OK, so I woke up early this morning, and opened up my email inbox, only to find a most disturbing message from my GF Lori. It contained a news flash so shocking, so absolutely unthinkable, that I immediately had a vaso-vagal reaction and briefly lost consciousness as my body tried to protect my mind from the unearthly horror before me. "Oh, no, Kelly-Girl, what is it??" you ask, sharing my terror, poised at the ready to summon emergency response personnel. Give me a moment to compose myself...OK, here goes.
It would seem that the K-I-D is dating....Kellie Pickler. Oh, God, there it is again, I just threw up a little bit in my mouth, and I'm seeing spots.
Seriously? Of all people? Kellie-Freakin'-Pickler? In the words of my aura-reading-studying-to-be-a-shaman Mother, JesusMaryAndJosephYouHaveGottaBeFrigginKiddingMe!! So now, not only has he ignored my repeated entreaties for free-ticketage and backstage-passitude, but he is dating a reality-TV-chick. With fake boobs. And she spells her name wrong. Now I understand that she's a singer, and may even be considered by some to be marginally talented, but really. Would we even know who she was were it not for American Idol? I think not. So, in my opinion, she is nothing more than a country-music-version of Spencer and Heidi, and she can take her obviously-augmented self and go back to from whence she came. And, yes, I did say "whence." She might have to look that one up, but I said it.
Now, deep in the reaches of my reality-based cerebellum, I know that things would never work out between me and the K-I-D. He tends to like chicks who are, shall we say, slightly more inflatable than I am, and let's face it our lifestyles are not exactly compatible. Can you see him tooling around P-town with a Highlander full of Chicas? I think not. But I know you my Lovelies, you can so picture my bikini-clad self hanging out poolside in Vegas, partying like a rock star, because let's face it, I am wicked, wicked hot. But the K-I-D hanging in the Suburban D? Not so much.
I guess it's the same old story, the bane of all of us smart chicks--dudes that we dig choosing to be with girls who aren't exactly. Now "she" may very well be smarter than I give her credit for, but...um...no, sorry, I can't go there. So yeah, I will continue to worship at the shrine of the K-I-D, because no matter what he does off-stage, he is still a very talented cat who puts on a tremendous show. I will put aside my differing opinions on his love-life, and gladly accept the long-awaited tickets, passes, and swag as a salve for my bruised ego and crushed and broken dreams. All he has to do is call me. I may be hanging out poolside with my new IB, Mr. Mathers, but I would pick up the phone. Well, I'd probably let it go to voicemail just to get back at him for making me wait, but I'd gladly go to the show. Fo-Sho.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
ILBO in the D
OK, so I've been away for a while my Lovelies, but I am back. As the Divine Mr. M says "It's been a long time, sorry I've been away so long, I didn't mean to leave you." He then says his name is Shady, and goes on about been hooked on Valium and painkillers, and killing people, so other than our rockin' hot bods, right about there is where any similarities end. In the past few weeks I've gotten through the end of the school year, ended a relationship, took a road trip to Kalamazoo, and completed a mini-triathlon. Alright, that last one was technically "made up," but a single chick's gotta pad her resume somehow, yeah? So lest I be placed upon Jersey Girl's Sleeping Geniuses list, I offer you this little gem of an anecdote.
Last week (OK, it was 2 weeks ago--Jeeeez, get off my ass already about not posting lately) I was driving home from work, traveling westbound on 696. I was in the right lane--I know, I know, I never thought I'd use those words together in a sentence either, but it was because I was trying to remember to get off at the Southfield, and I find that if I punish myself by driving behind excruciatingly slow commuters in those right-handed lanes, I am more inclined to exit when I'm supposed to, not necessarily because I remember to, but rather because I am desperately trying to get around their dumb-ass, slow-moving, wind-up cars. So there I was crawling along at 71 mph, rockin' out, lookin' hot, (goes without saying, I know) when IT happened.
"What is IT?", you ask, with the requisite breathless anticipation, your finger poised over the rollie thing on your mouse, desperate to learn more. Well, at precisely the same moment, the black Grand Prix in front of me started slowing down--stopping really--and I noticed an Inordinately Large Black Object in our lane directly up ahead. In an instant, I realized that A--I had nowhere to go if this Grand Prix guy stopped--there were cars to the left of me, and a rather imposing cement wall to the right, B--this dude had nowhere to go (see option A, and please pay attention) and C--this dude was so going to hit whatever this ILBO was. And soon.
So I braced myself for impact. I've been traveling this stretch of MDOT-ignored roadway for over 2 years now, without incident, save for a Saturday-afternoon flat tire, so this was it, this was the Commuter-God's payback for Kelly-Girl, and all my snarky stories about fat guys and bumper stickers and other things that I found so incredibly important at the time. I was finally going to become the "Injury Accident" on WWJ, the "Breaking News" on Local 4, the poor soul attached to a 3 hour traffic tie-up. And soon. The ILBO was there, the Grand Prix was about to plow into it, and there was not a goddamn thing I could do about it...
POOF!!!
