I don’t know how it happened, but I ended up in Googland looking at funny epitaphs. Figured I’d share…
I’d rather be at the mall
This ain’t bad once you get used to it
He never killed a man that did not need killing
…and a couple celebrities.
I think I want my epitaph to say “I’m still on Facebook.”
These holidays arrrgh getting more and more fun!
If I had the time and quick wit, I would type out a whole blog in Pirate-eese, but alas matey, I’m off to make some booty.
Have a great day, ye ole scalawags!
I’m not going to bore you with the mountains of work in front of me, but I AM going to complain that there are just not enough hours in the day to complete it all. And it seems the more work there is to do, the more I’d rather blow it off and play video games.
I bought a new planner today. I figure if I write “WRITE 10am” on August 13th, I’ll actually write at 10am on August 13th instead of checking Facebook or my email. Do you think that will work? Probably not, but I’m going to try it anyway. Of course, I haven’t written anything in there yet. It’s on my to-do list.
I think I’m just overwhelmed by my own self-imposed deadlines. Among other things, I was going to have my new manuscript rewrites completed in August. Well, it’s August 12th…no, wait…August 13th, and I have the first two chapters finished. It’s a 30-chapter book. Ugh.
You may think I’m procrastinating by writing this blog, but posting a blog is actually on my to-do list for today. So there! According to my time-zone, I still have 43 minutes to complete this blog.
Give me some help here. How do you un-procrastinate yourself??
Z is for Zoo
My home-zoo is growing. In the house, we have two dogs, two guinea pigs, and now, a serpent.
Here’s Rudy Patootie and Dexter. If you ever want to break into my house, bring along a recording of thunder. The big one will hide under the desk, and the little ankle-biter will run upstairs and hide under the bed.
We also have a couple female piggies. CeeCee is the black one and Meatball is the brown one.
Our newest addition is a four-foot female Ball Python. Her name is Eva. Isn’t that the best name ever for a snake? I thought the smell of the guinea pigs would make her more active, but I don’t think she cares about them.
Today, I was searching for an April Fool’s prank to play on my trophy hubby and was reminded of one I pulled a few years ago.
My daughter was fresh out of college and in the midst of looking for a teaching job. She sent out a gazillion resumes and went on a bazillion interviews. She was substitute teaching at different schools on a daily basis, and her phone was ringing off the hook.
We still had a home phone at the time, and though she used her cell phone for nearly all business activity, the occasional caller would ring the home phone.
So, on April 1st, I wrote a phone message and left it on the kitchen island for her.
It read:
“Mr. Lyon called about a job. He wants you to call him back. (248) 541-5717.”
She was all excited, anticipating a new position. I could hardly keep from laughing in her face.
If you dial that number, you will hear the other person say, “Hello. Detroit Zoo.”
“May I please speak with Mr. Lyon?”
You will hear the person on the other end say, “Excuse me?”
hahahahahahaha – I’m still laughing.
Gotcha!!
Let this be a lesson to all authors.
NEVER release a book the first week of January….unless it’s a diet book. Of the top 100 best sellers on Amazon on January 3rd, at least 50-60 of them are diet books. That cracks me up. Hopefully, the skinny-wanna-be’s will fall off the wagon in a few weeks and we can get back to our regularly scheduled program.
Bon Appetite!
Last night I learned what to do when a BAT gets in your house.
First, the whole family (husband included) crouches down to the floor and shrieks like little girls every time it flies by. And, let me tell you, that little thing flies very, very fast, and my family shrieks very, very loudly.
Second, daughter stands on the front porch with the door open, calling, “Here bat, here bat.”
(Yeah, maybe that’ll work…and she’s the smart one of the bunch.)
Third, everyone grab a weapon!!!
Towel, Broom, Bed Sheet, Couch Pillow – check, check and check.
Now, don’t actually use the weapon. If the bat comes near you, crouch down, cover your head with the weapon, and shriek loudly. This will screw up the bat radar and cause it become disoriented and fly away. (Well, that’s the plan anyway.)
Finally, after it flies out the door, look for it for a half hour, because no one actually saw it fly out the door due to hiding behind sheets and towels and brooms and all that crouching and shrieking.
