Signs, signs, everywhere . . .

Hello all.  I am back from a lovely vacation with the extended fam, and I am feeling quite refreshed.  Although I am back at work, and let me tell you that while I was away, Shit Went Down.  I will get into that at a later date.  Anyway, as to the vacation, it was quite relaxing, but also busy with the beach and rides and mini-golf and steamed crabs and general mayhem which ensues when a majority of my hubby’s crazy family inhabit one place for an extended period of time.  Fun times though. 

One of the very interesting things that I saw (oh, and there were many), was this sign which was posted at the beach.  I found it quite intriguing for many reasons.

Helpful, thanks.

 Now, I don’t know if any of you have ever been caught in a riptide, but those are mean muthers.  They will suck you down into a vortex of wetness, disorient your ass, and if you are lucky, they spit you back out at some point when they are done with you, or if you are really lucky, someone will see that you got sucked under and grab your arm to pull you out at that last possible second (this happened to my niece many years ago).  From my understanding, it is a scary and possibly deadly occurence, and it is very difficult to just get out of it when you attempt to. 

But, according to this sign, it sounds like just a gently lapping wave that is massaging your nether-regions and might be just possibly a bit annoying.  I mean, if you could just relax and not fight it, all will be ok.  Also, just merely swim out of it, for christ sake!  If that fails, calmly wave your hand in the air so that an oh so helpful lifeguard can come to your rescue.  Possibly running down the beach in slow motion in a skimpy swim suit and very large and bouncy surgically enhanced breasts.  Or David Hasselhoff.  For the ladies, you know. 

Now, based on this advise, I have come up with some more helpful advice for another possibly life threatening event.  I give you . . . Fire Safety:

IF YOU HAPPEN TO FIND YOURSELF ON FIRE . . . .

  

 TO PUT OUT THE FIRE: 

• Run as fast as you can to the nearest body of water.  A lake, an ocean or large pot of water will suffice.
• Dunk your entire body in the water, but be careful not to mess up your hair or make up.  You will want to look good for the doctors in the emergency room.
• If you cannot find a body of water, just gently lick yourself until the fire goes out.  Saliva is in fact a liquid.
• If you cannot put yourself out in a timely manner, try to find some marshmallows and a stick, and enjoy a lite snack while you wait for someone to call the fire department.  Don’t eat too many though, because you will want to look good for the possibly attractive firemen.
• Also, look on the bright side . . . you will now have a killer tan to show off amongst all your beach going friends.  No more pasty white skin for you!  You are a brown (maybe a bit charred black) goddess.  Enjoy!!

Weekly Whacked: Phrase of the Week

Since I am going away today for a week, I figured I would just leave you with a taste of some of the extremely entertaining things that I deal with on a daily/weekly basis.

This one is from a completely crazy defendant who wrote a threatening letter to his girlfriend.  In said letter, he wrote this gem:

“Don’t piss in my cheerios, or I will shit in your cornflakes.”

Brilliant.

Also, the name of one of my defendant’s yesterday:  Nimrod Bonaparte.  I really can’t make this shit up.  His parents apparently HATED him!

Have a great week and I will hopefully have some fun stories to tell when I return from my trip to the beach!

Ciao.

Where’s my Sponsor???

So, this past weekend, my hubby and I actually went out with another couple to have some dinner, some drinks and generally a good time.  This is a rarity for us as we are mostly homebodies and pretty boring type peeps.  So a night out on the town was a big deal for us.

The night started just fine with some convos, catching up with some old friends during our drive to the place we were going.  (It was a horse track with a casino, but enough about our degenerate gambling addictions). 

Then we had dinner.  And my friend suggested that we order a bottle of wine, and asked me which kind did I like.  It just so happened we had the exact same taste in wine, so we were off!  (Santa Margarita Pinot Grigio in case you were wondering.  Yum!)

My GOD.

Let me note at this time, that I had eaten very little all day as it was a pretty busy day and I never really got the chance to sit down and eat.  It was mainly just little nibbles of my kids’ lunches and some coffee.  But I knew I would probably have a large dinner, so I didn’t worry about it.  Plus, I just wasn’t ever that hungry.

So we get our bottle of wine and start drinking.  And chatting.  And betting on horses, etc.  By the by, we have yet to begin eating anything at this point.  And all of a sudden, the bottle of wine is gone.  Just like that!  Well, should we order another?  Why of  course!!  What a silly question.

And that second bottle appeared like magic I tell you.  So at this point, I believe we actually had our entrees, which consisted, for me anyway, of a piece of salmon, and some very unappetizing sides.  (When the waiter asked if I was enjoying my meal, I told him the fish was great but I did not like the sides.  He told me to add some salt, and they would be great.  Seriously?  I actually tried it though.  It didn’t work, by the way.  They were still awful).  I ate all the salmon, but that was all. 