I say POOF my Lovelies, not because I suffered grave injuries and lost consciousness, only to be awakened by a Mr. George Clooney-esque ER physician at Beaumont, no, I say POOF, because that's the sound the Grand Prix made when it struck the ILBO in the roadway. And then it started snowing. See, it turns out, that the ILBO was filled with about eleventy-kajillion styrofoam peanuts, and when the Grand Prix dude plowed into it, there was a subsequent mushroom cloud of white that rivaled anything Mother Nature could throw at us in January. So I turned on my wipers, breathed an enormous sigh of relief, and started laughing.
So yeah, rather than Commuter-God's revenge, I guess my brush with death was more of a wake-up call to get off my ass and get back to the business of posting. I've been a little caught up in the drama of my life, and I guess I felt like I had nothing to say. Certainly not much good. Once I told and retold that story a couple times, however, I realized that was the whole point of this blog. I'm not here to change the world, or blow your mind with insightful, heart-felt commentary, nah, I'm just here to make you laugh. And no matter how bleak things look, there's a whole lotta stupid stuff that can make me laugh, so I'll be sure to share it with you. And soon.
Last week (OK, it was 2 weeks ago--Jeeeez, get off my ass already about not posting lately) I was driving home from work, traveling westbound on 696. I was in the right lane--I know, I know, I never thought I'd use those words together in a sentence either, but it was because I was trying to remember to get off at the Southfield, and I find that if I punish myself by driving behind excruciatingly slow commuters in those right-handed lanes, I am more inclined to exit when I'm supposed to, not necessarily because I remember to, but rather because I am desperately trying to get around their dumb-ass, slow-moving, wind-up cars. So there I was crawling along at 71 mph, rockin' out, lookin' hot, (goes without saying, I know) when IT happened.
"What is IT?", you ask, with the requisite breathless anticipation, your finger poised over the rollie thing on your mouse, desperate to learn more. Well, at precisely the same moment, the black Grand Prix in front of me started slowing down--stopping really--and I noticed an Inordinately Large Black Object in our lane directly up ahead. In an instant, I realized that A--I had nowhere to go if this Grand Prix guy stopped--there were cars to the left of me, and a rather imposing cement wall to the right, B--this dude had nowhere to go (see option A, and please pay attention) and C--this dude was so going to hit whatever this ILBO was. And soon.
So I braced myself for impact. I've been traveling this stretch of MDOT-ignored roadway for over 2 years now, without incident, save for a Saturday-afternoon flat tire, so this was it, this was the Commuter-God's payback for Kelly-Girl, and all my snarky stories about fat guys and bumper stickers and other things that I found so incredibly important at the time. I was finally going to become the "Injury Accident" on WWJ, the "Breaking News" on Local 4, the poor soul attached to a 3 hour traffic tie-up. And soon. The ILBO was there, the Grand Prix was about to plow into it, and there was not a goddamn thing I could do about it...
POOF!!!
I say POOF my Lovelies, not because I suffered grave injuries and lost consciousness, only to be awakened by a Mr. George Clooney-esque ER physician at Beaumont, no, I say POOF, because that's the sound the Grand Prix made when it struck the ILBO in the roadway. And then it started snowing. See, it turns out, that the ILBO was filled with about eleventy-kajillion styrofoam peanuts, and when the Grand Prix dude plowed into it, there was a subsequent mushroom cloud of white that rivaled anything Mother Nature could throw at us in January. So I turned on my wipers, breathed an enormous sigh of relief, and started laughing.
So yeah, rather than Commuter-God's revenge, I guess my brush with death was more of a wake-up call to get off my ass and get back to the business of posting. I've been a little caught up in the drama of my life, and I guess I felt like I had nothing to say. Certainly not much good. Once I told and retold that story a couple times, however, I realized that was the whole point of this blog. I'm not here to change the world, or blow your mind with insightful, heart-felt commentary, nah, I'm just here to make you laugh. And no matter how bleak things look, there's a whole lotta stupid stuff that can make me laugh, so I'll be sure to share it with you. And soon.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Annual Review
OK, so remember like a month ago when I said that I was doing my employee reviews? Yeah, well, apparently part of the deal is you actually have to present them to said employees, and provide constructive criticism and insightful commentary that will aid their professional development. Now what helpful feedback I could possibly provide to someone who is content to have spent 8-plus years pounding away at a 10 key for $11 an hour is beyond me personally, but I managed to somehow say the exact same thing to each and every one of them and sound somewhat kinda remotely supportive.
So today was the deadline for giving the reviews, thus I spent the last 2 days feverishly cutting and pasting astute behavioral observations such as "Employee X consistently meets the expectation of this standard" into 16, count them, 16 employee evaluations. I am all for the warm-fuzzy non-exempt employee experience, but I have waaaay too many direct reports to actually know what they do or how they do it on a daily basis. I have entirely too much internet surfing and goofing around to do to actually pay attention to whether Sally Ann is actually hitting her 7000 keystroke per hour minimum. Really. I am paid to oversee, supervise, and look really great in high heels. And I am fine with that. Especially since in our era of corporate financial conservatism, I'm not getting a raise this year--you gotta pay to play, baby, and if you want more than my bare minimum performance, you gotta pony up some coin (and contrary to what you may have read on the bathroom wall, that is not my philosophy in the boudoir--that would be tacky).
