Conversations with my Coworkers

I love my coworkers, I do, but we say some of the dumbest shit ever at work. Here's a sampling of actual conversations at my job:

Coworker: My table is contempt
Me: No, no your table is not contempt. They are content.

~*~

Me: (talking about another coworker who has a Minnie Mouse voice) I want to call her Squeaky Fromme
*Blank Stares*
Me: You have no idea what i'm talking about. Squeaky Fromme, from the Mason Family.
Coworker: Oh, Marilyn Manson
Me: No Charles Manson, the serial killer

~*~

Customer: How do the Mussels come?
Coworker: In a bowl

~*~

Me: I'm thinking of dressing up as Molly Ringwald for Halloween
Coworker: who?
Me: Molly Ringwald, you know the Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink
Coworker: Oh I don't watch old movies

~*~
Coworker: Grouper is our mildest fish
*blank stares from customers*
Coworker: You know mildest, it has the most fishy flavor

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SUNDAY PICS: Volatile Relationships

I don't know who these people are, but that's one hell of a breakup.

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OPEN LETTER: Listen Bitches

Dear women (and men) who treat being single like its a disease:

Kindly STFU. I realize that having a man may be the only thing making your world turn, but its not the end-all be-all of mine. I'm so sick of getting condescending remarks when people find out I am single. One more "oh, I'm sorry sweetie, I'm sure it will get better soon" is going to cause me to go all Buffy-the-Vampire-Slayer-Ass Kicking on someone. Being single is not cancer, i don't need it to get better. Also, I'm not contagious being friends with me will not cause you to break-up with your boyfriend.

This isn't the 1950s anymore. Women don't need men to have a life. I can go out and drink at a bar or go to a concert or eat dinner at a restaurant without a man. I certainly accomplished plenty without having a boyfriend. I don't need you to fix me. I don't need your advice, and I don't need you to set me up with some great guy you know. I'm not sitting at home crying every night because i'm single. I'm sorry your life is so pathetic that your world revolves around having a boyfriend, but mine doesn't.

I'm not single because i can't find a man. I'm single because i refuse to settle for some idiot who isn't good enough for me just to be in a relationship. On the plus side, I still get to get drunk and randomly makeout with people. I get to come and go as i please, and i don't have to worry about whether or not my Boyfriend will allow it. So Fuck Off


Sincerely,
Single Girls of America

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Oh So Sexy

So Fucking Sexy

I'm a quirky girl. I have never denied that. If you asked 100 people what word they would use to describe me, I'm pretty sure "quirky" would come in right after "bitch." That being said like any other girl I have a list of things that i find sexy in a guy. I was talking to the Marine earlier and he refused to believe that i find glasses sexy. Hello people! I am a nerd, of course i am going to find glasses sexy. So here is a list of things i find sexy in guys:

• Glasses.... ...........................................................50 points
• Tattoos.................................................................50 points (unless he is covered in them)
• Use of big words...................................................25 per word.( I'm pretty sure my panties will drop for a guy who uses the word pulchritudinous)
• Reading a book.....................................................100 points (Bonus 100 if its something like Kafka or Tolstoy)
• Being able to hold an intelligent conversation..........100 points (Bonus 500 if its something esoteric like 1950s literature or death and diseases in Africa)
• Riding a motorcycle...............................................50 points
• Being able to quote old movies...............................25 points per quote (and by old I mean before 1975)
• Being good with children........................................75 points
• Fixing a computer..................................................50 points
• Cleaning................................................................50 points (OMG so hot when guys scrub shit)
• Cooking................................................................100 points (as long as it doesn't come from a frozen box)
• Can lead me around a dance floor............................300 points (actual dancing like the Tango or Waltz)
• Fixing a Car...........................................................250 points (I love guys covered in engine grease)

So yeah quirky, but ladies tell me you don't have a similar list.

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The Birth of Tits (Part 3)

So this story actually takes place months before i was born, but it still works mmmmkay?

My mom had this psychic 6th sense about me. She knew i was going to be a girl even though the ultrasound had proven inconclusive. She had these pink clothes picked out for me and didn't even have a boys name picked out. She also was adamant that i was going to be born May 1st, 4th or 5th, even though her due date was until like June 8th. She kept telling everyone that i was going to be born on those days and everyone else was wrong... and she was right. I wonder how long it took before she let live in down that she got it right (answer: never, she's still going on about it).

But my name was a whole different battle. My father wanted to name me Patricia.

I'm gonna let that sink in for a moment

Patricia?

Okay. Nothing against the name Patricia. I'm sure there are many lovely amazing girls out there named Patricia and its a sweet name. But it is not a name that in any way suits me. I feel like with the name Patricia I would be even more of a complete nerd than i already am.

