You talkin’ dirty to me?

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So a friend of mine recently introduced me to Audible, the Amazon associated “talking book” App. Given that I (a) love to read and (b) spend an insane amount of time in the car driving to and from work, most of which is spent plotting the murders of my fellow motorists, she (and I), figured it would be a better, more productive use of my time.

She was right 🙂

It’s definitely a great distraction listening to a talking book, although I have to say, listening to it is an art form. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve zoned out, only to discovered 3 or more chapters have passed me by and I have no fucking clue as to what’s happened.

Side note: when Hubs A and I were driving across country once, his brother, who I shall refer to as Bro-in-Law, suggested we take the 12 disc talking book of 2001: A Space Odessy…Yes I shit you not, this was a 12 disc monstrosity that I have no desire to revisit again…ever. The fucking movie was bad enough, the talking book…Fuck me, forget water boarding, this is what should be used as a torture device. Naturally, while it was playing I fell asleep multiple times during this boring as fuck riveting book. Don’t worry, I wasn’t driving at the time, so we weren’t in any danger. However, because of the type of book it was, I could pretty much wake up at any point in the storyline, and sweet fuck all would have happened. And yes, I am being serious. I mean it took virtually an entire CD to describe that big black monolith (oh look, I took 3 words to describe it), that the apes stare at…fuck me.

Anyway, I digress.

Where was I? Oh yes, zoning out. So while that has happened with me in the past, it doesn’t tend to happen now, and I’ll give you one reason why…Sex.

Yep, you heard it, sex. This talking book I’m listening to, although dubbed as a crime/thriller, has sex…and plenty of it. And there is something strangely funny about listening to sex while it’s being read out loud to you. And before you start picturing all sorts of dirty scenarios, it’s not straight up porn you filthy perv. There’s no actual moaning or sound effects, but what there is, is thrusting and wetness and climaxing and…oh god, I can barely type this without laughing…seed exploding! Yeah, you heard me… Seed. Exploding. And let me tell you, it’s weird as fuck, sitting in a car, surrounded by your fellow morning commuters, barely awake as you mainline coffee and try not to kill anyone, while at the same time, listening to two fictional characters get off.

What a fucking wake-up call!

And yeah, it makes me laugh…out loud! It also makes me look around. You know, just to check my volume really isn’t that loud that everyone else can hear it too! I just hope to fuck I don’t crash the car or get pulled over, because I’m not quite sure how I’ll explain exploding seed to the cop that’s first on scene.

PM1.

Older and wiser…maybe?

The anniversary of my twenty-ninth birthday is right around the corner and I’d like to stay I’m much wiser than I was in the past. This is a huge fucking lie because I still tend to repeat my mistakes, say stupid shit and swear a fucking shitload. But there are some things I’ve learned over the last 29+ years and maybe by sharing them I can help out that younger generation, lead them in the right direction, so they find themselves older and wiser. 🙂 Unlike me who’s only the older end of that statement.

Here are a few things I wish I would’ve known or done in my younger days:

  •  For the love of fuck…wear sunscreen!! I worked as a lifeguard and baked my ass like a Christmas goose for far too many years. I swear I had crow’s feet at nineteen. And there were times, while I thought I look damn good, I’m certain now that I looked like this:

magda

Or possibly even this:

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  • Don’t get a fucking credit card until you have an actual legit job where you can pay off your balance or even better don’t get one until you understand the repercussions of bad credit. (Thanks for those multiple bailouts, Dad.)
  • Keep a small group of close friends and ditch those toxic ones. They suck, and make sure you figure this out early or else you’ll end up in tears far too much.
  • Travel, despite the cost. (Although this goes back on my credit card recommendation.) Visit as many places as you can and enjoy seeing the world, because there will come a time when the adult world creeps up and you have a real job or kids or a mortgage or are just too fucking busy.
  • Learn to like wine, because there will come a time in your life when your friends all get old and only drink wine. It’s the classy girls kinda booze, especially when you drink it out of a wine glass with a picture of Hello Kitty giving the middle finger on it. Right, PM1?
  • That boy who broke your heart in high school that you swore was as hot as fuck and you would never get over; he probably looked more like this:

JUSTIN

Than this:

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And PS…you’ll totes get over him because he sucked even back then.