So anyway, I'm a little worn out, because I spent the past few days actually working which is always exhausting for me. As for the rest of my week, I'm playing golf tomorrow (woo-hoo!). Seriously, is there any better combination of words in the English language?? I think not. Well, I believe that "Hey Kelly, this is the K-I-D, but you can call me Bobby, and I would looove to give you free tickets and backstage passes to my show on July 17 and/or 18 at Comerica Park, whichever date works best for you, I just really would like you to come be my guest and hang out and drink beer with me and my buddy George Clooney, so please, please call me back" would probably be a better sentence, but slightly less likely, so I'll take the golf reference. And then there's Wings game afterwards, and holy crap what am I still doing up??
I may be tired, but tonight was kind of special (and if you sing the Lowenbrau song, I swear to God, I will punch you right in the throat) because I had dinner with two of my oldest friends, Holly and Lori. Now I've been friends with them since right around the time I moved to the D, so that is roundabout 83 dog-years, give or take. We got married and had kids at the same time, and shared our life experiences as young mothers together. More importantly, they shared my belief that we may be moms, but we are still smokin' hot chicks who like to party like rock stars. And we did. Our families would get together and play cards, and laugh, have some (lotta) cocktails, and laugh--you get the idea. It was great. And then I got divorced. And the wheels fell off. I fully expected it to lose some friends because of it, but not them, and I felt terribly disappointed and hurt. I think we got caught up in the circumstances, and just plain lost each other for a while. But I think we're on track towards finding our way again. We're slowly shedding the awkwardness that got tangled up in our friendship, and I am very glad for that. At least I hope we are, because I've missed them.
So yeah, it's mid-way through the first week of the month, and I am beat. I don't think I'm cut out for all this reflecting and evaluating. I'm so much better at judging and disparaging. Nah, I'm just kidding. I love my job even with all of its drama and tension--after all, it pays for golf and my subsequent nearly-good-pizza binge. At the end of today, I would offer that I was a goal-oriented performer, who worked well with others, and was able to accomplish my assignment in a timely fashion, with little or no direct supervision. And if The Man doesn't agree, he can suck it and suck it hard. And I think my girlfriends would agree.
So today was the deadline for giving the reviews, thus I spent the last 2 days feverishly cutting and pasting astute behavioral observations such as "Employee X consistently meets the expectation of this standard" into 16, count them, 16 employee evaluations. I am all for the warm-fuzzy non-exempt employee experience, but I have waaaay too many direct reports to actually know what they do or how they do it on a daily basis. I have entirely too much internet surfing and goofing around to do to actually pay attention to whether Sally Ann is actually hitting her 7000 keystroke per hour minimum. Really. I am paid to oversee, supervise, and look really great in high heels. And I am fine with that. Especially since in our era of corporate financial conservatism, I'm not getting a raise this year--you gotta pay to play, baby, and if you want more than my bare minimum performance, you gotta pony up some coin (and contrary to what you may have read on the bathroom wall, that is not my philosophy in the boudoir--that would be tacky).
So anyway, I'm a little worn out, because I spent the past few days actually working which is always exhausting for me. As for the rest of my week, I'm playing golf tomorrow (woo-hoo!). Seriously, is there any better combination of words in the English language?? I think not. Well, I believe that "Hey Kelly, this is the K-I-D, but you can call me Bobby, and I would looove to give you free tickets and backstage passes to my show on July 17 and/or 18 at Comerica Park, whichever date works best for you, I just really would like you to come be my guest and hang out and drink beer with me and my buddy George Clooney, so please, please call me back" would probably be a better sentence, but slightly less likely, so I'll take the golf reference. And then there's Wings game afterwards, and holy crap what am I still doing up??
I may be tired, but tonight was kind of special (and if you sing the Lowenbrau song, I swear to God, I will punch you right in the throat) because I had dinner with two of my oldest friends, Holly and Lori. Now I've been friends with them since right around the time I moved to the D, so that is roundabout 83 dog-years, give or take. We got married and had kids at the same time, and shared our life experiences as young mothers together. More importantly, they shared my belief that we may be moms, but we are still smokin' hot chicks who like to party like rock stars. And we did. Our families would get together and play cards, and laugh, have some (lotta) cocktails, and laugh--you get the idea. It was great. And then I got divorced. And the wheels fell off. I fully expected it to lose some friends because of it, but not them, and I felt terribly disappointed and hurt. I think we got caught up in the circumstances, and just plain lost each other for a while. But I think we're on track towards finding our way again. We're slowly shedding the awkwardness that got tangled up in our friendship, and I am very glad for that. At least I hope we are, because I've missed them.
