Downward Pore Unclogging Spiral

Have you ever wanted to clear your pores out so badly, that you literally scrape your skin off with your nails trying to get that one ridiculously blocked pore?  It's terrible enough to admit doing that, but to also have repeated this act on numerous occasions is just embarrassing. 

The process always starts off simple enough...
Wash face, brush teeth, maybe floss a little, look at some face products and then get up REAL CLOSE to the mirror to start the ritual of pore excavating.  Sometimes this involves using your tongue or face muscles to stretch out facial areas thereby uncovering even more hidden clogged pores.  This act is never pre-meditated, but almost always a "fly by" decision as you finish brushing your teeth.  Smiling really big in the mirror to be sure your teeth are EXTRA sparkly clean, something catches your eye.  You stretch out your chin and (GASP!) expose fifty hidden clogged pores.  Now you are determined to clean house.  Using techniques your grandmother has passed down from her grandmother's grandmother (and so on), you carefully perform surgery.

Once complete, and feeling quite good about the money you just saved yourself from not having to get a facial, your productive feeling suffers a brief pause.  Wait, maybe there is more to this one clog?  This clogged pore is like that toilet clog that your four year old caused by using a full roll of TP in her "wiping" escapade.  After an hour of seriously working your arm in a tug of war with the plunger and toilet, it notoriously fools you it's now clear, but then mysteriously comes back to a state of full clog instantaneously.  Tricky clogged pore is very much the same.  Gentle pressure techniques seem to work, and you're about to turn away, when you try again for giggles... and there's more in there?  WHAM!  In a flash you are transported back in time to the day you got your hands on the soft serve ice cream dispenser and with wondering eyes whirled the soft ooze to your hearts delight.  Out of sheer amazement that your pore can hold that much in, you try again... MORE?!?!  It's like a treasure hunt now, and you're addicted with each pore gem that is revealed.  Herein lies the onset of the downward pore unclogging spiral.  Once your addicted - you can't stop.  You would willingly run through a thorn bush and bathe in boiling lemon juice before you would stop pecking at your face.  What started as a gentle pressure, worsened to a squeeze, and quickly escalated to a full on flesh scraping facial with a vice-like grip from a bad horror film. Apparently stabbing and slicing off your face with your finger nail is more efficient than a clay and avocado mask.

At the end of this downward spiral you are left broken and appalled at your own grotesque, red, swollen, and pocked reflection.  Crescent moon slice marks all over your face, open bleeding crater holes where there was nothing before, and a serious acknowledgment that you need to find a hobby. 

5-0, 5-0!!!


Sorry folks, the obscenity police have viewed the site and have deemed it beyond PG-13.   It's no longer advised, overlooked nor acceptable for me to use anything verbally obscene or indiscriminate in any posts moving forward.  Although it's extremely funny to me, I am apparently offending some, and that was never really my intention... so I'll have to find more "creative" ways of expressing my blog writing.  If you noticed these words in my posts and were offended, then my apologies.   They've already been updated to a more "user-friendly" version, and you will no longer see any expletives (outside of a few suggestively placed things that insinuate that word is there for dramatic effect).

Ahhh... it was fun while it lasted.  *Clink-clink* here's to the potty mouth comedians out there... I'll always light a candle for you.

Thank you, thank you.. really you're too kind.  I'll be here all week.
Try the chicken piccata.  Or the crow... the crow is FABULOUS.
For dessert you can try the humble pie.  The crust just melts in your mouth ever so gently... like censorship - er - butter. 

You can wash it all down with a large glass of shut the hell up.
That is my favorite drink... really wets the whistle and hits the spot.

People Are Strange

Walking through the city (and suburbs) you see some interesting people.  One of my favorite past times actually is people watching.  What I didn't expect with the latest session of people watching *in the year 2010* was to come across what I did...

There are still people out there with tails in their hair?  REALLY?  I understand in remote areas of the country we could still find sightings of the "Mullet".  This sort of thing, however, is ever elusive to the metropolitan cities of recent years.  You can imagine my surprise when I saw an actual real live sighting of "THE CORPORATE TAIL".  I couldn't believe it.  Surely we have evolved as a society that this hair appendage has recessed into the hairline, no longer to be seen on the modern Homo sapien!  Astonished, and flabbergasted I stared a good ten minutes at this gentleman - all dressed in a perfectly normal business suit - as he walked down the street with an otherwise tailored hair cut, and this long hair tail swooshing in the wind behind him.  Man, bad move dude.  What ever interview you are going to, they aren't going to hire you because "Management is restructuring".  Sorry to be the bearer of bad news buddy.  The days of business up front and party in the back have LONG GONE.  Get with the program.