😛
That was quite an interesting event. I wish I had pictures.
The terms of my new employment include a drug screening. Since I’m such a baby that I won’t even take an aspirin unless I’m dying, I have no problem with this at all. I pick up the “request” from my office and trot down to the nearest clinic. I never had a drug test before. This will be something new and interesting.
When I walk in, I notice about a gazillion people sitting in the waiting room. The nice lady behind the desk asks for my “request” form and my driver’s license, which I dig out of my purse and place in front of her. She makes a copy of them, places them on a clipboard with some other papers, hands the clipboard to me, and tells me to “have a seat and fill these out” and that I would be called shortly.
You know how people say you should learn something every day to keep your mind sharp? Today I learned that “shortly” is a relative term.
Now keep in mind as you read this that I am dieting. I am a certified nutritionist and well aware of what one must do to lose weight. I am, therefore, drinking enough water every day to get my camel all the way across the parched Sahara and back. This being said, you can imagine that I have to pee ALL the time.
Ok, so I sit down and fill out the papers. The information consisted of name, address, social security number, driver’s license number and phone. Well, that took all of 20 seconds. I look up and count 14 people and think, This might take a while. As I look around, I am beginning to notice the faint sensation of having to pee. That’s good, right? After all, that’s why I’m here. I look at the clock – 2:00 pm on the dot. I also notice a sign on the wall stating: The Use Of Cell Phones Is Strictly Prohibited In This Area.
Meanwhile, the man next to me uses his cell phone to call his wife to complain that he’s been here “forever” and is going to be late. I hear a funny song-type sound coming from the man across from me. He pulls out his cell phone and says, “hello?” A lady came in to join her husband and proceeds to call their daughter to see if she is home from school yet.
Glance at the clock – 2:15.
The lady tells her husband that she has to pee and asks him where the restroom is. He said it is IN the office and you have to get the nice lady at the desk to buzz you through the door. She says, “Oh, I’ll just wait.”
I think I have to pee too.
I watch the television for a few minutes, but it’s on a sports channel and doesn’t interest me. Nothing against basketball, but it’s not my thing. Totally bored now.
Clock? 2:29.
I hope they hurry. I do have to pee now.
They call a few people through the magic door into the inner sanctum of the office, and a couple more people come in, get their little clipboards and sit down.
2:44.
Yep, I definitely have to pee now.
I could go ask the nice lady at the desk to buzz me in so I could use the bathroom, but what would happen if they called me next and I had no pee to give them? That would be embarrassing, wouldn’t it? I’ll just wait. I’m not a two-year-old for goodness sakes. I can hold my bladder.
Hey! There’s a magazine with Angelina Jolie’s picture on the front. She’s so pretty. I wonder if her and Brad have adopted any of Madonna’s children. I hobble over the get the magazine and come back to my seat. I realize as I move that I really have to pee more than I initially though.
Clock? 2:59.
I’ll just keep my thoughts occupied elsewhere by reading this lovely magazine, because I really have to pee now.
I decide to just look at the pictures. I can’t seem to focus on the words because my eyeballs are starting to swim.
There’s that funny song-type sound again. The man says, “hello?”
The door to the inner sanctum opens to call another name. Not my name. Damn, I wish they’d hurry up. I finish the magazine pictures and look up at the clock.
3:20.
I re-adjust my butt on the chair so I can cross my legs.
The lady makes another phone call to the daughter to tell her to watch her little brother and that they’ll be home soon.
The man who has been waiting “forever” and will be late is finally called into the office.
Another person comes in, takes the little clipboard and sits down. Poor soul. I hope you don’t have to pee. You’re gonna be here a while.
A few more people are called into the office.
I don’t want to look at the clock, but this is getting ridiculous. I squint at it with one eye – 3:45. I think my bladder is about to explode.
I really, really have to pee now. Really. I’m not kidding.
I look around the room and notice that the crowd has really thinned out. Time? 4:05. There are only 6 or so people left. I really, really, really have to pee. My teeth are starting to float. I know at this point I cannot ask the nice lady behind the desk to buzz me in to use the bathroom, because I’m going to be called in any minute.
Aaannnyyy minute now.