So yeah, it's mid-way through the first week of the month, and I am beat. I don't think I'm cut out for all this reflecting and evaluating. I'm so much better at judging and disparaging. Nah, I'm just kidding. I love my job even with all of its drama and tension--after all, it pays for golf and my subsequent nearly-good-pizza binge. At the end of today, I would offer that I was a goal-oriented performer, who worked well with others, and was able to accomplish my assignment in a timely fashion, with little or no direct supervision. And if The Man doesn't agree, he can suck it and suck it hard. And I think my girlfriends would agree.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Sunday in the D
OK, so last weekend was Memorial Day, and for the first time in recent memory, the Kelly-Girl was not relegated to scrounging up last-minute pity invitations to other families' BBQs. Nope I actually had something that, according to Wikipedia, is called "plans." I took Friday off, a decision that I paid dearly for all this week, and worked around Casa Chica. On Saturday, I had a blind date at an RV "Resort" (really) that apparently did not go as well as I had thought. Then on Sunday, I went into the D-Proper for a Tigers game with the Marine, his brother, and his brother's Army-buddy. Yes, my Lovelies, my weekend was chock-ful o' fun, so much so that I slept all...day...long on Monday. I may have been uber-busy, but I'm still a lazy chick at heart.
Yes, my Lovelies, this is my new boyfriend and I love him madly and truly. He was a vision in lavender, right down to his shiny purple wing-tips. I am sad that I did not ask his name, but I have heretofore dubbed him Mr. Louis Davis III. We will live happily ever after, and be well-accessorized forever more. So yeah, the Tigers may have lost, but the Wings won, and it was a really great day in the D.
So yeah, we went downtown for the game, which was so fun because the Wings were also playing (albeit in Chicago) so the city was abuzz with excitement. It was a lovely day for baseball...
As you can see, my thrifty side was on full display, because we were seated in the 300 section, but hey, doesn't the D look nice from up here?? Plus we were right by the scoreboard, which is helpful to myopic-me, especially when this bizarro statistic hit the Jumbo-tron....
As you can see, my thrifty side was on full display, because we were seated in the 300 section, but hey, doesn't the D look nice from up here?? Plus we were right by the scoreboard, which is helpful to myopic-me, especially when this bizarro statistic hit the Jumbo-tron.... Does it really say that?? Yes, the Tigers' catcher's batting average is a whopping .100--how'd you like that purty little factoid displayed 3 stories high?? And then he struck out or something, because later in the game it got even lower. Ouch.
After the game we made our way towards Greektown...
That's The Marine there in the orange, though I have to admit I looked twice at that fine specimen over on the left with the giant purple windbreaker wrapped around his mid-section. Bow-chicka-bow-bow!
Along the way, we passed the town dump... 
To some Greek bakery that had really bad cannolis and was staffed entirely by Indian dudes...
Photo not available
And into the casino. Now I really did not want to do this, because my motto is "The Casinos are Everything You Hate About Detroit in One Convenient Location." Sketchy people, cigarette smoke, expensive drinks (FYI to prospective visitors-- Michigan law prohibits free casino cocktails), fat dudes riding Amigos, slot machines, and cigarette smoke. Did I repeat that last one? Well, it is warranted because there is soooo godawful much of it in there. In addition to missing the Gratis V & Ts, we are also lacking the Vegas-style ventilation systems.
But we parked there, so we had to go in. In the end, it was OK, because I found out that if you have Tiger-ticket-stubs you get $2 beer, which was a huge bonus, especially after drinking my car payment at Comerica Park. And then it happened. As I sat at the bar, nursing my sunburn, sucking down my deeply-discounted Labatt, I spotted the single most fabulous thing I'd laid eyes on all day long...
Yes, my Lovelies, this is my new boyfriend and I love him madly and truly. He was a vision in lavender, right down to his shiny purple wing-tips. I am sad that I did not ask his name, but I have heretofore dubbed him Mr. Louis Davis III. We will live happily ever after, and be well-accessorized forever more. So yeah, the Tigers may have lost, but the Wings won, and it was a really great day in the D.Friday, May 22, 2009
Darwin on Hall Road
OK, so yesterday I was very nearly in an accident on Hall Road, and not because I was driving inattentively (see--there is a first time for everything after all). What in heaven's name happened? you ask, clinging desperately to the edge of your seat. Well, my Lovelies, I was almost physically harmed because there was an enormous traffic jam with subsequent gawker-delays, due to....wait for it...a Seat Belt Enforcement Zone. Really.
Now for those who have never seen one of these bad-boys, a Seat Belt Enforcement Zone is where the Po-Po create an area in which to identify and ticket drivers who are not wearing their seat belt as the law requires in the state of Michigan. In this particular instance they had 2 sheriff's cars in the Hall Road median with lights flashing right by the SBEZ sign--and the two sheriff's deputies were leaning on their cars, arms crossed, looking all menacing, just to let you know you are entering an area where serious, bad-ass police work is being done. So then they have about 143 other police cars from various agencies, cities and townships, all strategically placed along the road, in parking lots and driveways, all poised at the ready to issue citations. Macomb County also uses police officers on bicycles to drive along the cars stopped at the traffic signals to suss out these hardened criminals.