This makes EVERYTHING better. Thanks!!

On a side note, the waiter had a southern accent when he took our order, then later was talking to the table next to us in a Jersey accent, and I later overheard him talking to another server and he sounded like a completely normal person.  So I think he was a bit unhinged.  Or an aspiring actor?  But this was not L.A., where every waiter is an actor, and vice/versa.  This was Wes Bygawd Virginny (per Hooty Hoo), dammit!! 

Well, after some more drinking and betting on horses, and cheering on our favorites (mine stubbornly refused to win, bastards!  Oh, except for the one who threw off his jockey right out of the gate.  He won.  Of course.  Doesn’t count though.  He was 120 lbs. lighter . . . and jockey-less), it was getting late and we decided since we were done with dinner (and the wine), we would go down to the track and watch the last race, then go to the casino to do a little gambling.

So we all got up from the table and went outside to see the race.  Here is where I begin to have a problem.  You see, I had been sitting at this table all night, but once I became mobile, apparently the wine started circulating through my body.  And eventually it travelled all the way up from my stomach until it hit my brain.  Where it apparently shut that mother down!

I was absolutely fine (well, I thought so anyway) until we all decided we would go into the casino, and my hubby realized that I was slurring.  He also realized there might be a problem after he handed me tickets for the next race and I absent mindedly (read: drunkenly) tore them into itty bitty pieces.  When I told him this, in an “oops” kind of way, he was not pleased.  It was at this time that it was decided by the group as a whole that I needed a “guide.”  My friend then was designated as my guide, but I like to refer to her as my “sponsor.”  As in, I NEED A SPONSOR.  WHERE IS MY SPONSOR?  Which I kept yelling.  You know, as you do.  I thought it hysterical at the time.  The group?  Not as much.  Party poopers!

My hubby was also a bit disappointed in my light-weightedness, because I drink wine pretty much every night.  I mean, I train for this people!  This was sort of like my olympics.  But then I reminded him a) almost empty stomach, and b) an entire bottle of wine all by myself.  I don’t routinely drink a whole bottle every night!  Wait a minute.  THAT’S the problem . . . I just need a better training program!

There must be some type of Russian trainer out there that could whip my ass into shape within a few years.  Maybe the hubs could ship me off to some type of training camp for that sort of thing.  Just for a few months.  It would be hardcore training, really!  Not a free vacation, including massive amounts of alcohol.  I mean, who would enjoy that?  I’m sure I would miss my kids.  And husband.  At some point . . . . right?

Well, at least at this point, I think it will be in everyone’s best interest if I start consuming more alcohol on a regular basis.  I mean, I’m really doing it for the greater good, right? 

Yep, that’s how I’m playing it.  Anyone wanna send me a bottle of wine to help mankind?  Won’t you please think of the children?

Weekly Whacked: Public Service Annunkmnt

 

I just . . . guys, I just don’t have the words.  I’m gonna give it a go though . . .

So, in my office building, there is one bathroom for each set of pipes (lady parts/guy bits) on each floor.  Now, obviously, the bathrooms are not a high priority for the building, since routinely there is no TP in either of the 4 stalls by the end of the day, we often have to do the air drying, pat the pants water absorbancy technique for our hands, and there is usually something in there that is out-of-order, be it the sinks or the soap dispensers (which, let’s be honest, is a really good day if they even HAVE soap in them).   This is all to say that we are used to something not being quite right with the pottys. 

So, of course, as is the norm, the middle of the three sinks has been clogged for the last 3 days.  You can use it, but you have to try to avoid the cess-pool of a swamp collecting underneath your soon to be cleaned off hands.  Which is slowly rising while water is running over your soapy digits.  Kind of like a zombie germ invasion if you will.  They are shuffling slowly towards you, sure, but they will still eat your brains if you stand there long enough. 

Anywho, today I went into the bathroom around lunchtime to get all the work germies off my hands before eating (I work in the City, so cleansing is a must on a regular basis), and as I went to wash my hands in the middle sink, momentarily forgetting that it has not been in proper working condition for the past few days, I looked down . . . and saw this:

You're what now?

Jesus. H. Christ on a cracker.  What the fuck?

Ok, let’s break this down then.  I have to assume that someone is trying to say that the sink is “Broke.”  I have to assume this.  What else could you conclude?  I’ve been trying now to come up with some sort of explanation to soothe my worried mind about this one monstrosity of a word, but just Cannot. Fucking. Come. Up. With. Anything.  Except that someone was trying to spell BROKE.  And what they ended up writing was RROOK. 