I try in vain to see if I recognize any of these people from when I came in. Let’s see…
Mr. I’m-Gonna-Be-Late is gone. Mr. Funny-Song-Cell-Phone is gone. The lady is still here with her husband. Was he here when I got here? I can’t remember. My brain is starting to get fuzzy. Maybe I could buy his spot from him. After all, the wife is here to keep him company, and the daughter is home with strict instructions to look after her brother. I wonder how much money I have in my purse?
Suddenly, the office door opens and the nurse says a name. Nobody moves. Maybe it was my name she said. I can’t think straight. I listen as she says it again. “Joseph?”
Shit, not me. Maybe I could fake it. Do I look like a Joseph? A man stands and walks toward her. I think for a moment that he is pretty scrawny and I can take him, but by the time I uncross my legs and get ready for the tackle, they are gone. The magic door to my relief is closed once again. Why do they have a buzzer on it? Is it to keep people like me out? What if someone has to pee? Like me? The next time the door opens, I’m going to sprint through it – if I can actually sprint without wetting my pants.
I swear I’m next. I have to be. I don’t recognize any of these people. I HAVE to be next. I cross my legs again and look up at the clock – 4:12.
Ok people. This isn’t funny anymore. I don’t think I can even take a step without peeing my pants. There’s only 4 or 5 of us left in the waiting room. I don’t know. I can’t count anymore. I’m sure all of these people came in after me. Except for the man with his wife. I know SHE came in after me, but I don’t remember if I saw him when I first walked in.
At this point, the wife says she can’t take it anymore and moves toward the nice lady behind the desk. Oh My God! She’s going to pee. Please take me with you! I won’t be a problem, I promise. I’ll just tag along behind you. You won’t even know I’m there.
At that moment, the magic door of relief opens and the nurse calls my name. THANK GOD!!! I can finally pee. As I painfully stand up, I glance at the clock – 4:35. Holy shit, I have to pee RIGHT NOW. NO – don’t pee yet! Hang on just one more minute. One more minute. Hang on!
As I walk through the doorway held open by Miss Nurse, I notice she has a beard. Beard? This is turning into a really weird experience. I want to look at his/her chest to see if he/she is really a girl or a guy, but my brain is about to explode, and I don’t think I can take in any more information.
Miss/Mr. Nurse says, “Put your purse in the locker and your coat on the hook.”
Ok, I can do that. When do I get to pee?
“Sign right here.”
Ok, done. Pee?
He/She then says, “Do you have anything in your pockets?”
I say, “No, I don’t have any pockets.” When do I get to pee?
He/She draws a line on a cup and says, “Fill it up to here,” pointing to the line.
No problem. I probably can give you more if you want, but it has to be NOW.
He/She then continues, “Go in there,” pointing to the bathroom, “and don’t flush when you are through.”
“Ok,” I said.
Give me the freakin’ cup lady…man…whatever! I have to pee RIGHT NOW!!!
I grab the cup from her wretched little boy/girl hand and go into the bathroom. Yep, today I wore the pants with 14 zillion buttons to undo. Crap! Buttons. Hurry. Fingers aren’t working fast enough. Hurry. Stupid buttons. Maybe I should just rip them off. I can sew them on again later, right? Relief is right there if you would just freakin’ hurry, for god’s sake.
I sit down and realize I don’t really give a flyin’ hoot about the drug test, but I figure I better catch some in the cup, up to the line, ya know, just cuz I’m here and all.
Did you ever have to go to the bathroom so bad that when you finally did, it felt like you had an orgasm? That was the best pee EVER! Do you think they’d get upset if I lit up a cigarette right here, right now?
Now, what did she say about flushing? I don’t think I was listening at that point. I notice a sign on the wall, “Do Not Flush After Donating – Nurse Will Flush For You.” Oh. Thank goodness that’s there. Ok, I won’t flush. I wondered about the people using their cell phones in front of the No Cell Phone sign. They’d probably flush, but not me. No sir. I can actually follow directions.
I emerge from my orgasmic pee and give Miss/Mr. Nurse my cup and she/he has me sign something else. Thank god that’s over. I’m almost crying with joy. I can’t wait to get out of there.
On the way out, they give me a piece of paper to give to my employer.