  • Follow your dreams even when your mother tells you they are stupid and pointless and you’ll never earn a living doing something like that, because there is nothing my gratifying than making your own dreams come true.
  • Laugh till the point of tears regularly. This is something I try to do because it just makes everything better. I owe a big thank you to Hubs B, BFF, Work BFF, Guy BFF and PM1 for always laughing with me. Not a day goes by that I don’t have a laugh with one of them and I <3 them for it.
  •  And lastly, rock those nineteen year old boobs. And I mean this one. There will come a day after babies and nursing and age that your tits will look like potatoes in tube socks and you’ll remember your perky boobs and wish you wouldn’t have hidden them from the world.

While I’m not one of those peeps who worries about birthdays and getting old, I’d still like to think of myself as twenty-nine. That just seems like a good year. 🙂

 

 

Happy birthday…from my tattoo guy?

The first person to wish me a happy birthday this year was my tattoo guy. Usually it’s the guy I have our car insurance through or one of the many places I online shop, but this year the winner is Steven. Interesting…I either get far too many tattoos or I haven’t gotten enough and he’s trying to earn back my business. The fact that I have a tattoo guy probably speaks volumes about me, but whatever. I like him and wouldn’t consider going anywhere else.

But to digress a bit, here’s a quick story about BFF since we share Steven as our tattoo guy.

When we were teenagers, long before the fabulous Steven came into our lives, BFF got a tattoo on her lower back, not a tramp stamp, it’s off to the side and far more classy. She swears it was the worst fucking pain of her life and still insists the tat guy made her drop trou right in the front of the shop. So basically it ruined her and she swore up and down she’d never get another. She was like, “Sweet fucking Jesus it was like childbirth. Never again.”

But she’s pretty fickle and a bandwagon jumper, so when I got another one, she decided she’d give it another try. Especially since I told her Steven is fucking awesome. Going with her for moral support, she opted for a tiny tattoo on her foot. Turns out it’s not so bad. She survives and the tat is adorable. Yay for BFF, but not really.

A few days later is the 4th of July and she goes on a boozy bender where she wears no shoes, pokes at the tat with dirty fingers and hits up a few too many bathrooms.

Cue the next day while lying on my couch:

BFF: Do you think it’s infected?

It’s swollen and cratered and puss is forming. It’s as red as an Irishman with a sunburn. It’s totes infected. I feared they may have to take her leg.

Me: Um, yeah.

BFF: Ask Hubs B what to do, he’s in the science field.

Hubs B: *While watching TV* I’m not a doctor.

Me: I have some antibiotics in the cabinet from when I had a UTI. Take one.

BFF: Ok.

Over the course of three days I was texted updated pictures where I teased her without regard for the fact that she may lose her foot, about it being gangrenous and smelling like almonds. Eventually she had to see a legit doctor and not a fake one who has a degree in biology and was drinking a beer while watching TV, because it got mega out of hand. It healed and it didn’t stop her from getting two more after that.

So a shout out to Steven for that happy birthday and for reminding me I’m old, and also for making BFF and I want to get another tat. Mission accomplished, Steven. Well played. Here’s to gangrenous tattoos and my 29th birthday!