My mother listened to this suggestion and was (and this isn't a direct quote but its probably what my mom said) all "NO WAY IN FUCKING HELL ARE YOU NAMING MY KID THAT."

My mom had other options for my name. I'm not going to tell you what my actual first name is cause i still like the thin layer of anonymity I have on this blog, but i will tell you where she got the name from. My 16 year old mom was laid out in bed, pigging out on french fries with brown gravy and chocolate, and not in HS cause you know 16 year old pregnant bitches don't go to high school. She was watching tv. More specifically she was watching Little House on the Prairie. Yes, the old timey show with Michael Landon about a girl on the prairie in the 1870s.

The episode in particular she was watching was where Carrie (the 3rd sister) is heartbroken because her father is so far away and her dog dies and no one pays any attention to her. So Carrie creates an imaginary friend to play with. Well I guess people tease her so the imaginary best friend runs off, and so Carrie runs through the hills of the prairie yelling for her imaginary friend. My mom thought it sounded so pretty this girl yelling the name looking for her friend, so that's what she decided to name me.

So yes, I am named after an imaginary best friend from Little House on the Prairie.

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The Birth of Tits (Part 2)

How cute was I?

When we left off my 16 year old mother's water had just broke...

Some time later, my mom and grandparents arrived at the hospital and let the doctors take over. Somehow in all this commotion, my mom managed to call my twenty-two year old father to tell him that his daughter was being born. How she did this before the invention of the cellphone is still a mystery to me because my dad is notoriously hard to track down. He’s the kind of guy you send to the store to get milk and he comes back three hours later with milk and 3 live chickens. He's a bit of a whack-a-doodle and totally a dirty hippie. (UPDATE: according to my mom he showed up at the house sometime after her water broke)

So my mom is in labor at the hospital and my dad is driving to meet her, when he stops at a bar to tell his buddies that my mom is in labor. I don’t really understand the thought process that suggests stopping into a bar to announce a child’s birth is good idea when said mother is being knocked out with anesthesia, but hey this is my dad we are talking about. He's that guy.

So he’s at a bar announcing and of course his buddies want to buy him a drink to celebrate, then another, then a round of shots and well you get the picture. Several drinks and hours later he stumbles out of the bar and manages to make it to the hospital. But of course, it’s so late/early that the hospital doors are locked and everyone has to enter the hospital through the emergency room entrance.

Meanwhile my mother is in labor in the operating room FREAKING OUT. She's got the nurses looking for my dad; she's got the hospital paging my dad. She's totally alone knocked up on anesthesia having me.

My drunken father never gets the memo about the hospital doors because my grandparents/mother couldn’t get a hold of him to alert him of this (its the 1980s yo). So he sleeps in his car until morning when the hospital doors open up. Thus missing my birth entirely. I was obviously a special child right?

He doesn't even show up until the next day. My mom had surgery, went through recovery and was already taking visitors when my dad showed up hungover. The whole room was full of my grandparents, aunts, uncles, etc when my dad shows looking like a sad sack holding a green garbage bag of roses (he didn't want to spill the water from the vase or some shit). Can you say awkward?

Coming Up: You're not fucking naming my kid that

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The Birth of Tits (Part 1)

So typically around my birthday I post my list of accomplishments. Well fuck that shit this year, I'm going old school and telling you about the day i was born. This story is true to the best of my knowledge, although I'm sure my mom will tell me i got something wrong.

I was born {Coyote Rose Tits} on May 5^th at some ungodly time like 3:15 in the morning, but lets rewind to several hours prior to this cataclysmic event. My sixteen-year-old unwed mother (Yep, my mom was the original teen mom y'all) was traipsing around my grandparent’s house in Avenel, New Jersey.  For those of you who have never heard of Avenel, which is just about everybody, it’s in the northern parts of New Jersey not that far from New York City. It’s also the kind of town no one gets out of without a drug habit, an underage pregnancy or getting busted by the cops. My family actually pulled the rare Avenel trifecta and had all three, but I digress.

Doesn't my dad look like a dirty hippie?

My mom was traipsing around making a chocolate cake, because she was 8 months pregnant and you don’t really need more of an excuse than that. My mom’s diet when she was pregnant with me consisted of French fries with brown gravy and chocolate. I blame her for my addiction to them both to this day. Anyways, it was close to midnight and she was frosting this cake when her water broke a month early. Now any normal pregnant sixteen year old would freak out that her water broke, but not my mom she downed 3/4ths of a chocolate cake before going to tell my grandmother that she was in labor. Why did she eat this cake, you might ask? Because the doctors told her she was going to have to have a c-section and she didn’t want them have an ugly scar.