Then there was the interesting man with the dirty, rusty, grass covered lawnmower hanging out of the back of his trunk.  Driving along in his old school '89 Buick, blissfully unaware of his absurdity, with his shining low profile rims and tires maintaining the car at the lowest possible level so as to ensure maximum pavement scraping with each bump.  What the hell is he doing with a dirty old lawnmower jutting out of the back of this ghetto mobile?, I ask myself.  Does he have a dirty lawnmower fetish?, is this one of the fifty other dirty lawnmowers he has hidden in a secret storage container stash?  Is he an altruistic soul who randomly mows others lawns because he can't stand the site of an un-manicured lawn - 'THE LONE MOWER MAN'?  Maybe a disgruntled landscaping person?  What's the possibility that he may actually pull over and start mowing the median strip, just because it's far too overgrown to his impeccable standards of lawn maintenance?  A plethora of ideas are flowing to explain this phenomena...

Then there is the person I saw jogging on my way to the coffee shop this morning.  This person had taken the front of their sleeveless t-shirt and twisted the bottom of it (creating a tube) to then insert it into the collar, pulling it through to the bottom of the shirt.  In conjunction with this they were sporting quite possibly the shortest shorts I have ever seen on a middle aged person.  Thus creating a bikini top from the original sleeveless t-shirt (which was perfectly normal to begin with), and daisy duke bottoms to match.  Now, if they had an affinity for Pamela Anderson and wanted to do their best impression - it was a sad non-performance.  I really feel compelled to send a question into the universe regarding this eyesore...

Dear person: Was there some reason that you felt turning your shirt into a hooters t-shirt was appropriate for the 9 AM jog you were taking this Monday morning?  I mean, I commend your ability to put yourself out there, and let the world take in your visual... but your appearance was a little off-putting to see at 9 AM when my coffee had barely set in.  Thanks for the comedic relief, but I think that relief could have been better timed at like, oh I don't know, 4 PM.  I almost need an Irish coffee for that visual risque jogging person.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, in my perfect universe everyone would be a eunuch or a department store dummy. In that world there are no weird body parts left to the imagination, or exposed for that matter.
Asexual African frogs are cool too.


Today is the best, the greatest, the mother of all days.  I fit into my pre-baby jeans this morning.  The sun is shining like a big ball of gas extending beyond the stratosphere.  The weather is cool, crisp, and filled with an air of promise.  People are happy.  Everyone is smiling and waving to each other on the sidewalk.  Passers by are handing out hundred dollar bills to strangers on the street, and Oreo ice cream is falling from the sky. 

OK, so I'm exaggerating... but it totally feels that way.  Wouldn't that be absolutely FANTASTIC???  :)  The husband offered today to switch around responsibilities so I could have a few hours on my own, at my favorite coffee shop and type away to my hearts content.  When I get back he'll be taking his turn to do his thing.  He's the greatest... I think he actually has archangel wings growing out of his shoulder blades today, which subsequently explains the weird ring of light around his cranium. 

Although so far today is not entirely perfect.  If it were a perfect day I would be able to write online.  Strolling into my favorite monster corporation coffee shop I came prepared with laptop messenger bag in hand ready to drink my coffee and get a few blog posts completed.  Waiting in line, I order my latte, and proceed to unpack everything and set up.  No wireless connection.  Hmmm.... I'm still patient at this point, because it's a great day, and well... YAY!  So, I try again... "connection failed!"  This is where I start to get perturbed.  Having already put a second mortgage on my house to pay for my latte, now I'm sort of committed to this place.  I try again, "Can not get connection to network."  I've frigging unpacked and everything.  I can't just simply remove myself and roam around like a gypsy through the town looking for a Wi-Fi spot that works... I don't have much time to begin with.  AAARGGGGHHHHH!  My wireless was working fine at home five seconds before coming here... it's not my computer.  I know this because I already checked the Wi-Fi card diagnostics, and the software in the machine.  Both are working fine.  I log out, and log back in - nothing changes.  I reboot, and still nothing changes.  I think I'm actually starting to snarl out loud.