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Work…you make me wanna drink

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I’m back at work and it’s only been three days and I wanna have a really stiff drink or ten and sleep like a fucking baby. (And possibly wake up already retired.) My job always eases us back in or at least that’s the way they look at it. A nice welcome back breakfast of runny eggs, frisbee style pancakes, some mystery meat covered in a red sauce and soggy bacon, and oh yeah, what I thought would be the only edible item, fruit. (You know how I feel about fruit, but in this case I was glad to see it.) Except for the fact that it was pretty shit-tacular. Watermelon with seeds, sour as fuck grapes and mushy strawberries with the green tops still attached. (What the fucking fuck? Unless they’re dipped in chocolate that shit needs to be removed. These were not dipped in chocolate.) Needless to say I ate hardly anything. And I ended up drinking out of Work BFF’s glass because mine had some white chunky thing floating in it. (Let the illness passing begin!)

We then proceed to sit through a boring series of meeting and more meetings and once again meetings, where my boss lays down the law and has that come to jesus talk with the peeps she knows are gonna be fuck-ups. It’s by no means exhausting, but it is boring as fuck.

But the ease in ends two days later and I’m hit with that what the fuck am I doing feeling and sometimes I wanna ugly cry in the bathroom and reconsider my career choice. Anyone else have a job where their office is filled with 58 rolls of paper towels, 87 boxes of Kleenex, 58 tubs of antibacterial wipes, 87 gallon ziplock bags and their even more interesting counter part, 87 quart sized? The list is pretty much endless along with ever finding my desk again. But my personal favorite are the 1,870 UNSHARPENED pencils! Motherfucker…have  you ever tried to sharpen that many pencils??? And don’t even get me started on pencil sharpeners!

Dear Amazon,

Don’t call it industrial if it can’t make it more than two months before it needs to be replaced. Yep, I sharpen a lot of fucking pencils. A LOT!!! And when your sharpener craps out and only sharpens half a pencil, I’m tempted to stab myself in the eye with it just get out of ever having to sharpen pencils again.

Love,

PM2

But in the end, none of this a has anything to do with my job. No where in my job description does it say, collector of mass quantities of cleaning supplies, and writing utensils, sharpener of astronomical amounts of #2 pencils with a half-assed sharpener, owner of a million fucking glue sticks, (like enough to glue a fucking elephant to the ceiling) and controller of shear fucking chaos. Yet somehow this is where I find myself and after a drink and a good long soak in the bathtub, I’ll do it all over again tomorrow…because I secretly love it. (Not all this shit, but my actual job.)

Not like it’s a mystery, but take a guess what I do for a living??? 😉

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I may have watched a million times…

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I’ve been meaning to post this for a while but it keeps gets pushed aside for more pressing issues like food. Shame on me because Ben Affleck should never be pushed aside for anything or anyone, even food.

So a few weeks ago was San Diego Comic-Con and the trailer for Batman vs. Superman: Dawn of Justice was revealed. And because I’m a total stalker, I obsessively YouTubed the trailer and watched it a million times before it was taken down. Boo…

But back to my post, now while I have nothing to share with all you lovelies other than my insane recount, you’ll just have to trust me on its awesomeness.

I legit gasped, maybe even screamed and flapped my hands in front of my face when BA appeared dressed as the caped crusader.

Let me set the scene: Dark, ominous fog and then a brooding Batman appears dressed in his hot as fuck latex Batsuit, which IMO is way better than the previous ones. He looks fucking huge and muscled and well, so fucking hot, like I wanna lick him hot. OMFG…. I need a cold shower. But yeah, where was I? The trailer… so it’s pouring down rain, yeah now he’s really fucking hot and wet and oh shit fuck… I really need a cold shower. Batman reaches for a lever and the Batsignal lights up the sky and who is hovering in the sky basked in the light of the Batsignal???!!! Superman!!!! Mega hot, Henry Motherfucking Cavill! Sweet baby Jesus save me! I’m never gonna make it through this movie. Thank fuck I have BFF to support me and wail, gasp and cry at the screen right along with me. And PM1 won’t fail me either. And back to the trailer again. So Superman’s heat vision joined with the light from the Batsignal makes the sky looking fucking awesome and then they cut back to Batman. Stop my damn heart, his eyes are glowing this cold steel blue and then it ends with that killer logo. You know the one… if not, check out the post PM1 and I did when I panicked about BA as Batman.