That’s it? No sucker or lollypop or anything? I sit here in agony for two and a half hours, and all I get is a piece of paper? You people suck.
The other day, I asked an acquaintance of mine, “How are you today?”
He answered, “I’m livin’ the dream, baby, livin’ the dream!”
I thought that was the funniest thing I ever heard, and I laughed like crazy.
Well, since then, I’ve been responding the same way when folks ask me ‘how I am’. They always laugh out loud. I guess it’s better than the traditional, “Fine, and you?” response. I think I’ll keep it up.
A conversation with a friend who had a sick dog and needed an emergency vet got me thinking about the emergency vet phone number that SHOULD be posted on MY fridge. I have three, count them, three dogs. Do you think I have the emergency vet number posted on my fridge? Of course not. That would be too logical. And, I know the emergency vet exists. I’ve called them. I’ve used their services.
It was a wintry, cold Sunday morning in December. We had a BIG cat named Hooter Bear. I’m talking big. Raccoon size. 26 pounds, if I remember correctly. He was born during Hurricane Hugo, so was named Hugo, which turned into Huey, which eventually became Hooter Bear. It doesn’t matter what you call them, they don’t come anyway.
It all started during our quiet Sunday morning. In the middle of making coffee, Hooter Bear started screaming from the other room. He suddenly ran into the corner of the living room and was screaming and screaming. I don’t understand cat-speak, so I had no idea what was wrong. The hair on his back stood straight up, and he screamed and screamed.
The rest of the scene went something like this…
Me: What the hell is going on with the cat?
Hubby: I don’t know.
Me: Well, what’s wrong with him?
Hubby: I don’t know
Me: Did you do something to him?
Hubby: no
Me: What should we do?
Hubby: I don’t know
And so it goes. I guess we now know why I always feel the need to take charge of everything.
So, I searched for the phone number and called the emergency vet. I took him in and dropped him off so they could figure out why he was screaming. After a few hours, they called and told me to come back in. Hooter Bear’s tests were back. When I arrived, they showed me an X-ray of the cat. I would scan it so you could see it, but it’s too big. You won’t believe it if you don’t see it for yourself.
Let’s leave poor kitty right here and go back in time a few weeks, shall we?
Remember from the beginning of this post that I mentioned this was a Sunday morning in December? Yep, December. Holiday time. Time for families, baking, friends, presents, shopping, going into debt, credit card bills, etc. I decided this particular Christmas season, with two small children, that I did not want to spend gobs of money on distant relatives. I wanted to spend what I had on my kids and to stay out of debt. So my ingenious idea was to not BUY Christmas gifts, but to MAKE them instead. I guess I had delusions of Martha Stewart or something. I was young. Whatever. So, I trotted off Martha-style to the nearest craft store and purchased kits for a dozen or so holiday wall hangings and Christmas stockings. They were only $4.99 a piece! The great thing about them would be the love I put into them. Hahahaha.
I set up a card table in my living room, turned on the radio, got myself a glass of iced tea, and went to work. I worked at that card table nightly for quite a few weeks. Sequins, thread, felt, needles, sewing my little holiday tush off. These would be the best (and cheapest) gifts EVER. I was so proud of myself.
Don’t you think that was the best idea I ever had? The whole family would have beautiful, hand-made Christmas gifts for the low, low price of $59.89 plus tax. Heck yeah, I’m a genius!!
Let’s return to the emergency vet and poor kitty and see what that awful X-ray showed.
“A what? With what still attached?”
Yes, I can see the eye of the needle right there, plain as day, with the thread attached, but I still don’t believe it.
Hooted Bear apparently found a piece of thread and started playing with it. Apparently, said piece of thread had pointy, sharp needle attached to the other end. Apparently, stupid cat swallowed the whole thing, needle and all. It went all the way through his system and was being deposited into the litter box early that Sunday morning. Then, catastrophe, it turned at the last minute and punctured his bladder. Hence the screaming.
Here’s my choice:
A) $30 to put him down or B) $590 for surgery and he’ll be fine.
I loved that dang cat. I opted for the surgery. He turned out fine and had many more happy years in him.
This experience left me with one, and only one, thought…
I could have bought some really nice Christmas presents for $590.
Lori Crane 