeah, I know I am taking a major dump right now, but isn't this the best time to pray for that new job/man/car I have been wanting?  It's not like I am putting You on the same level as, say, my needing to pee, but that I can't squeeze another more fitting moment out of my day to talk with you.  Please don't be offended.  I mean, thousands of people talk on their cell phone while using the bathroom.  I herd a woman the other day at Miami International Airport breaking up with her boyfriend just two stalls away.  So if she can conduct life changing business like that while on the seat, I should be able to have a heart-to-heart one-on-one with the Big Man. Right?"

I know that these two topics of thought in the same blog could be offensive to some, but I don't think I am the only guilty party here.  (He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone. ~ Remember that one???)  So what do you think?  Do you think God takes offense to us using "potty time" as "prayer time"?  What if there is some form of prayer purgatory where you have to pay penitence for your misspent personal time with God?  Like one layer of Dante's Inferno where you stand endlessly in line for the ladies room at some major sporting event while having to watch the line for the men's room sail quickly through.

Maybe, I'm just over thinking this whole thing.  I mean, with all the other sh*t that I have done in my life that I am going to have to answer for on the Big Day, is this sh*t really going to be one of them?  Or will The Big Man just say all is forgiven?

Bon Pasku & Bon Nuevo Annos

What? It means Merry Christmas & Happy New Year in Pompementaeu. Which is what they speak on the island of Bonaire. It's a small island right above Venezuela and sort of in between Arruba and Curacao. And it's where my Mom lives. They moved there about three years ago and I get the added bonus of "having" to go visit my Mom in the Caribbean. Damn, life's not fair.

So, while I everyone is suffering the fall out from the nasty weather in the states, I am soaking up the sun and SCUBA diving in the most beautiful waters in the Caribbean. (Bonaire is the #1 voted Caribbean dive spot). Yeah, it sucks to be me, I know.

I will return with my new and improved blogging after the first week in January. Just wanted to wish everyone a safe & Happy New Year!

It Seemed Harmless in the Beginning

Holy Hot Rocks, Batman!  It was a little over a year ago that I started blogging.  Admittedly, I was much funnier in the beginning and my rants have gone down the tubes over the last few months, but I do intend to make a come back.  I will be funny again!  I will learn to over come Blogspot's crappy formatting.  I will figure out how to get The Internet Sensation that is Dr. Zibbs to read my blog.  I have survived my first semester of teaching, becoming more than poor, and a year so close to hell the only thing I can say is "Damn, I'm hot!" (Double meaning intended :-) 

Now I can focus my somewhat limited attention span on bigger and better blog offerings.  Hell, I might even learn to proof-read my writing more than once.  

In honor of (and seriously people, we should all be honoring moi) my first year of blogging, I return to where it all began: the first post.  Below is the karmic moment when wine, whining and writing all fell into place:  

Seriously people. Two Buck Chuck and the internet at 2 a.m. are never a good mix. Actually, most decisions made at 2 a.m. are never good ones. I mean who has ever stood in front of the ATM in the middle of the night, getting cash to support something they were not going to regret the next time they woke up?
2 a.m. + decisions = BAD MIX.
OK, so it was really around midnight, but whatever.... about a empty Chuck bottle latter, I thought e-mailing would be a great idea and wasn't NOW the appropriate time to catch up with all my chickas. After all, I had been out of the country and they had little-to-no contact with me. And weren't they just dying to know what was going on in MY little piece of the world.
Thus at midnight I am clicking away at my contact list and in my drunken haze clicked the e-mail of my recently Ex-dating "relationship".
Note to self: Once dumped remove e-mail, phone number, website and all other possible ways of contacting said "ex" from all things electronic/digital/technological.