Immediately the voices start:
"Should I have checked wireless connectivity before paying for the coffee?" 
"Maybe I should have gone to that other lesser known, local coffee shop?  They wouldn't have a problem with Wi-Fi!"
"That's what you get for feeling good today, now the Wi-Fi is going to smear code brown onto your rainbow."

So, I just deal with the no internet thing - totally frustrated that I can't work online - and decide to work locally on my machine.  My great day was suddenly turned around to turd, and to top it all off I appear to be suffering from allergies now.  I'm incessantly sniffing as I click on the keyboard, and I'm not willing to get up and get a napkin to wipe my nose in fear of leaving my accoutrement behind. Adding insult to injury my coffee is three quarters consumed, and now I'm feeling the pangs of my bladder suggesting I need to pee.  Rat farts.  What the hell do you do when you're at a coffee shop, everything all sprawled out, and you have to pee?  Do you entrust the strange socially awkward mid-thirties man next to you to watch your expensive laptop and couture purse?  What is the appropriate protocol here?  I'm still OK on the span of time frame where my bladder will not angrily revolt and embarrass me in a pissing stain nightmare.  Although this decision would be considerably easier if I didn't have a kidney infection right now.  No way am I leaving my stuff here with the socially awkward strangers... so now I'm left with the only last option.  Pack up your things and go.  Pray that your space is still empty when you get back, and BOOK IT to the bathroom.  Bladder is in full revolt now...  Frigging kidney infection!!!

I just wanted free internet, and coffee.
Apparently that's too much to ask for.
Wi-Fi sucks hut bole.
Today is ca-ca.
Thanks for defecating on my happy shiny rainbow, corporate coffee shop.

The Plight of The Nail Technician

Although I have been to some places that the nail technicians seem to be making fun of you in a different language, it's understandable considering they have a very challenging job to face every day.  I commend these people and their mission to make us all look prettier.  On second thought, I don't think I really blame them for making fun of the customers... wouldn't you want to have a chuckle at the expense of the stranger in front of you (if they had no idea) while you scrape the dirt out of their crusted nasty toe nail?  I would.  Does that make me less of a human being for admitting that?  Probably, but seriously... you can't buy that level of honesty.  I feel for the individuals who choose this line of work.  More over, the individuals that choose to work on MY fingers. 

Personally I consider myself quite the challenge to nail technicians.  I'm the first to admit that my finger nails are not the easiest to make pretty, look dainty and appear manicured.  This is sadly due to my disgusting habit of biting my fingers.  Not my nails, just my fingers.  While most technicians are faced with a broken nail, a re-polish, or filing and buffing... once in a while there's the challenging customer - ME.  I traipse into the salon (la la la la), whistling, all happy that they are going to magically transform my hands into something akin to Hollywood fingertips.  You see, my fingers constantly look like I have had a rabid badger as my personal nail consultant who's been chewing on them as a snack for a year.  Hang nails everywhere, dry skin from the face products I use, and broken flaky nails matching the broken flaky nail polish.  The broken flaky nail polish is usually the only remaining proof that I have ever received a manicure in the entire span of my lifetime.  This information I of course use when the nail technician is looking at me with that disgusting awe on their face that I can actually walk around with nails like this in public.

"See?", I retort to the look, "...this nail polish is from the last manicure that I received!"
You can imagine what the poor person who brings my sad act over to their nail table thinks as soon as they see my fingers. 

Usually I'm met with, "Oh wow... you shouldn't CHEW your fingers!?!?  That's SO BAD." 
To which I always reply (smiling kindly), "Yes, I know... it's a bad habit I can't seem to stop doing.  I don't expect you to make them look perfect, just better than they do now." 

As I'm typing this, I'm realizing that perhaps it's my advance offer of low expectations that gives the allowance to under perform the task at hand.  Since I've already put it out there that I don't expect miracles, miracles are not even attempted.  Look, my nails at the end of the session look really great.  Certainly I'm not suggesting anything other than that.  It is, however, very difficult to shell out the 50-70 bucks for a Mani-Pedi and one day later the rabid badger look is back.  Only on my fingers though.  Maybe I should start chewing on my toes too to match the rabid animal gnawing look I have going on.  At least I would be symmetrical and appear balanced in my imbalance.  Sadly I fear I am left with the same depressing situation.  Only showing my face at the nail salon twice a year at best, looking all ragged and torn, and chewed by rabid animals as if I had been lost in the forest and only just now emerged to get my nails done. 