Now I am all for adhering to the laws of the land, and I for one always, always, always wear my seat belt. It would seem to me, however, that if The Man was really intent on keeping drivers safe on the roadways here in the D, they would be much better served to set up You Really Need to Stop at the Red Light Enforcement Zones, or better yet a couple of sobriety checkpoints on the Lodge after a Red Wings game. The SBEZ just seems like a lot of work for a $65 ticket that really only affects one individual. Personally, I firmly believe that the use of a seat belt really just comes down to Vehicular Natural Selection. If you are seriously dumb enough to not wear a seat belt,while hurtling through the air at 80 miles per hour, don't you kind of deserve whatever consequences might occur should you be thrown from said vehicle?
So yeah, I averted a collision, and worked late that night because the 5-0 on patrol made me late to the office. But it is OK, because I can sleep easy knowing that thousands of Macomb County tax-payer dollars were spent to give tickets to at least 6 or 7 unrestrained drivers. After all, I'm a Wayne County chick. Though it is slightly humbling to know that all those cops that drive past me doing a double-take, checking me out, are really just after one thing--my seat belt.
Now for those who have never seen one of these bad-boys, a Seat Belt Enforcement Zone is where the Po-Po create an area in which to identify and ticket drivers who are not wearing their seat belt as the law requires in the state of Michigan. In this particular instance they had 2 sheriff's cars in the Hall Road median with lights flashing right by the SBEZ sign--and the two sheriff's deputies were leaning on their cars, arms crossed, looking all menacing, just to let you know you are entering an area where serious, bad-ass police work is being done. So then they have about 143 other police cars from various agencies, cities and townships, all strategically placed along the road, in parking lots and driveways, all poised at the ready to issue citations. Macomb County also uses police officers on bicycles to drive along the cars stopped at the traffic signals to suss out these hardened criminals.
Now I am all for adhering to the laws of the land, and I for one always, always, always wear my seat belt. It would seem to me, however, that if The Man was really intent on keeping drivers safe on the roadways here in the D, they would be much better served to set up You Really Need to Stop at the Red Light Enforcement Zones, or better yet a couple of sobriety checkpoints on the Lodge after a Red Wings game. The SBEZ just seems like a lot of work for a $65 ticket that really only affects one individual. Personally, I firmly believe that the use of a seat belt really just comes down to Vehicular Natural Selection. If you are seriously dumb enough to not wear a seat belt,while hurtling through the air at 80 miles per hour, don't you kind of deserve whatever consequences might occur should you be thrown from said vehicle?
So yeah, I averted a collision, and worked late that night because the 5-0 on patrol made me late to the office. But it is OK, because I can sleep easy knowing that thousands of Macomb County tax-payer dollars were spent to give tickets to at least 6 or 7 unrestrained drivers. After all, I'm a Wayne County chick. Though it is slightly humbling to know that all those cops that drive past me doing a double-take, checking me out, are really just after one thing--my seat belt.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Ad Lib
OK, so it's a glorious Sunday morning here in the D. The screaming winds have stopped, the sun is shining, birds chirping, the whole freakin' shebang. I even have the windows open at this relatively early hour, and the sound of my typing is echoed by the gentle "plink" of helicopters landing in my gutters. And, shhhh, if you listen really closely, you can actually hear my grass growing ever taller, especially around the edges where the mower won't reach and since I still haven't actually purchased a weed-whacker, will most likely reach the top of the fence line before summer officially arrives next month, all of which has been duly noted, I'm sure, by the Hobbitt and his Council of Darkness.
The Chicas are nestled into the couch in their 3rd hour of Spongebob-induced coma, and things are relatively peaceful here in the Casa. We are heading down to A2 for soccer today, but that's not until 2:30, which means I have tons of time to goof around on the Internet instead of tending to my home and hearth. Priorities, people! I still spend an inordinate amount of time on Facebook, although not nearly as much as in the past. And well, there's this here little blog-venture, which I do not see as time-killing because I am providing a valuable public service to you, my loyal readers. After all, if I suddenly went away, where would you turn for deeply stimulating, daresay provocative social commentary on life here in the Motor City?
So while I was on FB today, I took notice of some of the ads placed on my profile page because, quite frankly, they are taking away from the stunning photographs of the Glory that is Me. Now, I'm guessing that these ads are generated based on keywords from the compelling details that I placed on my Personal Info page but my knowledge of how these things work is thin and sketchy at best--if you told me that there was one dude and an army of hamsters powering the Internet I would probably believe you. Well I should give myself more credit than that--I would consider it for a moment, and then dismiss it as farce after I successfully Googled and Snoped it.
So once I actually looked at the ads thoughtfully placed there by the Powers that Be, I was intrigued. There are a whole lotta dating sites trying to lure me in. There are your regular Harmony and Chemistry ones, but there are more specialty dating sites than I would have imagined. Like this one for Wealthy Men. Now, I would be all for hooking up with someone who makes more coin than I do, which actually wouldn't be very difficult, but check out some of these dudes. The Scorpio guy--don't believe for a second he is wealthy. The one guy's screen name is "quadlord" which automatically removes him from consideration--I would be constantly fighting the urge to throat-punch him. "Canuckchuc" has potential, but he looks a little skeezy, and he spelled his name wrong. I know he probably only gets 10 characters, but a spelling error is a spelling error, and I just can't abide it.