After raging on them to get SCUBA certified so that we can commander the high seas as SCUBA Chicks next year, and updating them on my current work/lack of work situation, I move on to the big topic: my getting dumped 12 days before I turn a "certain" age. See Exert Below:

"Well, I have slowed down a bit on the break-up crying. I mean, he did have the worst timing...12 days before I turn ##. Thanks. Insult to injury. Positive side: I do think this qualifies me for an emergency botox. The bummer part is that I really must have liked this guy more than I thought (or I have the world's most RAGING case of PMS) because all I want to do it crawl under a rock and try to figure out what is so wrong with me that a really smart, nice, funny (and for me cute) 45-yr-old divorcee with grown kids and graying hair (that I found to be really sexy) would dump me...He gave me the same lines we all get. The "I can't give you what you want" - which I find interesting because he never asked me what I wanted. That was
followed by the "he doesn't deserve me" line.  Really, did he stomp on baby kittens in a past life and dating me was some sort of special hell reserved for Kitten stompers, Dante's political enemies and Caiaphas?? What did he "deserve"? Sharon Stone? But as difficult as it has been, I have been respectful of his decision. I have been good and not e-mailed, called or texted him...out of respect for his wants. Can't say it has been easy...especially since A---- and I have managed to inhale an entire bottle (or so) of wine between the two of us tonight as I was writing this up. It was so much easier when all we had to worry about was the drunk-dialing from the cordless phone at home. Or paging him 600-million times...remember when pagers where in? :-) Now you practically have to lock yourself in the loo in order to avoid any possibility that you could get some drunken message out."

Which is apparently what I needed to do...because he got the e-mail!! Spent the next day wording carefully phrased apologetic e-mail to said EX, then deleting name, number, e-mail, web-page and anything else that could possibly lead to accidental contact from all things electronic. And nursing headache, and bruised pride...again.

This people is the introduction to what I have labeled Lisa-tastrophies. Those lovely little life events that only seem to happen once in a person's life but for some reason appear almost daily in mine. I would love to say I wasn't bitter, but OH PLEASE!!! I went an entire year thinking that CNN was announcing daily that the world was indeed out to get me and that everyone was in on it but me. Since my friends tell me I need to write a book about these little Lisa-tastrophies, I thought I would try my hand at the blog. Maybe it will serve as a warning to the rest of the world that if you are a royal B*&% to the oh-so-badly-dressed lady at the Nordstrom's shoe rack and tell her that you are indeed SHOPPING there while she is WORKING there;* that life will come back and karma kick you in the @$$. So here's my chance to chronicle them all.

*more on that story latter...and yes, she did deserve it...and yes, she did get canned....and yes, I did get the best pair of perfect black pumps on sale for 40% off plus an extra 10% for my troubles.

Now Isn't That Special

Last week I went to church.  Yes, I went in the building and No, it did not catch on fire.  Lightening bolts did not hit the roof and the pits of Hell did not open to devour me.  Although I did manage to scare the crap out a little old man when I accidently walked in the men's room.  Since I think that was what he was there for in the first place, that doesn't count.

After the pre-ordained* hour of listening to our Pastor telling us about the meaning of having a giving heart, the Christmas season, and being charitable to others, it was time to go.  

I got into my car and proceeded to start backing out of my parking spot.  Now, before I started backing out, I did my safety checks.  I looked Left Behind** ~ check. I looked Right Behind ~ check.  And I looked straight behind ~ oohhh nice Aaasss..... Uh, Check.   I even fixed my lipstick in the rear view mirror before I completely committed to putting the gear in the reverse position.  

Now, I took driver's education about the time that law makers started requiring set belts to be worn all the time, so my knowledge on the legality of the speed limit in a church parking lot might be a little hazy.  However, I did take defensive driving a few months ago and now know the laws regarding the right of way.  (And yes, I know the legality of driving 10 miles over the posted speed limit on the interstate, thank you very much Mr. I-Would-Give-A-Ticket-To-My-Own-Mother-Police-Officer.)  

Anyway, I am about 2/3rds of the way out of my parking spot when this Soccer-Mom-Pimped-Out SUV comes hauling ass around the corner and slams on the brakes.  By this time I am fully committed to getting out of my parking spot and was not about to throw it into drive just to tuck my Toyota totin' butt out of her way.  Especially since I have THE LAW on my side.  Yep, thanks to my newly minted defensive driving knowledge, I know I have the right of way in this situation.  Check it people, once you are over half way out of the parking spot, Ms. Soccer-Mom-SVU has to wait on you!  So there!!!