Are you fucking kidding me here?  Is this some sort of prank to make me lose my fool mind?

This is beyond illiterate.  This is stoopidity.  That’s right, with 2 o’s.  That’s how stupid this is.  I mean, it doesn’t even start with the correct fucking letter people!!  Argh.  I might be having an aneurism right now.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I’m not some sort of grammar nazi or anything.  Not that I don’t appreciate good grammar and well written text.  I was in fact an English Lit major and have an advanced degree in law.  I like words, peeps.  But I work in an environment where routinely if I can at least read it and make it out as english, I’m good.  I don’t expect brilliance here, just coherency. 

But this shit is just wrong on so many levels.  It just makes me sad for society as a whole.  Whoever wrote this does not even have basic skills to be functioning in society, in my opinion.  I mean, this person is working in an office building for christ sake.  Now, not everyone on my floor is an attorney, so it is most likely one of the customer service people or whatnot, but still.  STILL.  You have a job.  You are a professional.  You do not work at McDonald’s.  Hell, those high school kids working at MickyD’s could probably at least spell Broke.  Or at the VERY LEAST start the fucking word with a B! 

I think I need to go lay down now.  I may be hyperventilating. 

For sure I think something inside my head has just RROOK.

GAWD.

Got Brains?

BE ON ALERT!!!

I don’t want to alarm anyone, but due to a recent discovery, I felt it imperative to warn everyone of a possible Zombie outbreak!!

I know, I know, but calm down.  Hysteria will do nobody any good!

I have been informed by reliable sources that one of the causes of Zombie outbreaks can now be linked back to . . . spoiled milk consumption!

So, for the love of all that is holy, (praise jeebus!), make sure that if your power goes out, you throw away all dairy products immediately (just to be safe, ALL dairy products . . . we cannot be too careful), because if some unsuspecting (and let’s be honest, probably male) person were to consume even a taste of said dairy product, they could become this:

Oh, you’re making your sexy face I see . . .

Then . . . well we know what happens then.  Annie get your gun, here come the looters.

This has been a public service announcement from someone who watches too damn much tv and basically believes everything she hears. 

You’re welcome.

Have the decency to at least LOOK crazy (aka “You have beautiful feet!”)

So the other day I was leaving my office.  I was waiting at a light for a bit and this random guy starts having a conversation with me about the weather.  Now, he was a normal looking person, but he starting talking to me like we had been having this conversation already and like we were buddies (Red Flag #1).  So I politely respond so as not to be completely rude.  Then the light changes and he starts walking with me across the street.  He then asks me if I work for a certain company that is in the building I just came out of, so he obviously had noticed me prior to his initiation of conversation (Red Flag #2), but I told him no, I didn’t work for them.  He then proceeded to talk to me in detail about all these problems he had with his wife, and the divorce, and some property issues, and child support, etc.  He was rambling a bit, and at this point I was starting to recognize that he might not be quite right.  (Big Red Flag #3).

Well, we then come to the locked door to my parking garage (this has all happened within one block), and I go to unlock the door, hoping that he won’t follow me in because I don’t have any mace or anything.  Instead, he stops me by placing his hand on my arm, looking into my eyes and telling me that he just had to say that I have beee-you-tiful . . . FEET.

Um, what?

Then he proceeds to tell me that he has a foot fetish (eww) and just had to let me know how beautiful my feet were.   Then he let me go and I proceeded to run into the garage, hoping he did not follow my adorable tootsies inside.

Now, obviously this was my fault for wearing open toed shoes to work and walking around in the city where any old crazy person could gaze upon them.  I was obviously asking for it!

But here is my real problem with this.  Besides the obvious ick factor of some weirdo stopping me on the street to ogle my feet.  The problem I have with this is that the guy looked Totally Normal!  That’s right.  He lulled me in with his complete and total non-remarkableness.

What I’m saying, is that if you are one bean shy of a full enchilada, have the decency to at least look a little off so I can avoid having a conversation with you.  Is that too much to ask?

There is a guy down the street from my office that fits the bill there, and I greatly appreciate that, because I can routinely avoid him.  He is usually shirtless (unless he is wearing his reflective vest – like the highway workers wear so as not to be crushed by oncoming cars), and wears shorts and black combat boots.  He is usually WASHING THE SIDEWALK with his big broom and soapy water, or washing himself off with same soap and water IN THE STREET.  He pushes around a huge cart full of broken down boxes and the aforementioned broom.

See?  No problem recognizing the crazy, right?  Exactly.  That’s my point.

And I rest my case.

Seriously, try to control your excitement . . .