Now, judging from the classy chicks that posted their photos on the home page, I am not nearly inflatable enough to sign up for that site. Fear not, my Lovelies, there's more to choose from! There are sites for Singles who Love Golf, Single Chicks who Dig Big Men, Singles with Herpes (what?!) even sites for Catholic Singles. I found this one interesting, because they include us divorced Catholics in their ranks, when usually we are relegated to sitting in the corner like Baby, but hey a monthly fee collected is a monthly fee collected, right? I wonder if they ever considered that angle for their marketing--"I found someone I want to spend the rest of my life with, but her soul is forever damned, which is perfect because that means I don't have to spend eternity with her--thank you CatholicMatch!" Even better is the fact that this site extols itself as the "premier" Catholic dating site, and then gives the ratings to prove it. Really. Next week, I am so signing up for AveMariaSingles because I would just looooove to see the profiles of the edgy bad boys that signed up for that site.
So I get the singles ads. What I find mystifying, however, are some of the others. What exactly is included in my profile information that would prompt a link to this Gynecomastia site?? Now for those of you reading without a Thesaurus (not recommended, but hey, it's your life) this is the medical term for ManBoobs, or, as the home-page indicates, "Moobs." It's comforting to know that there is a fashionable-fix for this condition, but why the hell is it on my profile? I will freely admit that I have not been endowed with ample-breastages, but I do not feel it is appropriate to taunt me with photos of dudes that have a larger cup size than me. On my turf.
Then there is this very strange ad about immigrating to Canada. Perhaps it is my proximity to the border-lands, but I don't think I've included anything that would indicate I'm looking to jump ship and change flags. I had no idea that relations with our neighbors to the North had deteriorated to the point where "Family Reunification" would be such a hot topic in immigration law. Most interesting, however, is the page for people who are currently illegal residents of "another country." Now, obviously they are talking about us here in the States, so why not just call a spade a spade? Do they really expect us to believe that there is some illegal Belgian, currently living in Poland, who is just dying to make things right, and become a legal resident somewhere, somehow, then jumps on FB one night, and stumbles across the answer to his prayers--Canada?? Seriously.
So yeah, there's a lot of bizarro crap to see on the Internet. Lucky for me, I am not a motivated person, and there is not a lot happening here in the D, so I have all the time in the world to go looking for it. But enough for now. I probably should go, and at least give the appearance of mild-industriousness--maybe cut the grass before the Banana heads out for his afternoon sun-session and ruins the pristine landscape that is Casa Chica. But first, I'm going to look into a home CPAP machine--I look pretty hot in a mask--and register to win free laser-hair-removal for life. After all, if I have any hope of ever landing a relationship-minded-single-dude I need to be smooth and well-rested. Priorities, people!
The Chicas are nestled into the couch in their 3rd hour of Spongebob-induced coma, and things are relatively peaceful here in the Casa. We are heading down to A2 for soccer today, but that's not until 2:30, which means I have tons of time to goof around on the Internet instead of tending to my home and hearth. Priorities, people! I still spend an inordinate amount of time on Facebook, although not nearly as much as in the past. And well, there's this here little blog-venture, which I do not see as time-killing because I am providing a valuable public service to you, my loyal readers. After all, if I suddenly went away, where would you turn for deeply stimulating, daresay provocative social commentary on life here in the Motor City?
So while I was on FB today, I took notice of some of the ads placed on my profile page because, quite frankly, they are taking away from the stunning photographs of the Glory that is Me. Now, I'm guessing that these ads are generated based on keywords from the compelling details that I placed on my Personal Info page but my knowledge of how these things work is thin and sketchy at best--if you told me that there was one dude and an army of hamsters powering the Internet I would probably believe you. Well I should give myself more credit than that--I would consider it for a moment, and then dismiss it as farce after I successfully Googled and Snoped it.
So once I actually looked at the ads thoughtfully placed there by the Powers that Be, I was intrigued. There are a whole lotta dating sites trying to lure me in. There are your regular Harmony and Chemistry ones, but there are more specialty dating sites than I would have imagined. Like this one for Wealthy Men. Now, I would be all for hooking up with someone who makes more coin than I do, which actually wouldn't be very difficult, but check out some of these dudes. The Scorpio guy--don't believe for a second he is wealthy. The one guy's screen name is "quadlord" which automatically removes him from consideration--I would be constantly fighting the urge to throat-punch him. "Canuckchuc" has potential, but he looks a little skeezy, and he spelled his name wrong. I know he probably only gets 10 characters, but a spelling error is a spelling error, and I just can't abide it.