When I continue with my reversing process, Ms. I-Go-To-Church-And-Am-Obviously-A-Much-Better-Christian-Than-You proceeds to lay on the horn and flip me the bird!!!!!  Wellllllll, isn't that sssspeciahhhhhhhl!!  Being the much better person (of course), I just smiled, waved and mouthed "Merry Christmas............

B*tch" as I finished pulling out and drove out of sight.*** 

* Oh here I go, getting funny... Get it? Pre ordained Pastor.  Somebody stop me.

**Get it???!!! Oh Christianity & Armageddon humor is too much

***Let's just say I am a work in progress on that whole being good to ALL God's creatures.

Houston, We have a Mouse

As Promised Several Blogs Ago......

When I was coming back from the second best holiday EVER...

~ The BEST holiday EVER was the year I spent Christmas with my less than favorite side of the family.  The night before, BFF & I had engaged in our now annual Christmas Eve Sushi Feast and I had gone to the liquor store in order to stock up on Santa's Little Helpers (Jim, Jack and Smirnoff).  I was three feet from the liquor store door when I slammed my hand in the car door.  (So close, yet so far away.  Story of my life!)  I got to spend the next four hours in the ER with a fat-assed nurse who could not be bothered to get me some ice and a man who wanted a tetanus shot for a cut he had received three days earlier.  The ER doctor was obviously less than please to be working the holidays and dosed me with enough pain killers to keep Rush Limbaugh happy for a few years.  What made this the BEST holiday EVER was that I got to spend the entire Christmas Day drooling on myself, demonstrating that hand-eye coordination is not key to demolishing freshly wrapped gifts, and generally getting away with telling the less-than-favorite-family-members what I REALLY thought about them; then getting to blame it all on the drug induced haze.  Loved it!!

Anyway, back to the Second Best Holiday Ever.  Which was brought about in part by my Dad's superior Apple Martini making skills.  After spending a few days with the family and my shaken-not-stirred new friend, I was headed home via the Houston Intercontinental Airport.  I had decided to sit apart from the crowd at the gate when I looked down and saw a pair of black eyes and whiskers poking out from under a newspaper.  WHAT THE??!?!?!?!!?

It was a little mouse. No shit!! A mouse.  In the middle of a major international airport. A small, grey colored, cute as a button, little field mouse.  Complete with whiskers and a little tail that were moving like he was in the great quake of 1906.  How in the world he got there, I have no idea, but he defiantly took a wrong turn somewhere in the maze.  And now this little guy was shaking for dear life under a chair in the Continental gate 23 lounge of Houston Bush International Airport.  About the same time that I noticed Mr. Jingles, Bubba the Redneck comes running up to him like he is going to stomp the living daylights out of the poor mouse.  I mean, this man was hell bent on doing something to this poor mouse.   

Now, anyone will tell you that Ms. Tastrophie is a softy for the furry.  Not so much for people. Especially not so much for people who don't have a soft for the furry.  And had Bubba gone through with his mouse stomping plans, Ms. Tastrophie would have been spending the end of her Thanksgiving break in a Houston jail cell.  (And I do NOT look good in orange!)  

Since Bubba was on a mission, I quickly got up and scooped up Mr. Jingles and whisked him over to my seat.  After a few minutes of soothing whispers and gentle stroking, I tried to figure out what to do with this newest edition to my travel plans.  I think there was a little divine intervention for Mr. Jingles, since I just happen to have a little plastic container to put him in.  (Gammie had packed me a lunch for my trip; thus the container.) Although I think the excitement might have been a bit much for the poor fellow.  He was scared stiff and looked like he was going to die from fear alone, not Bubba's size 22 boot.  

After a few minutes of pleading with the nice man from customer service, Mr. J was on his way to the field outside the airport.  At least that is what I made the man swear to me was going to happen.  I did not want ~ and do not want~ to know if Mr. J was going to meet any other fate.  (I would have brought him home, but Elsa would have made it a very short homecoming for Mr. Jingles and I think he preferred the fields anyway.)

I'd like to think that Mr. Jingles is now off somewhere in the green fields of Houston Intercontinental Airport.  Maybe with his own little Cirque du Souris.  And if Karma likes to give it out to others, like she has been givin' it to me lately, Bubba is experiencing a few little boot stompings himself.

P.s. for my germaphobic readers:  YES, I washed my hands. And used the Purell.