Overall, it was amazing, and everything I’m reading is telling me that there is a possibility they’re going a different route with this one. Making Batman older, and there have been some stills from the set with BA rocking some gray hair, so we’ll have to see how that plays out. I’m all for BA and his gray hair, makes him hotter in that distinguished way. (Who am I kidding? He’s hot no matter what.)

All I know is, next year, look out because I’m heading to Comic-Con. Let the stalking in person begin.

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Food Love + Boycott = You don’t stand a fucking chance

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We have this little sandwich place near our house that we order from once a week, well, if I’m being honest, it’s probably more, but whatever. The sandwiches are good, but they have oatmeal chocolate chip cookies that are fucking unbelievable.

A few weeks ago I ordered dinner using their online ordering system and then left to run some errands before going to pick up the order. I arrived at the store five minutes earlier than my pick up time. No big deal, right? Well, clearly it was a huge fucking deal because a girl with a permanent bitchface greeted (I’m lying here, she basically said fuck off using her face) me at the pick-up counter.

After looking at her watch twice, she then said, “You’re early. Why are you early?” Are you fucking kidding me? You don’t know who you’re fucking with here, Bitchface. My response, “Do you need me to go sit in my car for five minutes and then come back in?”

Of course at the point she says nothing. Just orders some poor teenage kid to get my order ready. After ten minutes, which was now past my pick up time, my order is ready. But not really. They don’t have the fucking oatmeal cookies I ordered. I let it go, despite my obsessive love of cookies. I wasn’t interested in battling with Bitchface anymore.

Flash to a week later. Online order placed, cookies added and once again, I go to pick up my order and Bitchface is there. “We don’t have your cookie,” Bitchface announces as soon as I reach the register. What the fucking fuck!!??? I just look at her as the same teenage boy from before gets my order ready and asks where my cookies are. Bitchface turns around, glares at him and tells him they don’t have any, which prompts him to say, “Well, I put them right here when I was getting the order ready.” Again are you fucking kidding me?? Bitchface sold my fucking cookies before I could there!! The kid hands me my order and apologizes to me, all the while my eyes are staring right at Bitchface.

Glutton for punishment, a week later, I place the same order and head in there to pick it up. NO FUCKING COOKIES AGAIN!!! This time I’m fuming and Bitchface headed for the hills as soon as she saw me come through the door. I’m now dealing with the manager who must be married to Bitchface because he’s just as pleasant…a total fuckwit dickhead. Dickhead tells me he doesn’t have my cookies and my response was, “For the last three Fridays, I’ve ordered dinner from here and for the last three Fridays you haven’t had the cookies I ordered.” (Now, I may have ordered the last three Fridays in a row, but generally I legit order once a week. I’m certain I’m their best customer.)

Dickhead: You should’ve ordered earlier in the day, like at noon. We had them then.

Me: *Laughing* I wasn’t hungry at noon.

Dickhead: The food is on a first come, first serve basis.

Me: *Laughing even louder now* That’s some good business practices you have while running a restaurant. I’d love to see what happened if you ran out of bread since you serve sandwiches.

Dickhead: *Handing me my order minus the cookies* Can I get you anything else?

Me: Just the cookies.

Dickhead: We don’t have them.

Me: Since obviously you sell a lot of them, wouldn’t it be smart to make more, especially seeing as I placed my order an hour ago. That would give you plenty of time to make more.

Dickhead: It’s first come, first serve.

Me: I’m contacting your corporate office.

At this point Dickhead says nothing and Bitchface has now emerged from her hiding in the backroom. I give her a good long stink eye before adding, “By the way, your corporate office is the city I live in so you can guarantee I’m gonna be up their ass.”

I was fuming by the time I got home and Hubs B was just as pissed off about the missing cookies. Between my love of food and Hubs B’s boycotting skills, they’ve lost our business. And I’m certain they spit in my food as soon as my name comes up on their order sheet.