Hmmm.... dilemma's, dilemma's.


I am a freak of nature, a superhero.
I am a goddess.
I can deal with days on end of blood curdling screaming babies vomiting black tar - WITHOUT A FLINCH!
I can do dishes THE SIZE OF KILIMANJARO in one second!
I can take out the maggot filled garbage cans - without one gag or bead of sweat!
I can transfer funds, email, pay bills, and pee all at the same time and in 30 seconds!! 
I can manage the whole house, AND handle all the corporate crap because I'M SO AWESOME!
I can cook meals for EVERYONE... my family, the neighborhood, ALL OF AFRICA!
I can drive the kids all over the entire friggin' world in a nanosecond!
I can do 85 million laundry piles BY JUST BLINKING MY EYES!!!
I can bake muffins entirely by telekinesis!
I can bend the will of strangers to INSTANTLY EMPATHIZE with screaming kids!
I can eliminate global warming by one exhale of my magic ozone fixing breath!
I can light candles with my finger tips because I'm so fast I'M ON FIRE! 
My urine is made of 150% Colombian espresso!!
I can make rainbows shoot out of my butt!
I can multitask so fast I create TORNADOES from the sheer speed of my movement!
I can make soft serve ice cream FROM MY TEAR DUCTS!
I can GLANCE at a book and instantly absorb it THROUGH OSMOSIS!!!
I can heal multiple compound fractures WITH A KISS!
I can part the SEA with a wave of my fancy hand - ON COMMAND!

I am a MOM...
Stand back and squint, lest my amazing power of sheer awesomeness blind you.

Seagull Managers - Part II

If you don't understand the above reference, it's basically this:
Sass holes (in this statement it's Managers) who swoop down out of nowhere, make a lot of noise, dump a lot of poop on you, and fly away.  Although the title suggests Management, this can obviously be used to describe quite a few people in life.  In my case there are seagull people who hover around my butt constantly (I'm being VERY generic here).  The main point in referencing this type of person, is the almost immediate reaction of anger and hatred towards this being for either the poop (or in my case the judgment) they are throwing at you.

So, I decided to scrap my last post about this subject, because well, I have a conscience.  I think in my never ending need to write ambiguously, I may have indeed been too generic and possibly offended many people without intending to (for further explanation about my inappropriateness please see my post: Foot In Mouth Disease).  I really was just sort of *irritated* at one particular *individual* (er-a certain man in my life), and I was ranting about their incessant need to point out that my site needs an editor and/or that I need to get better at checking my own grammar. Not only has there been remarks about my need for grammar, but also to the effect of the quality of my writing, and the subjects not being more realistic and thereby not funny.  So as you can imagine... I'm a little perturbed, sensitive, and *irritated* about the constant reminders.  This below letter goes for those pedantic blog squatters too.  Poo on you.

Dear Individual who perturbed me so:

I don't mean to be rude, but here's the down low...
Seriously, I BARELY have time to pee by myself let alone edit my posts.  In my infinitely rambling mind it's a damn miracle that I actually get these thoughts translated from the babble in my head to a language others can understand, and then even posted AT ALL.  So, you can take your pestering attitude towards my writing style and grammar errors and place it ever so gently where the sun doesn't shine... eh-em please, and thank you.

If and when I get around to fixing my English grammar, then I will do so.  Really, thank you SO MUCH for your consideration and feedback... but there's like a 99.999999% positive chance that I am well aware of the problems on my page before you tell me about them.  I just don't have endless screw off time to fix it.  In case you haven't read it - I have two living beings that are solely dependant on my ability to nourish them, wipe their butts and clothe them... so that is sort of my priority right now.  Not editing my posts.


That being said, if you are an editor or a writer and you actually do this for a living (and/ or I have already spoken to you about this - you are not the subject of this rant) and can help me out of the kindness of your heart then fantastic!  Please, please, please, help.  Alternatively, if you are a pedantic Internet blog squatter and just want to offer your unsolicited boring advice to make me feel insecure, then you can bite me.