Now, judging from the classy chicks that posted their photos on the home page, I am not nearly inflatable enough to sign up for that site. Fear not, my Lovelies, there's more to choose from! There are sites for Singles who Love Golf, Single Chicks who Dig Big Men, Singles with Herpes (what?!) even sites for Catholic Singles. I found this one interesting, because they include us divorced Catholics in their ranks, when usually we are relegated to sitting in the corner like Baby, but hey a monthly fee collected is a monthly fee collected, right? I wonder if they ever considered that angle for their marketing--"I found someone I want to spend the rest of my life with, but her soul is forever damned, which is perfect because that means I don't have to spend eternity with her--thank you CatholicMatch!" Even better is the fact that this site extols itself as the "premier" Catholic dating site, and then gives the ratings to prove it. Really. Next week, I am so signing up for AveMariaSingles because I would just looooove to see the profiles of the edgy bad boys that signed up for that site.
So I get the singles ads. What I find mystifying, however, are some of the others. What exactly is included in my profile information that would prompt a link to this Gynecomastia site?? Now for those of you reading without a Thesaurus (not recommended, but hey, it's your life) this is the medical term for ManBoobs, or, as the home-page indicates, "Moobs." It's comforting to know that there is a fashionable-fix for this condition, but why the hell is it on my profile? I will freely admit that I have not been endowed with ample-breastages, but I do not feel it is appropriate to taunt me with photos of dudes that have a larger cup size than me. On my turf.
Then there is this very strange ad about immigrating to Canada. Perhaps it is my proximity to the border-lands, but I don't think I've included anything that would indicate I'm looking to jump ship and change flags. I had no idea that relations with our neighbors to the North had deteriorated to the point where "Family Reunification" would be such a hot topic in immigration law. Most interesting, however, is the page for people who are currently illegal residents of "another country." Now, obviously they are talking about us here in the States, so why not just call a spade a spade? Do they really expect us to believe that there is some illegal Belgian, currently living in Poland, who is just dying to make things right, and become a legal resident somewhere, somehow, then jumps on FB one night, and stumbles across the answer to his prayers--Canada?? Seriously.
So yeah, there's a lot of bizarro crap to see on the Internet. Lucky for me, I am not a motivated person, and there is not a lot happening here in the D, so I have all the time in the world to go looking for it. But enough for now. I probably should go, and at least give the appearance of mild-industriousness--maybe cut the grass before the Banana heads out for his afternoon sun-session and ruins the pristine landscape that is Casa Chica. But first, I'm going to look into a home CPAP machine--I look pretty hot in a mask--and register to win free laser-hair-removal for life. After all, if I have any hope of ever landing a relationship-minded-single-dude I need to be smooth and well-rested. Priorities, people!
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Litterbug
OK, so now that I no longer have to schlep around the D in the ice and snow (I know, I know, I'm seriously tempting the weather gods by saying that--hope I don't jinx it) things have gotten a lot easier for me in the Commuting department. That would officially make it the only area in my life to see any sort of improvement in the last 13 months, but hey, I got all the time in the world, right? We have now entered the portion of the calendar year where my drive-time is shortened thanks to fewer cars on the road on Fridays and the occasional Monday, and were it not for the plethora of construction zones popping up along my major thruways, I'd be a happy, happy chick. So tonight I got to sit in traffic in the rain on the Southfield (my convoluted alternate-route to 696) and ponder my lot in life.
With all this extra time I was given to devote to deep philosophical introspection, I was struck by a penetrating realization. Here in the D, there is some really weird shit left along our area freeways. I mean, the people driving are strange enough--lately not strange enough to hand out another Random Dude Commuting Award--but the things they leave behind are totally bizarro. As evidence of this, I would respectfully offer the following:
Shoes. I would love to be with the dude who gets to his destination, goes to put on his shoes, and finds that he's missing one. Because you never ever see a pair of kicks on the side of the road, it's always just one. I wonder if he's just mystified, like "Where could it be....?" When I travel with footwear in the car, it's usually in some sort of bag, so if I lost one, I'd lose the whole nut. Well, except for my golf shoes, and if I ever lost one of those, I would suffer emotional devastation such that the location of the missing mate would be irrelevant. Ohhh, I can't think of it--it's too horrible.
Appliance Doors. Now this one kind of makes sense, because I think when you go to dump them, you have to take the doors off, yeah? Remember a hundred years ago when that was such a huge initiative? "Take your doors off your refrigerators so your little neighbor boy won't get trapped inside of it on garbage day and suffocate!" Man, whoever thought of that PSA never lived next door to Slouchy Kyle. I'd shove that kid inside a Frigidaire any day and never think twice about it.
Burning Cars. Seriously, this really freaks me out every time I see it. Because again, there is nothing else around, no sign of accident or other malfeasance, just a single apparently spontaneously combusting vehicle. Two words--WIL-LIES.
Stuffed Animals. Now I can only suspect that the grimy fuzzballs that I see are the red-headed-step-children of the stable of toys of the kids who lost them. Because I know for a fact that if it was a favorite guy, like the Littlest Chica's Ella, I would enlist the help of area law-enforcement officials and perhaps a psychic to launch an all-out manhunt to retrace my steps including scouring area freeway embankments, never tiring until that bad boy was back in her outstretched paws. Really.