Standby because I sent a scathing email to their corporate office, in which I included a screen shot of a Google map of all the sandwich shops within walking distance of their store. I’m looking forward to their response.

PM2

Naked and Afraid… Oh, hell no

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Sunday was the premier of the most recent season of Naked and Afraid, so what better way to spend a Sunday evening than marathoning the previous season with Hubs B and BFF.

For those of you that have never seen the show, let me break it down for you. Basically it’s where these two fuckwits, I mean survivalists are dropped into jungles and shit and are forced to survive…naked with a partner they’ve never met. They get to bring one survival, like knife or a fire starter, something to help them out and they have to last 21 days. They also give each contestant (I call them this, although there is no prize at the end. Just the gratification of completing this journey…fucking lame.) a PSR rating. A Primitive Survival Rating, which is how likely they are to complete the challenge based on their survivalist experiences. It’s a scale from 0-10 and most of the men are rated somewhere in the 7.5-8.5 area and the women somewhere between 6-7.5. (sexist…) It’s a complete shit show, yet totally addictive.

So, we settle in to watch the premier after watching three consecutive episodes. It wasn’t so much that the episodes were hilarious, it was more about the conversations we had while watching.

I find the people who go on the show fascinating because I have no desire to ever do anything outside, besides sit on the beach. I’m afraid of the dark, I fucking hate bugs, especially moths, I have an aversion to things that are wet, so that rules out anything that deals with rain, I LOVE food and not grubs and weird ass shit caught in a jungle setting (one woman ate the brain from a rotten bird head she found on the beach and then was shocked when she got the shits), I won’t go camping, I despise sleeping on anything but a bed, I don’t like hiking or anything that requires me to climb, seeing as I’m afraid of heights and (I say “and” like the list ends here. Trust me it could go on for days) I’m always cold. So to say the people on this show are out of my realm of reality, is a fucking understatement.

As soon as the episode started BFF, Hubs B and I created our own rating system. FBR and DBR…Fucking Bitch Rating and Douche Bag Rating since the people in the premier were just awful. The female contestant complained non-stop. Um, you fucking chose to go on this fucking show, so stop your bitching. And the male contestant was a smarmy asshole, who found himself far too attractive, like he was a catch or something. At one point claiming to his partner after she was complaining about his douchebagness, “Girls would kill to be trapped with me for 21 days.” Really? Only if they like douche bags with beer guts and receding hairlines.

When the episode started I asked Hubs B what he thought his PSR be. Now I think of Hubs B as pretty badass and resourceful, but his response was, “Um…probably a 3.” Looks like I wouldn’t want to be paired up with him. So then BFF asks me, how likely I would be to survive on the show.

Hilarity ensure from Hubs B and then he says, “I give the two of you together 21 minutes,” which prompts BFF to ask if she could bring pizza as her survival item. I then, interject that we could totes survive longer than 21 minutes, which again has Hubs B laughing hysterically.

Hubs B: You won’t even stay in a hotel that has the doors on the outside.

Me: Um, that’s not a hotel, that’s a fucking motel.

Hubs B: Ok, so please fucking tell me, what type of doomsday scenario would warrant you staying in a motel with with the doors on the outside?

BFF: So if it was either sleep in my car or stay at motel with the doors on the outside, I’d choose the motel.

Me: *Long pause* Um…I don’t know. I really don’t like motels at all. Only hotels.

Hubs B: I’m amending my original estimate. 21 seconds…max.

BFF: I don’t like to hunt for food.

Me: Me either. I don’t even know where pizza lives.

BFF: I love food.

Me: Me too.

BFF: I’d go on the show just to lose 30 pounds.

Me: Great diet.

Hubs B: *Shaking his head* You two are fucking hopeless.

In the end, we established that the people who go on the show are fucking nuts, Hubs B isn’t nearly as badass as I thought and BFF and I would likely survive a few second, unless there was pizza involved. Not too bad.

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