Let me explain: in the 1980s when a woman had a c-section they cut her from navel-to-crotch unless they had eaten in the few hours prior then the doctors cut from hip-to-hip. My mother being the crafty sixteen year old she was didn’t want to have a scar running from her navel for the rest of her life, cause that would ruin bikini season and all, so she ate a chocolate cake so that the doctors would have to cut horizontally instead.

So here I am being all “hey bitch I’m ready to be out of your stomach now” and she’s pigging out on cake.

 Coming Up: How my Dad missed my Birth and Imaginary Best Friends

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SMAC: Time to Spice Up Your Life

Sorry for the delay, there was much confusion on who i was posting this month for Shitty Movie Awareness Club (yep, Nugs finally decided on the name I have been using anyways). But I got my favorite sexy Irish Blogger Harley from No Pressure, No Diamonds. In honor of coercing Mandy Moore into joining the club, we opted to review shitty Pop Star movies. I choose Jessica Simpson fucking up Dukes of Hazzard which you can find on Nyx's blog. Harley has opted to mock one of the most mockable movies ever: Spice World. So take it away Harley:

This is my first time reviewing a shit movie (although I have been known to livetweet quite a few), and when I got the topic for the month, I was excited.

Movies with pop stars? That is a veritable goldmine of shit movies. There's The Last Song, Chasing Liberty, A Walk To Remember, Crossroads... The list goes on. And on. And on. It's like it's written into singers' contracts to star in at least one appalling movie marketed solely at teenage girls within their lifespan at the top of the charts.

I decided to do Spice World mostly because I wanted to be Ginger Spice when I was a young 'un and also partly because it harks back to a time when Victoria Beckham would say things like "hold onto your knickers girls", which of course she would never say now because she's far too much of a lady. Also it has FIVE pop stars instead of just one, which makes it five times as awesome. 

Spice World is about (you may want to sit down for this) the Spice Girls. And The Spice Girls - in case you drank too much as a baby, passed out and missed the whole of the nineties (hey, it happens) - were an extremely popular girl group from England who sang such unforgettable hits as 'Wannabe' and '2Become1'. Yes? Remember them? Good, then I'll continue.

In 1997, they made a movie about the band and their personal problems and their upcoming concert in London's Royal Albert Hall. There is so much win in this movie that the one thing I can say to condense the awesomeness into one line is: Meat Loaf is the driver of their double-decker Union Jack bus. 

Yes. Meat Loaf. Why? Who the fuck knows.

The girls - Victoria Beckham neé Adams sans the cat-arse pout she adopted in later years, Emma Bunton looking like a jailbait teenager with daddy issues, Melanie C with her fresh-off-the-council-estate pickpocket chic look, Melanie B with the obvious references to wild animals (when is she not in animal print?) and Geri Halliwell looking like a white chola - are happy being the most famous band except that their manager is a dick, the papparazzi are relentless, they never have time to see their ONE FRIEND Nicola, there are a lot of dream sequences and for some reason somebody tacks a bomb onto the bottom of their bus.

Which I guess isn't that much of a stretch. I'm sure there were plenty of people who would have liked to see the Spice Girls go up in a blaze of fire and disgust. Mostly teenage boys.

Naturally, this movie makes not one sweet ounce of fucking sense. I mean, it's about the Spice Girls, and was never marketed as being about anything more substantial than OMFG SEEING THE SPICE GIRLS SING AT THE END, so there's no reason to expect anything more. There are parts that will amaze you - mostly anytime Victoria Beckham cracks a smile - but in general it's just good guilty shitty fun. With platform boots. And really, there's nothing better than some badass platforms. When are they coming back into fashion? Pretty sure I still have mine somewhere...

The best way to watch this movie is with a hefty amount of a certain green substance in your system. Even if only to keep up with the dream sequences and direct you back to your youth down the yellow brick road of "Spice Up Your Life".

Watching this made me nostalgic. There were so many terrible jokes that were then laboriously explained probably because the makers wanted the seven year old girls in the audience to be able to keep up. It was fantastic. It was a fantastic clusterfuck of awful hilarity. If you feel like revisiting your youth, or if you have nothing better to do and feel like exercising your eyeballs with a lot of primary colours, or even if you just want to see Victoria Beckham act as a human and not the cylon she has so clearly become, you should watch this movie.

And now I leave you to go dream about primary colours, girls in babydolls sucking lollipops, crotch skimming minidresses and platform boots.

Watch it, laugh (possibly cry at the lame jokes), then watch it again and wonder what you've done wrong in your life that you don't own your own custom-paint-job double-decker bus.

Irish Spice

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