Shopping Carts. This would make sense if these were found nearby retail areas, but they never are. And the Hobo pushing his cart full of returnables doesn't hold true here either, because there are no pedestrians allowed on freeways here in the D. Perhaps the wind blew it there, much like the gusty hurricane that blew one into my path on 8 Mile and Harper a couple weeks ago. It was from K-Mart. Most likely Corporate retaliation relating to my post from March. Yep, that's it fo' sho'--payback pure and simple.
Donuts. This morning I saw a pile of doughnuts on the side of the road. A little ways down was the brightly colored DD box. Now I am dying to ask--what was the sequence of events that caused an entire box of doughnuts to fall from a moving vehicle? I'm guessing big fat MDOT pothole meets a Dodge Neon with an open sunroof, and then the guy was like, "Well, there goes breakfast, I sure as hell don't need this box around reminding me of what I lost."
So yeah, in short, people are pigs, and there's a lot of crap laying around. I can honestly say that I have never thrown anything on the side of the road--at any given time I probably have about 13 lbs of Happy Meal Boxes, goldfish, and crayons rolling around in my car. I grew up in the 80's, so I Give a Hoot and Don't Pollute, I Always Put Litter in its Place, and to this day can't get the Native American with the single tear outta my head. Hell, my carbon footprint is still as big as Sasquatch, but I guess I'm a lot more green and eco-friendly than I give myself credit for. In case you're wondering, back in the day, I also loved to Be Kind and Rewind, but that ended when my Betamax crapped out and I tossed it in a landfill wrapped a plastic grocery bag full of batteries and lead paint chips. I'm just kidding--I'm no litterbug.
With all this extra time I was given to devote to deep philosophical introspection, I was struck by a penetrating realization. Here in the D, there is some really weird shit left along our area freeways. I mean, the people driving are strange enough--lately not strange enough to hand out another Random Dude Commuting Award--but the things they leave behind are totally bizarro. As evidence of this, I would respectfully offer the following:
Shoes. I would love to be with the dude who gets to his destination, goes to put on his shoes, and finds that he's missing one. Because you never ever see a pair of kicks on the side of the road, it's always just one. I wonder if he's just mystified, like "Where could it be....?" When I travel with footwear in the car, it's usually in some sort of bag, so if I lost one, I'd lose the whole nut. Well, except for my golf shoes, and if I ever lost one of those, I would suffer emotional devastation such that the location of the missing mate would be irrelevant. Ohhh, I can't think of it--it's too horrible.
Appliance Doors. Now this one kind of makes sense, because I think when you go to dump them, you have to take the doors off, yeah? Remember a hundred years ago when that was such a huge initiative? "Take your doors off your refrigerators so your little neighbor boy won't get trapped inside of it on garbage day and suffocate!" Man, whoever thought of that PSA never lived next door to Slouchy Kyle. I'd shove that kid inside a Frigidaire any day and never think twice about it.
Burning Cars. Seriously, this really freaks me out every time I see it. Because again, there is nothing else around, no sign of accident or other malfeasance, just a single apparently spontaneously combusting vehicle. Two words--WIL-LIES.
Stuffed Animals. Now I can only suspect that the grimy fuzzballs that I see are the red-headed-step-children of the stable of toys of the kids who lost them. Because I know for a fact that if it was a favorite guy, like the Littlest Chica's Ella, I would enlist the help of area law-enforcement officials and perhaps a psychic to launch an all-out manhunt to retrace my steps including scouring area freeway embankments, never tiring until that bad boy was back in her outstretched paws. Really.
Shopping Carts. This would make sense if these were found nearby retail areas, but they never are. And the Hobo pushing his cart full of returnables doesn't hold true here either, because there are no pedestrians allowed on freeways here in the D. Perhaps the wind blew it there, much like the gusty hurricane that blew one into my path on 8 Mile and Harper a couple weeks ago. It was from K-Mart. Most likely Corporate retaliation relating to my post from March. Yep, that's it fo' sho'--payback pure and simple.
Donuts. This morning I saw a pile of doughnuts on the side of the road. A little ways down was the brightly colored DD box. Now I am dying to ask--what was the sequence of events that caused an entire box of doughnuts to fall from a moving vehicle? I'm guessing big fat MDOT pothole meets a Dodge Neon with an open sunroof, and then the guy was like, "Well, there goes breakfast, I sure as hell don't need this box around reminding me of what I lost."
So yeah, in short, people are pigs, and there's a lot of crap laying around. I can honestly say that I have never thrown anything on the side of the road--at any given time I probably have about 13 lbs of Happy Meal Boxes, goldfish, and crayons rolling around in my car. I grew up in the 80's, so I Give a Hoot and Don't Pollute, I Always Put Litter in its Place, and to this day can't get the Native American with the single tear outta my head. Hell, my carbon footprint is still as big as Sasquatch, but I guess I'm a lot more green and eco-friendly than I give myself credit for. In case you're wondering, back in the day, I also loved to Be Kind and Rewind, but that ended when my Betamax crapped out and I tossed it in a landfill wrapped a plastic grocery bag full of batteries and lead paint chips. I'm just kidding--I'm no litterbug.
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